CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Korine frantically threw on her clothes, horror striking her when Hatcher showed her the picture on the computer.
A man with a skull mask was tied to a chair in the dark room. His head hung down, body limp.
Was he dead or just unconscious?
Hatcher put Cat on speaker.
“When was this posted?” Korine asked.
“About an hour ago.”
Korine’s phone buzzed, and she snatched it up, half expecting it to be news about her brother. But Tinsley Jensen’s name appeared on the caller ID screen.
Did Tinsley know about this?
She quickly connected the call. “Tinsley?”
“You have to do something,” the woman said breathlessly.
“What’s wrong?” Korine asked.
“Someone from the group . . . they’ve taken a man hostage. I think they’re going to kill him.”
Korine motioned to Hatcher and quickly put Tinsley on speaker as well, while Hatcher relayed to Cat that Tinsley was on the phone.
“Hang on, Cat—Tinsley might know who posted this.”
“Who’s doing this?” Korine asked Tinsley.
“I don’t know,” Tinsley said. “I swear I don’t. I really thought the posts you questioned were just the women’s way of purging their anger and bitterness. I never thought any of them would actually hurt someone.”
“If you have any idea, Tinsley, you have to tell us,” Korine said.
“I told you I don’t,” Tinsley said. “But it’s all my fault. Whoever’s holding this man thinks he’s the Skull, but he’s not.”
Hatcher’s brow furrowed into a frown. “How do you know that? You said you never saw the Skull’s face, and you can’t see this man’s either.”
“I didn’t, but I saw his hands.” Bitterness tinged her voice. “He touched me enough so I remember . . .”
Korine worked to stifle her own emotions. “Remember what?”
“He had a tattoo on his hand, and the middle finger on his left hand was badly scarred,” she said in a pained whisper.
Korine zeroed in on the man in the photo—no tattoos. And no scars on that middle finger.
Her gaze shot to Hatcher’s. Tinsley was right.
The vigilante thought he was getting justice for Tinsley, but if he—or she—killed this man, they would kill an innocent.
“You have to stop this madness,” Tinsley cried. “I . . . never meant for anything like this to happen.”
“It’s not your fault,” Korine said.
Cat cut in. “Listen, I’ve been searching the blog comments and message-board conversations and may have found something. Those four women you brought in—Roberts, Grant, Austin, and Willis—they’ve made some suspicious comments. In one post, Roberts says that the police are asking questions. Austin says they have to do something and mentions the Keeper room. Then Grant and Willis chime in. Grant comments that she’s tired of watching the injustices and wants to do something about it. Willis adds that someone has to, that the legal system doesn’t work.”
Korine chewed the inside of her cheek. “Sounds bad, but they’ll insist that the comments are innocent.”
“There’s more,” Cat said. “They talk about meeting at a house on the marsh. I traced the video stream, and it’s coming from a house on the marsh as well.”
“Send me the GPS coordinates,” Hatcher said. “We’ll check it out.”
Hatcher and Korine rushed to the living area, grabbed their holsters, guns, and jackets and raced outside to his SUV. Hatcher checked the address Cat sent to his phone, started the engine, and was tearing out the driveway before Korine could buckle her seat belt.
“Please don’t let anyone get hurt,” Tinsley cried. “Whoever posted this thinks they’re getting justice for me. He or she may be suffering from PTSD—”
“I understand,” Korine said, forcing a calm to her voice as Hatcher sped onto the road. “We’ll do everything we can to make sure no one is hurt.” She exhaled sharply. “I’m going to hang up now. We’ll keep you posted.”
“Call Wyatt and ask him to go to Tinsley’s,” Hatcher said.
She quickly made the call. At first, Wyatt seemed hesitant, but when she explained the situation, he said he’d get there ASAP.
She ended the call, then phoned Detective Brockett and relayed this latest development. “Find the four women we brought in for questioning. If one of them is involved, we have to force them to talk before an innocent man dies.”
Brockett agreed, and Korine said a silent prayer that they found the man in time as Hatcher careened around a corner and headed toward the marsh.
Hatcher floored the gas pedal, his heart hammering as he raced toward the address. He knew this marshland well. They were only two miles from the place where this man was being held.
“Why did our unsub think this man was the Skull?” Hatcher asked Cat.
Computer keys clicked in the background. “I don’t know, but there are photographs of Tinsley all over the wall behind the man.”
Hatcher barreled down a winding graveled drive that looked more like a path than a road. Seagulls swooped in the distance, and vultures circled above the swamp.
A Chevy Tahoe was parked at an angle a few feet away from a small white clapboard house overgrown with seagrass and weeds.
Korine pulled her gun as he parked, and he did the same. Then they eased out of his SUV.
He scanned the property in case someone was stationed as a lookout, while Korine inched toward the house. She carefully took cover from tree to tree as she approached. Hatcher went left, cautious as well. His boots sank into the damp soil as he crept toward a side window.
Gun at the ready, Korine remained behind a live oak as Hatcher peered inside the house. The sound of voices echoed from the front, and he stooped down and eased his way to a window and looked inside.
Three women stood talking in hushed whispers beside their hostage.
Hatcher motioned for Korine to join him, and she crouched low and crept through the brush until she reached him.
He held up three fingers, indicating they were dealing with three perps inside, then mouthed for her to back him up.
She gave a quick nod, and he eased toward the door with her on his heels. With every step, he hesitated, listening for sounds that someone had heard them or his vehicle.
But the women inside seemed too busy in their huddle to notice.
Hatcher motioned to Korine that they’d enter on the count of three, then counted down with his fingers. He turned the doorknob, surprised that it wasn’t locked, then stepped inside, careful to keep his footfalls light and his gun at the ready.
Korine followed, her gun aimed. He veered toward the living area, then raised his weapon.
“Stand back, ladies.”
A sharp gasp punctuated the air, and the women threw up their hands. Not three women—four.
Liz Roberts, Beverly Grant, Laura Austin, and Rachel Willis.
“Don’t shoot,” Grant said.
Korine inched toward the parole officer. “Put down the gun, Ms. Willis.”
Willis’s eyes widened, and she glanced at her gun as if she hadn’t realized she’d been holding it.
“Do what she says,” Hatcher barked. “There’s no reason for anyone else to get hurt.”
“Set the gun on the floor,” Korine ordered.
“Rachel, do it,” Roberts said in a hiss.
The young woman slowly lowered her hand, then eased the pistol to the floor. “I wasn’t going to shoot,” Willis said vehemently.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Austin added.
Roberts moved toward him, but Hatcher threw up a warning hand. “Don’t come any closer.”
Roberts froze, her face ashen. “You have to let us explain—”
“It looks pretty clear what you’re doing.” Hatcher retrieved Willis’s gun from the floor. “You’re holding this man hostage.”
Keeping her gun aimed at the women, Korine crossed to the man and checked for a pulse.
She gestured that he was still alive, then quickly called for an ambulance.
“You thought he was the Skull,” Hatcher said. “Tinsley called.”
“Tinsley Jensen called you about us,” Willis said in a surprised tone.
Grant paled. “We’ve all tried to help her.”
“By eliminating a man you believed hurt her?” Korine asked.
“That’s not the way it is,” Roberts said.
“Listen to me, you have the wrong person,” Korine said. “This is not the man who abducted Tinsley. That’s the reason she called.”
Shock registered on the women’s faces.
Roberts fidgeted. “It’s not?”
Willis moved toward Korine. “But—”
“But what?” Korine waved her gun, indicating for the woman to halt.
The parole officer froze, fear flashing in her eyes.
Hatcher wrestled his cuffs from inside his jacket. “You are all under arrest for kidnapping and attempted murder.”
More shocked gasps, then Roberts cleared her throat. “Don’t say anything, girls. We need to speak to our attorney.”
“You’re damn right you do. Our FBI analyst traced posts you made regarding this place to your computers and phones. We got you red-handed.” Hatcher crossed the room, took Grant’s arm and forced her to turn around. “Three murders and now another abduction and attempted murder on top of it.”
“We didn’t murder anyone,” Austin protested.
“Be quiet.” Grant tossed a frown over her shoulder at her friends.
Hatcher snapped cuffs around the Grant woman’s wrists. Korine cuffed Roberts and Willis while he took care of Austin.
He left Korine reading them their rights while he phoned Detective Brockett and asked for backup to transport the suspects to a holding cell.
While they waited on Brockett and the ambulance, he walked over to the man slumped in the chair.
If this had been the Skull, he might have considered looking the other way. But according to Tinsley, he wasn’t.
He shoved the mask off the man’s face. Shock slammed into him.
It was Trace Bellamy, who’d been working the crime scenes.
Why the hell had the women thought he was the Skull?
Korine met the ambulance outside and led them to the victim. On the heels of the ambulance, the evidence team, Drummond, and another female agent named Carla Watley, arrived along with Detective Brockett. Hatcher was helping him load the women into the police van to transport them to the jail.
The four women had lapsed into silence, their expressions worried but calm as they exchanged furtive looks.
Drummond, on the other hand, was visibly upset. She shifted back and forth on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe this. My God, why would they think Trace was the Skull?”
“I don’t know,” Korine said. “The suspects aren’t talking, but we’ll push them for answers at the police station.”
Drummond shivered. “Is Trace all right?”
Korine gave her a tentative look. “He’s unconscious, but he’s breathing. The medics are with him now.”
Drummond pushed past Korine to go inside, but the medics rolled a stretcher through the door before she could enter. Trace lay motionless, his complexion ruddy.
Drummond made a pained sound in her throat, then squeezed his hand. “Hang in there, Trace. I’ll work here and make sure we have the proof to nail these women for trying to kill you. I’ll see you at the hospital.”
He didn’t respond.
Drummond wiped at a tear that trickled down her cheek as the medics loaded Trace onto the ambulance and raced away.
“How long have you worked with Trace?” Korine asked.
“Almost a year.” Drummond heaved a breath. “He’s sharp, calm under pressure, and detail oriented. Last week, he told me he wants to be a detective.” She dragged a tissue from her pocket and wiped at her eyes.
Korine patted Drummond’s arm. “He’ll make it. Then maybe he can verify who did this and put an end to this vigilantism.”
“I thought you arrested them,” Drummond said.
Korine worked her mouth from side to side. “We did. But we need concrete evidence to make the charges stick.”
Drummond nodded quickly, her eyes flashing with a mixture of emotions, then she picked up her evidence collection kit. “Then I’d better get to work.”
Korine nodded.
A mixture of emotions enveloped her, though, as she glanced at the women. The jobs they did on a daily basis stirred her admiration. She understood the frustrations, too.
But they’d ruined their reputations and lives by committing murder and kidnapping Bellamy.
Still, locking them in prison with hardened criminals somehow seemed wrong.
But they’d crossed the line and come close to killing an innocent man.
For that, they had to pay.