Chapter 23

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Life’s a bitch, coffee’s a must.

-Coffee Cup

Parker

Every single one of my instincts screamed at me to make a move, but my knowledge of hostile situations had my common sense winning out over my instincts.

I pulled out my phone and called 9-1-1.

After explaining where I was, I waited.

It was the longest twelve minutes of my life until Rafe came up behind me.

“What are you thinking?”

“There’s something really, really wrong about this place,” I replied softly. “The screams stopped…but I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

The decline of the screams could mean one of three things. Whoever had been doing the screaming was now dead or had passed out, or the person causing them to scream had stopped what he was doing.

“You want to make a move?”

That decision was taken out of my hand when a man—in his rain suit—came out onto the front porch. I could just barely make out his face from where I was standing, but he looked quite pleased.

Then I saw the blood dripping off of his jacket and knew.

“It’s him.”

“What’s him?” Rafe asked, voice barely a whisper.

“The serial killer. That’s him.”

He frowned.

“How do you know?” he asked. “Maybe he’s just in there butchering a deer and doesn’t want to get dirty.”

He had a point. That could be the case.

Which was why we both stayed exactly where we were, not making a move.

Neither one of us knew the situation. We didn’t know how many people were in the house. I was sick and running a fever. Could I fully trust my instincts? Would a cop? A jury of twelve of my peers?

No. I wouldn’t be making a move. Not unless I was completely one hundred percent sure, that I was making the right move.

And Rafe agreed with me.

“Cops are here,” I murmured, seeing the lights through the trees before he came into view by pulling into the driveway.

We both tensed when the man on the front porch stiffened.

He reached for something behind his back, and that was when I saw the gun.

Rafe did, too.

We both had our weapons out and in our hands seconds later.

The man on the porch had his hand curled around the gun, still smoking his cigarette, and watched as the two cops came out of the car. Moments later they started up the walk toward the man.

“Hello, officers. How can I help you?”

The officer on the right, Tyler Cree—who also happened to be the new police chief—nodded his head in acknowledgement. “We had a complaint about some screaming. Mind if we come in and take a look?”

The man’s hand tightened around the butt of his gun, and then he was moving.

The gun came around his side right about the time I shot him. The bullet entered the man’s right shoulder—but likely had done quite a bit of harm since I was carrying defense rounds.

He fell like a tree and hit the porch with a loud thud.

Rafe was up and moving moments later just as the cops pointed their guns in our direction. The cops were so far behind on what was happening that they looked twitchy and nervous.

I shifted my body, then immediately felt a wave of dizziness sweep over me.

I dropped the gun to the ground, held my hands up, and said five words.

“I’m about to fall over.”

Moments after saying that, Kayla came up on one side of me, and Carmen on the other, both of them lending me their stability.

“I swear to God, if you give me strep throat, I’m going to be so mad at you,” she said, her voice a lot higher in pitch than it normally was.

She was scared.

Then again, I was, too.

She and I both stepped over the gun that I left on the grass, and I felt a wave of sadness overtake me.

“That’s my favorite gun,” I whined.

“Okay…” she paused. “Is that a good thing?”

“Bad,” I disagreed. “They’re going to keep that one until they’re done with the investigation. It could take them months to get it back to me.”

She snorted. “You shot a man, and you’re worried about getting your gun back?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

By the time we arrived at Tyler Cree’s side, Kayla was gasping.

“Johnny! What are you doing here? When did you get here! You’re supposed to be in Louisiana!”

I looked between the other cop—Johnny—and Kayla.

Johnny grinned at my girl, and I curled my arm around her a little tighter. Something that Johnny did not miss. Not even remotely.

Cree cleared his throat before this Johnny could answer.

“Where did you hear the screams come from?”

I shrugged. “Heard ‘em as I was getting closer to the house. I haven’t heard them since.”

Kayla shivered.

When she would’ve taken a step up onto the porch, I held her back.

“We’re gonna wait right here,” I said. “I shot the man with the gun, but there’s no telling who else is in the house.”

Tyler and Johnny readily agreed.

Rafe waved them past, not even offering to help.

Neither of us were cops—though we damn well knew what we were doing when it came to sweeping a house for threats.

But this wasn’t our pony show. This was theirs…we just helped out a wee bit.

“Now what?” she whispered.

“Now we wait. And hope I don’t get another fever, because if I do, this is going to be bad.”

It was worse.

***

It was two hours later when the questions finally died down.

Not only did word get around that I shot a killer—but he was also the serial killer who had been slicing and dicing his way through the South.

He’d just taken his two final victims from the house down the road from me, and the screams I’d heard before they were cut off were from the woman who he was busy shoving into a cooler that he was about to take out to his Suburban.

We’d caught him just as he was about to take a small break—from chopping up the man who had previously lived at that property with a band saw that belonged to the owner—when the cops had arrived.

After being transported to the hospital with a gunshot wound to the shoulder, the man had gone straight into surgery. He’d also had a police escort—as well as one from FBI—since he’d departed the scene.

And I was slowly feeling the nausea take me back over.

“Why did you think there was something wrong?” an FBI agent asked.

I gave him a look. “I’ve already answered that.”

“You have, but I’m asking you again,” he countered.

I pulled out my phone, then dialed the number that I hadn’t called in quite some time.

FBI agent and field director Rance Ruins—that really was his name—answered on the fourth ring.

“Peter Parker Penn, if I do declare.”

I grunted at him. “I need you to get a field agent off my ass.”

Rance chuckled. “And what’s this agent’s name?”

Five minutes later, I was doing my best impersonation of a zombie as I walked to the truck that Rafe had arrived in. “I could’ve done that, but not nearly as quick,” Rafe explained.

I shrugged.

“Working for them had its advantages,” I admitted.

Then I bent over and threw up.

Yep. The fever was back.

And over a hundred and fifty reporters caught the entire thing on video.

Super.