BEVERLY BARTON - The Fifth Victim

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!”

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 read the fax for the third time. The message was in response to a letter Dallas had sent out to local law enforcement officials nationwide. This was the seventh such response in the past few months, but she had a sinking feeling that this was the one he’d been waiting for ever since Brooke’s murder. Teri didn’t want to look at the faxed photo again. Once had been more than enough. It wouldn’t be easy forgetting the sight of the young blond girl with her body sliced wide open. Teri shivered.

The sheriff of Cherokee County, Tennessee, had reported what appeared to be a sacrificial killing in his county early this morning. The details of her death were practically identical to those of Brooke’s horrific murder in Mobile, Alabama, in May of last year.

As Teri finished scanning the information again, she shook her head and sighed. The minute Dallas saw this fax, he’d be off and running. On some sentimental, protective level, she wished she could just dump the fax in the garbage and pretend it didn’t exist. Even though her love affair with her fellow agent had been short-lived and had ended three years ago, she still had strong feelings for him. The poor guy had been through enough, had followed too many dead-end leads these past few months. She hated to see him go off on another wild-goose chase, searching for an elusive serial killer. That is, if there was a serial killer. Dallas had come up with his own theory that there was a barbaric serial killer on the loose. Besides, she wasn’t sure how many more vacation days he could take before he used them all up. Or how much longer Rutherford would put up with Dallas’s absenteeism.

Dallas Sloan, his dark blond hair damp from his shower, emerged from the bathroom adjacent to the small bedroom in his three-room efficiency apartment. Teri sucked in a deep breath. Damn, the guy still took her breath away. Wearing nothing but his white briefs, he exposed his tall, lean body for her perusal. A dusting of brown hair covered his legs and arms and created a V over the center of his muscular chest. Teri forced her gaze from his body to his face. He grinned at her. Wickedly.

“Just enjoying the scenery,” she told him. “Not buying the property.”

“What have you got in your hand?” he asked as he stared point-blank at the fax.

“This?” She held up the two sheets of paper as if they were a trophy. “It’s a fax.”

“Lusting after my body is one thing, honey, but reading my mail is something else altogether.” Dallas rummaged around in his closet, pulled out a pair of well-worn jeans, put them on, then removed a cream knit sweater from the chest of drawers and yanked it down over his head. “Who’s the fax from?”