walked down the embankment.
“There.” Kate pointed. “Down by the creek. In those trees.”
John saw what looked like a garbage bag that had been dumped and ripped open by wild dogs.
Kate started down the hill, her arms flailing as she skidded over the frozen peaks of earth. John followed, but he never took his eyes off the object in the snow.
“Watch for tracks,” he warned.
They trudged through a deep snowdrift. Then, as if blocked by some invisible force field, they stopped. John had seen a lot of crime scenes in the years he’d been a cop. He’d seen death from natural causes and murders so bloody and horrific that even veteran cops dropped to their knees and vomited. He’d seen the neat and brutal execution-style murders common to drug dealers eager to make their mark. He’d seen innocent children cut down in the crossfire of gangland wars. He’d seen babies murdered and dumped like trash. None of that prepared him for the sight that accosted him now.
The body lay next to a garbage bag. John saw pale flesh streaked with blood. A thatch of brown hair. The dead stare of a taxidermist’s glass. A mouth stretched into a silent scream. There was a lot of blood, and it made for a shocking contrast against pristine snow. Several pink objects lay a few feet from the body. At first glance, he thought they were scraps of fabric, and his cop’s mind jumped at the thought of possible evidence. Upon closer inspection, he realized these objects were organs that had been removed from the victim’s abdominal cavity.
Pieces had been cut from her body. He saw part of what had once been a breast. A finger lay ten feet from her outstretched arm. A length of pink-gray intestine leaked a red-green substance into the snow like a macabre snow cone. She’d been eviscerated.
“Oh my God.”
Vaguely, he was aware of Kate beside him, breathing as if she’d run a marathon. A sound that was part gasp, part groan escaped her. John felt that same sound echo inside him. An expression of outrage and shock rolled into a single, awful emotion. He clung to his clinical perspective. But it was a thready clutch, and before he could stop it, his mind took him back to the day he’d found Nancy and the girls. He saw charred, blackened bodies with grotesque, clutching hands. The smell of cooked meat and singed hair . . .
“Any sign of the suspect?”
Kate’s voice brought him back. She was speaking into her lapel mike. She looked at Tomasetti, but her eyes seemed slightly unfocused. “Call the sheriff’s office. Tell them we need every man they can spare. I want this place surrounded. And get Coblentz. Tell him to drop everything and get out here.”
She dropped her hand from the lapel mike and briefly closed her eyes. “Goddamnit.”
“Do you recognize her?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “My God, it’s hard to tell.”
He took that first, dangerous step toward the body. The stench of blood hung in the air. The victim had been cut from sternum to pubis. Several organs bulged from the opening. Steam rose from its bloody depths, and John knew that just a short time ago this woman had been alive.
“This is a huge escalation.” He could feel his heart pounding, the rush of blood through his veins. He wanted to think it was from the run. But he recognized the primal fear of death coursing through his body. Until this moment, he hadn’t known he even possessed such a strong will to live.
Outdoor crime scenes were difficult. The cold and snow and sheer size of this one would make it a nightmare.
“Chief!”
John looked toward the dam twenty yards away to see T.J. sliding down the embankment. In his peripheral vision, he saw Kate physically gather herself. She met the young officer at the base of the dam.
“He got another one,” she said.
T.J.’s eyes flicked toward the body, then quickly away. “Aw, man. Aw, Jesus.”
John addressed T.J. “I’m going to follow the tracks. I need you two to stay here, secure the scene until I can get a couple of techs out—”
“I’m going with you,” Kate cut in, her voice fierce.
“I’d rather—”
“You’re wasting time.” Drawing her weapon, she started toward the woods.
“Shit.” Shaking his head, John gave T.J. a nod and started after her at a jog.
They followed the snowmobile tracks into the woods, careful not to disturb them. The path the killer had taken was narrow with trees on either side. Kate jogged on the right side of the tracks. John took the left, keeping an eye out for anything the killer might have dropped in his haste.
For several minutes the only sounds came from their muffled footfalls against the snow and the rustle of fabric as their arms pumped. The woods seemed hushed. A crow cawed and took flight. In the instant that followed, a distant sound snagged John’s attention. Too close to be coming from the road. Too high-pitched for a plane or jet.
He stopped, motioned for Kate to do the same. “Do you hear that?”
She cocked her head. “West of here. There’s an open cornfield.” She hit the mike. “I’m a mile north of Miller’s Pond. Suspect is west of us. See if you can intercept.”
She took off running. John followed. He was beyond pain now. The stitch had moved to the center of his chest. It would be just his luck to have a fucking heart attack out in the middle of nowhere.
They ran for what seemed like an eternity. Through deep drifts and the jagged peaks of a plowed field. Kate stopped on the steep bank of a creek, raised her hand in a request for silence. John’s breathing was far from silent, but he tried. Putting his hands on his knees, he sucked in air.
“Son of a bitch is gone,” she said.
“Yeah, but to where?”
He hit the garage door opener from fifteen yards away and punched the throttle. He barreled in fast, skis skidding, cleats scraping concrete. Squeezing the brake, he set his foot against the floor, jammed his ankle. The big machine came to a rest an inch from his workbench. Unfastening the chinstrap, he removed the helmet and tossed it onto the seat. He shook from head to toe. Euphoria and exhilaration pumped through him like some illicit narcotic. The need to ride that razor edge fed something ravenous inside him, reminded him that he was alive and life was good.
He dismounted and stood. His crotch was wet, his underwear sticking uncomfortably. He’d worn the cock ring. In hindsight, it had been a stupid thing to do. Reckless. Indulgent. He’d been so aroused while carrying her from the snowmobile to the place where he’d left her, he’d climaxed in his pants. If he hadn’t been so rushed, he would have fucked her cold dead body and not felt a damn thing but gratification.
He thought of all the things he’d done to her and another wave of exhilaration washed over him. She’d been courageous. Challenging. Strong. She’d had attitude and endurance and dignity. The best one yet. He’d done things to her he’d dreamed of for years, but never had the guts. His level of satisfaction had been high. He respected and admired her in a way he hadn’t the others.
Over the years, he’d experimented and discovered what he liked. He’d learned how to get the most from the women he took. He knew what type of woman he liked, what to look for. Before, there’d always been an underlying panic that made him jumpy and frightened. That fear had nearly ruined the rush. He was risking a lot to live out his fantasies; he wanted the experience to be worth it. This woman had lived up to his wildest expectations. He’d taken his time and savored every moment.
Already he missed her. He wished he’d kept her longer. The letdown was already encroaching on his high. The descent into disappointment that left him feeling deflated and empty. He’d once been told he had an addictive personality. He was too disciplined to indulge in vices as stupid and self-destructive as cigarettes or booze. But killing, having that ultimate power over another human being, was something else altogether. An addiction more powerful than any narcotic. A high he could not live without.
Bending, he unlaced his snow boots. Working the suspenders of the bib snow pants over his shoulders, he stepped out of them and tossed them over the seat of the snowmobile. Next, he unzipped his fly, removed the cock ring and wiped the semen from his skin. He would have liked to change underwear, but there was no time.
He snagged his keys from the workbench and slid into his vehicle. Opening the garage door, he backed out.
