Unforgivable (Romantic Suspense) Page 10

  He radioed Sheriff Tate and requested immediate backup.

  Silas leaned against the column and tried to tamp down his anger at the violation of his privacy. There wasn’t a thing he could do about it. If he touched Gary, he’d be hauled in for assault on an officer. He knew Gary was close to the edge, which was Silas’s fault for not cowing under Gary’s power. He could feel anger pulsing off the man.

  The sheriff pulled up fifteen minutes later. Gary kept his eye on Silas as he showed Tate what he’d found. Now it was Gary’s excitement Silas felt, the savage glory of a beast tearing strips of flesh off its prey.

  Tate kept glancing over at Silas, appalled by what he saw. Hell, it appalled Silas, too. It was the yellow folder that bothered him the most; not the contents, but that Gary had found it. Read some of it. Yet, Gary hadn’t shown that folder to the sheriff.

  After a few minutes, the sheriff gathered everything and walked over to Silas. “This is yours?”

  “My private property.”

  Gary stepped up beside the sheriff. “I had probable cause to check the premises, sir. The man was acting suspicious.”

  “By doing what?” Tate asked in a low voice.

  “He had a look in his eyes, sir. He was defiant, obviously hiding something. So I searched.”

  “But you didn’t get a warrant,” Tate said.

  “But he would have destroyed the evidence,” Gary said.

  “I don’t suppose any of this was in plain sight,” he asked Gary in a near whisper.

  “As soon as I walked up on the porch I could see those folders—”

  Tate shoved the folders at Silas. “I’d sure like an explanation of why you’ve got this stuff, son.”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

  Silence hovered like a snake, ready to strike. The men waited, Silas waited.

  Tate said, “We’re going to have to verify that you own the property…”

  Silas dug through another box and gave him a tax receipt he’d brought just in case. It showed Celine Inc. as the owner of the property. Then he produced a worn business card that identified him as the CEO of Celine. Since he was the only employee, there was no one they could call to verify. “Need anything else?”

  “Got a license for the gun?”

  Silas produced that as well.

  Tate looked sheepish as he pushed the permit back at Silas. “Sorry we barged in.”

  “You can’t let him get away with this!” Gary protested as Tate took him by the arm and yanked him toward the vehicles.

  In a low tone, Tate said, “You don’t barge into someone’s house and go through their stuff without a warrant. Period. If you thought there was something in there, you should have called me first. And what made you think there was something going on?”

  Gary pulled his arm out of Tate’s grasp. “He looked guilty. And he is!”

  Tate glanced back at Silas, who was openly listening to them. Then he turned back to Gary. “We’ll talk about this at the station.”

  Gary shot Silas a venomous look before getting into his vehicle. He slammed the door and tore out, spinning leaves and gravel.

  This was going to complicate things. Now people would know he was back. And the sheriff would be keeping an eye on him because of what they’d found.

  By the time this was over, they were probably all going to know why he was called Spooky Silas.

  The feelings started again right after dinner. This time Silas felt rage and frustration. He’d spent the evening putting his research back in order. Luckily they hadn’t found everything. He’d been unable to resist trying to see it through their eyes. Their feelings of shock were clear enough. Their disgust. Definitely their suspicion.

  The pictures were gruesome, yes. The kind a big-city cop would have seen too many times, but not a small-town sheriff. Gary, perhaps, in his years on the Atlanta force. Silas had put in a call to his contact in Atlanta to find out more about his stint up there.

  It was nearly midnight when he’d become aware of the feelings. Not the feelings of the joy of the hunt this time, but pure rage. Silas wasn’t sure which worried him more. He tucked his research into a back corner of what constituted his office and bedroom. He set his suitcase on top of that and walked to the front porch.

  Wind howled through the trees and brought the forest alive with the sound of rushing leaves. Another time it may have soothed him. Tonight it was a backdrop to sinister rage. He glanced toward Katie’s house, not that he could see anything. She was probably tucked in her bed with her husband for the night, safe and sound.

  That’s not where she belonged. She knew it too, but she was powerless to do anything about it. So was he. Coveting another man’s wife was one of the big Ten.

  So was murder, a black thought reminded him.

  He focused on kissing Katie rather than his darkest doubts as he headed back to his place. He hadn’t meant to. He was only here to protect her, a totally unselfish purpose. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t compromise her or put her in a tenuous position. Just his presence, unfortunately, had done that. He could feel her conflict and desire. Though he hadn’t seen her, or at least talked to her, in eighteen years, he’d always believed she belonged to him.

  He scanned the writhing miasma of shadows and leaves. Someone was out there watching him. He could feel the anger closer than ever.

  Even The Boss seemed to sense it. He lifted his head and looked to the darkness, his saggy lips dusty from the floor. Silas reached out and scratched his head before heading to the inflatable mattress in the bedroom.

  Fully clothed, he lay in bed and listened to the sounds of the darkness. He’d been in the dark for so long, he wasn’t sure where it ended and he began. It was that fine line that obsessed him. What pushed a man over it? What made him kill another human being?

  The rage had receded, leaving behind emptiness. The evil was there, hovering at the edge. The Ghost was on the move. Not hunting, but definitely looking for an outlet for his anger.

  Silas got out of bed and called The Boss. He waited while the old dog creakily made his way down the steps. On his way to the Navigator, the dog sniffed something crinkly on the ground.

  It was the chocolate lollipop Katie had brought over. She must have dropped it, and either Gary or the sheriff had run over it. Silas picked it up and tossed it to the edge of the woods. He didn’t want any reminders of her offering.

  He helped The Boss into the vehicle and climbed in. If the killer were on the prowl, Silas had a feeling where he’d go: where the green sneaker still lay on the side of the road. He’d been keeping an eye on it, not yet ready to anonymously call it into the police. There’d be no evidence on it.

  The Ghost left the shoe there so he could vicariously relive his crime. Serial killers usually kept their trophies nearby. The Ghost was smarter than that. He left his trophies on the side of the road, as innocuous as the rest of the debris scattered among the grass and wildflowers. He probably returned here from time to time, and if no one was around, masturbated to the memories.

  Silas had tried to tell that to the sheriff’s office when he’d found the first shoe north of here. In his anonymous tip, he’d told them to leave the shoe there and watch who slowed down or stopped nearby. They’d taken it away to run tests on it, tests that were inconclusive.

  Silas had stopped notifying the authorities, collecting evidence and data himself until he had enough to connect the disappearances and find out who The Ghost was. Besides, how could he explain how he knew so much about the murders? How could he explain that he was inside the killer’s mind without implicating himself?

  He paused at the end of the drive and glanced in the rearview mirror. The dash lights played across the contours of his face and left his eyes in shadows.

  Or was he afraid to find out The Ghost was himself?

  Had he become the very thing he’d been researching all these years?

  After all, he was constantly monitoring the sneaker, slowing down
to see it just as the killer did. Though he hadn’t once been moved to sexually stimulate himself over it. He could feel the killer’s joy and lust, but Silas’s core being was repulsed by what he saw and felt. That was little relief. He’d studied serial killers who felt the same way, compelled and disgusted at once.

  Silas had gone to a church in every town he visited in his search for the Ghost. It was a test, to see if he’d become too close to evil to be allowed in. He’d slip inside during a lull between services, take in the religious symbols—the cross, perhaps a statue of Christ—and be glad he’d been allowed in once more. When he’d gone to Flatlands Baptist Church, the doors had been locked.

  The highways were nearly deserted at this time of night. These rural areas closed down at dusk. Most of the outlying farms and homes were dark. The perfect place to make a girl disappear.

  The shoe was there, just a few feet from the sign as it had been. The feelings were growing, anger and retribution. Soon, the payoff. The reward.

  His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as the first of the flashes started. A room, old and dusty. A girl spread on the bed. Satisfaction at the terror on her face.

  For all the persecution.

  For everything that didn’t go my way.

  My reward.

  Her scream tore through the night and faded by degrees. Somewhere inside Silas, there was enough of himself to feel the relief that it wasn’t Katie, not this time.

  He woke up two hours later in his vehicle, which was parked several yards off the road. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there, didn’t remember pulling off the highway.

  She was dead. Carrie Druthers was gone forever, probably never to be found. Like the others.

  His head was pounding and his body felt weak. He cleared his vision enough to drive back onto the highway and figure out where he was. He took a mental note of the route number before heading back to the house. Each time he had an episode, he had to be getting closer. Before long, he’d be face to face with the killer.

  CHAPTER 8

  Katie was on her third cup of coffee, and she still hadn’t woken up yet. Luckily it was Sunday, and she and Ben had been able to sleep in until nine.

  “How much wine did you drink last night?” Ben asked as he worked the crossword puzzle at the kitchen table.

  “Just two glasses.”

  He didn’t look up at her, just kept working the puzzle in ink. He had an amazing memory for knowledge. Katie suspected he had a high IQ, though he downplayed his intelligence. She felt rather dumb compared to him, but he never made her feel that way on purpose.

  She’d told him most of the truth about her meeting with Silas, that she was curious about why he was there and grateful for the chance to apologize for inadvertently ousting him from town. She omitted the fact that she’d already seen him, and of course, the kiss. No need to mention that. After all, it was a fluke, something that would never happen again.

  Ben had been stoic about it all, really. They’d had some wine, and he hadn’t brought it up again. The tension, however, was still apparent. His manner was pleasant, but reserved. He was perfectly entitled to be disappointed in her. She felt the same way.

  She scanned the local paper, a small weekly that was produced in Flatlands but covered the general area. “No news on the missing girl. I wonder if it’s connected to the girl who disappeared over to Milledgeville.”

  “She’s probably just taken off. I’m sure they’re not putting all the facts in the paper.”

  She hoped it was something like that. Bad things didn’t happen in their area. This was rural Georgia, small towns, people not locking their doors.

  The knock on the door startled her. Sheriff Tate looked tired, though his uniform was as crisp as always. He tipped his hat. “Sorry to barge in on you folks on a nice Sunday morning, but I thought you might want to know what’s going on with Silas Koole.”

  Her heart jumped. She’d caused him trouble again. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Sheriff nodded to the chairs on the porch. “Out here’s fine.”

  Her throat was tight as she took the rocker next to Ben’s, while Tate leaned against the railing. He looked so serious, so grim.

  “Sure am glad you had us check into Silas being over there to the old Koole place,” he said to Ben, who looked inordinately pleased with himself. “I think we got ourselves a problem, a real dangerous one. I’m going to ask you to keep this to yourselves for now. But seeing as you’re in close proximity to the Koole house, you’d best know.” He looked at Katie. “Especially with the way you wander around here.”

  How did he know? She had scooted to the edge of her chair, tipping it forward. “What is it?”

  Tate ran his hands down his thighs. “First of all, he has every right to be there. It’s his property. We’re going to check further tomorrow, but it appears to be his.”

  Ben said, “I thought it was some corporation in Atlanta that owned it.”

  “Yep, and it appears he owns the corporation.”

  That wasn’t what Katie expected at all. Shaggy Silas who was living in that old place owned a corporation? “But…how?” And why hadn’t he told her, the jerk?

  “Don’t know how he got to owning a corporation, and how he earns his money may well be another issue altogether. His old man bought that whole tract of land when he moved here. We thought he just rented the place. Seems that Silas has been paying the taxes all along.”

  Ben tensed. “So we can’t make him leave?”

  “Can’t make a man vacate his own property unless he’s doing something illegal there.”

  Ben asked the question that had haunted Katie for five days. “But why did he come back after all this time?”

  Tate seemed to gauge their readiness for the news. “Maybe to find new hunting grounds.”

  She said, “Well, I guess a guy’s got a right to hunt on his own property,” though she knew he hated hunting.

  “Not when he’s hunting young women.”

  She went cold, all the way down to her fingertips. Luckily Ben had the presence of mind to respond.

  “Are you saying…”

  “Yep, that’s what I’m saying. Maybe the girl up near Haddock, maybe the hitchhiker outside of Milledgeville…maybe more.”

  Katie finally found her voice. “Why…what makes you think that?”

  “Gary went over there last night. Unfortunately, he went overboard, as he can do sometimes, and started searching the place without a warrant. He found a lot of disturbing things, stuff Silas was working on.” Tate shifted his gaze away, as though gathering himself to go on.

  “He had notes, photographs, and newspaper clippings about teenage girls disappearing. At least half a dozen, going back a few years, maybe more. I didn’t have a chance to read much of what he’d wrote, but he had graphic pictures of two girls’ battered bodies. Like police photos. I was up most the night doing research and pulled up missing girl reports all the way back to 1989. See, here’s the thing: Nobody thought to connect these disappearances. Some were thought to have run off, like the Haddock girl. They’d been in trouble, or were hitchhiking, things they’d oughtn’t do. Others were considered random, a guy passing through. There’s no pattern, nothing to connect them really. He had notes on a few of them, and it turns out there is a pattern of sorts. All the girls just disappeared, without a trace. Back in 1986 and 1990, two bodies were found. The guy—if it’s one guy—got good after that, and not one body has been found since. Some of the disappearances are related in where they were taken. Others are related by shoes.”

  “Shoes?” she asked, horrified at the picture Tate was painting. How it jived with Silas’s secretiveness, his evasiveness. And his warnings.

  Two girls who went missing in the same area around the same time back in 1989 and 1990 also had another connection: one body was found without a shoe, and only the shoe of the other girl was found. That’s not unusual in itself, far as I can tell. But in 199
6 a girl went missing near I-16 south of here. Her shoe was found not far from here. Her mother was searching everywhere in the area, and she recognized the shoe. Her daughter had special arches inserted in all her shoes. Two years later, a girl goes missing from Ivey. A few months later, her shoe is found in Haddock, which, not coincidentally, is where the recent girl was taken, if she was taken. That tip was called in anonymously, something killers do sometimes. Could be the guy’s calling card; he just leaves ‘em on the side of the road.”

  Ben jumped to his feet. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “I’m afraid I do. No one would have connected the disappearances if it weren’t for Gary finding Silas’s files.”

  Ben looked happy about that. “Good thing I alerted Gary about Silas. We can probably stop the bastard right here, and it’ll all be our doing. We’ll be heroes, Tate.”

  “Afraid not, Ben. Because Gary’s search was illegal, I couldn’t take the files last night, can’t arrest him, can’t do anything until I have proof not obtained by illegal means. And I’m not sure we’d find any proof to tie him in for a court’s needs. My hands are tied. I can’t even call in the FBI, because they’ll be all over me for my deputy’s over-eagerness. But I’m on the case now. I’m working on connecting him, digging into his past, and finding out how I can nail him to the wall. I’m going to keep my guys watching him as much as manpower allows. If this is one man taking these women, he’s damned smart. And Silas doesn’t strike me as being a dumb guy.”

  “Surely you can find a way around the illegal search business.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried to come up with something. The bottom line is, we screwed up. Gary screwed up. Now we’re going to make it right. This is big, real big. I want to nail this guy myself, bring some notoriety to Flatlands. But if I screw it up and he gets off on a technicality, my ass’ll be fried six ways from Sunday.”

  “I can go in!” Ben said, straightening his shoulders. “I’m a private citizen.”