The Fifth Victim

“Please, may I take your coat and gloves?” she asked. “I’ll hang your coat up and it should be dry in a few hours.”

He shed his overcoat, ripped off his gloves, and handed both to her. “Thanks.”

She took the garments, then waved an outstretched hand toward the room to the left. “Go on into the living room and take a seat by the fireplace. I’ll put these away and bring you some tea, and if you’d like, a sandwich, too.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” Talk about Southern hospitality. This woman would win first prize in the perfect hostess contest.

“No trouble,” she replied and disappeared down the hallway. Thankfully, Drudwyn followed her. Then she called out, “There’s a telephone in the living room. Feel free to call Jacob. Try the Sheriff’s Department and if he’s not there, I can give you his home number.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll give him a call.”

Dallas glanced around the room and suddenly felt as if he’d stepped back in time. He doubted there was anything in here that wasn’t at least fifty years old, most of it probably a lot older. The walls were paneled halfway up in an aged wood that looked like pine to him, mellowed to a rich patina that glistened in the soft lighting from the two table lamps flanking the sofa and from the firelight. The furniture looked like museum pieces, except it had a well-used appearance that came only from generations of continuous service. The floor beneath his feet consisted of wide planks, spotlessly clean and waxed to a glossy finish.

The modern portable telephone on the open antique secretary caught Dallas’s eye. Thank goodness something in this place was up-to-date. He picked up the phone, then sat down in one of the two wing chairs near the fireplace. The warmth seeped through his damp clothing. He sighed. He had driven here in a damn storm and might have been forced to stay in his stranded vehicle had it not been for fate. Fate had sent him into a warm, inviting home.

As he made himself comfortable, he pulled out a small black notepad and flipped it open. He repeated aloud the number he’d scrawled down before leaving D.C. earlier this evening. He’d caught the first available flight, which had taken him into Knoxville, instead of waiting for a morning flight that would have taken him to Cherokee Pointe’s small airport. In retrospect, he realized he’d have been better off to have taken the morning flight.

He punched the ON button and dialed the number for the Sheriff’s Department. On the second ring, a male voice answered.

“This is Special Agent Dallas Sloan,” he told the man who had identified himself as Deputy Bobby Joe Harte. “Is Sheriff Butler around?”

“Just so happens he is. Hold on and I’ll get him for you. I know he was expecting you in tonight.”

“I got held up,” Dallas said. “I won’t be able to make it into town until tomorrow.”

Dallas waited for a reply. None came. Then he realized the phone was dead. Damn. Now he wouldn’t get a chance to speak to Butler tonight.

“Did you get Jacob?” the woman asked as she entered the living room carrying a silver tray.

Dallas came to his feet instantly and went to her. He took the tray from her and carried it across the room, then placed it on the table to the left of the fireplace where she indicated with a wave of her open palm.

“I got hold of a Deputy Harte, but the line went dead before I could speak to the sheriff.”

She motioned for him to take a seat, which he did.

“Well, that means the ice has gotten heavy on some of the phone lines and snapped them.” She lifted a silver teapot and poured a reddish-brown liquid into a china cup. “I fixed you a chicken salad sandwich. Is that all right?”

“Are you always so accommodating to strangers stranded on your mountain?” He accepted the cup of tea she held out to him. “If so, then I’m surprised your cousin Jacob hasn’t cautioned you to be more careful. Even with Drudwyn around”—he scanned the room—“by the way, where is your companion?”

She sat across from Dallas and removed a linen napkin from atop a china plate with roses on it, revealing a large, thick sandwich. Dallas’s mouth watered. He hadn’t had a bite to eat since lunch, which had been over ten hours ago.

“He stayed in the kitchen,” she replied.

“By choice?”

“By mutual agreement.”

She stared at him unabashedly. An odd sensation hit him square in the gut. “Please, Dallas, go ahead and eat.”

His named rolled off her tongue as if coated in honey. A sweet Southern drawl. A tight fist clutched at his insides. Something was definitely wrong here. He didn’t go around reacting this way to women. Not ever.

“I don’t know your name.” He forced a smile. Hell, he didn’t feel like smiling; he felt like running scared out of this house and away from this strange yet oddly appealing woman.

“Genevieve Madoc. But people call me Genny.”

Genevieve. The name suited her. And yet so did Genny. Old-fashioned, even a bit romantic.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Genny.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Once again she reached out and touched his hand, but this time she closed her eyes. What the hell was she doing? Suddenly, she jerked her hand away.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Your pain is very great,” she told him. “Almost more than you can bear. It wasn’t your fault that she died. And it isn’t your fault that you haven’t found her killer. But you will. And soon.”

Dallas dropped the cup; it crashed into pieces as it hit the hard wooden floor. Hot tea spread out across the shiny surface. He sat there staring at Genny for several minutes. Moments out of time.

“I’m sorry about the cup,” he said as he reached down to pick up the pieces. “If you’ll get me a mop, I’ll—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. Here—” she took her cup, filled it with tea, and handed it to him. “Drink, eat, relax. Let me take care of you.”

Before he could reply, she rose to her feet and hurried from the room. Dallas stared after her, stunned by her words. Let me take care of you.

“How did you know about my niece?” he asked.

“I’m sure Jacob must have mentioned it,” she replied as she paused in the doorway.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something peculiar about Genny, something that didn’t quite add up. Get real, Sloan, he chastised himself. You’re tired, you’re stressed, and you haven’t gotten laid in six months. You’re overreacting to simple human kindness.

Maybe so, but he couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that Genevieve Madoc was going to change his life forever.

He laid her limp body in the middle of the bed, gazed down at her, and smiled.

The second victim had fallen into his arms as easily as the first had. Providence always provided. He never had to choose the first four—they always came to him. He simply waited for them. Sometimes it took only days. Other times it might take weeks. But they were essential. Their blood sustained him, strengthened him, prepared him for the fifth victim.

She would remain unconscious for several hours. Long enough for him to remove her clothes and pleasure himself. With the weather so nasty, he didn’t believe an outdoor setting was wise. Where could he find an appropriate place to make the sacrifice? Only two things were necessary for him to accomplish the deed: an altar and complete privacy.

He couldn’t keep her here for very long. Not without risking being found out. No, he’d have to choose a place quickly, somewhere close by, since traveling very far would be out of the question in this winter storm. Before daybreak he would place her on the altar, speak the solemn, sacred words he’d been taught as a boy, then, when dawn broke over the eastern horizon, he would make the sacrifice.

One sacrifice had already been made and there were three more to make before he could take her, the one who would give him more power than all the other victims combined. Just the thought of taking her, consuming her, aroused him unbearably.

While a drugged Cindy Todd lay on the cot in the basement, he unzipped his slacks, eased his penis free and jerked off. Within moments his cum spewed out over her naked belly.

Chapter 4

Big Jim Upton poured himself a brandy and tried his best to shut out the sound of his wife’s droning voice. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Reba. He did. She was a good woman, but not an endearing one. He’d married her on the rebound over fifty-five years ago, when the love of his life married another man. He didn’t regret marrying her—at least not until recently. Reba had given him a son and a daughter; and together they had survived the loss of both children. For years they had clung to the hope that their only grandchild would eventually mature into a decent, responsible human being. Jamie was thirty now and it was past time for him to settle down, but Jim didn’t see any evidence of that happening anytime soon.