Fade to Black Page 3

“Virtual murders,” Dean clarified.

  “At first. But then, almost a year and a half ago, something changed. This new guy appeared on the scene. Calls himself the Reaper.”

  How original.

  “His avatar is this black-cloaked dude with a skull face; a totally off-the-rack, Grim Reaper Halloween- costume look. And he invites people to join a new club within Satan’s Playground. A club for those who want to see people really die.”

  Dean would like to think such a club would have very few members. But he knew better. After twelve years in law enforcement, God, did he know better.

  Still needing to work off the nervous energy that always enveloped him, Brandon began to tap his pencil on the table, keeping an underlying staccato beat—a sense of urgency in the rhythm. “His first one was a freebie, just to show he could do it.”

  Dean wanted to be sure he had things straight. “Was that the one we just saw, with the woman pulled apart?”

  “No. That came later. From what I can tell, the first was uploaded a year ago last April, and it showed a naked woman tied to a tree and slowly sliced to death. Like I said, a free sample, just to show he was for real. New videos have followed, one every two or three months, and after that freebie he started charging people.”

  Lily tsked in disgust. “For the privilege of watching?”

  Brandon shook his head. “Not at first, though he’s doing that now, too.”

  “So what was he charging for?” Mulrooney asked. He leaned back and crossed his big arms across his beefy chest. “Whether this vile crap’s in color or black-and-white? Murder on demand? Kill-per-view?”

  “That’s closer to the mark.” Brandon stopped tapping and glanced at every person there, as if to stress that they’d reached the most important part.

  “He’s holding auctions so other members of the club can participate in the kill. Within seventy-two hours of every auction, another ‘feature’ title goes up on the marquee of the drive-in theater.”

  “This playground has all the perks, huh?” asked Jackie.

  “Right down to an ice-cream parlor where you can lure little kids.” He quickly got back to his point. “The lucky members drive up in their stupid cyber cars and park in front of the screen. They chomp their fake hot dogs and popcorn, and then see a five-minute preview. If they pay the full price for their ticket, they get to stay for the full show. Only there’s nothing cyber about it. It’s all the real thing, just like you saw.”

  Mulrooney almost growled. “Lousy prick’s probably getting rich as well as making himself infamous. And getting his personal kicks.”

  “Given the auction amounts and the ticket prices, I’d say that’s likely.”

  Immediately zoning in on what Brandon hadn’t told them, Dean asked, “So what’s the purpose of the auction? How, exactly, is this thing audience participation?” Something occurred to him, which could make catching this guy easier. “Are you telling us people are buying the services of a virtual assassin to kill their real-life enemies, or unwanted spouses?” If they could nail a single customer, they could nail the Reaper.

  Brandon shook his head. “Nothing that simple.”

  There wasn’t anything simple about it, in Dean’s view.

  “He’s not auctioning off the right to choose a victim. In fact, the auction winner has no say about who gets killed.” Sighing heavily, disgust evident in the droop of his shoulders, the other man finally got to the bones of it. “He’s auctioning off the right to choose the means of death.”

  A momentary silence fell as everyone absorbed the words. Then Wyatt slowly spoke. “So, anyone with a proclivity for a certain kind of death can, for a fee, have that type of execution carried out for his personal viewing pleasure. And the pleasure of others who will pay to watch.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  Dean swallowed, now definitely not looking forward to watching the remaining videos. The excesses of a bunch of deviant human minds given an outlet for their violent fantasies promised to be among the most disturbing things he’d ever seen. But the videos were the starting point in stopping the killing. There was no other choice.

  He suddenly realized he was no longer wondering if he was going to work this case. Something deep inside him, something that rebelled against the very concept of what this Reaper was doing, demanded the right to work it. Jurisdiction didn’t matter. The reason Blackstone’s CAT had come together didn’t matter.

  More visitation time with his son still mattered. Yeah. That mattered. But right now, all he could think about was nailing the sick monster who was making this world a whole lot uglier for his child. For everybody’s children.

  Somewhere out there, the friends and families of at least eight women wanted to know what had happened to their murdered loved ones. Who had done it, and why.

  And soon, hopefully, Dean and his new teammates might be able to give them some answers.

  Chapter 2

  In the small town of Hope Valley, Virginia, time didn’t just move slowly; it sometimes seemed to meander off the rest of the world’s clock before coming to a complete standstill. And then go into reverse.

  Because aside from nothing ever changing—not the landscape, or the faces, or the businesses dotting the ten blocks that made up the entire downtown—some scenes seemed to be repeated over and over, like the replaying of a dream. Not a nightmare that might terrify you into sharp wakefulness, just a jumble of images about nothing of importance, notable only for their sheer blandness.

  It was especially noticeable at this time of year. The blazing August sun sucked the very energy out of the air. Any occasional lapse into productivity was quickly quelled. Most folks around Hope Valley secretly wanted nothing more than a tall glass of iced tea and a nap. Too much effort was required to think of something to say to the people you’d seen every day of your life. Beyond “Good morning” or “Have a good one,” what was there to say to the girl at the deli who made you the same turkey on wheat every day? Or the kid who delivered the paper, or the woman who brought the mail?

  Sheriff Stacey Rhodes had once hated that sense of normalcy, the laid-back slowness the town wore as comfortably as an old coat. As a teenager, when she’d experienced none of the outside world and had considered anyplace better than this one, she’d imagined nothing worse than spending her life in Hope Valley.

  Yet here she was.

  The biggest surprise of all? She was okay with that. Compared to some of the things she’d seen, Hope Valley now seemed like the last sane place on earth. It was only on slow, hot days like this when she felt antsy. Like if something didn’t happen to break the monotony, somebody was going to make something happen. And that something might be a whole lot worse than a little heat.

  “Morning, Sheriff!”

  Waving at the kid who delivered her paper, she called, “Have a good one.”

  Getting into her squad car and buckling up, she backed out of the driveway of her small two-bedroom house, passing the delivery boy a few doors down. The kid gleefully steered his bike through a hopelessly out-gunned lawn sprinkler that was trying to force moisture into the still, uncooperative air, and greenness into a brown, parched landscape.

  Water ban. No sprinkling sunrise to sunset. She noted the address, figuring she’d pass it along to the town secretary. Playing water cop wasn’t exactly the county sheriff’s job, but hell, it wasn’t as though there was much else on the agenda for today. Or any day.

  Though she trusted her ancient radio about as much as she trusted car salesmen, she flipped the thing on as she headed downtown. A burst of static erupted from the speakers; then, surprisingly, a voice came through. “Sheriff? You there? Over.”

  She reached for the handset, her interest rising. “Go ahead, Connie. Over.”

  “Can you stop at the Donut Shack and pick up a dozen? I didn’t have time. Over.”

  A doughnut emergency. Call in the reinforcements. Smothering a sigh, she muttered, “Ten-four,” and turned at the stop sign r
ather than going straight.

  Doughnuts for deputies. If it weren’t so sadly clichéd, it’d almost be funny.

  But when she pulled into the Donut Shack’s nearly empty parking lot and glanced through the window, things became a lot less funny. Because clearly visible inside was the owner’s daughter, who worked as a waitress, looking nervous and frightened.

  She was surrounded by three teenage boys.

  Stacey put names to the faces in an instant. One was the crowned king of thugs at the local high school, the other two his football-playing cronies. The sidekicks she didn’t worry about. In ten years, they’d be married with kids, working at the lumberyard, drinking hard on weekends as they scratched their beer guts and relived their glory days.

  But their leader, Mike Flanagan, was a mean punk. He was too cocky to fear authority, and Stacey had hauled him in before. That one would end up in jail, or in the military, where he could legally injure others, which seemed to be his favorite thing to do.

  What made this worse was that his older brother, Mitch, had straightened himself up, shaken off his roughneck family background, and gone in the opposite direction. He was now Stacey’s chief deputy, and the best man she had.

  Why did brothers have to be such a pain in the ass? Damn, she did not want to have to call Mitch and tell him she’d busted his troublemaking younger sibling. Again.

  “You wanted something to happen,” she reminded herself as she stepped out of the car, pushing her broad-brimmed tan hat onto her head.

  Her boots crunching on the gravel parking lot and her fingertips resting on the short, blunt club at her hip, she walked with determination but not haste toward the entrance. Deliberate and thorough, she evaluated the situation with every stride. Through the windows running the entire width of the small building, she noted who was inside, and where. One customer sat at the counter, his back to the kids, completely oblivious to the situation. Or just a damn coward. No one else was in sight. The girl spotted her, the relief on her face saying a lot about how serious the situation was. Shoving the door open, Stacey watched the troublemakers swing around, unhappy with the interruption. Then they saw who had interrupted and paled.

  “A little early to be out causing trouble, isn’t it, boys?”

  “No trouble here, Sheriff, ma’am.” Flanagan. Arrogant little jerk actually shot off a crooked salute. “Just nice, wholesome teenagers. Right, guys?”

  Mike’s signature reply whenever he was up to no good. His two buddies had the sense to remain silent.

  “Cara, are you okay?”

  The girl glanced back and forth among the boys. Stacey could have predicted the words that would come out of her mouth, given that high school was brutal and paybacks a bitch. “I’m fine. My dad just ran to the bank; he’ll be back in a minute.”

  Huh. She wondered if the opportunistic boys had seen the man leave and decided to have some mean-spirited fun. She wouldn’t put it past Mike.

  “See?” he said. “No problem. We just stopped by to eat on our way to practice.”

  Noting their gym clothes, she figured they really were on the way to the field. School started in a few weeks, and the coach was already working his players to death in the heat. Maybe it would sweat some of the aggression out of them. One could only hope.

  She pointed at the two followers. “Go. But from now on, stop for breakfast somewhere else. Or better yet, stay home and let your mamas make it for you.”

  Mike took a step, too, but Stacey stopped him. “We’re not done.”

  His jaw thrust out in pure testosterone-laden male belligerence. “I’ll be late.”

  “You weren’t worried about that before I came in, now, were you?”

  The two other boys scuttled out sideways, as if they didn’t want to turn their backs on her. Cara dashed toward the phone. The obviously deaf and blind customer remained hunched over the counter, ignoring the situation. Staying out of it.

  What would the guy have done if things had really gotten rough? She hated to think that anybody here in Hope Valley would be so uncaring of a girl in need, but that bystander hadn’t moved so much as a muscle since she’d pulled up.

  “Nice job, mister,” she snapped, unable to help herself.

  He flinched, then turned his head to peer over his shoulder. When she recognized him, everything suddenly made sense. Because prissy, fussy insurance salesman Rob Monroe hadn’t had a set of balls in the twenty years she’d known him. He still lived with his parents, never having moved away from Mommy the socialite and Daddy the ass of a mayor. It was all the more embarrassing since she’d actually gone out with him once in high school. To her consternation, he’d been trying to get her to repeat the experience ever since she’d returned to Hope Valley to serve out her dad’s term as sheriff.

  As if.

  “Morning, Stacey,” he mumbled. “Is there a problem? I was reading the paper. . . .”

  “Well, don’t let me keep you from it.”

  He hopped off his stool. “What’s wrong? Can I help you?”

  “Not on your best day.”

  Their stares met and he had the audacity to look hurt. That why-can’t-you-love-me crap might have worked when she was sixteen and felt sorry for him, since he was the target of a little teen maliciousness. But no more. When she didn’t relent by so much as the softening of her frown, he slapped his paper down on the counter and stalked out.

  Stacey immediately turned her attention back on Mike. “Let’s go.”

  She grabbed him by the upper corner of his ear and squeezed. The kid was about her height, and probably had thirty pounds on her, but he yelped and followed her outside. “Hey, I didn’t do nothin’!”

  “The look on that girl’s face said you did. Now, I can’t haul you in for being a jackass, but if I hear you’ve been bothering her again, I will be visiting your house.”

  Absolutely the only thing the teen feared was his own hard-edged father, who, if the rumor mill was to be believed, lived by the spare-the-rod-and-spoil-the-child motto. So the threat worked the way a plea or a suggestion that he follow in his brother’s footsteps would not have. He snapped an insincere apology. “Sorry.”

  “Tell it to Cara at school next month. Otherwise, stay away from her.”

  “Fine.” His fuming eyes fried her where she stood. “Can I go, Sheriff?”

  She waved him away without another word, watching him take off running down the road toward the high school. His last defiant gesture, flipping her the bird over his shoulder as he ran, came as no surprise. “Tomorrow,” she reminded herself with a sigh once he was out of sight, “don’t complain about nothing ever happening.”

  A half hour later, armed with doughnuts and stuffed from the two Boston creams she’d scarfed down while waiting for Cara’s father to return, Stacey finally arrived at work. With things having started out so badly, the day could only get better.

  When she parked in her reserved spot outside the station, however, she realized she might be wrong about that. Because before she’d even stepped out of her car, a snide voice called, “Running late this morning, Sheriff?”

  She forced a tight smile and nodded at the older woman about to walk into the bank next door. Alice Covey was a hateful old harpy who tap-danced on her very last nerve even when Stacey was in a good mood. Which definitely didn’t describe today. “Everything seems to move a little slower in this weather, Mrs. Covey.”

  God, how much would it be to ask to arrive at work a few minutes late and not have it publicly commented on?

  You wanted this. You chose this.

  Yeah. She had. About two years ago, when her father had retired midterm, his arthritic knees so bad he couldn’t walk comfortably from his car into the station, she’d accepted the town’s invitation to come back here to fill his shoes. The timing had been right, considering what she’d been going through, and she didn’t regret it.

  But, boy, her father had worn big shoes. They had been walked in not only by him, but by his own fathe
r, as well. A Rhodes had been sheriff in this county for forty years. The others, however, had been males, which some people around here, like the timekeeping town busybody in the bank and the blowhard mayor, never let her forget.

  She doubted they would have said a word to her father, or to her older brother, who everyone had assumed would take over, at least until he’d joined the Marines and ruined their plans. “Maybe you’ll get the right sheriff next time,” she muttered, her jaw tightening. Because with Tim back home after twelve years in the service, some people thought she should be a nice sister and step aside for him during the next election, coming up in just a couple of months. Especially given his injuries.

  Stacey had done well; even the most chauvinistic townies would concede that. But she was, after all, just a woman. And Tim, despite his lack of experience, versus Stacey’s law enforcement degree and six years with the VSP in Roanoke, was obviously the better Rhodes for the job.

  Because he had something between his legs and she didn’t. At least, not often. Frowning over the thought, she entered the station.

  “Hey, Stace.” Connie, their receptionist/dispatcher/911 operator, sat behind the front desk, all smiles and big hair. “Brutal out there already, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.” Stacy placed the doughnuts on the edge of Connie’s desk, not wanting to discuss what she’d gone through to get them. “Hope it doesn’t last through the weekend. We’ll get called out to Dick’s Tavern every hour.”

  “And how would that be unlike just about every other weekend of the year?”

  The woman had a point. “How’s Dad doing this morning?”

  “Oh, he’s fine, staying inside in the air-conditioning.” Connie looked down, busied her hands, and mumbled, “I stopped by and brought him something to eat on my way to work.”

  Sure. Stacey hid a smile, not wanting to embarrass the woman. Because Connie, at fifty-six, not only kept the sheriff’s office organized and cheery; she also managed to do that for Stacey’s father. She’d been dating him since the day he’d retired, both of them being too old-school to let anything happen between them while they worked together. Now that he was retired they seemed ready to move forward.