The Fifth Victim. BEVERLY BARTONЧитать онлайн книгу.
shock and horror—when they realized what was about to happen to them.
Flinging back his dark cape, he smiled. There was no need to hurry. He could take his time afterwards, savor the kill for as long as he liked. No one in their right mind would be out in the woods at dawn in January. Only he and the girl.
He laid the ornately carved wooden case atop the girl’s trembling body, opened it and removed the heavy sword, then placed the case on the ground. Gazing up at the sky, he waited.
She whimpered, but the gag in her mouth kept her from doing more. He glanced down at her, ran his hand over her naked breasts and lifted the sword toward the heavens.
A pale pink blush spread out over Scotsman’s Bluff, only a hint of color in the dark sky.
“Soon, my little lamb. Soon.”
Languidly, with tendrils of light reaching farther and farther into the sky, the sun welcomed the dawn of a new day. He jerked the gag from her mouth. She screamed. He brandished the sword and spoke the sacred words in an ancient tongue.
From the depths of hell, hear me and do my bidding. Let this sacrifice please thee. I bid thee to accomplish my will and desire.
He brought the sword down, down, down. From throat to navel, he split her open. Her sightless eyes stared up at the towering treetops overhead.
He wiped the sword with a soft cloth and returned the weapon to its bed, then stuffed the bloodstained cloth into a plastic bag and dumped the bag into the case. With her blood still warm, he lowered his head until his lips touched the gaping wound. He licked, then sucked, filling his mouth with her blood and energizing himself with her life force before it escaped.
Genevieve Madoc woke with a start, sweat drenching her body, soaking her flannel gown. Her heart beat at a dangerously accelerated pace as she shot straight up in bed.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” she moaned as she recalled her dream, a shadowy, terrifying vision of death.
Uncontrollable tremors racked her body. She hated these moments directly following a revelation, when she was weak and vulnerable. Drained of all energy, barely able to move. She fell backward; her head hit the pillow. She would call Jazzy for help once she regained enough strength to reach out to the nightstand for the telephone. But for now she would lie still and wait. And pray the images would not return. Sometimes the sight came to her in dreams, but just as often she experienced it while wide awake.
Rising from the handwoven rug in front of the fireplace, Drudwyn’s keen eyes searched the darkness, seeking his mistress. He uttered a concerned whimper.
“I’ll be all right,” she told him, her voice a delicate whisper. Then she spoke to him telepathically, assuring him that she was in no danger. The big, mixed-breed animal lumbered to the side of the bed, then slumped to the wooden floor. She sensed his mood and knew his protective instincts had automatically kicked in. The dog she had raised from a mongrel puppy considered himself her bodyguard. Like she, Drudwyn’s heritage—the results of a wolf having mated with a German shepherd/Lab-mix mutt—made him unique. Her ancestry, comprised of Scots-Irish, English, and Chero-kee might not be all that uncommon in these parts, but the gift of sight she had inherited from her grandmother was.
As she lay in bed, waiting for her strength to renew, she couldn’t help thinking of the vision she’d had. Out there somewhere, a young woman had been murdered. Genny knew it as surely as she knew her own name. She had not seen the girl’s face, only her flawless naked body and the huge sword that had sliced her open as if she were a ripe melon. Bile rose from Genny’s stomach and burned a path up her esophagus to her throat.
No, please, I can’t be sick. Not now. I don’t have the strength to crawl out of bed. She willed the nausea under control.
Who could have committed such a heinous crime? What sort of monster would sacrifice a human being?
Her cousin Jacob had mentioned that there had been several animal sacrifices in the area—four since Thanksgiving. Had those been nothing more than a precursor to the killing of a human?
After she called Jazzy for help, she would call Jacob. It would be too late for him to do anything to help the woman, but as the county sheriff, it would be his job to investigate the murder.
What will you tell him? Genny asked herself. If you explain that you’ve had another vision, only this one far more gruesome than any you’ve had before, he’ll understand. He’s your blood-kin. He won’t dismiss your vision as nothing more than a dream.
Fifteen minutes later, Genny forced herself to ease to the edge of the bed. She lifted the telephone receiver and dialed Jazzy’s number. The phone rang five times before a harsh voice answered.
“Who the hell’s calling at this ungodly hour?”
“Jazzy?”
“Genny, is that you?”
“Yes. Please—”
“I’m on my way. Just stay put.”
“Thank you.”
The moment she heard the dial tone, Genny punched in Jacob’s home phone number. He picked up on the second ring. Always an early riser, as was she, her cousin was probably in the middle of preparing his breakfast.
“Butler here,” he said, his voice gruff and deeply baritone.
“Jacob, it’s Genny. Please, come to my house … now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve had a dream … one of my visions.”
“Are you all right?”
“No, but I will be. I’ve called Jazzy. She’ll be here soon. But I must tell you …” Her voice suddenly failed her.
“Tell me what?”
She cleared her throat. “Someone has been murdered. A young woman. I’m sure you’ll find her body in Cedar Tree Forest, not far from here. I saw … through the killer’s eyes … I saw—” She sucked in a deep breath. “He watched the sunrise over Scotsman’s Bluff.”
“Are you sure, Genny? Are you positive it wasn’t just a nightmare?”
“I’m positive. It’s too late to save her, but you can find her body and perhaps find some evidence of who killed her—if you can get there soon. I think I can guide you to the exact spot.”
“Ah, shit …” Jacob murmured under his breath.
“Jacob?”
“Hmm?”
“He tied her to an altar of some sort and sacrificed her. I—I think he drank her blood.”
“God damn son of a bitch!”
Chapter 1
FBI Special Agent Teri Nash glanced at the fax in her hand. A letter and a photograph. While waiting for Dallas to shower and shave, she’d sat down at his cluttered desk in the corner of the living room. The fax had come in while she’d been relaxing with a gin-and-tonic. Dallas and she hadn’t dated in several years, and she was actually involved with a profiler at the Bureau, but she still considered Dallas a good friend. Since his niece’s death eight months ago, she’d tried to keep tabs on her old lover. Although he’d handled Brooke’s brutal murder as he did everything else—with little emotion and iron control—she’d seen past his steely facade to the pain beneath. Once he’d returned to FBI headquarters in D.C. after Brooke’s funeral, he’d begun a personal search for any information that might lead him to his niece’s killer. Using the Bureau’s vast resources for unofficial use had become a bone of contention between Dallas and the assistant director of the Criminal Investigation Division. Although Dallas and Tom Rutherford disliked each other personally, Tom had allowed Dallas a lot of slack. Teri wondered for how much longer?
She