Chapter Thirty-Two
A thick, greasy chill crawled up River’s spine. Jamie Bennett gazed at him with the eyes of a cold-blooded, psychopathic killer. Eyes that said he marked his time on Earth by the number of torturous deaths he racked up.
River glanced toward the dining table, the waitress’s feet in plain view. His stomach twisted.
Cocking his eyebrow, the madman jerked his thumb toward the redhead. “Caught me in the middle of it. We’ll reminisce in a bit, Riv.”
Jamie reached down, pulled a hunting knife from the sheath at his waist. The sight of the enormous blade glinting in the light sent anger spiking through River. Arrogant son of a bitch is gonna do it. Right here. Right now. Right in front of me. He yanked against the ropes holding him captive. The chair beneath him creaked and moaned but didn’t give. With a growl, he jerked his entire body in an attempt to break free and almost toppled over.
Latin words flowed from Jamie’s mouth, the cadence smooth and entrancing. “Licentia.” He lifted the knife, held it in front of his face, and kissed the blade. “Meus vita. Meus diligo. Meus deus. Thurisaz meus deus. Per is vitualamen largior in mihi vita eternus. Meus Thurisaz.”
River stopped struggling. Oh, shit. What the hell is he saying? He’d picked up a few words over the past few days, and damn if he didn’t just hear some of them.
Licentia. Vita eternus. Freedom. Life eternal.
They’d been scrawled in the notes left by the killer. By Jamie.
Thurisaz? Ice ran through his veins. For all of his outlandish ideas, did Lenny hit the nail on the head? Is Jamie killing, sacrificing women to some evil demon known as Thurisaz?
The copycat killer raised the knife above his head and stepped behind the wall.
“No!” River fought against the damnable ropes but to no avail. He was trapped. Abject horror consumed him as the redhead’s feet jerked, fresh blood spattering the painted toenails.
Vomit shoved up his throat, and he choked. Damn. The bastard did it. Oh God. He cut her open. Shoved his hands into her chest. Yanked out her heart.
The redhead’s feet stilled. Jamie continued to chant, his words blurring in River’s mind. Vicki…. His gaze shot to her. Thank goodness she remained unconscious. Witnessing the brutal murder of the woman she’d had a vision about might have sent her over the edge.
The shadows on the dining room wall intensified as though the candles engorged. He squinted at the bank of windows lining the rear of the house. What was the insane bastard up to?
A flash of light engulfed the dining room. The brilliant reflection off the back windows stabbed River’s retinas, forcing him to squeeze his eyes closed. He turned his head just as a wave of blistering air rushed over him. White-hot fire scraped across his skin, pushed through his hair, tugged at his clothes, and then receded.
He sucked in a breath. Coughed. “Shit.”
He lifted his eyes toward the dining room. Wispy curls of black smoke slithered through the doorway. Long swirling tendrils crawled into the great room, twisting around Vicki’s ankles, snaking up her calves.
As though a living being, the smoke crept toward River, seeming to sense his presence, searching. Smoky fingers caressed his shoes, coiled around his legs. He jerked, the foul stench of sulfur assaulting his nose. How could smoke feel so…oily?
Jamie stepped into the doorway. Blood streaked his pants and stained his shirt, the long sleeves drenched to the elbows. He stared at River, not seeming to notice or care that red droplets spattered his face. His dark gaze demanded attention.
“All done.” A satisfied, cocky grin twisted his lips. “Let’s have us a talk.”
Blurred sounds trickled through Vicki’s head. She concentrated, tried to make sense of it. Two people spoke. One sounded familiar. Damn, it was like a sledgehammer pounded the back of her head.
She forced her eyes open. Lights. Shapes. Voices.
River. Vicki lifted her head, blinked, narrowed her eyes. He sat tied to a chair across the room.
She moved to go to him but couldn’t. Oh my God. Thick ropes held her arms and waist bound to a chair as well. Her ankles were tied together. She glanced at River then at who he spoke with. When she saw the wavy dark hair, the wiry build, adrenaline dumped into her veins, clearing the haze from her mind.
She’d seen him before—the night she’d met Becca at the pub before dinner. He’d been their waiter. Brought them wine. She racked her brain for his name. Brad? No, Brent.
Her stomach clenched. I encouraged her to go out with him. The guy who’d kidnapped the waitress. A shiver tumbled down her spine. She’d almost sent her best friend into the arms of a psychotic killer.
“What’s wrong, River?” A bold grin curved Brent’s lips. “Don’t you recognize me?”
She stared. All the blood. It streaked his pants, drenched his shirt, spattered his face. She looked to the floor where she’d last seen the waitress, and her breath caught. Gone. The redhead, she’s gone. She shifted her gaze back to the waiter. His wrists and hands appeared to have been dipped in red paint. She gritted her molars, trying not to choke on the acid in her throat. He’s taken her heart. Just like all the others.
Her stomach heaved, and she coughed. God, now is not the time to throw up. She gulped air. Swallowed hard.
Brent’s eyes cut toward her. “Well, well. Look at the hottie that just woke up. How ya feeling, hon? Headache?”
She glared at him but said nothing.
“You leave her alone,” River growled. “This is between you and me, Bennett.”
The killer turned toward him. “So, you do remember.”
“I remember a weak-ass punk who couldn’t even lift a dead body.” He strained to lean forward, a sneer on his face, the ropes across his chest digging into his shirt. “It was your job, Jamie. But you couldn’t take it. Fainted like the pussy you are.”
Vicki frowned. Jamie? I thought his name was Brent.
The guy threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah. That’s what happened all right.” He sauntered into the kitchen, at ease, in control. “You’ll excuse me while I take a moment to get cleaned up. I’m afraid my appearance offends your girlfriend.” Flashing a smile at her, he undid the top two buttons on his shirt.
Vicki twisted away toward River instead. In his eyes, she found a mix of concern and anger. “Not your fault,” she mouthed.
He grimaced in response, and her heart ached. He blamed himself for their predicament. He didn’t understand it would’ve happened anyway. She’d had a vision, seen the symbols.
When the sound of water came from the kitchen, she glanced back toward the bar. Bloodied shirt removed and head bent, the guy washed his hands and arms in the sink. Why did it even matter whether he cleaned up or not? It wasn’t like he would let them go.
Then her gaze dipped to what lay on the granite countertop in front of him. Oh, no! A stocky black pistol sat inches from the killer. That’s the gun I saw in my vision for myself. Minutes had passed, and already she’d seen two symbols. Only a large knife and a golden circle remained for her before…the damned pointed D. How much time did she have left? Her stomach churned. Wasn’t there anything she could do to stop this?
Her attention moved to the far end of the bar, landing on a huge yellow flower vase. Her heart skipped a beat. Crap. Yellow oval. Has River seen it? She turned back, noted his solemn nod.
The water shut off, and Brent or Jamie—whoever the hell he was—exited the kitchen. The sullied long-sleeved shirt gone, the blood washed from his arms, he strode into the vaulted living area while he dried his face with a dishtowel. He dropped his hands to his sides, turned toward them.
“Better?” Teeth gleaming, the smile on his face didn’t reach his dark, evil eyes.
Vicki’s focus moved from his face to the T-shirt he’d worn beneath the discarded long-sleeved button-down work shirt. In a few places, red spots marred the white tee where it’d soaked through. The sight sent her mind spinning as dread clawed at her lungs.
“Shit,” River muttered.
Vicki’s head dipped, eyelids fluttered. Is she going to pass out? Hell, it might be better if she did.
“What?” Jamie took a step toward him.
“I said you look like shit.” He stared at the shirt the kid wore. Damn. He squinted, read the words again. At the top was printed, “You’re getting very sleepy.” At the bottom, “Now take off all your clothes.” And in between sat the biggest fucking black spiral he’d ever seen. Shit. Mark another off for me. Just a gray circle stands between me and death.
Jamie glanced down, laughed. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Had to take what was clean at the time.”
He fisted his hands, molten anger rolling in his gut, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “Yeah. I guess.”
“But this isn’t about my clothing options.” He grinned, giving him a meaningful stare. “This is about you and me, Riv. Always has been.”
He shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I suspect on the surface, you don’t.” The killer tilted his head, ran a long finger over his lower lip. “But somewhere deep inside, you can hear something whispering the truth. Though you’ve probably drowned it out with all of your evidence and reality checks. Just listen. You know who I am, whether you want to admit it or not.”
“You’re Jamie Bennett, coroner’s assistant from Austin, Texas, and all-around piece of shit.”
“Oh, come on, Riv. Dig deep.” After a moment, he sighed. “No? Well, what if I said Polo?”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah, I was wondering how you’d explain that one.”
Jamie angled toward Vicki. “You see, my blonde beauty, River and I go way back. He just refuses to admit the truth. Polo was a conversation we had one night after working a crime scene for the infamous Valentine Killer out in Austin. It was like a game with the killer. We’d call out Marco, he’d answer Polo with a dead body, and then he’d disappear. Poof. We missed him every time.” He turned back to him. “That how you remember it, Riv?”
The knot in his gut tightened until it hurt. The little voice Jamie had spoken of grew louder, but he’d be damned if he would give it credence. “Yeah. Pretty much. But anyone could’ve figured it out.”
“I suppose.” Jamie nodded. “But only your partner would know how the idea came about.”
River shrugged. “Just means you collaborated with my dead partner, planned the whole thing out together.”
“You’re not getting it.” He shook his head, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. With an exasperated sigh, the madman met his gaze. “I am your dead partner.”
The words jolted through him, and River gripped the chair arms. “Oh, hell no.”
“Oh, hell yes.” The killer snickered, a hint of satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “I’m Kent Rowton, your dead partner…the infamous Valentine Killer.”