“He’s been traveling for two years. I’m checking the places we know he’s been, looking for similar crimes.”

“The religious aspects of the crime fit as well,” Carla offered. “I found a Bible in his room. He had a number of passages marked, real fire-and-brimstone, vengeance-is-mine Old Testament stuff. According to people who knew him, he was a major Bible-thumper.”

Rick sat back in his seat. He moved his gaze between the two, smelling a rat. “Why are you telling me this? I seem to recall being told to butt out. Rather recently, as a matter of fact.”

“We have reason to suspect that Liz Ames might be his next target.”

“Liz? You’re stretching, buddy.”

“Am I?” Val leaned toward him. “Look at the way he contacted her. Out of the blue. With some crazy story about a cult and his being in danger. Did that ever ring true to you?”

Val didn’t wait for an answer. “Why did Mark contact Liz? To establish a relationship with her. To engage her in the hunt.”

For the space of a heartbeat, Rick couldn’t breathe let alone speak. When he found his voice, he asked, “What do you want from me?”

“She’ll tell you if he contacts her again. We need you to let us know when that happens.”

As Val very well knew, no way would she call the KWPD. She considered them the enemy.

After their earlier conversation, and despite the great sex, he wasn’t so sure she’d even call him.

“Think about it, Rick,” Val murmured, pushing away from the table and standing. “Liz Ames’s life could depend on it.”

CHAPTER 34

Sunday, November 18

Midnight

Liz awakened suddenly. She looked around her bedroom, disoriented, heart pounding. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, in fact she still wore the shorts and T-shirt she had thrown on after Rick left. She had hoped Rick would call. Or Mark.

They had both been so strongly on her mind, she hadn’t believed she would be able to sleep.

Liz shifted to get a look at her bedside clock, and the book on her lap slipped to the floor, landing with a thud. She made a move to retrieve it, then froze.

A sound came from the other room, a scuffling noise. The kind a cat or dog might make if trapped in a closet.

Problem was, she didn’t own a pet.

Swallowing past the lump that formed in her throat, Liz slipped quietly out of bed. The noise came again, this time louder.

Liz shook her head. She was imagining things, for heaven’s sake. Letting her imagination run away with her. Still, she crept forward, her every sense on the alert.

She reached her bedroom doorway and peered through. She had left a single light on in the living room and another in the kitchen, the one over the sink. Both sent a soft pool of reassuring light spilling into the hallway.

Nothing looked out of order. She hesitated, listening. She heard a moped pass on the street below, caught the sound of distant laughter and a car door slam.

A relieved laugh escaped her. Of course, she had left several of her front windows open. The night had been mild, the humidity low. She had decided to circulate some fresh air. The sound that had awakened her had come from outside.

She headed in that direction to close the windows, then stopped as a distinct but muffled thump came from the kitchen, to her immediate right. She took a step into the room, flipping on the overhead as she did. Bright light illuminated every inch of the small area.

The scuffling sound came again. The cabinet beneath the sink, she realized. She crossed to it and ever so carefully eased the door open. Light flooded the small space. Beady black eyes blinked up at her from the garbage pail. Beady eyes belonging to creature eight inches long with a hairless, pink tail.

A rat! Liz slammed the cabinet door closed and sprang backward. How had the thing gotten in? And how did she get rid of it? No way could she sleep knowing it was in there.

Rat poison, she thought. Or a trap. Surely she could find a grocery or drugstore still open. Liz swung around and a scream flew to her throat.

Stephen stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at her, his mutilated face screwed into a frightening grimace. His mouth moved though no sound emerged.

She glanced quickly to her right, then left, assessing her options. The drawers behind her. She kept her knives in one of them. If she could get one, she might have a chance at defending herself.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded, backing up. “Get away from me.”

He advanced. His mouth moved and garbled, words spilled forth. He raised his hands as if in an attempt to grab her.

“Get away from me.” She took another step backward, reaching the counter. She reached behind her, eased open the drawer and fumbled for one of the knives.

Her fingers closed around a wooden handle. In a quick move, she drew out the knife, sprang away from the drawer and brandished her makeshift weapon at him. “Get away from me!” she shouted. “I’ll cut you, I promise I will!”

He froze, his expression a mask of horror. She took another step toward him. “I mean it! I’ll hurt you!”

With a cry, he inched backward. He reached the wall, but instead of stepping right to escape through the doorway, he sank to the floor. Bringing his arms up to shield his face, he cowered against the wall.

Liz stared at him, grip on the knife faltering. He whimpered, the defenseless sound childlike. Lump in her throat, she recalled what Heather had told her about the caretaker. That he had been the victim of severe child abuse. That the attack that had destroyed his face and taken his eye had also damaged his brain.

This man posed no danger to her.

Mortified at having frightened him, she laid the weapon on the counter. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. See? I put the knife away.”

He didn’t lower his arms. She saw that he trembled. Her heart broke for him. She could hardly fathom the horrific abuse this man must have suffered.

She held her hands out, palms up. “I won’t hurt you, Stephen. I was afraid. I’m sorry I frightened you.”

He lowered his arms a fraction, peeking at her over the top of them.

She took a cautious step toward him. “You understand being frightened, don’t you, Stephen?”

He did understand; she could tell by his expression, by the way he averted his gaze.

“Look at me, Stephen,” she said softly, taking another step closer. He did, though tentatively. “It’s all right. I’m not angry. And I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

She smiled to prove it. “Would you like a glass of milk and a cookie?”

He nodded. She held out a hand. “Come, sit down.”

He took her hand and she helped him to his feet. She led him to the table and he sat, head down.

She poured the milk, went to the pantry and took out a package of Oreos-one of her personal weaknesses. She put three on a plate, then carried the snack to him.

“Here you go.” She set them in front of him, and took the chair across from his.

He met her eyes, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth, before his gaze transfixed on the cookies. She watched as he devoured them, then reached for his milk, gulping it down.

“Would you like more?” she asked.

He nodded. This time she brought the entire package to the table, along with a glass of milk for herself. “This is how I do it,” she said, and dunked one of the Oreos in the milk.

He watched her intently, then mimicked her. While he ate a half-dozen more of the chocolate-sandwich cookies, she studied him. Because of his misshapen features, she had thought this man to be a brute. Because of his inability to communicate, she’d thought he meant her harm.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Stephen was a gentle giant. An innocent trapped inside a monster’s face and body.