It seemed all hell broke loose.
They caught him that night. He still couldn’t stand straight when the police arrived. He tried to say he’d just been walking down the street, and Della had attacked him. The police didn’t buy it. And in the days to come, forensic science would tie him to other murders. He’d thought he’d cleaned his knife. He hadn’t. Special techniques showed the knife had been used on the poor woman in the Biloxi area, and once that happened, he’d been proud to be known as the Canal Carnivore. He assured them all he was going to be immortal, one of the greatest killers ever.
An FBI agent who had been following the killer’s trail of blood assured him all he had done was take some beautiful people away from those who had loved them. He wasn’t famous at all. He was just Henry Worth of Los Angeles, California, and he’d be doing—at the least—life with no chance of parole.
The agent had questioned Della. A man of about forty, he was even and controlled. When they talked, Della realized just how close he’d been. He told her if it hadn’t been for her, Worth might have killed again and again.
“You showed remarkable coolness in such a situation, young lady. Think about joining the Bureau. I hear you’re studying criminology.”
“I was thinking forensics,” Della told him. “But... Well, I have three more years to go.”
The agent had been kind. Her parents, of course, had been hysterical. To calm them she had reminded them she’d taken down the killer.
But in truth, Jose had done that. And when the dust had settled on it all, she returned to the cemetery just as the sun was setting in the western sky. She stood by his grave and said, “Jose! You saved my life, my friend. Please... You’re here, right?”
She felt him touch her shoulders, as he had in life sometimes supporting her. She smiled and turned and he was there.
“I wasn’t so sure,” he told her. “I thought you might have it. Like an extra sight, the ability to see with your mind—or your heart or soul—whatever it might be. Benjamin Turner, the Yankee buried up by the house, told me about it. Some of the living have it. When I thought about the way I had seen you here at various times, I suspected you might.” He grinned. “Oh, and Lieutenant Parker—he was with Lee’s regiment during the Civil War, opposite side—assured me what Ben was saying was the absolute truth.” He shrugged. “I enjoy the two of them. Parker is great—a man who can admit he was wrong, that a whole society was wrong... Anyway. I’m just so grateful you could see me, hear me!”
“And I’m just so grateful you saved my life,” she whispered.
He smiled. “You...your folks. Always giving to others. But... I heard that FBI guy. You have what it takes, Della. I think you should consider joining the Bureau. This special thing. Whatever it is. Della, it means you have an edge. And maybe you should use that edge.”
“Maybe,” she whispered. “Maybe. As long as I get to keep seeing you.”
Jose grinned. “We can do that! And I’ll introduce you to Ben and Josiah Parker. They’re great! And then... Well, talk to them, too. Then use what you’ve got, my dearest friend. Use what you’ve got!”
One
Mason Carter knew he had backup. The man now holding seventeen-year-old Melissa Wells hostage had been busy for months, and law enforcement across the country had been on his tail. Spread about in various positions outside, an FBI SWAT crew was situated along with local police who knew the area well.
Still, they were in bayou country surrounded by snake-and alligator-infested waters and a range of high grasses, trees, and brush that might hinder any assistance.
Though he’d left a trail of carnage across the country by taking nine victims along the way, the killer’s identity was unknown. He’d left behind fingerprints, but they couldn’t be found in any database, and nothing else discovered by any agency across the country had given them a single clue toward discovering his identity. The truth existed somewhere; it just hadn’t been found as yet.
He’d been labeled the Midnight Slasher since most of his abductions and kills had been after midnight. His note—handwritten and mailed from Las Vegas to the NYC FBI offices—had assured them he was fond of his moniker, and he’d try to make sure his murders did, indeed, occur after midnight in the future. He’d really have preferred being the Vampire, but that name had already gone to a coworker who was busy in Europe.
Coworker?
Mason knew about murders that were being called “the vampire killings” in Europe. He doubted this man and the European madman knew each other, though it appeared they were trying to outdo one another.
But then again, he didn’t really know.
Maybe this killer needed the moniker because he was such an ordinary-looking man. Not exactly handsome—cute might be a term applied to him. He didn’t appear at all insane or creepy as some seemed to think he must appear, not at all as people might think a maniacal killer should look.
He was about twenty-seven—the profilers had been right on his age—six feet even, perhaps a hundred and seventy pounds, with shaggy dirty blond hair, a clean-shaven face and friendly brown eyes. He smiled a lot. Mason could see how he’d managed easily enough to charm or coerce his victims out with him to a place where they might be alone.
And here they were. Mason had trailed the killer from Virginia and had suspected from the few clues he’d been told by the locals that the man would steal a boat and bring his victim far into the bayou. He’d been at the forefront of the investigation, and he called in as he made his way, seeking help from any and all law enforcement agency so they might really end the reign of the Midnight Slasher with a true force against him.
But Mason was the one who now stood alone, facing the man who held the teenaged girl, his blood-stained knife held so tightly to her throat that a trickle of blood ran down to her collarbone. Her terror-filled eyes were on Mason. She didn’t want to die.
Mason didn’t want her to die, either.
He was a good shot—but he’d still have to be at his fastest to hit the man before the knife could slide into the soft flesh of her throat and on to arteries and veins and...
“Okay, Midnight Slasher,” he said, his Glock trained hard on the man, “do you really want to die today?”
“I’ve been here before, and I’m still alive!” the killer said. The girl let out a terrified whimper; the killer had jerked with his words. Another trail of blood slid down to her collarbone.
“I don’t know. You’re in bayou country now. With people who know it well,” Mason said, shrugging.
It was truly doubtful the man would survive the day if he didn’t surrender, but Mason was telling the truth. And it was true, too, that before Mason had been called in on the case, the killer had escaped a similar situation in the Shenandoah mountains.