Their Summer Heat (22 page)

When he was totally naked, he climbed in bed. “Come on, get in. You can leave your clothes on if you want to.”

He flipped the covers back. “I just want to hold you. That’s all.”

She stared at his face, at his sheepish grin.

“Get in, Summer. Don’t make me come and get you.”

With no choice but to comply, she slipped into bed, turned away from him. He scooted closer, spooned her before pulling the covers over them, his penis pressing into her backside. Her body shook with quakes she couldn’t control.

She would survive, and somehow, her child would, too. Her mind needed sleep so she could figure out how to escape. Closing her eyes, she prayed for a miracle.

The bang, bang, bang on the door pulled her from a fretful slumber. She sat up, tried to remember where she was. A light snapped on, casting the room in a dim glow.

“Get up, Cullen. We’ve got company.”

Cullen slid from the bed, pulled on his clothes, and then caught the bulletproof vest one of his brothers tossed to him from the doorway. Fear leaped into her throat. Both of his brothers were dressed in black tactical gear. Cullen put on a headset, strapped a knife to his thigh, and took a big-ass automatic weapon from his brother.

Dr. Stone appeared in the doorway, wearing a robe and pushing on his glasses. “What’s going on?”

“Something tripped the sensors on the north side. Take Summer to the basement and stay there.”

Cullen dragged her from the bed and pushed her toward the doctor. Her mind spun with confusion. What sensors?

The light went out as the doc grabbed her arm so hard it hurt and shoved what she thought was a gun into her side. “You do as I say, girl, and I won’t have to kill you.”

He’d kill her to protect his sons, even if she was the focus of their desire. She nodded as she stumbled recklessly down the creaky stairs, the house so dark, she couldn’t see three inches in front of her. But the doc maneuvered with ease, making her wonder if he’d practiced this or had just lived there a long time. He took her down more steps into the inky basement, which reminded her of a tomb—dark, airless, lifeless.

With a frozen wife thrown in for good measure.

Her body quaked; her hands shook. “What’s happenin’?” she squeaked out.

“Probably a wild animal set off the sensors, but we can’t be too careful.”

These serial killers were paranoid, which might contribute to their success. They were armed warriors with lots of firepower. No doubt they possessed the skills to defend themselves and would eliminate any innocent who happened to wander onto the property.

This would be a perfect time to escape—if she didn’t have a gun shoved into her ribs and she had a weapon of her own. The light clicked on. The doctor fumbled in his robe and pulled out a walkie-talkie. He placed it on the freezer and turned up the volume.

“Now, we can hear everything going on.”

He grabbed a chair from beside the freezer and placed it in the center of the room. “Have a seat. This is the chair I use when I come down here to talk to Mrs. Stone.”

What?
She sat down, eyed the pistol he waved around. “So, you still love her?”

“Of course. I’ll always love her. She’s my best friend.”

“Wouldn’t she be a better friend if she were alive?”

He seemed to contemplate her question before finally replying, “No.”

The doc didn’t offer any more info, and Summer felt the end of the conversation. Dr. Stone was more mentally disturbed than she’d originally thought. No doubt he wasn’t thoroughly grounded in reality. Did he think his wife could hear him, or was this like people who talked to the graves of their loved ones?

The communicator crackled. “There are several footprints around the sensor.”

The doc frowned.

“Who spoke?”

“That was Calvin.”

“You can tell the difference between them?” Because she sure as hell couldn’t.

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t, at first. Give it time. You’ll be able to, also.”

I certainly hope not.

The house creaked somewhere upstairs, but the doc didn’t seem concerned.

She decided she had to keep him talking. “Tell me about
your
kills.”

“Are you analyzing me, Miss Heat?”

“No.”
Liar.
“Just tryin’ to pass the time.”
And think of a way to save myself.

“I’m a classic serial killer. My first kill was a huge bullfrog—I was eight. It had just rained, and this monster had come out to bask in the sunshine. I beat it with a baseball bat—the wooden kind, not one of those metal ones like they have now. At first, it didn’t show any signs of trauma. I didn’t know at the time that amphibians have elastic skin, but soon the skin gave way, and the insides squirted out.”

Summer swallowed the bile. The bastard’s gaze was transfixed on the wall to her right, as if he were reliving the experience.

“Then it was on to cats and puppy dogs. My first human was when I was in college. Carolyn Brewster wouldn’t give me the time of day.” He turned, looked directly at her. “Like you did my boys.”

Perhaps, Dr. Stone was more miffed at her than his sons were. She didn’t know if acknowledging she’d made a mistake would appease him or piss him off.

“Carolyn begged for her life, apologized profusely.”

“But you had no mercy?”

He laughed. “No. It was much too late.”

One thing she knew for sure—it was never too late. “So, how many have you killed?”

“Oh, thirty or so, over a period of thirty-some years. Don’t you think it’s ironic my only unsuccessful kill resulted in three incredible sons? That was God’s doing.”

Summer was pretty damn sure God didn’t
do
any of this. This was straight-up evil.

She nodded as her mind tried to process the idea of thirty kills. Sure, he was once young, able to overpower a woman, not the aging man standing before her, and now he’d unleashed three more, just like himself.

Summer needed a weapon. When he looked away from her, she let her gaze dart around the room. No axes, knives, sharp objects, nothing but dust. Keeping him talking was her only plan.

“It’s typical to journal the kills. Did you?” Maybe someone someday would kill this bastard, and the families of the dead women could have some closure.

He waved the weapon around. “Oh, yes. My sons were fascinated with my kills, couldn’t get enough; asked me a thousand questions, like sons often do.”

Sons who should’ve been asking how to change a tire, or combine gas and oil for a two cycle motor, or how to tie a damn tie, and bait a hook, not how to kill a frog or a puppy or a woman.

Glancing around again, she found nowhere to hide—only a square box with a body and a table void of any weapons. “Did your sons kill before the Society Murders?”

“The Society Murders. Catchy name, don’t you think?”

“Yes. One day, you and your sons will be
the
faces of the Society Murders Killer.”

“There’s a plan for that, you know. The authorities are too stupid to catch us, so we’re writing our memoirs as we go. Of course, I’ll die first, but when they pass, our lawyer will turn over the documents. We’re already the most infamous serial killers in history, but our words will reveal the why, the method, the execution.”

They have a lawyer?
Did this firm know their clients were serial killers? “A best-seller, I’m sure. Too bad you’ll never experience any of the fanfare, never be interviewed or able to approve what’s written about you.”

His gaze locked with hers, and his eyes glittered while he processed this information. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

“Did Mrs. Stone meet your boys?”

“No, she had passed way before then.”

So his wife had been dead more than six years, or perhaps a better way to word it was that he’d killed his wife at least that long ago. “How many wives have you…”
Killed.
“Had?”

“Only one. She was the prettiest thing…”

Rat-tat-tat.

She jumped at the sound of automatic gunfire screeching from the walkie-talkie. He grabbed the thing and screamed into it. “What the hell is going on out there?”

More shots squealed from the thing and echoed in the dank space.

“We’re under attack. We’re under attack. Calvin’s hit.”

The doc paced, raked his hand through his hair. “This can’t be.”

Chaos cackled through the walkie-talkie. He stopped, pinned her with a stare. His face hardened as he pointed the weapon at her.

“You! You did this.” Spittle flew from his mouth.

“God,” screeched someone. “I’m hit. I’m hit.”

She glimpsed the pained look on the doctor’s face before he turned away from her. Summer murmured a prayer, jumped up, snatched the chain on the light so hard it broke, before diving beside the freezer. Somehow, she managed not to scream at the pain when she bashed her elbow into the cold metal.

“Damn you, Summer.”

She jumped at the gunshot he fired into the darkness. She covered her ears, watched flashes illuminate the area, smelled the cordite, smelled her own fear.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

She believed him. More gunfire came from the walkie-talkie, and then a crash from upstairs sounded like a door being kicked in. Booted feet stomped overhead. She wanted to cry out to let them know she was here in the dark with a serial killer, but she had no idea how many bullets the doctor had left.

After what seemed like forever, the door at the top of the stairs banged open, and single beam of light cut through the ink. When a spotlight settled on Dr. Stone, he lifted the pistol. He staggered back before she heard the rapid blasts.

He stumbled, fell at her feet. When the flashlight settled on Dr. Stone, vacant eyes stared at her.

A shadow eased down the stairs, stopped and squatted in front of her. “Are you Miss Heat?”

“Y-yes. Oh, yes. How did you find me?”

“Marshal Stevens happened to come by as you were being loaded into an SUV, and he followed you here. Are you all right? Hurt anywhere?”

She looked at the man standing before her, swallowed hard. Her body shook; her belly pitched. “Eh. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Ten months later

Summer watched little Julia Carrington Preston wiggle on her pallet in the warm morning sun. Her daughter giggled as Max blew raspberry kisses on her plump belly.

“Guess who’s coming to see you today,” said Max. “Granny and Papa.”

“You just love calling them those names, don’t you?” asked Summer.

Max grinned. “Most definitely. We
had
to use Grandmother and Grandfather, because it was the proper thing to do. I always thought it sounded so stuffy, so calling them Granny and Papa makes my day.”

Summer smiled. Jack and Maggie Preston didn’t look like a papa and a granny, but they didn’t mind answering to those titles one bit. They were
the
babysitters and didn’t give a flying fig what they were called.

Ever since Summer had reunited with Logan and Max, she’d been the happiest person in the world. She loved them, and they loved her, and then Julia… well, she completed their family. Every night, Summer and her men made sweet love, and she had no clue how they had the energy to go to work each day.

Summer had married Logan at the courthouse, because neither wanted Julia to be born without a daddy. She still laughed about them playing rock, paper, scissor—best two out of three—to see who got to become her husband. Logan had won, and Summer had felt guilty, as if Max were being cheated, but he seemed fine and assured her a marriage certificate was only a formality.

Max and Logan both still worked, but not much kept them from arriving home by six. Max’s firm now represented a lot of poor people in need, and Logan still aggressively procured real estate but now worked to secure affordable housing for those who didn’t qualify for government help. She, on the other hand, had decided to forgo getting her degree and become a stay-at-home mom—the most fabulous job in the world.

She turned back to her laptop, her speech weighing heavily on her mind. Unfortunately, Summer was a multimillionaire now, not because of the Prestons, but because Dr. Stone’s sons left her all their money. At first, she’d been in shock, revolted by such a thought. It was blood money, dirty, evil, but Max and Logan convinced her it was only paper and could be put to beneficial use.

Tonight was the first Preston Foundation Charity Ball, where she’d donate most of the money to various women’s issues charities. The rest of the money she had given to the families of most of the triplets’ victims. Some of the dead women’s family members still blamed Summer for their losses and wouldn’t take the money, so tonight, she would make a donation in those women’s names.

Getting rid of the money would be a relief.

Raising more each year would be a cleansing.

Logan came in dressed in jeans and a button-down, and he kissed her on her lips. “How’s your speech coming?”

“I’m done. No matter what I say, some people will boo me.”

“It’s a tragic situation, honey. I admire you for doing this, but you don’t have to. I think Max and I can handle the crowd without you.”

“I’m sure you can, but it’s something I need to do…for myself.”

Which was why she was writing a book about the Society Murders. She wanted to tell her story, the victims’ stories.

And the killers’ stories.

All four killers had left her their journals, as specified in their wills. Of course, the FBI had reviewed them first, but then they had relinquished them to her. Leaving her their journals was weird. Did they think she would outlive them? Did they think they’d eventually get caught? She’d never know those answers.

The sons wrote about their mom who raised them, spoke fondly of her; Calvin even stated he loved her. They had a wonderful childhood full of baseball and other sports. Their mom worked two jobs, never married.

Then Dr. Stone arrived in their lives and turned them into killing machines.

Mrs. Mattie called out for them to come in for lunch. Logan pulled Summer to her feet, and a paper slipped from the chair.