She realized Nick was talking in his sleep. Talking and moving restlessly, which is what had woken her up in the first place. He moaned, a mournful, guttural cry that tore at her heart.
“Nick,” she said softly, touching his face.
His eyes shot open and he grabbed her hand. She didn’t move.
“Nick, it’s me.”
His eyes came into focus and he saw her. “Carina.”
“You were having a bad dream.”
He shook his head.
“Yes, you were. You were talking in your sleep.”
“It wasn’t a dream,” he said, his voice thick. “It was a memory.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“All right,” she said. “Go back to sleep.” She rolled over, trying not to be upset with him. She wasn’t going to force him to relive a memory that gave him nightmares.
He rolled over and spooned himself around her bare back. Touched her loose hair, breathed into her neck.
“You know about the Butcher,” he said finally.
“What I read in the papers.”
“You know he held me captive.”
“Yes.”
“The papers never reported that he raped one of his victims while I was chained in the corner.”
“Oh Nick.” Carina tried to turn to face him, but he held her close against him, her back against his chest.
“He trussed me up like an animal so that any movement tightened the binds. I heard every scream, every assault. It was a living Hell and I wanted to die. I wanted to die because I couldn’t stop it. I was trapped and forced to listen.”
“How did you escape?”
“I didn’t. Search and rescue found us. I didn’t do a damn thing, I couldn’t.”
Nick had never told anyone what had happened in the shack. Not the shrink his doctor sent into his hospital room, not FBI agent Quinn Peterson, not even Miranda. They knew-the evidence spoke for itself-but he’d never talked about it.
Until now. He felt it was important for Carina to know what had happened, to understand how much those days had changed him.
“The Bozeman Butcher killed twenty-two women over a thirteen-year period,” Nick began. He focused on the facts, even though she knew some of them. “My first murder investigation was the Bozeman Butcher’s third victim, though we didn’t know it at the time.
“When I became sheriff, I made it a priority to solve what seemed like an unsolvable case. I brought in the FBI. That didn’t make me popular with everyone, but it had to be done. They’d helped with the original investigation, when we had a survivor, but nothing came of it. No suspects, no evidence. Dead end.”
He’d felt helpless to stop the Butcher, who seemed to kill and disappear at will.
“He usually killed and moved on, to return one or two years later to claim a couple more victims before disappearing again. But the last time, something spurred him on and he kidnapped a coed named Ashley van Auden less than a week after killing Rebecca Douglas. We had evidence from Rebecca’s murder we’d never had before that helped us narrow down previous suspects and revisit the old cases with new insights.
“I had a hunch. It wasn’t based on anything, really, except my knowledge of southwest Montana. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I didn’t think it would lead anywhere. And if I was wrong, and I was partly wrong, I didn’t want good people to be damaged by the hint of suspicion in a brutal murder.
“I was attacked from behind and woke up hours later, bound, with Ashley chained to the floor next to me. And there was not a damn thing I could do to help her.”
“Nick.”
“You read the articles. You know what the Butcher did to those women.”
“Cruel. Sadistic. But you’re not responsible for his actions, and you certainly weren’t responsible for his victims.”
“When you’re neck-deep in an investigation, you’re responsible for everything.”
Carina’s heart broke at the strain in Nick’s voice-he had been living with the guilt for so long, he’d somehow become convinced that what happened to that poor girl was somehow his fault.
“Nick, the Butcher kidnapped Ashley. He tortured her, not you. It happened before he knocked you out. You can’t blame yourself.”
“I know in my head that I’m not responsible for what happened to her, just like you know that you’re not responsible for what happened to your nephew.”
She tensed, and Nick said, “Honey, you do know it’s not your fault.”
“Like you said, in my head I know, but in my heart…” She took a deep breath. “In my heart I live with the painful void where Justin used to be.”
He kissed her cheek. He’d never talked to anyone about what had happened when he was held captive, but Carina understood. Maybe she was the only one who really could.
“I used to have nightmares about Justin,” she said softly. “I’d wake up and start looking for him. He’d be on my mind for days, I’d replay that night over and over, trying to remember something I know I never heard or saw. I slept through his abduction and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
She rolled over and he let her hold on to him. Touch him. He responded by feathering light kisses over her shoulder, her arm.
“The nightmares are few and far between,” she told him. “Just sometimes…”
“Sometimes they come back with a vengeance.” He kissed her lips.
“Yeah.”
She settled into the crook of his arm and in minutes she was fast asleep.
Nick watched her sleeping for the second time and couldn’t imagine holding any other woman in his arms.
Soon he fell back into a deep sleep, this time devoid of bad memories.
He stared at Leah tied naked to his bed, the black bandanna glued to her mouth.
“I never wanted to hurt you, Leah.”
Sound came from her mouth, but no words.
Leah had left her boyfriend’s apartment at dawn. He was waiting. He was patient. And patience was rewarded.
He’d called out to her and she’d turned, smiled even though she’d been surprised to see him there.
“I’ve been looking for you. Maggie’s in the hospital. I’ll take you.”
She believed him. They always believed him because he looked honest and trustworthy.
When you’re a pathological liar, looking like an honest man truly helps.
He’d drugged the coffee he’d had waiting for her in the car. She didn’t like that it was cool, but she drank enough anyway. Yawning, she fell asleep and didn’t wake up until he’d already glued her mouth shut.
The thought of fucking her didn’t appeal to him like he’d thought it would, and he frowned, wondering again why he couldn’t regain the thrill he’d had with Becca, the excitement with Angie. What was wrong?
But when he thought about slowly squeezing the life out of Leah, his blood stirred and his penis twitched. Forget the other stuff, what was important was the finale. He would bathe her and wrap her in plastic wrap. He had latex gloves. Forget the garbage bag. This time he wanted to look her in the eyes, watch her life drain away.
His body responded to the fantasy. No playing around. It had been fun playing with Angie, trying different things to see what would happen. The games now held no more allure. Staring at Leah, all he wanted was to feel her die in his hands.
Controlling life and death was the ultimate discipline. And isn’t that what he did? He controlled his own universe, the people around him, with a focused restraint that few people had. No one knew, no one even
