To Catch a Killer

Matthew pushed off the vehicle, his tone all business. “Let’s do it. The rain is coming and that bastard is getting caught.”

The three started the climb down into Wolf’s Tooth, for the second time in as many days, the cold biting into her skin while brambles scratched and grabbed, and Kara remembered why she’d never enjoyed hiking.

Kara slid the final few feet and if Matthew hadn’t caught her, his strong grip closing around her waist, she would’ve fallen flat on her butt, or worse, gone tumbling head over heels.

“Watch your step,” he said. Electricity sparked between them with the accidental contact and Kara stopped the immediate gasp that nearly flew from her mouth.

“Thanks,” she muttered, stepping away from him.

His gaze swept over her but he didn’t say anything else, just turned and kept walking. “This way.”

They walked twenty more feet before they reached the area where Hannah’s body was found and Dillon said he was going to canvas the perimeter, leaving Kara and Matthew to search the underbrush.

The foliage, dense and varied shades of green, was damp from the misty weather. A distant crack of thunder heralded the coming storm.

“He kept her alive for a few days,” Matthew said, without breaking his careful search. He looked up. “Did he do that with his other victims?”

It was one of the details that bothered Kara the most. Each time a child went missing, that short window of time seemed to taunt them for they knew it wasn’t long enough to find them. The killer knew it, too. “Yes. He’s a sadist. He wants to enjoy their pain.”

“You keep referring to the killer as a he. Is there something you know that you’re not saying?”

“No. Statistically, serial killers are men. I don’t care if it’s a man or a woman. Either way, he or she is going down. I think it’s just easier sometimes for me to think of him as a man.”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips but it was gone in a heartbeat. “Why? Because it’s hard to believe a woman would do something so awful to a child?”

She met his gaze and answered truthfully. “Yes.”

“Who knew … Kara Thistle has a soft spot after all.”

She scowled, realizing her mistake. “I’m going to check over there. Holler if you find something.”

Kara made her way carefully through the underbrush, noting every detail of the terrain, looking for some kind of sign that the killer had screwed up and left behind more than just a discarded body. She glanced back at Matthew, his solid form moving through the dense forest ground cover, and wondered if there’d ever come a day when those blue eyes didn’t smolder with hatred when they focused on her.

Not likely. An unexpected burn behind her eyes caught her off guard. She wiped at them with an impatient motion, irritation blooming at her own lack of control just because she was around Matthew again. What was wrong with her?

“Hey, I think I found something.”

Moving briskly, she pulled a glove from her pocket and slipped it on as she went. “What have you got?”

Matthew pointed at a tiny slip of paper, barely noticeable under the wide green fern fronds, as a corner stuck out from under the earth.

“Dillon,” she called out. “Over here!”

Bending down, she gently moved the dirt so she could pull the paper free. Her heartbeat slowed to a painful thud as she scanned the damp slip.

“Mulberry bush,” Kara read, her brow furrowing as she handed it over to Dillon to put into an evidence bag.

“Isn’t that part of a nursery rhyme?” Dillon asked.

“All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel,” she answered softly, then looked at Matthew. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know but I don’t like it. I’ve always thought there was a certain creep factor to most of the old nursery rhymes,” Matthew said, frowning.

“Why?”

Matthew looked at her. “Because they never mean what they say. They’re too cloak and dagger for my tastes. Besides, haven’t you ever noticed that a lot of those rhymes are kind of violent toward kids?”

Dillon agreed. “I think the chief is right. Perhaps the bastard is using the rhyme as a metaphor.”

“A metaphor for what?” Matthew asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” Dillon answered, shrugging. “But it can’t be literal, now can it? I don’t suspect the killer keeps a pet monkey or weasel for kicks. I suppose we’ll have to do some research on the blasted nursery rhyme.”

“Great. Someone who fancies himself clever. Just what we need,” Kara said, rubbing her temple. “All right, Dillon, see if anything turns up in the origin of the rhyme.”

Matthew’s jaw hardened and Kara knew he was fighting against his urge to grind his teeth. When he spoke again, his tone was ominous. “We haven’t seen the last of this guy. My gut tells me he’s on the prowl for his next victim.”

Kara agreed, shivering and blaming the cold, which was already causing her teeth to chatter. As if on cue, the rain started and Kara was only too happy to get out of that ravine. There was a sadness that clung to the area, as if Hannah’s spirit was lingering, waiting for someone to solve her murder and prevent more from meeting the same fate.

She looked back as they climbed up the steep grade and for a split second she could’ve sworn she’d actually seen someone standing there. Kara blinked. Nothing but hundred-year-old trees and undergrowth remained.

Tricks of the mind, she thought shakily. Tricks of the mind.

Chapter 3 (#ulink_22e4cea1-6628-52c2-8cff-d473178b84cd)

It was late and the storm that had started when they were down in the ravine was pelting the earth with fat, angry raindrops, creating a staccato against the tiled roof of the single-story motel. She’d declined to go out with the team for a bite to eat, preferring to go over case notes and forensic reports, though as she glanced at her watch and her stomach growled in complaint she wondered if maybe she should’ve chosen differently. Sighing, she fished a can of salted almonds from her bag and popped the top. Voila, dinner.

Tossing a few into her mouth, she’d just settled into the chair with her pad and pencil when a short rap at the door had her tensing. The team hadn’t returned yet, which made whoever was on the other side of that door, suspect. Moving softly and grabbing her gun, she called out, “Who is it?”

There was a pause and then she heard Matthew answer. “Me. I, uh, brought you something.”

Puzzled, she holstered her gun and opened the door a crack. Matthew stood there with a bag of Chinese takeout, his expression hard to read. Glancing down at her wardrobe, she grimaced at the tight, long-sleeved sleep shirt and soft flannel pants she was wearing. Well, it’d been a long time but Matthew had certainly seen her in less, so she reluctantly opened the door wider. “For me?”

He lifted the plastic bag from Mr. Choy’s. “Mu shu chicken. Used to be your favorite. I ran into your team as I was picking up my order and McIntyre told me you’d stayed behind. Figured you ought to eat something,” he added a bit gruffly as if he were just as surprised as she was at his actions. He reached into the bag and pulled out the mu shu, thrusting it at her. “So here. Take it or leave it. Hell, I don’t even know if you even like this stuff anymore.”

She accepted the container and the sweet, tangy smell teased her senses, kicking her suppressed appetite awake with a vengeance. “I do. Thanks. Do you … want to come in?” she asked, unsure.

Matthew hesitated, then stepped over the threshold as she closed the door behind him. She took a seat at the small table where her notes were strewn about in a haphazard mess that belied her generally organized nature. Moving a few of her piles, she cleared a space for him to join her. “I can’t believe Mr. Choy’s is still in business after all these years,” she said, making small talk as she dug into the still-warm order. She chewed slowly, enjoying the pleasure of a once-favorite food. “He was old when I left.”

Matthew opened his own container of sweet-and-sour pork and, before digging in, said, “His boy took over. Does a pretty good job of picking up where his old man left off. Mr. Choy, from what I hear, is loving retirement and has taken a shine to golf, despite being near to ninety years old.”

“At least he’s staying active,” she murmured, taking another bite. She gestured with her fork to the food. “It’s great. You’re right. Tastes as good as I remember, so his son must be doing a bang-up job.”

They ate in silence but Kara knew they were both thinking the same thing: in what universe was it possible that she and Matthew were sitting at the same table, eating dinner like old friends? She swallowed and glanced at him surreptitiously, her practiced eye noting every detail about his appearance that was different and yet the same.

Solid Matthew. Always the practical one. The phantom of a smile threatened to play on her lips as she thought of the numerous scrapes and binds they’d narrowly escaped as kids simply because they’d had the sense to at least listen to Matthew when things had gone too far. It was a miracle nothing had ever managed to make it to her permanent record, a boon she no doubt owed to Matthew, not Neal. Often Neal had been as headstrong and reckless as she in their teens. Her daughter, Briana, had inherited that quiet wisdom Matthew had come by so naturally. For that, Kara was grateful.

Finished, she pushed her container away and sighed at her full belly. She didn’t often get the opportunity to just sit and eat without feeling pressured to finish so she could return to the task she’d set aside.