Authors: Kate Brady
One Scream Away
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2009 by Kate Brady
Excerpt from
Last to Die
copyright © 2009 by Kate Brady
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: July 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-55937-9
Contents
YOU’RE NOT ALONE ANYMORE . . .
“Hello, doll.”
The voice was low and clear. A finger of fear pressed down.
“Beth. I know you’re there. Pick up the phone.”
Beth?
The finger turned into a fist. She shot a worried glance toward Abby’s bedroom. No sound, no stirring of the bedcovers. Thankfully, Abby had sunk into the kind of sleep nature reserves for the very young.
“Be-eth. It’s been seven long years. Don’t you want to talk to me?”
Her lungs seized.
No. Please, no.
It couldn’t be.
“Yes, Beth.” And his voice lowered. “Surprise.”
The past sputtered to life, the chilling drops of memory trickling down her spine.
“I bet you thought I’d never find you,” he said. “But I’m a resourceful man. In fact, I’m so resourceful that I’ve arranged some
very
special gifts for you. I can’t wait until you see them.” He paused, as if he knew she’d had to grab the back of the kitchen chair to stay upright, and that her world was suddenly careening out of orbit.
He chuckled. “You think you have everyone fooled, living your pretty life, but you’ve forgotten: I know your secrets.”
“Kate Brady’s debut novel is everything romantic suspense should be… Remarkable characters, pitch-perfect pacing, and a memorable villain make ONE SCREAM AWAY a standout book.”
—Allison Brennan,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Riveting storytelling packed with unexpected twists and unforgettable characters. Prepare to stay up all night, then sleep with the lights on.”
—Roxanne St. Claire,
New York Times
bestselling author
For Brady, my rock.
And for Kaitlin and Kyle,
the two best characters I ever had a hand in creating.
Writing seems a solitary venture, yet there are many people to whom I am indebted for making this book a reality:
To my fabulous agent, Jenny Bent, for her belief in the manuscript and her unwavering support at every step along the way.
To my wonderful editor, Celia Johnson, for her unflagging patience, skill, devotion, and kindness throughout the process.
To Carol, Elaine, and Shirley, for things only you can understand; and to Emily, wherever you are.
To Tom and Carolyn and my years at Garth’s Auctions, for teaching me just enough about antiques to make up the rest.
To Ken, for being there after all these years and guiding me through proper police procedures (not that my characters listened).
To Linda, for being my personal statistics and research guru, and so much more.
To Rocki, for being the greatest cheerleader in the field.
To my dear friends—Fran, in particular—for understanding that I can’t talk on the phone, have dinner, or go shopping when someone is bleeding to death on my computer.
To my in-laws, for their genuine excitement and support; to my late father, for instilling a love of words; to my mother, for her love and strength of character in all matters; and to my sister, for her genuine pride in this endeavor, even though
her
books do a lot more good in the world.
To my children, Kaitlin and Kyle, for understanding that Mom’s mind is scarier than other moms’ minds.
And to my husband, Brady, for picking up the slack at home, for listening through endless possibilities, and for not being afraid to share a bed with a woman who is always plotting murders. But mostly, for loving me so well.
1
Bighorn Butte, Washington 2,780 miles away
A
chilly night with just a wedge of moon, mist brewing on the water and congealing in gullies. Six thousand feet below, Seattle glittered in a haze, but here on the butte, the air was thin and clear, steeped in eerie stillness. No light but the blue-white column of a halogen flashlight. No movement but the trusty reels of an old cassette tape recorder. No sound but the strangled sobs of a woman about to die.
Chevy Bankes looked down at the woman. Lila Beckenridge, her driver’s license said, the photo showing razor-sharp cheekbones and hair scraped into a bun. A dancer, he’d decided while roping her ankles—calloused feet and spaghetti-thin body, the faint odor of perspiration layered beneath her perfume.
And a screamer, a good set of lungs. Well worthy of her role in the performance that began here tonight.
Chevy stilled, the enormity of the moment weakening his knees. He’d had women before, he’d killed before, but never with such
purpose
. He’d never killed one woman to give to another, or taken a life for something greater than his own immediate need. In that sense, the dancer was unique. A first.
A perverse sort of gratitude washed over him, and he bent to stroke her cheek. She spit at him.
“Bitch!” He wiped his face with the edge of his shirt, snarling, and the rage jumped him. How dare she? That wasn’t in the plan…
Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin…
Chevy covered his ears. “No,” he said, but the song threaded in—a haunting little folk tune like a mosquito buzzing in his ear. He slapped at the air around his head, trying to shoo it away, then drew back his foot and kicked the woman on the ground. Her jaw gave with the sound of wood snapping in a fire, a moan of pain ripping from her chest.
The song slipped away.
Chevy waited, forcing himself to breathe. Control. Silence. There could be no singing tonight, not when a plan seven years in the making was finally under way.
Shaking, he uncovered his ears, eyes wide as if he might be able to see the voice and ward it off if it came again. He glanced at the cassette—ten, maybe fifteen minutes of tape left—then at his watch. It was late, and he still had a phone call to make. Besides, his little sister was waiting, and she didn’t like to be alone. Poor Jenny had spent enough of her young life alone and waiting for Chevy.
“Not much longer, Jen,” he whispered, as if she might hear him. He turned off the recorder and picked up the box he’d carried all the way up the butte. It was two feet long and about a foot deep, not overly heavy but awkward, and he set it on the ground beside the dancer and opened the flaps. Styrofoam peanuts fluttered to his feet as he pulled out the fragile bundle and unwound the tissue paper, layer by layer, round and round until—
“Jesus.” Chevy’s breath caught even though he’d seen the face before: dark, soulful eyes, vacuous smile, thick ringlets of human hair. He swallowed and sifted through the stack of insurance statements in the box, making sure this was the earliest doll in the set:
1862 Benoit. Bisque head and breastplate, wood body. Rare opening/closing eyelids. Appraisal: $40,000–$50,000.
Chevy tilted the doll upright then tipped her down again—up and down, up and down—studying her eyes. Despite what the insurance appraisal said, this doll’s eyes had never closed. They remained open and watchful, taking in every little thing.
Who saw him die? I, said the Fly, with my little eye—
“Stop it,” Chevy snapped, his teeth grinding together. For the space of five heartbeats he listened, then blew out a breath. Get on with it: The woman needed work. He laid the doll on the ground, several feet away in case there was splatter, then pulled an X-Acto knife from his pocket and went back to the dancer.
She squeaked and he stopped. Shit, he’d almost forgotten.
He pushed Play and Record at the same time, then crouched to one knee beside the dancer’s shoulder. Whimpers reeled onto the tape, garbled now by the broken jaw but stunning all the same, her terror rising to a fevered pitch as he bent over her.
Just a few screams away, now.
Heart galloping, Chevy went to work, glancing often at the doll, fighting to keep his hand steady. When he finished, he sat back on his knees and let the cries wash over him. A few minutes, no more, then,
click
.
Out of tape.
He opened his eyes and looked down at his handiwork. A little messy, but good enough. He dug his .38 Ruger from a bag of supplies and wiped off the woman’s temple. She was beyond noticing, her cries just snags in her breaths now, as if she knew it was over. Chevy measured an inch straight up, marked the spot with an eyebrow pencil, and placed the barrel of the pistol exactly on the spot. Squeezed.
A blessed silence rolled in behind the shot. Chevy held his breath, but he knew the singing wouldn’t come now. It never came when the cries were good.
He untied the dancer and arranged her limbs to his liking, then spent ten minutes gathering the things a crime scene team would spend hours looking for: X-Acto knife, gun and shell casing, tape recorder, the rope and tent stakes—all of it, into his gym bag. Every last Styrofoam peanut. Once, as he shoved a peanut into his pocket and pulled his hand back out, he dragged out some snack trash. He noticed and picked it up, a pulse of relief tapping at his chest. Being smart was key; being careful was critical.
Being lucky didn’t hurt.
One last look around, and Chevy hiked back down the butte, carrying his bag and the box, stopping to check the dancer’s cell phone about every twenty yards. He got halfway down before a cosmic little tune trickled out: service.
His pulse picked up. This was the moment he’d been waiting for, the call he’d been dreaming of for seven long years.
Let the games begin.
Midnight, the house tucked in, the child long asleep. A hundred-watt bulb glared down at a yellow mat in the basement, the air thick with the odors of perspiration and leather, the usual silence scuffed by illogical sounds of violence. Grunts, thumps, pants of breathlessness. The occasional screech of rubber soles.
The telephone.
Beth Denison scowled. She drew a deep breath, the air settling in her lungs like wet sand, then pulled herself back. Inhale, focus, balance. Strike. Her fist slammed into a hundred-and-fifty-pound sandbag. A hard left hook followed, a roundhouse spinning her around to land a kick that would have crushed an attacker’s windpipe. She ducked from the rebound, pivoted, and jammed her heel where the average man’s balls would be.
The ringing stopped.
She braced her hands on her knees, panting. No eerie message this time, no moans or heavy breathing. Maybe the caller was getting bored. She straightened and uncurled her fingers, wincing as each knuckle stretched through the pain. Tomorrow, she’d pay for not bothering to wear protective gear. Tonight, she needed sheer physical exhaustion to smother thought—about the future of the antiques firm, about Evan, and about phone calls from some jerk who apparently had a phone book, a few spare minutes in his evenings, and a flair for the perver—