The Man from Gossamer Ridge

She was pretty sure she knew why Gabe had dismissed her presentation as irrelevant, but she pressed him on the question anyway. “What about the similarities in the killer’s M.O.?”

“Ms. Solano, your two coeds have to be a good four or five years younger than any of Victor Logan’s victims. Victims in their mid-to late twenties are clearly part of Logan’s signature. M.O.s change. Signatures don’t. I’d think someone doing her dissertation on serial killers would know that already.”

She ignored the mild condescension, because she had him exactly where she wanted him. “They weren’t four or five years younger. Meredith Linden was twenty-eight. Addison Moore was twenty-nine. Both brunettes, just like the other victims. Curvy women, like the others.”

Gabe’s eyes shifted, his gaze dropping to her body as if searching for her own curves. They were camouflaged by the plain skirt and loose-fitting blouse she’d chosen from her closet this morning, but she could tell he was seeing beyond the shapeless clothing and picturing what lay below.

“Now do you understand?” Cissy asked her uncle.

He looked at her, his brow wrinkled. “There’s never been any evidence in Brenda’s murder that would suggest a second killer, Cissy. Evidence matters, too.”

“There aren’t two killers,” Alicia said. “Just one.”

Gabe swung his puzzled gaze her way. “You said you thought Victor was one of the killers.”

“He’s not one of the killers. Just one of the people involved.” Alicia could see his skepticism growing. “Look, Cissy says you’re a deputy, so I know you probably know this—sometimes there are serial killer pairs. Some of the time they both kill, but sometimes, the weaker of the two—the beta—only aids the killer by doing things like taking care of his kit or acting as a lookout. And sometimes, they just help the killer stalk the victims to pick the right time to strike. I think that was the case for Victor Logan. And I think now our killer has a new wingman.”

“Interesting theory.” He cut his eyes toward his niece. “Not one I find particularly plausible, but—”

“I don’t need you to believe it,” Alicia conceded grudgingly, although a little openness to hearing her theories would have been nice. “I just need—”

“Yeah, that’s another thing I’ve been wondering,” Gabe interrupted. “What do you need me for? Cissy probably knows everything I know about the murders. Maybe more, since she’s apparently been making them a subject of study.”

Alicia looked up at Cissy, an apology in her eyes. “Cissy doesn’t know what it was like to find Brenda’s body. You do. And that’s why I need to talk to you.”

Gabe shook his head quickly. “I’m not rehashing all of that with you. Certainly not with Cissy here.”

“I’ve read your statement to the Chickasaw County deputies,” Cissy said.

He looked up at his niece, his expression wary. “It’s not the same as hearing it.”

“Actually, what I’m hoping we can do is go a step beyond your statement,” Alicia said, her stomach tightening into a fist-sized knot. What she was going to suggest was invasive under the best of circumstances, and this definitely wasn’t the best of circumstances. “I think we should try hypnotic regression.”

Gabe’s hard gaze whipped around to flood her with molten fury. “You’re nuts.”

“Uncle Gabe—” Cissy warned.

Gabe pushed to his feet. “You want to play some sort of mind game with me so you can make a nice score on your paper? Too bad. I’m not playing. I’m done here.” He moved around the coffee table and strode angrily toward the door.

Cissy caught up with him before Alicia. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I know it’s not something a lot of people are comfortable taking part in—”

Gabe interrupted with a hard laugh. “I hope you and Ms. Solano find what you’re looking for. I really do. But you’re going to have to count me out.”

Alicia caught Cissy’s arm when she was about to argue further. “Thank you for hearing me out,” she said sincerely. It was more than she’d had a right to hope for. “I’m sure Cissy will be in touch if we find anything new your brother needs to know about. And if you think of anything, here’s my card.” She pulled one of her business cards from the desk near the door, handing it to Gabe.

He tucked it into his pocket.

Alicia unlocked the front door and opened it for him. “Thank you,” she said again.

“I’ll walk you to the truck,” Cissy suggested.

Gabe turned to look at her, his brow furrowed. “No. You go home, lock the doors and be safe. I may not think your mother’s killer is still at work around here, but someone is. You be careful.” To Alicia’s surprise, Gabe’s blistering blue gaze turned to meet hers, softening as he dropped his voice a tone. “You, too.” His eyes dropped, taking in her well-camouflaged figure as if he could see right through her clothes.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “Will do.”

Then he was gone, broad shoulders and long legs disappearing into the darkening night.

“I’m sorry,” Cissy murmured. “I guess I knew it would be a long shot.”

Alicia gave the taller girl a hug. “He’s right, though. Go home. Get some sleep. Lock your doors.”

She watched until Cissy was safely inside the apartment two doors down, then stepped back into her own place and locked the doors behind her.

Gabe Cooper had looked her over. More than once. So he’d seen it, too. The obvious.

She walked slowly into her bedroom and unbuttoned her blouse, letting the garment slide to her feet. Next came the skirt, left where it lay as she crossed to her closet door and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror bolted to the door. Her dark eyes stared back, wide with the anxiety she tried to hide from the world.

The woman in the mirror had full breasts and wide hips that even her shapeless clothing couldn’t completely hide, courtesy of her father’s side of the family. Three times a week at the gym gave her muscles beneath the flesh, but it couldn’t change her DNA. She was a curvy woman.

And she perfectly fit the killer’s profile.

GABE TURNED UP THE RADIO as Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” came on. Like a lot of classic rock stations in the South, on this station, southern fried rock got a lot of air-play, and Skynyrd was one of Gabe’s favorites.

He sang along under his breath as he navigated the winding curves of Route 7. The two-lane county road undulated northeast, away from downtown Millbridge and the Mill Valley University campus and out toward the rural wilds that encroached the town on all sides.

He’d taken a room at a small budget motel situated on the county road near the delineation between town and country, somehow leery of staying closer to campus, where the relentless beat of a college town’s energy might pose too dark a reminder of his own youthful follies.

But after the night he’d just spent dealing with his stubborn niece and her even more bullheaded teacher, he sort of regretted the miles still standing between him and a long, hot shower and a good night’s sleep.

He should have known Cissy was up to something. His niece was a sweet girl, but she had taken to college life like a hound dog to a ’possum chase, reveling in her freedom and the responsibilities that came with being on her own. No way she’d have invited a visit from her uncle unless she wanted something more than just a friendly ear and a free dinner.

Not that it mattered. He’d do anything his niece asked. It was the least he owed her. His selfish inattention had led to Cissy and her brother Mike spending the last twelve years motherless. If Gabe had arrived at the trucking company on time, he might have stopped Victor Logan. Then, not only would Brenda be alive, but God knew how many other women Logan had killed might be with their families as well.

All because he’d wanted to have a beer and a game of pool with an old high school friend.

As the song on the radio changed to something slow and bluesy, Gabe’s cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the display. It was Cissy.

He turned down the radio and answered. “Hey, Cissy. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to talk to you before I go to bed. I know you’re mad at me—”

“I’m not mad.”

“You should be. I should have told you everything up front instead of dragging you here for the ambush.”

“I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t set up the ambush,” he admitted, spotting the Route 7 Motor Lodge sign glowing faintly orange in the distance.

“I know, but it wasn’t fair of me to do it anyway.”

“Well, no harm done. Maybe I’ll get a little fishing done in the area before I leave tomorrow. That’ll be worth it.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “What say you cut some classes and come fishing with your Uncle Gabe, just like old times?”

Cissy’s laugh was damp with emotion. “Not this time. End of year exams coming, you know.”

“Yeah, you’re your daddy’s daughter,” he teased gently. “Little Miss Responsible.”

My opposite, he added mentally, his smile fading.

He had almost reached the motel. “Well, you get a good night’s sleep and kick butt tomorrow in class.”

Cissy giggled. “Will do.” She hung up.

Gabe disconnected and laid the phone on the seat beside him. He was only a few yards from the motel parking lot entrance, but he found his foot remaining settled over the accelerator. He passed the motel and kept going.

He checked the dashboard clock. Almost eleven. As he was driving in earlier today, he’d noticed a convenience store sitting all by itself on the side of Route 7. It wouldn’t close before eleven, would it? He could grab some snacks to get him through the night, since his barely-touched dinner was a distant memory.

Past the motel, he was solidly into wilderness, hemmed by trees on either side and ahead of him as far as the eye could see. He’d passed few vehicles on the road at this time of night, so the sudden glare of headlights coming around a curve ahead made him wince. The other driver dropped his bright lights. Gabe did the same and they passed on the narrow road.

With an empty road ahead, Gabe put the headlights on bright again, driving some of the shadows to the edges of the road. He drove about a half mile further along the winding rural road before the lights of the Stiller’s Food and Fuel came into view.

There was only one car parked at the convenience store, a small Honda Civic that had seen better years. It was parked around the side. Probably belonged to the clerk inside.

He parked in front and pocketed his keys and cell phone. As he opened the door, a bell jingled, announcing his arrival. But nobody stood at the counter, nor did anyone come running at the sound of the bell. Curious, but not alarmed, Gabe grabbed a shopping basket and headed down the snack aisle to contemplate his choices.

Beef jerky, smoked almonds, packs of string cheese from the refrigerator section—he threw all of these into the blue plastic basket. He debated the barbecue pork rinds for a moment before tossing them into the basket as well. He bypassed beer and soft drinks and went straight to the juices—apple, grape and orange juice went into the basket.

He spotted a fishing magazine on a rack near the front and picked it up. He had this issue at home but hadn’t had a chance to read it. If the night got long, he could fill the time with this, he decided, topping off the basket with the magazine.

The cashier’s desk remained empty as he approached. He looked around, wondering if he’d just missed someone stocking shelves somewhere else in the store. But he saw no one.

“Hello?” His voice seemed to echo in the empty store.

He glanced back at the door. The “Closed” sign faced him, so the “Open” sign was still facing the outside.

“Hello?” he called again.

The silence that answered seemed to swallow him whole.

He set the basket on the counter and leaned over to look behind it. There was no one lying injured or dead behind it. But a strange, sinking sensation in Gabe’s belly made him keep looking.

There was a back room behind the counter; Gabe could see the door to it standing barely ajar down past the cigarette kiosk. The back room was accessible only from behind the counter, and the counter was walled off with a latched door that wouldn’t budge when Gabe tried to open it.

It wasn’t tall enough to pose an obstacle, however. He jumped over the door and landed behind the counter, a few feet from the back room door.

Hair prickled wildly on the back of his neck, but he forced himself forward. “Hello?” he called again, giving the unlatched door a light push. It swung open with a loud, groaning creak.

The light was off in the back room, hiding most of the area from Gabe’s view. He felt along the wall until he located a switch and gave it a flick.

Yellow light from a single bald bulb filled the room with a muddy glow, revealing what the shadows had hidden.

A woman lay on the floor, her legs stretched out and her hands flat on the floor by her side. Her clothes were neatly in place and her eyes were closed. But across her belly, a series of bloody puncture wounds marred the pale gray of her blouse.

For a second, Gabe was no longer in the middle of a convenience store back room. Instead he was in the woods of Chickasaw County, only a few yards from the trucking company where Brenda had worked, staring down at the bloodstained body of his sister-in-law.

He forced himself to touch the store clerk’s throat to check for a pulse, knowing what he’d find as surely as he knew his own name.

This killer wasn’t going to leave behind a live victim. He never had before.

Gabe pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.

Then he pulled out the card still resting in his back pocket. The one Alicia Solano had handed him before she let him out of her apartment.

Alicia answered on the third ring, her voice raspy and alarmed.

“It’s Gabe Cooper,” he said tersely, not bothering with small talk, since he knew she wouldn’t want it. “There’s been another murder.”

“What?” She sounded more awake now, and over the phone, he heard the rustle of fabric, as if she were throwing on a robe. Gabe was tempted to let himself dwell on the picture that rose to mind at that thought, if only to drive out the sight of the dead woman lying at his feet.

He’d give almost anything to get that image out of his head.

“I stopped at a convenience store on Route 7—Stiller’s Food and Fuel,” he said aloud. “Nobody came to ring me up, so I looked for the cashier. I found her in a back room. Dead. It’s the same guy, Alicia.”

“As the other two coed murders?” she asked carefully.

“As all of them,” he answered, his gaze drawn back to the murderer’s handiwork. “All of Victor Logan’s murders. Or the ones he helped facilitate,” he added, giving in to the probability that Alicia’s theory was right. “Alicia, this guy’s still killing. And you’re right. We have to stop him.”

Chapter Four

It was almost two o’clock in the morning before Gabe Cooper knocked on Alicia’s door. She’d spent the hours since his call on her sofa, certain she’d be unable to sleep. But the long day at work and her stressful evening had taken a toll on her stamina. Gabe’s knock woke her from a dead sleep.

She pushed to a sitting position on the sofa where she’d nodded off, taking a second to gain control over her jangling nerves. Tightening her robe over the shorts and tank top she wore as pajamas, she pushed to her feet. After a quick check of the peephole, she unlocked the door and let Gabe inside.

He looked haggard and apologetic. “I should have just gone back to the motel instead. It’s so late—”

She took his arm and led him to the sofa. “No, I want to hear everything you want to tell me. I guess you’ve been with the cops?”

Gabe’s hair already looked as if he’d spent the last few hours running his hands through it. Another pass didn’t do anything to improve its disheveled state. “Yeah. They had a lot of questions.”

She hadn’t even considered they might think him a suspect. “They didn’t arrest you or anything, did they?”

“No. They called my brother Aaron, who’s a deputy sheriff back home. He vouched for me. That seemed to be good enough for the locals.”

“This is so weird. Your just dropping by that particular convenience store at that particular time—”

“Yeah, I think the cops were pretty struck by that, too. But it’s less than a mile up the road from my motel, and I hadn’t eaten much dinner, so I went to stock up on some snacks.” Gabe grimaced. “Not really that hungry anymore.”

Her chest ached with sympathy. He looked so tired. “You know, maybe what you really need is sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow—”

Gabe shook his head. “It’s fresh in my head now. Best time to discuss it.”

“Okay. How do you want to start? Just tell me what happened, start to finish? Or skip to the details?”

“Nothing really happened—I went to the store, shopped for the food, and by the time I got to the counter, nobody had responded to the bell over the door that rang when I arrived.” Gabe’s blue eyes met hers suddenly. “Can I have some water?”

“Of course.” Alicia kicked herself mentally for not offering something when he first arrived. She found a large glass and filled it with water, adding extra ice because she’d seen the way he’d eyed the glass earlier that evening with a mixture of amusement and mild disappointment. Southerners seemed to like an inordinate amount of ice in their beverages.

He took the glass from her. “Extra ice,” he murmured, a small smile curving the edges of his mouth.

She smiled back. “I guess you earned it.”

He cradled the glass between his large hands. “It was so quiet. I called out, thinking maybe the clerk was in the back and hadn’t heard the bell, but there was no answer.”

“So you went into the back?”

He nodded. “The back room was dark, but I could feel her. When I turned on the light, I knew exactly what I’d see.”

The haggard look in his eyes when he lifted his gaze to meet hers made her breath catch. She reached across and covered his hand with her own.

He looked down at her hand, slowly turning his own until his palm touched hers. “I know you told me the signatures were similar, but when I saw her lying there—” He broke off, seeming unable to find the words.

She waited in silence, realizing Gabe Cooper was dealing with a lot more than just finding a dead body this evening. He’d found Brenda Cooper’s body, too. He’d been younger than Alicia was now, no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. It might well have been the first time he’d ever seen a dead body outside a funeral home. And now, it had happened again.

Gabe cleared his throat, finally, and finished his thought. “It was like finding Brenda’s body all over again. The pose, the wounds, the woman’s shape and overall looks.” His gaze slanted toward her. “You fit the profile, Alicia. You have to know that.”

She nodded.

“You have to be really careful, do you understand?”

“I know,” she agreed. She’d thought of little else since she’d first realized just how much she looked like the previous two victims and, if Gabe’s reaction were anything to go by, the third victim as well. “Did you get a name for the victim?”

“Melanie Phelps.”

Alicia gave a small start. Melanie Phelps was in one of her psych classes. “I know her. About twenty-seven, shoulder-length dark brown hair, brown eyes—”

Gabe nodded. “This guy is a lot more specific than I ever really gave him credit for being.”

“How would you have known?” she asked sensibly. “You knew about Brenda, and after the fact, you learned about the other women in Mississippi and Alabama, but with the scrapbook practically destroyed, you couldn’t have tracked those people down and made the connections.”

“How did you do it?” Gabe asked, waving his hand at the folder still lying on her coffee table. “You’ve already connected these murders to previous murders, including Brenda’s. How’d you even know where to look?”

She listened for any hint of suspicion or skepticism in Gabe’s voice, but all she heard was curiosity. “It started with a favor I was doing for a friend. He’s a police officer, and he’d been the first officer on the scene at Meredith Linden’s murder—the one at the TV repair shop in Blicksville. Anyway, he went to college in Livingston, and there was a case there that had been a big deal in town, and Tony—my friend—thought Meredith Linden’s case sounded suspiciously similar.”

“So he asked you to work your profiling mojo?”

She bit back a smile. “Something like that. I went with the premise that there had to be other similar murders, unsolved, since the guy was still killing. I started gathering information on unsolved murders in Alabama and Mississippi. Anyway, sometime last month, Cissy came to me—she’d heard about my side project, since by then I was thinking seriously about making it the topic of my dissertation, and I wasn’t exactly being secretive about it. She told me about Victor Logan and his scrapbook.”

“And Brenda’s murder?”

She nodded. “The M.O. was so similar—curvy, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in her mid-to late twenties, working alone late at night in a secluded area. Raped, then stabbed to death.” She held back a shudder. “I started searching through cold cases for that victim profile, making a list of possible victims based on characteristics the killer might find appealing—body shape, hair color, eye color, type of job—that sort of thing.”

“The convenience store was in the middle of nowhere,” Gabe said quietly. “Melanie Phelps could have gone her whole shift without seeing anyone. Just like Brenda.”

Alicia nodded, not missing the bleak tone of his voice. He’d clearly taken his sister-in-law’s murder hard. She wondered if there was more to it than his being the person who found her. “Did the police get anything from the security tape at the convenience store?” she asked aloud.

Gabe released a soft huff of grim laughter. “All the tapes were missing. The guy apparently knew what to look for and covered his tracks.”

Alicia grimaced. “He’s been at it a long time. He’s probably only getting better at it as he goes.”

“You know what? I shouldn’t have come here. I gave the police a statement. It’s probably going to be more accurate than anything that I can come up with right now.” Rubbing his temples, Gabe stood. “I should just go back to the motel and let you get some sleep. I can ask to see my statement tomorrow and refresh my memory then.”

Alicia caught him as he started toward the door. “Wait. Don’t go.”

He stopped and looked down, towering over her. The room around them seemed to close in on all sides, heat roiling the air between them. Alicia dropped her hand away from his arm, but her fingers still tingled from the feel of his sinewy muscles beneath her fingertips.

“What?” he asked, his voice little more than a murmur.

“You can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at her blurted offer, and her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. Had she really just invited a stranger to stay the night?

“I think the killer’s probably through for the night. You should be safe,” Gabe said.

She was tempted to latch onto the easy out he’d just given her, but that wasn’t really why she’d asked him to stay. Sure, having him around would make her feel exponentially less vulnerable, but so would a German shepherd.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, stepping away from him to try to regain her focus. “I just—you came here because of me, and you’ve had a rough night because of me. The least I can do is give you somewhere homey and nice to stay instead of some Route 7 motel room.”

“The motel’s not so bad,” he said. But she could tell the words were perfunctory.

She turned back to look at him. “I make a mean omelet.”

His lips curved. “Now you’re playing dirty.”

“And, okay,” she admitted, “I would feel a little safer if someone else was here tonight.”