Taken By The Wind

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Table of Contents TAKEN BY THE WIND Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Epilogue Amber Quill Press, LLC

TAKEN BY THE WIND by CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com

Taken By The Wind An Amber Quill Press Book This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2003 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo ISBN 1-59279-096-8 Cover Art © 2003 Trace Edward Zaber Rating: R Layout and Formatting Provided by: Elemental Alchemy http://www.elementalalchemy.com

Published in the United States of America

Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo At Grandma's Knee

BlackWind BloodWind DarkWind In the Heart of the Wind In the Teeth of the Wind In the Wind's Eye NightWind Prince of the Wind ShadowWind Shards Anthology WindChance WindFall

The WindLegend's Saga

Book I: Windkeeper Book II: Windseeker Book III: Windweeper Book IV: Windhealer Book V: Windreaper Book VI: Winddreamer Book VII: Windbeliever

Book VIII: Winddeceiver Book IX: Windretriever Book X: Windschemer

Dedication

To Patricia A. Rasey

Chapter 1 Des Moines, Iowa November, 1997 Brenna Collins sat back in her chair and closed her eyes to the tight band of red-hot pain over her right brow. Nausea was already lurking at the base of her throat. Pinpoint flashes of light played along her peripheral vision and sound was muted in her left ear. Next would come the tunnel vision, the vomiting and shivering, then the pain would be so intense she'd have no choice but to go home. Brenna knew all too well the signs of a looming migraine headache; she'd suffered with them since her fifteenth birthday. Placing her fingertips at her temples, she massaged in small circles the agony that throbbed mercilessly there. In passing, she thought about going outside in the 30 degree weather and standing long enough to numb the pain in her head; but it was too much of a hassle for a few moments' respite. Besides, she thought with a grimace of distaste, standing alone at night in downtown Des Moines wasn't exactly a smart thing to do any more. She leaned back in her chair and sighed. It was nearly ten o'clock on a Friday night and here she was still at work. The day had been a bitch; her boss had been a bastard and the light at the end of the tunnel was getting farther and farther away. Brenna sighed heavily as she looked at the clock over the row of filing cabinets. She should be in bed instead of sitting at her desk crunching numbers. Making up her mind to add only one more entry in the computer before her head exploded from the pain, Brenna hunched forward over her keyboard. As she finished the first quarter's data, she was jostled out of her concentration

by a succession of thwumping sounds down the hall from her office. For a moment, Brenna just sat there, listening as the sounds came again, a bit closer this time. She was puzzled by the odd noise, unable to identify the source. When it came again, she listened more carefully, cocking her head to one side in concentration. As far as she knew, she was alone in the building. McGregor, A'Lex and Brell did not employ night security guards; there was no need. The company carried no night cash and, other than the computer equipment, there wasn't that much for a thief to want. Suddenly, she heard someone running down the hallway outside her office. This new sound so surprised her she stood up. What the hell was going on? she wondered. She was ready to investigate when something slammed against the sturdy oak door of her office. A loud groan punctuated what could only be a hard collapse to the floor. "Don't," someone pleaded. "Don't kill me." The hair on the back of Brenna's neck stood up and chill bumps popped out all over her arms. "Your expiration date has arrived, Mr. Jenner," an unfamiliar voice said softly. "No! Please don't shoot me ag—" Three loud thwumps cut off Jenner's plea. The wet sound—so final—galvanized Brenna into action. She snaked out her hand and punched the button on the base of her desk lamp, plunging the room into pitch-black darkness. Although she knew no one could see even a trace of light under her door, her natural instinct for survival was working of its own accord. She could feel the rushing adrenaline now pumping through her body and her heart was beating so fast she could hear it rushing through her veins. There was no doubt in her mind that someone was lying dead just outside her office door. And she would be, too, if the killer realized she was in the building. The thought that the killer might find her and riddle her with bullets drew Brenna's eyes to the unlocked door. There had been no need to lock it, but she wished she had inherited her mother's almost neurotic habit of locking every door in sight once the sun went down. She strained to hear even the tiniest of sounds outside, but the muted numbness in her left ear—combined with the pounding of her blood—kept her from picking up any movement beyond the office door. Breathing as shallowly as she could, sitting absolutely still lest her knee hit a drawer or her hand sweep something from the desktop, she kept her eyes locked on the closed door, willing the killer to leave. The ping of the elevator door's opening stopped her breath altogether. She dug her nails into the palms of her hand, waiting, not daring to hope whomever was outside her door had moved on. When the elevator mechanism engaged and the unmistakable sound of the cage descending the shaft finally penetrated the agony in her brain, Brenna was finally able to take a breath. Without hesitation, she moved, snatching up the phone and bringing it to her ear quicker than she would have thought humanly possible. She punched in the three numbers her terrified mind told her would bring help.

But there was no dial tone. At first, she thought she had misdialed so she tried again, deliberately pushing the 911 buttons. There was no sound and she knew the Centrex line must have been cut. She slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle, her fear intensifying. Her mouth dry, her unblinking eyes going once more to the door, she began to realize help was beyond her reach. She was alone on the sixth floor of the McGregor Building with a dead man just outside her door. A thought stabbed alongside the migraine pain and brought her to her feet: What if Mr. Jenner wasn't dead? She put a trembling hand to her mouth, the thought sending spasms of uncertainty through her. Could she help him? But how, if the phone wasn't working? If he was lying there bleeding to death and she did nothing to help, she knew she would never be able to endure the guilt. There was no choice to make, as she saw it. She had to go out in the hall. "Oh, Lord," she moaned, wanting nothing more than to remain where she was until morning came and, along with it, the cleaning staff; but she knew morning might be too late for Mr. Jenner. Not giving herself time to make excuses to stay put, she came from behind the desk. There was just enough light filtering in through the vertical blinds behind her so she could make her way to the door without stumbling into a chair or filing cabinet. She put her ear to the panel and listened. Hesitantly—and with a great deal of care—she eased open her office door, blinking against the intrusion of light glaring at her from the hallway. With her bottom lip caught firmly between her teeth, she slowly poked her head into the corridor. What she saw made her gasp. William Jenner was sprawled on the floor to the right of the door. Jenner's hands were crossed almost primly in his lap and his legs were thrust out directly in front of him, ankles crossed, giving him the appearance of taking a nap. Two gaping holes in his lower torso pulsed blood onto the carpet in an ever-widening pool. That wasn't what had killed him. About three feet up the wall behind him, a corona of sprayed blood and gray matter oozing down the wall. Jenner had been shot through both eyes and once in the very center of his forehead. "Sweet Mary and Joseph," Brenna whispered, her stomach heaving. She turned away, squeezing her eyes tightly shut to blot out the sight. Hot bile had rushed up her throat and she was swallowing convulsively in a concerted attempt to keep the vomit from erupting. She could feel her knees threatening to buckle and had to grasp the doorjamb. Her world was cantering off kilter at an alarming rate and it was all she could do not to sink to the floor in a babbling heap.

But the sane, methodical part of her brain told her she was not safe where she was. There was nothing she could do for the Vice President of Overseas Operations; William Jenner was beyond help. At the moment, her main concern should be getting the hell out of there. And away from the man who had killed Jenner. She opened her eyes and looked down the hall, deliberately keeping her line of vision from lowering to the dead man, although every instinct cried out for her to do so. Although the doors to one of the two elevators were standing open and ready for a passenger, that avenue of escape was out of the question, she thought. Engaging the cage would be like advertising her presence and she had no way of knowing if the killer was still inside the building. She turned her gaze in the opposite direction and hope blossomed in her trembling body. The stairs were only a few feet away. Thankful she had dropped her car keys into the right pocket of her slacks after coming back to the office from supper, Brenna stepped gingerly around Jenner, avoiding looking at the man again. Trying not to think about the death behind her, she raced to the stairwell door and was only a foot away when she heard a man's vicious curse coming from the utility room beside the stairwell. Brenna spun around and raced for the open elevator door, uncaring of the noise her shoes made as they slapped on the carpet. "Hey!" someone shouted, but Brenna vaulted for the elevator. She had a vague impression of a thick body hurtling toward her from down the corridor, but she didn't want to see the killer's face; didn't want to be able to identify him; didn't want him to seeher face. "Son of a bitch!" the killer bellowed and she realized he must have slipped on the puddle of blood, for she heard a yelp as he hit the wall, then a resounding crash. But she refused to look back. The last thing she wanted to see was the killer pushing himself up, fury etched on his ugly face as he lifted a gun to blow her away. "Please, please, please!" she begged God as she leapt into the elevator and slapped at the button to close the panels. She struck again and again at the sublevel two button, spitting out vulgar words when the elevator failed to respond. "Come one, come on, come on!" was her litany. After what seemed an eternity, the doors began to close. Just as they did, she looked up, saw the killer coming right at her, and jammed herself into the corner of the elevator beside the control panel. Raising her arms over her face, she expected to feel bullets ripping into her body, but the doors slid shut to shield her. She heard his bellow of frustration; felt, rather than heard, him hit the doors hard enough to make them shake. As the cage began to lower, her migraine flared brutally and she gagged, bending over in reflex as she felt bile coming up her throat. Pain stabbed hard into that tender place above her right eye and a noxious, acid fluid filled her mouth. Vomit flew from her mouth in so violent a stream the action caused acute pain in her throat. Straining as she purged the

bitter fluid from her stomach, she vomited so savagely she thought she would pass out from the intensity of her heaves. Her ears buzzed loudly for a second or two before she could straighten up and, when she did, the pain lessened above her eye and rational thought invaded her mind as though someone had turned on a switch— He'll take the stairs; catch you at the bottom when the elevator stops. Brenna jumped forward, slamming her hand against the stop button. Instantly, the car jerked to a halt and her eyes went to the panel above the door. She knew she was between the third and second floors. She also knew the killer would have taken the stairs expecting her to go all the way to the parking level. He would try to cut her off. Even as she stood there, he was probably waiting at the doors down in the parking garage, ready for her. When he looks up, sees I've stopped the elevator… She didn't want to think about the killer's reaction. Instead, she drew in a quick breath and stabbed at the third floor button. There was a slight hesitation, then the car lifted, then settled. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out her car keys. With care, she threaded the metal keys individually between her knuckles, the jagged edges pointing outward like the barbed spikes of a warrior's gauntlet. Tightly gripping the makeshift weapon, she kicked off her pumps and sent them sliding into the corner of the cage just as the elevator doors shushed open. She hurried to the stairwell and jerked open the fire door. As she took the thick mesh steps upward, she could hear the crash of heavy pounding on the stairs far below her. From the interval in between each reverberating crash of foot to metal, the killer was taking the stairs two at a time. "Fall and break your neck, you bastard," she hissed from between clenched teeth. Bursting through the fourth floor fire door, she rushed toward the closed doors of the service elevator at the far end. She reached the elevator, jammed the single 'down' button and almost whooped for joy when the door opened immediately. She hurried inside, hit the sublevel two button. Off to her right, she heard the fire door crash open and had to choke off a shriek of surprise. How had he found her so quickly? There was nowhere to go. She knew he could see the open freight elevator door. Brenna leaned against the door's close button, putting all her weight into it, and felt a momentary flood of relief as the doors began to close. But just as the panels were about to meet, a hand clutching a gun wedged between the closing panels and the doors began to open once again. "No!" Brenna bellowed. She lashed out, stabbing violently at the killer, raking the back of his hand with her car keys. Her action so stunned—and hurt—him, he dropped his weapon. The gun hit the carpet with a dull thud. Brenna stared at the blood already beginning to seep down the man's fingers as he cradled it like a claw in his other hand. She had raked him so brutally scores of deep cuts showed on his darkly tanned flesh. "That was good," she heard him say in between heavy intakes of breath. Against her will, she slowly raised her eyes to meet his and whimpered as she got a good look at him. "I wasn't expecting that," he said softly.

She whimpered again and he began to smile in an eerie, challenging way that showed straight white teeth. His grin grew predatory and he widened his eyes with mock surprise. "Now what are you going to do, Sweeting?" The killer's foot was across the threshold, blocking the doors from closing. She wanted to lunge for the pistol at his feet, pump the entire clip into his chest, and tear him to bits with it. Her attention slid recklessly toward the weapon and she saw him cast a slow look that way as well. "Go ahead, baby," he whispered, drawing her eyes immediately back to his. His nose crinkled with amusement as he said, "Do it." She saw absolute evil in the killer's face. Although he was smiling warmly at her, the smile didn't reach his chocolate brown eyes. Those amber-shot dark orbs were as cold as the farthest reaches of the galaxy. The power staring out at her from a face that was movie-star handsome made the situation even more eerie. Killers, she thought, should not look like they belonged on the cover of a fan magazine. She tore her gaze from his and looked at the gun again. "Go for it. Let's see how fast you can move," he taunted and Brenna's heart skipped a beat. She couldn't get past him; she knew that. He could easily reach out and grab her if she tried and throw her back into the cage. If she were to try for his weapon, she knew who'd gain it first. He'd pick it up and shoot her or hit her with it then… She shook her head, refusing to think what he might do to her before he killed her. "What are you waiting for?" His voice was deep, low, as soft as a lover's caress, and all the more lethal for its quietness. In her nightmares she would see herself standing there confronting him; being made to endure that evil, knowing smile; hear that deadly challenge. In actuality, it was only a matter of seconds—though long enough to blur her sanity and put a tear in the fabric of her self-control—before she rushed over the edge of safety and into the maelstrom of rashness. "Go to hell, you bastard!" she shrieked, striking out with her foot and catching him hard on the shin, eliciting another grunt of surprised pain. Her attack made him yank back his leg and, as he did, Brenna jammed the close button on the freight elevator doors. As he straightened up and the doors began to close, he locked his gaze on her, his eyes hardening, gleaming with pure wickedness. "That's the second time you've hurt me," he growled and his uninjured hand caught the left elevator door panel and kept it from closing. Brenna tried to rake that hand with her keys, too, but he had no doubt been anticipating her move, for he brought up his bleeding fist and batted away her hand so hard she felt the shock all the way to her elbow. The keys went spinning out of her fingers and onto the carpet behind her. "Mean little bitch, aren't you?" he asked, one thick dark brow lifted in query.

She expected him to leap toward her; thought he would grab her and strangle her. The look in his eyes told her he wanted to. But he just stood there, his cold smile having returned. When she thought she would go insane waiting for him to act, he released the door. "Sleep well, milady," he told her, then winked. "Look for me in your dreams." The doors shushed closed as his smile gave way to laughter. The laughter made the hairs stand up on Brenna's arms; it was bizarre, chilling, so totally out of place in the situation. As the elevator sped downward, she could still hear it echoing through her mind, washing over her with a vileness that set her to trembling all over again. When the car came to rest at the sublevel two parking garage, she barely gave the doors a chance to open before she was sprinting down the parking ramp and out into the night. She tripped, slamming her shoulder hard into a tall concrete buttress; she didn't even notice. Nor did she really feel the pain of the collision. Her main concern was on reaching the street. *** From the wide sweep of windows on the fourth floor, he watched her run onto Dodge Street, waving her arms for help. He tensed as he saw a car coming at her, then relaxed as it slowed, nodded as the brake lights came on and she scrambled inside. He watched until the taillights were only a flicker, then turned away from the window. A rare, genuine smile touched his full lips and he laughed with wry amusement. If that was a pervert into whose car she'd leapt, he pitied the poor fool—she'd make mincemeat of him. He found he wasn't concerned for her safety. She'd proven she could handle herself well enough. Even with a man like himself. "Not bad," he whispered. "Not bad at all." He pushed away from the window and headed for the stairwell. "But next time," he said aloud as he pushed open the stairwell door, "you won't get away so easily." The killer sighed deeply. He never took chances; never left witnesses. He could not afford to leave behind anyone who could later describe him, point him out in a lineup. Not until tonight. He looked down at his bloody knuckles and grunted. He wondered why he had let her live, but there had been something in her eyes… He brought his knuckles to his lips and licked away the oozing fluid, savoring the salty taste. He narrowed his eyes. He would find out who she was, then go after her.

When he had time to play.

Chapter 2 The lights from the Smith and Wesson bars atop the police cars flashed across the buildings like strobes in a sleazy bar. Uniformed cops scurried in and out of McGregor, A'Lex and Brell, while the doors to the coroner's wagon stood open and waited. Brenna turned her head away from the sight of the slick black body bag and looked into the cup of coffee someone had provided. "You all right back there?" Brenna nodded. She was sitting in the back of a patrol car, separated from the driver by a thick mesh grill. Still trembling, her headache an agony above her right eye, she took a sip of the tepid coffee, her hand shaking so badly she had to use the other one to steady it. "You warm enough?" the driver inquired. "I could crank up the heat a bit." "No, thank you," Brenna said softly. "I'm fine, Officer Nevins." The door opposite her opened and the detective in charge of the murder slid heavily into the seat across from her. "Damned cold night," he remarked. "Heard there was gonna be snow," the driver informed him. "Well, we gotta get it sometime," the detective grunted. He settled his bulk more comfortably in the seat, then turned his attention to Brenna. "How you doing, Miss Collins?" Brenna couldn't remember his name, although he had introduced himself to her before going into the building to check the crime scene. "I'm okay," she replied. "You're a lucky woman," the detective told her. "But then he hasn't killed a woman yet." "The Mayor is afraid he'll come after her," Nevins quipped. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide. "You think it was the Gemini Killer?" "Bill Jenner has a twin brother, Walter, who lives up in Minneapolis," the detective said, drawing her attention back

to him. "My guess is this was another Gemini killing." A shudder ran through Brenna as she stared at the detective. Although she had worked for William Jenner for over three years, she knew next to nothing about the man's personal life. Finding out he was a twin was a surprise, but realizing she had looked into the face of a serial killer responsible for nineteen murders in six states was staggering. "Did you get a look at him by any chance, ma'am?" the detective asked, searching Brenna's worried face. "Who?" Brenna whispered. Her head felt as though it would explode and she put a hand up to rub at her right temple. "The killer, Miss Collins," the detective said with a trace of annoyance. "Did you happen to glance behind you as you were running away from him? In the time it had taken Brenna to flee the parking garage, she made her up mind not to let anyone know she had seen the face of the killer and could describe him. If she kept her mouth shut, maybe he would not come after her. The reasoning behind her decision had been the fact that he had let her go in the first place. If he had wanted to kill her, she'd be in a body bag like William Jenner. "Miss Collins?" the detective inquired. She shook her head. "No. No, I didn't see him." She found the courage to meet the man's skeptical look. "I was too afraid to look around, Officer. I only wanted to get the hell out of there." She held his gaze, willing him to accept her lie. Pete Michaels knew the woman was lying, but there was no way he could prove it. If she had seen the man who was now at the top of the FBI's most wanted list, she certainly wasn't going to admit to it. He knew the only way he might gain her cooperation was to scare it out of her. "It's probably a good thing," he said, his tone graceful, "that you didn't see him." He studied her eyes as he spoke. "Because if he thought you could identify him, he'd come after you, Miss Collins. This man is very dangerous and he's been careful not to leave behind any evidence we could ever use against him. A witness?" The detective sadly shook his head. "A witness would be something he'd make damned sure he eliminated." Brenna swallowed the bile that had been creeping up her throat as the detective spoke. She winced, her pain so excruciating she could barely see. "Officer…" she began, but the man cut her off with a tinge of pique. "Detective, Miss Collins," he corrected. "Detective Michaels." He saw her rubbing at her forehead. "Headache?" "Migraine," she mumbled, feeling the nausea lurking at the back of her throat. Michaels sighed. "My mother gets those damned things," he said. He knew he'd get nothing more from the woman tonight, if ever. He rapped his knuckles on the wire mesh, gaining the driver's attention. "How 'bout taking Miss Collins over to Mercy and have them give her something for the headache. Then take her on home." "You want me to have a guard posted?" the driver asked. Michaels thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. Maybe he could frighten the Collins woman into admitting she'd seen Gemini. "No, I don't think so. She didn't see the bastard so there's no reason to believe he'll come after her." He cast a surreptitious look to the woman beside him, but realized she wasn't listening. He sighed again then reached for the door. After he climbed out of the patrol car, he bent over and spoke to Brenna. "If you remember

anything, Miss Collins, it would be to your benefit to call us immediately. You understand?" Brenna nodded. "Yes, sir." Michaels straightened up and shut the door as easily as he could. A lifetime of hearing his mother complain about the intensity of migraine pain had instilled in him a certain degree of sympathy for those who suffered from the affliction. "Did she get a look at him?" questioned a man coming toward Michaels. Michaels turned to look at his partner. "Says she didn't, but I think she's lying." "Too afraid?" "Mostly," Michaels replied. "We'll go over there tomorrow and talk to her some more." He ran a hand through his thick blond hair. "She ain't in no condition to be of any help tonight, anyway. I had Barnes take her over to Mercy for a shot." Michaels' partner's left eyebrow lifted. "You saying she's in shock?" "Nah, got a migraine. Or so she says," Michaels replied. "Let her sleep it off. Maybe by tomorrow she'll realize just how much danger she's in." He thumped his partner on the back. "We might as well go on in and write up the report." "Might as well," his partner agreed. "I got an errand to run first. I'll meet you over at the station." "Yeah, and the check's in the mail, huh, Kylan?" Michaels scoffed. *** He looked down at the keys in his hand then casually tossed them on the table. Flexing the fingers that still stung, despite the peroxide with which he had treated them, he gazed at the gouges and furrows across his knuckles, at the angry welts and lines crisscrossing the back of his hand, and he snorted. She had lashed out at him, no matter how ineffectually, no matter how insane the action had been at the time. Her doing so had amused him then; it amused him now. He could still see the surprise etched on her pale face, could almost feel the palpable shock she must have felt at discovering him standing right in front of her at the elevator. He would have given the proverbial "anything" for a picture of her face at that moment. It had been a priceless underscore to his night's work. And she had ran from him, he mused. Ranfrom him. And he had let her. His laughter was little snorts of self-derision.

"Brenna Collins," he said aloud, savoring the name. He pictured her in his mind, clearly, and with his memory finely attuned to the exact details so important to his profession. She wasn't an especially pretty woman, he thought, but there was something about her face that intrigued him; made it impossible for him to get her out of his mind. Her eyes were azure, a few shades lighter than the sea. Her hair was a pale brown with just a touch of gray threaded through the fine strands: baby-fine and thin, but as soft as a kitten's down. It hung midway down her back and curls framed her oval face. Without a doubt, it was the kind of hair a man would delight in stroking, feeling drag across his naked belly. She wasn't tall. She was no more than five-foot-four, nearly a foot shorter than him. Neither was she all that slim. Seeing her, picturing her running away from him, he realized her hips were a trifle too broad and calves a bit too thick to be fashionable these days; upper arms heavier than was allowed. But still, there was that something about her. He frowned as he strove to recall the exact shape of her blue eyes. Not tilted, not round, either, but, just right. They were graced with long, thick lashes, a darker brown than her hair. Lips? Her lips were coral, pale coral, and shaped as a woman's lips should be shaped—delicately and not too full. Perfect for licking, and tasting and bruising with passionate kisses. His frown deepened. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself the pleasure of a woman. Many months since he had known the pleasure of sliding into a woman's body, felt the unrestrained release of a fulfilling climax. He scowled. He put his left hand to the throbbing in his genitals and rubbed between his legs for a moment, trying to ease the building arousal there. It didn't help; it only made the growing erection leap with need. "Shit," he snarled, snatching his hand away from his crotch. He was a grown man, not an adolescent. If he wanted fulfillment, he needed to look no further than the closest bar. But it wasn't a willing whore he wanted. It was Brenna Collins. Bending over, he picked up her keys. He closed his fist around the metal ring with its burden of five keys and let his hand fall to his thigh where he squeezed the keys, fingering them, feeling the biting edge of their metal surfaces, experiencing the coolness of the aluminum turning hot in his palm.

He rubbed his hand slowly up and down his thigh. "Brenna," he whispered. The name was a sweet caress against his tongue and he savored the taste of it. What would her flesh feel like in his hands? *** Kylan Cree followed the police car to Brenna Collins' home. He doused the lights of his black Jeep Cherokee and watched as the uniformed cop escorted the woman inside. From the way the cop had to hold her up, it was obvious the Collins woman was very groggy from whatever she'd been given at the hospital. Five minutes after he'd entered the house, the cop came out, his attention going immediately to the Cherokee, his hand to the service revolver on his hip. Cree smiled as the cop started toward him. From the glow of the mercury streetlight overhead, he could see the determined, set look on the uniform's face and chuckled softly to himself. Before the cop reached his Jeep, Cree switched on the power and hit the window control. The window rolled down just as the cop walked up cautiously. "May I…?" Barnes began, then recognized the man behind the Jeep's wheel. "Oh, evening, Detective Cree," he finished with a sigh of relief. His hand left the service revolver. "I didn't know you'd be out here, Sir." "Just a precaution," Cree said smoothly. He nodded toward Brenna Collins' house. "I don't think we should leave her alone tonight." Barnes bobbed his head in agreement. "Me, neither. Seems like a real nice lady." "I'm sure she is," Cree responded, smiling. He plucked the keys from the ignition and opened the Jeep's door. "Sure wouldn't like anything to happen to her, now, would we?" "No, Sir," Barnes answered. He glanced back at his patrol car. "You want me to stay?" "No need," Cree replied. He folded his arms over his chest. "You have a good night, Curt." Barnes put a finger to the bill of his uniform cap in salute. "You, too, Detective." The two men walked together to Barnes' cruiser then Cree took the paved stone sidewalk up to Brenna Collins' house. "I locked her door behind me, Sir," Barnes called out. "Just gonna check the windows and back door," Cree told him. He waved to the cop then started around the side of the house. Barnes was annoyed with himself for not thinking to do that. He had made sure the lock was engaged on the front door when he left, but hadn't thought to check windows and the back door. As he drove off, he was thankful Ky Cree had.

*** It was easy to gain access to the woman's house. The backdoor lock was flimsy and easily picked. A five-foot-tall screen of privacy fencing kept nosy neighbors from seeing him enter the home. The kitchen, through which he passed, was dark and bore the faint smell of pine oil. A light had been left on in the living room so he was able to see what a meticulous housekeeper the woman was. He stayed well away from the blinds as he headed for the hallway so no passerby would see his silhouette. He had no trouble finding her bedroom. Still dressed, she was curled into a fetal position, a pillow clutched to her chest. A nightlight was on in the adjoining bathroom and, from its faint glow, he watched her sleep for a moment before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a syringe. It took only a second or two to inject the syringe's payload into the sleeping woman's arm through the fabric of her blouse. She flinched, then sighed deeply as the drug began to take immediate effect. In a matter of moments she was so fully under the drug's influence, a klaxon blaring in her ear would not awaken her. For a long time, he hovered over her, taking in the beauty of her face, the shapeliness of her body. When at last he had memorized every detail, he drew the pillow from her grasp. That part of him responsible for the murders of nineteen men urged him to press the pillow firmly to her face until she no longer drew breath. What would one more death be to a man who, over the years, had killed nineteen people? But never a woman, he reminded himself. He had never taken the life of a woman although one had killed him. He shrugged, then tossed the pillow aside. Very gently, he turned the woman onto her back and his fingers went to the buttons of her shirt. A few moments later, she lay naked before him, her body pale and luminescent in the glow from the nightlight. He straightened, studied her until she was etched firmly in his mind, then turned to her dresser in search of a nightgown. With infinite care, he dressed her in the warm flannel, pulled down the bedclothes, covered her, and then reached out to stroke away a loose strand of hair that clung to her cheek. "Sweet dreams, milady," he whispered, then bent over to place a feathery kiss on her brow. Before he left, he turned off the nightlight in the bathroom and gently closed the door. *** Brenna woke the next morning to a steady click of snow hitting against her window. She snuggled into the covers, still feeling the aftereffects of the strong dose of Demerol and Vistaril she'd been given. Though her conscious mind had yet to bring into focus the events of the night before, a niggling worry caused her to open her eyes and stare across the room at the door to her bathroom. She frowned. She never closed the bathroom door. The nightlight was always on so she could make her way to the toilet during the night without running into the furniture. Staring at the door, wondering why in the world she would have closed it, what had happened at McGregor, A'Lex and Brell came rushing back at her with enough force to propel her up in the bed, her hand going to her mouth in

shock. "Mr. Jenner!" she gasped, her eyes flooding with tears. Too upset the evening before to fully grasp the meaning of what had happened, she was, in the dark gray light of a late snowy morning, fully aware of the tragedy. And the danger, she, herself, was in. Despite the residual grogginess caused by the drug, she threw back the covers and got out of bed, stopping almost immediately as dizziness spun her world around in a sharp circle. Thrusting out a hand, she grabbed the tall column at the footboard of her brass bed and held on until the feeling passed. So numb and detached did she feel, she barely had the strength to force herself to the closet in search of her clothes. As she jerked a pair of jeans from a hanger then turned to grab a sweater, she stopped, her eyes going wide as she stared at the clothes she had worn the day before. She dropped the jeans. Neatly folded, the slacks and blouse she had worn to work lay atop the small bench in her walk-in closet. Aligned side by side beneath the bench were the pumps she had kicked off in the elevator before trying to run from the killer. Brenna stared at the shoes, her forehead crinkled in thought. She tried to remember if one of the policemen had retrieved the shoes for her. A vague memory of sitting in the back of a police car, her feet cold, came back to her and her frown deepened—she had not been wearing shoes in the police car! The harder she concentrated on that particular aspect of the evening, the more the details of driving barefoot to the police station to report the murder came back to her. She stumbled into her bedroom and sat down heavily on the bed, trying to remember. Someone had noticed her bare feet. A pair of thick woolen socks had been given to her before she was escorted out to a car to go back to McGregor, A'Lex and Brell. She remembered sitting in the back of the police car, rubbing her feet atop one another to get them warm; of feeling the grids on the footrest of the wheelchair in which she'd been pushed into the hospital ER. And of flopping down on the bed—fully clothed—when the policeman had brought her home! Slowly, Brenna looked down at the old nightgown she hadn't worn in weeks. Her frown began to change into a look of anger. The angry certainty of what had transpired while she was unconscious pushed the thought of how her shoes came to be in her closet completely from her mind. How dare that man undress her! She fumed. Beneath the gown, she knew she was naked. Since her bra and panties were not with the clothes on the bench, she could only surmise he had put those in the hamper. Pushing groggily to her feet, she made her way into the bathroom and threw open the hamper lid. Sure enough, the pale green bra and panties from the day before were lying atop the other soiled clothing. "Son of a bitch!" she spat. What else had the bastard done? she wondered. Her hands went protectively to her breasts. She could feel the heat

of embarrassment staining her face and wanted to scream. Feeling violated in the worst way, she stumbled into the bedroom, intent on calling the police station to vent her anger, only to be brought up short by the ringing of her doorbell. "Who the hell is that at this time of morning?" she grumbled. Her attention went to the clock on her bedside table and she was shocked to realize it wasn't morning, but late afternoon. The bell rang again. Grappling for her robe from behind the bathroom door, she flung it around her shoulders and groggily made her way to the door. It never occurred to her to call out to ask who was on the other side. Not until she opened the door and looked up into the face of the killer. The last thing she remembered were his arms enclosing her, the scent of his expensive cologne, as she sagged against his chest.

Chapter 3 "She's coming around," Pete Michaels commented. His pale gray eyes were worried. "How 'bout getting her a glass of water, Petey," Ky Cree suggested. As if grateful for something to do, Michaels nodded. "Yeah, sure thing." Brenna Collins' eyelids fluttered open, then flared as the face of the man hunkered down beside her came into focus. She cringed as far away from him as the sofa on which she was lying would allow. "Please," she whimpered, putting up a hand to ward him off. Cree took her hand, ignoring the moan of fear his action elicited. "My partner is in the kitchen," he said softly. "Getting you something to drink, Miss Collins." Stark terror shifted across Brenna's white face. There were two of them? Two killers? She started to beg for her life, knowing she was going to die, but the man beside her put a cautioning finger to her lips. "Detective Michaels and I are here to speak with you about what you may or may not have seen last night," he told her. "You remember Detective Michaels from last night? He's my partner. My name is Detective Cree. Kylan Cree." Brenna's heart thudded hard against her ribcage. "P…partner?" she repeated. Her world was careening rapidly out of control.

Cree smiled. "Yes, my partner." His grip tightened on her hand. "Do you want to tell him what you saw last night?" Brenna shook her head. "No!" she said, her entire body shuddering. "Are you sure?" "I didn't see anything." She was on the verge of crying. Her breath was coming in great gulps as she fought off the scream trying to escape her quivering lips. "I didn't see you!" "That's okay. I understand," he whispered and let go of her hand just as Michaels came into the living room. "She all right?" Michaels asked, handing the glass of water to his partner. "She will be," Cree said, smiling. Brenna stared at Michaels, knowing everything hinged on what she said to this man. "I didn't see anything last night," she blurted out. "I swear to God I didn't!" Michaels could see the abject fear stamped on the woman's sweating face and felt sorry for her. "Ma'am, if you saw him we can pro…" "I didnot see him!" Cree glanced up at his partner and shook his head slightly in warning. With infinite care, he extended the glass of water to the woman. "Drink this, Miss Collins; it'll make you feel better." She'd do whatever he wanted her to, Brenna thought and took the water from him. Her hand was shaking so badly, some of the water spilled onto her robe, but she hardly noticed. She brought the glass to her lips and drank, gulping the water as though she were dying of thirst. Cree got to his feet, caught Michaels' eye, then cocked his head toward the kitchen in a bid to have the other man follow him. "She's scared out of her wits," Cree said when his partner joined him. "She saw him, all right." Michaels chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "You wanna call for a babysitter?" "Get a squad car out front. Make sure it's in plain sight." Michaels shrugged. "Ain't that advertising it, Ky?" "Maybe so, but our man will think twice before trying to hurt her. When he realizes she won't finger him, maybe he'll leave her alone." Michaels wasn't so sure, but Cree was in charge. "I hope you're right." Cree smiled. "So do I, Petey."

Brenna looked up as the two men came back into the living room. Her eyes went straight to Kylan Cree and held. "We're going to post a guard outside your house, Miss Collins," he told her. "I don't think you have anything to worry about from the killer, but we'd rather be safe than sorry." She understood his message and lowered her eyes. "Yes, thank you," she muttered. "I'll check in from time to time, so you don't have anything to worry about." Brenna flinched, but she did not respond. "Detective Cree is one of the best," Michaels said, wanting to reassure the frightened woman. "He's a highly-decorated member of our police force, and when he tells you something, you can depend on it." "I'll probably assign Barnes," she heard him remark. "He was the patrolman who brought you home last evening." Michaels blinked as the woman's head snapped up and she practically snarled in reply. "No! Not him!" "May I ask why not?" Cree queried, surprised. "He…he…" Brenna shook her head. "He undressed me and…" "No, Ma'am, he did not," Cree stated firmly. When she turned her angry attention to him, he shook his head. "I saw him bring you inside. He wasn't in here five minutes." His gaze bore into hers. "There was no way he had time to undress you, Miss Collins. You undressed yourself and just don't remember." He shrugged. "With that much medication in you, that's understandable." Brenna's stomach lurched as the identity of who had actually undressed her settled like a coiled serpent in her brain. "You have nothing to worry about, Miss Collins. I'll make sure of that." She could not look at him. His voice was soft, enticing, and infinitely kind, but she knew all too well what he was capable of doing. She was at his mercy and knew it. "Let's allow her to rest, Pete," Kylan Cree said. He reached for the overcoat he had thrown carelessly over her recliner. He turned on his way to the door and looked at her, willing her eyes to his, but she stubbornly refused. "I'll be back to check on you later this afternoon." Brenna looked up. Tears were falling silently down her cheeks and her lips were trembling. She wanted to scream when he came to her, knelt beside the couch and reached out a hand to cup her cheek. "You have nothing to fear, Brenna," he said softly. "I promise." His thumb stroked her chin. "I won't let anything happen to you." He turned his hand so that his knuckles grazed her cheek, then he stood and walked away.

"If you need us, you call," Michaels suggested as he joined his partner at the open door. Long after the sound of the detectives' car engine had faded away, Brenna sat where she was. Tears continued to fall from her stricken eyes and it was all she could do not to wail in desperation.

Chapter 4 For six days, the patrol car was parked across the street from her house. For six days, Brenna stayed home from work, holding her breath every time a car came rolling down her street. For six days, she dreaded seeing the killer come walking up to her door, but he never did. It seemed as though he had forgotten his promise to "check up on her." Not for one moment did she think he had forgotten. No more than she had forgotten the ugly smear of William Jenner's brain matter on the wall outside her office. She did not sleep well; could not finish the meager meals she made for herself. Most of the time, she simply sat in the rocking chair by the front window and stared out in anticipation of the killer's visit. Each time the phone rang, she expected to hear his soft voice on the other end. She didn't watch the television; did not turn on the radio; let the newspapers pile up in the unlit fireplace where she had thrown them. Her purpose was clear—she did not want to know anything about the investigation into William Jenner's death. Or hear about the woman The Gemini Killer had murdered two nights earlier. It had been by sheer chance that she had overheard her neighbor next door talking to the meter reader about the grisly death… "They say she's his first female victim and that he's changing his modus operandi. Do you know what that is? Well, anyway, the poor woman worked for the county," Mrs. MacCorkingdale said. "She was a twin, too, of course. Just like all his other victims." There was a pause. No doubt the meter reader did not wish to engage in conversation with the old busybody. "Why do you think that is?" "I don't know, Ma'am," the meter reader grated. "The newspaper said he shoots his victims in both eyes. Can you imagine that?" Brenna had opened her bathroom curtain a bit and saw the meter reader walking away from the old woman. "Why do you think he does that?" Mrs. MacCorkingdale insisted.

"I'm sure I don't know," the meter reader snapped. Because they saw him, Brenna thought at the time. This was his first woman victim and she believed she knew why. His message had been delivered in such a way it could not be ignored—This is what will happen if you tell. As she sat huddled in her rocking chair, a shawl pulled tightly around her cold shoulders, Brenna knew she could not remain in Des Moines. As long as she was within his reach, she would never feel safe. But as long as the patrol car hovered outside her home, she would have no way of fleeing. When the car was gone on the morning of the seventh day, Brenna heaved a long sigh of relief. She went out on the porch, searched the street, and was elated to find no telltale vehicles. Hurrying back inside, she went to the storage closet and pulled out two suitcases. It took her less than twenty minutes to pack everything she could not leave behind. She carried the bags to her car and put them in the trunk. Looking at her watch, she calculated the amount of time it would take to go to her bank, close her account, and fill up with gas. By noontime, she hoped to be on I-80 heading east. *** He slumped in his chair, his long legs out in front of him, and sipped the spicy plum brandy in his crystal snifter. He savored the tart liquor as he stared into the leaping flames of the fireplace. The crackling of the fire soothed his raw nerves and the smell of the burning wood brought back pleasant memories from his childhood. He loved the cold, for it was then he could indulge himself in the heat and sight and scent of a roaring fire in the grate. He sighed, content for the first time in months. Hell, he thought, maybe even years. His had always been a solitary life. Most of the time, he preferred it that way. He came and went as he pleased, answerable to no one. Ate what he wanted; slept when he felt like it; had no one with whom to share the remote control to the TV. He chuckled softly as he took another sip of the brandy. It would be good to have someone to play with again. Someone to await his next move with held breath. Someone who would lie sleeplessly, anticipating his next visit. "Brenna." He sighed, lowering the snifter to brace it on his thigh. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth crystal surface and closed his eyes, picturing her. It was rare for anyone to fight him as she had. Much of the time, they were either too timid or too frightened to give him much of a run for his money. Over the course of the years, a few had run from him, but they proved no real challenge and, in the end, had disappointed him. Something told him Brenna was different. He opened his eyes and stared into the white-hot glare of the flames. Just as the heat pulsed from the grate, the thought of Brenna was warming the blood in his loins. It had been months since he had taken a woman and years since he felt the urges he was feeling at that moment. His groin tightened. Would she be awake? he wondered. He looked at the phone on the table beside him and smiled. Sitting up in the chair, he sat the brandy on the tabletop

and picked up the phone's receiver. There was no need to look up her number—he had it memorized already. As he punched in the numbers, he could feel his heart pounding with the anticipation of hearing her voice. As the phone continued to ring, the expression on his face began to alter from avid excitement to concern then anger. By the time he slammed the receiver into the cradle, he was livid with rage. *** Kylan Cree knew something was wrong the moment he pulled into her driveway. The house didn't "feel" right. It felt empty and he wasn't surprised once he'd used his lock pick to gain entry that it was vacant. He cursed his stupidity in allowing her to run. Spinning on his heel, he stalked back to his car, yanked open the door and bent over to snatch up his radio mike. "I want an APB put out on Brenna Adair Collins," he said when dispatch answered. His teeth skinned back over his teeth. "Age twenty-nine. Height five-six. Weight one-twenty-five to one-thirty pounds. Ash blond hair, green eyes. She's driving a 1995 silver Chrysler LeBaron. License plate reads 'S' as in Sam, Echo, Alpha…"

Chapter 5 Milton,Florida August, 1998

Sitting back from the road, the little three-bedroom, one-bath, asbestos-shingled house was ideal for what Brenna needed. The rent was only $250 a month with water furnished. From the kitchen window, she could see the span of Interstate 10 heading west into Pensacola and listen to the soothing rumble of its traffic on the concrete slab. There was no cable in the area, but a rusted antenna would provide her with all three networks and the local PBS station—more than enough for the little viewing Brenna did. Mr. McCredy, the landlord, lived in the house next door and the two properties were separated by nearly a half-acre of uncut brush and timber. The field behind the rental house stretched back for almost a mile before you encountered another house, and there was a thicket of pines and scrub oaks between Brenna's place and the interstate. If it was privacy you wanted, you had it, since there were no houses across the highway, either. Except for the flow of traffic heading to and from the interstate, it was quiet and peaceful. That was one of the reasons Brenna had taken the house. That, and the fact that she had fallen in love with Hank McCredy the moment he had smiled at her. His nearly toothless grin and heavily lined face were almost comical, but his eyes, still a bright, bright brown, had been direct and honest and intelligent and warm. He'd liked Brenna as much as she had him and she suspected that was why he was renting the house so cheaply to her and doing all he could to keep her there. "Ain't too many young folks like you, Miss Brenna," he had told her one day as the two of them sat shelling peas on his front porch. "Most of 'em just don't have time for us old codgers."

Now, months after leaving Des Moines, Brenna was finally content. Sitting in front of the TV late that Sunday afternoon, Brenna was listening to Pensacola's Channel 3 weatherman giving the latest coordinates on the hurricane brewing in the Atlantic. Already the winds were blasting at 75 miles an hour and Brenna had a feeling the storm, the first one that season, although on the other side of the state, was heading straight for Pensacola. She glanced at the hurricane lamp on the table by the front door and made a mental note to go after more oil. Hank had told her to always be prepared during hurricane season. A trip to the Winn-Dixie would be better than possibly spending a few nights in the dark. Not that she hadn't tried to prepare for the storm. She had purchased a gas grill just in case the lights went off. She had candles and flashlight batteries, extra loaves of bread and sandwich meats in her freezer. Every time she went to the grocery store, she bought an extra gallon of distilled water, liter of soda pop, canned food that didn't have to be cooked, and single rolls of toilet paper. She had an extra bottled gas canister stored safely in the detached garage out back; plenty of hurricane lamps scattered around the house, but only a single bottle of oil. She could do with some more oil, she thought again. A trip into town wouldn't hurt her; it wasn't that far into Milton. She changed to a beige print sundress, twisted her hair into a French braid, slipped into a pair of sandals and scooped up her car keys off the little drop leaf table beside her front door. Dragging her shoulder bag off the handle of the closet door, she swung it over her left shoulder and opened the brand new storm door Hank had installed only yesterday. At first she didn't notice the midnight blue 4 x 4. Where it was parked, it would have been impossible to see it for the tall bushes growing along the easement between McCredy's property line and Highway 191 that ran in front of the house. But once outside, getting into her car, she spied the late model sport utility vehicle sitting on the opposite side of the road. She paused, glanced at it over the roof of her own car, and wondered why she felt uneasy. It was clean looking, shiny, obviously well taken care of. There was nothing about it to warrant suspicion. Nevertheless, she felt the hairs along her neck stir and she looked at it a little closer than she normally would have any other vehicle. It wasn't unusual to find cars parked along the busy highway. Many times there were cars sitting forlornly along the roadside that had either broken down, had flat tires, or had run out of gas. The nearest filling station was five-tenths of a mile or so down the road heading south and across the overpass to the interstate, but there was a convenience store about half a mile up the road toward Milton, as well. Travelers coming off the western lane of the interstate usually headed toward the convenience store rather than turning left toward the filling station. There really was no good reason for Brenna to notice the vehicle as she backed out of her driveway, except for the fact that it somehow managed to look menacing as it sat there. The windows were dark with tinting so she could not see inside. Its dark blue shade seemed to add to its ominous presence. A small antenna speared up from the roof. As she pulled onto the highway, she noticed the distinctive State of Virginia license. Shrugging, thinking the S.U.V. more than likely belonged to a military man from one of the three bases nearby, she pressed down on the accelerator and forgot about the vehicle. It was close to eight that evening before she returned home with her purchases. Thunder was rolling in from the southwest and made a loud booming sound as she got out of the car. She took in the violent churning overhead and knew she had made it back just in time: the Gulf Coast was about to bless Florida with one of its infamous thunderstorms, and she also knew—without any doubt—her lights would go off. If there was one thing you learned

about the Florida Panhandle, you could count on the power to go off at least once a week somewhere in Santa Rosa County. She'd have the lantern ready. "I don't like storms," Brenna breathed as she lugged her groceries inside. "And I don't like the dark." After she put away the few groceries, batteries and plastic containers of scented lamp oil, she flipped on the TV and curled up on the sofa with a frosty can of pop and her supper—a foot-long sub with lots of jalapeño peppers, oil and vinegar, no onions. Just as the movie she had been waiting all week to see came on, the phone rang. Thinking it was Mr. McCready checking up on her, she padded into the living room. "Hello?" There was no answer. "Hello?" she repeated and when there was still no answer, she replaced the receiver. With the havoc the storm was wrecking on the Gulf Coast, phone service was bound to be erratic. She wasn't concerned, and when the phone rang again, she laughed softly to herself. "Hello?" There was no answer. Brenna's mouth tightened. "Hello?" she repeated, allowing a touch of annoyance to enter her tone. When there was still no answer, she hung up with more force than normal. Almost immediately, the phone rang again. "Damn it!" Brenna snapped and jerked the receiver from the wall. "Hello!" There was no answer. Anger shot through Brenna and her eyes narrowed. "Well, God bless you, too, you poor mute person, but I can't read sign language!" she spat and slammed down the phone. It rang again. With teeth clenched tightly together, Brenna snatched up the receiver. "Look, asshole," she ground out. "I don't need this!" "Then what do you need?" a male voice asked. Brenna almost dropped the phone. Never once in all the years she'd been living on her own had she ever received an obscene phone call. "Bite me!" Brenna snarled, slamming the phone onto the cradle and glaring at the offending instrument. She picked up the receiver and slammed it down again for good measure. "Son-of-a-bitch!"

*** The hurricane that had been churning out in the Gulf of Mexico picked up strength and slammed full force into Navarre on the Florida Panhandle near Pensacola at 9:24 AM CDT on August 3rd with maximum gusting winds of 88 knots. By noon the storm was east, northeast of Pensacola and headed into Alabama. The torrential rain continued into the afternoon and evening. By 3:07 AM on the morning of August 4, the largest feeder band was already dropping what would be an accumulation of 3 inches of rain on Northwest Florida. Brenna sat huddled on the sofa, listening to the howling winds and the lashing rain as it beat against her little house; tree branches scraped across the roof and gouged at the outside walls. She was keenly sorry she hadn't gone into Milton to one of the hurricane shelters. Not that she anticipated the destruction of her home, but simply because she had always had an intense fear of lightning storms and the blazing bursts that flashed overhead were wearing down her nerves. The lights had gone out at 11:45 PM the evening before and had yet to come back on. Inside the little house, the air was turning thick and muggy and Brenna was beginning to sweat. She opened a window on the south side of the living room and now and again a light breeze would filter through the screen, but it wasn't enough to maintain any degree of comfort. A particularly loud crash of thunder propelled her up from the sofa and into the kitchen. She was sick to her stomach from the force of her anxiety as she opened the darkened refrigerator. The feeble light from the sputtering candle in the sink gave off just enough light for her to find a can of pop. Leaning against the counter behind her, she put the still-cool can to her forehead and breathed in deeply. Perhaps the caffeine would help to settle her nerves, she thought, as she popped open the tab. She was on the verge of taking a sip when the phone rang. Of all the times for some stupid kid to be playing a prank, she thought with frustration. Glaring at the phone, she intended to give them an earful. An unholy gleam of pure spite entered her eyes as she stomped to the phone. "Why don't you call somebody else?" she hissed into the receiver. "I'd not in the mood for this!" "What are you in the mood for, Brenna?" The voice was soft, seductive, masculine and recognizable, although her conscious mind refused to admit it. She slammed down the receiver and backed away from it as though it were a dangerous animal. A loud rumble of thunder shook the panes in the windows and Brenna's attention was drawn to the front door where the glass in the storm door was rattling. The wooden door was still standing wide open, although she had latched the metal storm door behind her when she had come in. She hurried to the front door and was about to shut it when her gaze locked on the driveway leading onto her property. The S.U.V. was back. It was parked in the opening between the two tall redtop hedges that lined the front of the property to either side of the oyster-shell drive. The vehicle—almost black in the vanishing light—seemed somehow lethal. In the lowering expanse of night and storm, as lightning flared overhead to light the dark sport utility in gray relief, the vehicle looked like a hunching predator. She couldn't see who was driving it, but the outline of a single person sitting behind the wheel caught her attention in the flash of overhead fire as lightning snaked across the heavens.

She shut the door, then shot the barrel bolt before twisting the dead bolt and turning the knob lock, as well. Dragging the latch chain also across the wooden panel, she felt somewhat safer. With the barrier of the door between her and the blue Chevy, Brenna relaxed enough to realize the phone was ringing again. Truly annoyed, needing to call to have someone come out to see about the vehicle in her front yard, she marched over to the phone and, with anger rampant in her voice, snatched up the receiver and shouted into the mouthpiece: "What the hell do you want?" "You, Sweeting," came a deep, amused voice on the other end. "I've been thinking about you since Des Moines. Have you been thinking about me?" The voice at the other end brought Brenna's world to a screeching halt. It's him! Brenna's mind screamed at her. It's Cree! "Did you really think I wouldn't find you, Brennie?" he asked softly. "And to have come here of all places…" She could hear him chuckling. "You really are a piece of work, you know that?" At the gentle rebuke, Brenna's heart began to pound furiously in her chest. "I haven't told anyone about you! I swear to God I haven't!" "Oh, I know you haven't," he said reasonably and she could hear the slow intake of his breath. "But that isn't the point, now, is it?" "What do you want from me?" she asked, beginning to cry. Des Moines was nine months earlier and she thought she had escaped the man the entire country knew as the Gemini Killer. "You shouldn't have left me, Brennie," he chastised. "And because you did, you have to be punished." "Please!" she whispered. "I won't tell anyone. I won't!" "Do you want to die, Brennie?" The question was asked in a friendly, warm tone, but the lethality could not be mistaken. No matter how deceptively gentle the words, the threat was there just the same. "Please leave me alone," Brenna sobbed. "I can't," he said and his voice took on a hard edge. "It's too late for that." "Please, I…" she began, but the line went dead. A car horn honked twice and she spun around to see the Blazer's headlights come on, just as—true to form—the candle she had just lit blew out, casting the room into darkness. Brenna stood transfixed, staring out the double windows of the living room as the S.U.V. backed out of her driveway,

its high beams arcing across the right hedgerow before backing onto the highway and sliding into the darkening night toward the interstate. With her eyes squeezed shut against the unbearable fear racing through her body, Brenna sank to the floor, the receiver clutched in her hand. Trembling violently, she sat that way even as the blaring screech of the phone-off-the-hook signal reverberated through the room. *** A sinister smile settled on his full lips as he drove toward Pensacola. Careful to stay just below the fifty-five mile an hour speed limit, he slid the 4 x 4 smoothly down the super highway, barely glancing at the speeding cars whizzing past him. In the glow of the dashboard lights, his face would have put the fear of God into anyone unlucky enough to recognize the evil there. The dark orbs shone with an alien emotion few people would have understood or liked. Rain lashed suddenly against the windshield and he flicked on the wipers, scowling at the sweep of the blades across the glass. Monotonous sounds irritated him; made him nervous; drove him to the brink of irrational fury. It had been that way for him for a long time: Over thirty years; and he feared the phobia would be with him for the rest of his life. Any repetitious noise distracted him, put his nerves on edge, and the blades clicking across the windshield, their squishing rhythm and hypnotic back and forth movement, made him acutely nervous, increased his heart rate, caused his breath to become shallow and rapid, brought sweat to his forehead and underarms. "Damn," he spat, pulling over onto the emergency lane. He glanced behind him to see if any cars were coming as he rolled to a stop. Relieved there weren't, he hastily switched off the wipers and sat with the engine still in gear, his foot on the brake and the clutch, trying to overcome the trembling in his hands and the terror spreading through his system. He took his hands off the steering wheel and held them up before him. So violent was the shaking, he brought them down again and clutched them under his damp armpits. Even though the flick of the windshield wipers had been stopped, the cascading of the rain, steady and incessant, the throb of the engine, and the pounding of the blood in his own ears, were beginning to have a most unpleasant effect on him. Gritting his teeth to his torture, he groaned, drawing in a labored breath through his nostrils. He didn't know how much longer he could stand being in the car, listening to the monotonous rhythm drawing down on him. He was burning up, sweat drenching his shirt despite the air conditioner turned up as high as it would go and the blower going full blast. He ran his hands over his dripping face. "They did this to me," he swore as he pounded the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. Being confined; locked inside the metal coffin of the car; having the world press down on him; suck the breath out of his lungs; bury him alive. "They did this to me," he shouted, then hit the steering wheel again, reveling in the pain the action brought. The clothes wrapped around his body were suffocating him, making him sweat. He tore at the collar of his shirt—ripping off the buttons—and dragged the material away from his fevered flesh. Unbuttoned the fly of his jeans.

They did this to me, he thought with bitter rage as he slammed out of the car and stood in the onslaught, gasping in gulps of air, becoming thoroughly soaked, trembling violently. He ripped the shirt from his torso and threw it onto the ground as hard as he could. They did this to me! He shook the hair out of his eyes, blinked against the invasion of raindrops; ran his quaking hand over his wet face and heard himself whimper as he hunkered down beside the car, his hands between his thighs. "They did this to me," he whispered. *** It wasn't hard to find a victim. It never was. There was a national registry for twins, and to pluck a name from any given city was as easy as running his finger down the page. The silly names the parents gave their dual births never failed to amuse him: Dick and Rick; Bill and Will; Jerry and Barry. Such cuteness made his blood boil, and with each shearing away of one-half of those evil births, he felt he was closer to fulfilling his mission in life. Even before he called Brenna, he had the name of his next shearing, as he thought of it. He knew where the woman lived; where she worked; had followed her for three days, memorizing her routine. Tomorrow, he would visit Jan and have a little talk with her before he put her out of her misery. He smiled, his amber eyes lighting with pleasure at the thought of ridding the world of another useless body. He had made the shearing his life's work. With a contented sigh, he walked to the bed, bent down and retrieved the small attaché case from beneath the frame. Fishing in his pocket, he took out a key, unlocked the case, and folded back the lid. Cushioned inside on a thick pallet of foam was his weapon of choice: a Stechkin 9 millimeter. Lovingly, he took the weapon from its foam bed and checked it. Satisfied the clip was full, he stuck the weapon in the waistband of his jeans so that it rested along his spine. He slipped on a lightweight windbreaker to hide the weapon and walked to the door. Maybe he'd find a bastard who didn't deserve to live. Or maybe he'd just go out to a deserted section of beach and shoot seagulls for practice. The gun was his anchor to the world. Without it, he felt naked and defenseless. No one took advantage of him when he had his equalizer with him. Twins weren't the only people he killed. Sometimes he murdered a man simply because he didn't like the way he looked or dressed or behaved. At his last count, he had rid the world of more than a dozen men and one woman who had pissed him off. The likelihood of the count rising today was excellent, but he'd get no press for one of his sideline killings; the press was reserved strictly for the twin murders. When he took this next victim, thePensacola News-Journal would speculate that a copycat killer had come to the Panhandle. Of course, Brenna would know the truth of it: The Gemini Killer was now in Florida.

Chapter 6 Brenna was doodling. She had been having trouble concentrating all day and had accomplished little since arriving at her office at nine that morning. She could not force herself to care about the inventory control or give a damn about backorders or processing or anything else that pertained to work. In her heart, she knew she shouldn't have come in that day; should have called in sick. She laid down her pencil and sagged deeper into her chair. She should be on her way as far from Pensacola as her money would allow. "Brenna?" the intercom buzzed. Brenna jumped, her heart leaping into her throat. "Yes?" she croaked. "You have a call on line three." Brenna sat forward and plucked the phone from its cradle. "Requisitions. Miss Collins." "So business-like," came the soft, amused reply. "I'm impressed." Her breath caught and held. She could hear him breathing hard as though he'd been running. Heard traffic in the background, an occasional car horn blaring. "Are you having a good day?" he asked. When she didn't answer, he made a tsking sound. "I'm bothering you, aren't I? But you know what? I like bothering you," he said with a chuckle. There was a slight hesitation, then his voice went lower, deeper, huskier. "But I'd like to do more than just bother you." "If you don't stop this, I'll call the police," she said and winced at the whine in her voice. "So call them. What can they do?" He laughed gently. "Tell me I'm a bad little boy? Take away my allowance?" His voice turned to a seductive whisper, so low she had difficulty hearing him over the grind of traffic coming over the telephone line. "They won't be able to find me, Brenna. I'm too good." "Why are you doing this?" she pleaded. "Just taking care of business." "There is no business between us!" she said with desperation.

"Oh, but there is. And what's between us now hasn't even started to get good yet." The line went dead. "Brenna?" Brenna's head snapped up and she stared unseeingly at the Navy lieutenant framed in the doorway of her office. She put down the receiver, hiding her hand in her lap so her visitor would not see it shaking. "What can I do for you, Roy?" she whispered. Lt. Roy Matheney folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. "Are you feeling okay? You look a little green." Brenna knew a good excuse when she heard it. She pushed back from her desk and stood up. "Actually, I've got a bitching headache," she said, putting a hand to her forehead. "I've been thinking about going home." Matheney's dark eyes narrowed with compassion. "Yeah, sure. Is there anything I can do?" he asked, straightening up from his casual slouch. He was interested in the woman and never missed an opportunity to speak to her. "I wish there was," she answered as she hooked her shoulder bag from the coat tree. "What I need is a dark room and a cold washrag." "Well, promise you'll call if you need anything," he made her agree before he'd let her leave the office. As she walked briskly to her car, looking around her as though the hounds of hell were about to nip at her heels, she could feel the hair on her arms stirring, could sense that she was being watched. She stopped in the middle of the parking lot and scanned the cars, the buildings beyond. She saw nothing out of the ordinary. Did not see the S.U.V. of the evening before. Glimpsed no one standing about, watching her. With her nerves unraveling the threads of her composure, she hurried on to her car, stabbing the key into the lock, despite the tremor in her hand. She slammed her hand down on the lock as soon as she was inside the car, fumbled the key into the ignition, cranked the car and put it into gear. Glimpsing behind her, she was about to back out of the parking slot when her attention was caught by the presence of a long white box tied with blue ribbon lying on the backseat. Very slowly, she turned around and shoved the gearshift into park. She turned off the ignition and just sat there. He was watching her. She knew he was. She could feel him. Almost hear his maniacal laughter as he watched her sitting in the sweltering car, slowly suffocating with the intense heat left behind by the hurricane of a few days before. Obviously the man had no fear of being caught. He had followed her; had brazenly placed the box in her car in broad daylight. Brenna gripped the steering wheel. She chewed on her lower lip, thinking. The only solution she could see would be to have Mr. McCredy check the damned thing out for her when she got home. But what if there was something lethal inside the box? She fretted. She certainly didn't want to involve her neighbor in this if the man could conceivably be hurt. She would never forgive herself if that happened. There was no sound coming from the box; she doubted it was a bomb. Something told her it was just as it appeared to be—a box of flowers.

The longer she sat there, indecisive, worried, perspiring freely, the angrier she realized she was becoming. She was letting this man paralyze her with indecision. She was allowing him to control her life and that was something Brenna had a hard time abiding. "Screw you!" she spat, grabbing for the door handle. She shoved open the door with a hiss of fury. Swinging her legs out of the car, she got out and flung back the driver's seat, reached for the box, holding her breath just in case the thing wasn't as innocuous as it seemed. Before her hand touched it, she paused, watching it, not so sure she really should put her hand on it. "It won't bite," he said from close behind her. A scream of surprise hovered at the back of her throat as she slowly straightened, expecting him to thrust a gun or knife into her back at any moment. "I've neither," he said, as if reading her mind. Her hands went to the frame of the door opening, gripping it tensely, and she stared sightlessly over the top of her car. "It's just flowers, Brenna." He was so close she could feel his body heat, his breath on the nape of her neck. How had he managed to sneak up on her so quickly? Without a sound? Without warning? When his hand fell on her shoulder, a shudder went down her body. "Here," he said gently, moving her aside. "Let me." His hand slid down to the small of her back as he leaned into the car and picked up the box. From the corner of her eye, she saw his rich brown hair, tied back in a queue at the nape of his neck, the gleaming white cotton of his shirt, and the black arms of a pair of Ray-Bans covering his eyes. "Jesus, it's hot in this car," he said. "Why didn't you leave one of the windows down?" She could feel the pressure of his fingers splayed against her as he straightened and laid the box before her on the top of the car. He pressed against her, his hand moving to cup her left hip and draw her to him. If anyone was looking, it would appear as though they were lovers, having a tryst in the parking lot. "I didn't know what kind of flowers you liked," he said, his breath softly fanning the hair at her cheek. "So I got you what would most symbolize our relationship." Brenna's stomach lurched as he leaned into her and reached up to lift the lid from the box. She stood there, unable to move, to run, for he had a light grip on her waist, holding him to her, and his presence was intimidating. He tipped the box on its side so she could see the flowers nestled in the soft mauve tissue paper. "See?" he whispered, placing his lips against her ear, nuzzling the side of her damp face. "Don't you think these flowers are more suggestive than roses would have been, milady?"

Brenna's gaze slowly lowered to the flowers. Inside the box was a bouquet of forget-me-nots. "They are commonly regarded as a symbol of constancy. Did you know that?" he whispered, his hand caressing her waist lightly, but possessively. "And I am constant, if nothing else, Brenna." Her body tensed as he rubbed his hip against hers. His breath was hot in her ear and she could smell the heady aroma of the cologne he wore—Halston's Z-12, she thought stupidly. His very presence beside her, so intimate, so confining, was playing havoc with her senses, and she felt the first telltale stirrings of an unwanted, unbidden passion flooding her belly. "Unceasing, Brenna," he said in that throaty whisper that insinuated itself into her very soul. "Unwavering. Unswerving in devotion and purpose." His lips moved over the flare of her ear and the tip of his tongue touched her flesh, tasting. "Don't!" she whimpered, the one word had been little more than a exhalation of breath. "Something that does not, will not, cannot change, Brenna," he sighed and his arm slid completely around her to pull her into his embrace. "Persistent and continuing without pause. That is my feeling for you, Brenna." Once more Brenna's belly tightened and she would have sagged against him had be not been holding her erect. His arm was strong, heavily-muscled—a band of steel. "You do things to me, Brenna," he said and his voice was no more than soft summer breeze along her cheek. "Things I shouldn't allow, but can't seem to stop from happening. Things I don't even understand. Things I haven't felt in a long, long time." His lips moved to the soft span of flesh between her neck and shoulder and he kissed her there, the softest, most tender press of his mouth to her body, and his tongue flicked gently along the column of her throat. "Stop it!" she demanded, feeling her knees growing weak under his assault. "Do you really think I'd hurt you, Brenna?" he breathed in her ear. "Have I ever hurt you?" She was about to answer him, to beg him once more to stop, to leave her alone, but before she could, the heat of his body suddenly withdrew and she felt the cool Gulf Coast breeze flowing over her damp back. Spinning around, she stared wide-eyed at the empty parking lot before her. There was no one there. He had vanished as silently and quickly as he had appeared. Brenna searched the parking lot, but all she saw was a trio of Petty Officers walking into the Supply Department and none of them was the man who had just assaulted her. As she turned to get back in the car, to get away, to put as much distance between her and her nightmare as possible, she saw the opened box of blue flowers on the top of the car.

"No!" she snarled, reaching up to sweep away the box with a fury that surprised her. The flowers spilled out and scattered over the pavement; the soft mauve tissue paper rattled in an errant current of air; the pretty blue ribbon taped to the sides of the box began to soak up a spill of oil. The spreading stain looked like blood on the light-colored silk. "Damn you!" Brenna hissed as she kicked the box, sending it spinning under the wheels of the jeep parked next to her. Plunging into her car, she cranked it, grinding the motor in her haste, and then slammed the car into gear. She backed out of the parking space without even looking behind her, mindless of anyone or anything that might have been close enough for her to run over or into. Her tires spun on the pavement, squealing in protest, and she raced out of the parking lot. The note was tacked to her door when she got home. It said, "Forget-Me-Not." *** She was pulling out of the driveway of her rented home the next afternoon when the news on the radio stopped her. She slammed on her brakes and stared at the radio as she listened to the report of the young mother who had been shot to death in her condo in Destin. "Jan Hamilton Ivey of 156 East Point Bay, Destin, was found dead in her home this morning. Concerned neighbors alerted the police after Ivey failed to report to work two days in a row. Hamilton had been shot through both eyes at point-blank range and preliminary reports state she had been dead at least twenty-four hours. Neighbors report the twin sister of Councilwoman Ann Hamilton Pierce, was taking a bath when…" Brenna turned off the radio. She put her arms on the steering wheel and lowered her head. The guilt she felt was overwhelming. Tears filled her eyes. She knew she was to blame for the woman's death. "Why?" she asked. "Why did you do it?" But she knew. He had warned her: "You shouldn't have left me, Brennie, and because you did, you have to be punished." Slowly, she lifted her head and stared blindly across her front yard. For over an hour she sat in her driveway, oblivious to the mosquitoes buzzing around her. She didn't see the fallen limbs left by the hurricane's passing. She didn't see the sky still stained gray from the storm. Nothing was registering with her—not even the growling stomach that had sent her from the house in the first place. She had lost her appetite. As the sun slipped below the horizon and darkness closed in around her, Brenna drove back into the carport and got out of her car, dragging her shoulder bag behind her like a security blanket. She was fumbling with her keys, anxious to get inside when the beep of a horn drew her attention to the highway. She gasped, dropping her purse. Blocking her driveway was a sleek black sports utility, the darkened windows obscuring the driver from view; but she had no doubt who was sitting behind the wheel.

Frozen like a deer in headlights, Brenna stood there staring at the S.U.V. She was aware of her heart pounding violently; could hear her own ragged breath coming in quick, shallow pants of terror. When the driver door opened, she whimpered. "No," she groaned. Her fear was a cold finger dragging down her spine. When he got out of the car, started toward her, Brenna was shaking so violently, the keys were jingling in her hand. She was unable to take her eyes off him and, when he was close enough for her to see his face, she backed up against the wall of the outside utility room and put up her hands to keep him at bay. "You weren't hard to find, Brenna," Kylan Cree told her. "Please don't hurt me," she whispered. Kylan's left eyebrow crooked. "Why would I want to do that?" He looked down at her hand, then took the keys from her. "Let's get you inside. The mosquitoes will eat you alive. Have you had supper?" He stooped down, retrieved her purse, then turned to open her kitchen door. Brenna was horrified to see him hook a hand inside the kitchen door and flip on the light. She knew he had to be as familiar with the inside of her house as she was. As he held the screen door open for her, she thought fleetingly of pushing him aside and making a run for it. She darted her eyes beyond him, but his words were like cold water thrown in her face. "Don't even think about it, sweeting," he warned. "I run five miles every day of my life. You wouldn't get far." The kitchen light was shining on his handsome face and there was amusement in his amber-shot eyes, but he presented such a picture of lethality, Brenna felt it to the marrow of her bones. He was dressed entirely in black, from the silk shirt opened at his throat to the boots on his feet. Even his hands were encased in black leather driving gloves. "Brenna," he said on a sigh. "Go inside." She hung her head, knowing she was trapped. All the fight was gone from her and she knew she was entirely at his mercy. Perhaps if she did nothing to annoy him, she might live to see the morning light. As though he had read her thoughts, he put a hand on her arm, ignoring her cringing. "You have nothing to fear, sweeting," he said softly. He slipped his arm around her shoulder and drew her to him. "Come on, now. Let's go on in." She raised her head and looked up into his face. There was a kindness there, a gentleness, that puzzled her. His smile was encouraging—the kind a man would give a small child—and his arm was not heavy around her. He was not anchoring her to him. It was as though he knew she needed comforting, security, and he was providing it. "You won't hurt me?" she asked so quietly he had to lower his head to hear her words. Kylan shook his head. "Of course, not." He squeezed her against him. "And I won't let anyone else hurt you, either." She allowed him to draw her inside and stood just inside the kitchen as he placed her keys and purse on the counter,

then turned to lock the door and twist the deadbolt into place. "Better safe than sorry," he commented as he turned on the carport light. "You never know who might be lurking around, do you?" She flinched, taking the warning as he no doubt intended it. Gathering enough courage to walk to the table, she pulled out a chair and sat. Folding her hands together primly, she rested them on the shiny Formica top and stared at them. "What do you want from me?" "You saw him," Kylan accused. She looked up. He was standing less than five feet away, his arms folded over his chest. His intense brown eyes were locked on her face, searching for God only knew what. She shook her head. "I told you I didn't see anything." He grunted and unfolded his arms, walked to the table and pulled out a chair. twisting it around to face him. He straddled the seat, braced his arms on the vinyl-clad back and studied her. "The Gemini Killer is wanted now in nine states," he stated. "Did you know that, Brenna?" She shook her head, refusing to look at him. The last thing she had wanted to do was to keep up with his murder spree. She never watched the evening news on the television and did not read the newspapers. It was only by chance that she had heard about the murder of the young woman in Destin. "It is reckoned that he's killed over two dozen people now," Kylan continued. "Every one of them twins." She wanted to block out his words, but was mesmerized by his soft accent. Her forehead crinkled and she looked up. "But he hasn't just killed twins, Brenna," Kylan told her. "He's killed other people, too." "You're from the South," she said, wondering why she hadn't noticed his accent before now. Kylan shrugged. "I try very hard not to talk like I'm a cracker," he admitted, "but as soon as I get home, the accent comes back like a bad penny." He grinned. "The longer I'm down here, the thicker the accent gets." "Home?" He winked. "I'm from Milton," he said and laughed at her involuntary flinch. "Of all the places for you to have ran!" Brenna groaned and lifted her hands to cover her face. "Oh, sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph," she whined. He watched her shoulders quaking as she cried and said nothing, knowing she needed to get it out of her system. He rested his chin on his crossed arms and let her cry, although every instinct screamed at him to take her into his arms

and hold her. When at last her heart-rending sobs became little hitches of breath, he shot out his left leg, reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a handkerchief. He held it out to her. "Here, sweeting," he said softly. As defeated as she was by his nearness, Brenna was like an automaton as she took the handkerchief from him. She wiped her eyes and sat slumped in the chair, staring at the bright metal rim of the table. "Did you have any supper?" he asked and smiled at her as she lifted her head to look at him. "I make a mean omelet." When it became apparent that she would not answer, he pushed up from the chair and walked to the refrigerator, opened it and bent down to see what she had. He turned his head and looked at her. "How 'bout a BLT? I see lettuce and tomato—you know you really shouldn't store them in the fridge—but do you have any bacon?" Before she could answer, he opened the meat cooler drawer and said, "Ah, ha! There you go!" He pulled out the package of bacon and tossed it on the counter. "I hope you've got bread." She blinked as he stripped off his driving gloves and stuffed them into a back pocket of his jeans. Careless, she thought as she watched him opening drawers and cupboard doors to take out plates and cooking utensils. She silently watched as he opened the breadbox and took out a loaf, laid it on the counter beside the bacon, then rummaged in her cabinets for a frying pan. She followed his hand as he twisted the burner knob on the stove. "You want your bread toasted or not?" he asked. Brenna tore her attention from his strong hands. She wondered if he even knew he was leaving fingerprints all over her kitchen. It was best she didn't remind him. "Toasted," she managed to answer. She was twisting his handkerchief in her hands and looked down at it, seeing the K.J. C. initials. He saw where she was looking and chuckled. "It stands for Jamison, if you're wondering." Brenna looked at him as he stood at the sink washing the tomatoes and lettuce. "What?" "Kylan Jamison Cree. Jamison was my mother's maiden name. A lot of Southern men are given their mother's name like that." "Oh," she said quietly. She was about to tuck the handkerchief into the pocket of her shirt, but he stopped what he was doing, dried his hands on her kitchen towel and came over to take it out of her hands. "I don't think you need it anymore," he said, then stuffed it in his pocket. He opened the bacon, peeled off six pieces, then laid them in the skillet. Her heart did a funny little flip at the obvious reminder that he did not intend to leave anything personal behind. As the bacon began sizzling in the pan and he went back to the sink to shake the wet lettuce in the colander, she saw him take the washrag from the sink and begin wiping off the places he'd touched. "I tend to be a neatness fiend," he said and laughed. "I can't abide clutter, and smudges drive me absolutely insane."

He was wiping away the evidence that he had been there, she thought, and she mentally groaned. She knew at that moment that he was going to kill her before the night was over. His back was to her as he sliced the tomatoes. She ran her gaze down his tall form and realized he didn't have a gun with him, but there was the butcher knife in his hand as he worked with the tomatoes—a strange piece of cutlery to choose for such a minimal chore. She imagined the sharp point of the blade piercing her belly or sliding across her throat, and shuddered violently. "How 'bout seeing to the bacon, sweeting?" he asked as he began pulling apart the lettuce. Like a person in a trance, she obeyed, getting up from the table to walk to the stove. She opened a drawer, took out the tongs, and started flipping the meat over in the skillet. "You know he'll kill again, don't you?" Kylan asked. She stared at the popping grease, flinching as a bubble of it burst and struck her hand. She lifted the bacon strips from the pan and laid them out on the napkin-covered saucer he'd placed on the stove. "And keep killing," Kylan continued. Without thought, she lifted the skillet and poured the drippings into the metal can where she stored bacon grease. "I bet you make your own suet cakes for the birds with that, don't you?" he asked. "Yes," she answered quietly. He went to the refrigerator and bent over to look for the mayonnaise. "In the very back of the fridge. You don't use it very often, do you?" he asked as he reached for the jar. She took the handle of the skillet and lifted the heavy cast iron from the burner. "I wouldn't have told anyone about you," she said, tears gathering in her eyes. He craned his neck around. "What?" She hit him as hard as she could with the bottom of the frying pan, using the cooking utensil as though it were a baseball bat. The surprise attack caught him squarely on his chin, breaking his jaw and he fell against the refrigerator door and slid to the floor, unconscious from the agony of the blow. Not giving herself time to think, Brenna scooped her car keys from the counter top, snatched up her purse and hurried to the door. Casting quick looks behind her as she unlocked the door, she was half-afraid Cree would spring after her, murderous rage turning his amber eyes dark with savagery. But he lay slumped against the open refrigerator door, a thin trickle of blood dripping from his nose. She wondered if she'd killed him then saw he was breathing . Relieved, she jerked on the door handle, panicked when it would not open. Pulling on it, kicking the panel and shrieking with frustration, she finally remembered he'd engaged the deadbolt. With an explosive curse, she twisted the lock then yanked open the door. Not daring to look back, she got into the car, shoved the key in the ignition and backed out of the carport as fast as she could.

His S.U.V. was blocking her driveway, but Brenna didn't give that a second thought. She spun the wheel until her car—the tires digging into the storm-softened St. Augustine grass of her front yard—swung around to face the street. She jammed her foot on the accelerator. Her little compact shot past his vehicle, mowing down shrubs as it made a path, and took out her mailbox. She hit the highway, tires squealing as she crossed the pavement, drove off the opposite shoulder, into the ditch, then righted the vehicle as she pulled back onto the roadway and headed East. By the time she reached Marianna, Florida, she needed gas and pulled into a station to fill up. Thankful she had money with her, her only thought was where she would run next.

Chapter 7 Albany, Georgia September, 1998

Brenna woke with a start and sat up on the sofa. The TV was still on, but there was nothing but snow flitting across the screen. Rain was pounding against the windows, but she didn't think that was what had awakened her. For a moment she sat there—listening intently—then heard an odd sound: a wrenching sound like metal being torn away. Her heart thudded once heavily in her chest as a brisk wind suddenly came pouring into the den from the dining alcove. The screen! she thought. Someone had torn the screen off the window in the kitchen! Even before her next thought could form, she knew who it had to be. Absolute terror assailed her and she sprang from the sofa, began backing silently toward the outside door, fumbling behind her with her left hand for the deadbolt lock that secured it. The floorboards beneath her feet squeaked, but there was no helping that. The lights suddenly went out, plunging the room into total darkness and she knew he'd found the breaker box. As her fingers found the lock, twisted it, and moved down to the button on the doorknob, Brenna finally felt him. His thoughts were violent, evil, as they bombarded her senses. It was like a dark cloud of humidity moving over her mind, suffocating her, drowning her in his fury. Even before she saw him framed in the opening between the kitchen and the little dining alcove beyond, she knew he meant to kill her. His dark intent was so palpable, so substantial, it had developed a sentience of its own. It was a malignant shadow coming at her—cast off from his rigid body—as he stood in the doorway and glared at her. "Come here!" he spat and his voice was like the venomous hiss of a serpent. She didn't give herself time to consider what her running could accomplish. As he came toward her, his hands out to grab her, she spun around, snatched open the door and fled down the two little steps and into the pummeling rain. She risked a look behind her and what she saw as lightning flared made her blood run cold.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt pressed wetly to his thick chest. He stumbled as his ankle twisted out from under him on the first of the two shallow porch steps and he went down, cursing viciously, grunting with pain, as he slammed to his knees in the wet grass beyond the steps. Lightning flared, streaked, branched out overhead, and in the white glow, he saw her running hard through the backyard and into the open field beyond. "Brenna!" he bellowed. Pushing to his feet, he winced as agony spread up through his injured left leg, but he forced the pain out of his mind and started after her, moving faster as he tamped the discomfort down into a dark place inside his seething mind. Brenna didn't dare turn to look behind her; she knew he was following. She could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck, his hands on her shoulders, digging in. She was already soaked through, her nightshirt hanging limply, weighing her down as she ran, slapping against her thighs. She had not braided her long hair for bed and the loose strands were stuck to her cheeks, curled around her neck like living tendrils. "Brenna!" If there could be absolute evil in one word, it was in the way he howled her name. Such immense rage, such towering fury was like a fist slamming forcefully into her back, between her shoulderblades, and Brenna sobbed with mounting terror. She tripped over an exposed scrub oak root, almost fell, but caught herself as she reached blindly for a nearby pine sapling. Half spinning around with the force of her headlong rush as the centrifugal propulsion gripped her, she was stunned to see him crashing toward her through the undergrowth, not more than twenty feet away, slapping furiously at the hindering bushes as he came through them. Yelping with fright, Brenna pushed away from the sapling and fled, dodging scrubs and bramble bushes that popped up out of the pelting darkness to trip her up. She felt pain in her calves as branches lashed out to scrape and slash at her naked legs. The cuts were shallow, but stung fiercely, and she was terrified of blundering into a barrier wall of blackberry bushes that would snag her as effectively as any net. Overhead, a vein of lightning split the sky and the ensuing crack was deafening. Even if she screamed, Brenna thought wildly, no one would hear her. The torrential downpour alone was enough to drown out her cries for help. Her only hope was to make it to the house she had gazed upon so many times from her kitchen window, but she wasn't even sure she was heading in the right direction. Suddenly, a large live oak loomed in front of her and she almost ran face-first into it. As it was, she put out her hands—nastily scraping her palms on the rough bark—to keep from crashing into the obstacle. Gasping for breath, she slipped around the tree, plastering her back to it, just as she heard him crash by her only a few feet away. Once more lightning lit the sodden night and, through the wet curtain of hair shielding her eyes, she saw him moving away from her. She moved quickly around to the other side of the tree, pressing her back to the relatively dry trunk. Almost sobbing with relief, Brenna turned her head and looked about her, seeking some place to hide. The low branches of the stately tree above her seemed the most logical spot, but there was no way she could jump high enough to grab the lowest hanging branch. Wildly she looked back the way she had come and it was then she saw the slow-moving lights just off to her right. The Expressway! she remembered. She was only a few yards from the slab! "Brenna! Don't run from me!"

The sound of his voice was all the impetus Brenna needed to move from her risky place of concealment and she sprang away from the trunk to run toward the wavering headlights of cars. She was already over the safety fence, scrambling down the embankment of an overpass, almost to the half-way point, when he slammed brutally into her from behind—his steel-like arms encircling her waist—and they both went rolling down through the tall uncut grass of the embankment. "No!" she screamed as they rolled. Rocks and pebbly concrete dug painfully into her arms and knees as they tumbled. The weight of his body was crushing the breath from her with each revolution and she could barely draw air into her compressed lungs. She clutched at his arms, digging her fingernails into his flesh as they skidded sideways to a halt just beyond the overpass, his body half-atop hers. Not ten feet from the emergency lane of the expressway, hidden in the shadows cast by the arch of the overpass and the uncut grass, the two bodies were never seen by the Mayflower moving van that rushed past them to spray dirty water over their struggle. "Help!" Brenna screamed, knowing full well no one would ever hear her, but as helpless to keep herself from crying for rescue as she was helpless to dislodge Cree's heavy body from atop her own. With all her strength, she pushed at his shoulders, screeching like a wild animal, trying desperately to kick him away, get a knee into his groin. His weight pressed her down, her arms folded over her own chest as he rested on her. She could hear his ragged breathing and she tried to butt him under the chin, to break his hold on her. His arms were still around her, under her, and as her forehead connected with his jaw—eliciting a grunt of pain from his pulled-back lips—he snatched his left hand out from under her and dug his fingers cruelly into her hair, anchoring her head. "Stop it, Brenna!" he repeated, his face within inches of her own as he increased the pressure, dragging back her head. "Be still!" The last word exploded with a burst of spittle. Brenna cried out with the agony of the grip on her scalp and tried to wedge her arms from between their two bodies. But even as he moved just enough to extract his right hand from beneath her, giving her some small opening in which to bring her hand up to claw at his face, his fingers had spanned her throat and were squeezing ruthlessly. It was the most horrible feeling she had ever known: the immediate cessation of breath; the unrelenting pressure that threatened to crush her windpipe. The darkness around her grew and she ceased to feel the rain pounding into her face, dripping from his hair as he hovered over her. All she could see was his enraged, insane face glaring down at her, his eyes two sunken black pools of the Abyss opening up to drag her down into eternity. His lips skinned back over glistening teeth that were remarkably bright in the gathering blackness. "You don't want me?" she heard him snarl and wasn't sure if he had actually spoken or the words were coming from the dark quagmire of his infuriated mind. Death was only a few restricted heartbeats away. She could feel it standing off to one side, waiting. Already the Angel of Death was swooping down, spreading His midnight wings to enfold her. Her mind was shutting down as the oxygen was depleted and bright pinpoint lights were shimmering at the periphery of her clouding vision. "Why did you do this to me?" he howled. "Why don't you want me?"

She made one final attempt to save herself. Her free hand moved up into the dark wet hair above her and gently caressed, her fingers tightening as she sought to bring his face closer to hers. "Don't kill me, Cree," she croaked. "Do anything else, but that." His body came to life at her words and the darkness that had been spreading through his mind since Des Moines snapped back, peeled away like a black tarpaulin. His desire to punish her for escaping him was too great to diminish that quickly, but his killing instinct leapt away for a moment to be replaced with an instinct older than time. "Yeah?" he sneered, jerking his head free of her hold. His hand stopped tightening on her throat, even released a fraction of its pressure, and his thumb stroked up and down her flesh to either side of her windpipe. "Anything?" Brenna had miscalculated. She saw the knowledge of her mistake blazing hotly in his narrowed gaze. As lightning stepped down from the heavens and hit somewhere close by, his face shone like that of a horror-show-ride statue at a cheap carnival. She tried to shake her head in denial of what she knew was going to happen. "I trusted you," he said and his voice was a slithering of vipers deep in her mind. "My mistake." One last time, Brenna tried to free herself. She raked at his arm, drawing blood and flesh under her fingernails, hoping to stop him, but the pain seemed to spur him on. His eyes flashed dangerously and his smile was like the grin of a jackal. "Fight me, Brenna," he commanded. "Scratch me, dig your nails into my flesh. Do it and I'll hurt you right back." "No," she pleaded, the word coming out as a grunt of sound, but she knew he had heard her and she knew he found her begging amusing. The hand that had been crushing her throat moved, joined now by the one that had held her head captive. His fingers dug into the fabric of her sodden nightshirt neckline. Even over the thunder booming overhead, Brenna could hear the material as it was rent down the middle, baring her body to the pelting rain and the fierce gleam of intent that lit his dark face. His knees jammed between her legs and spread her wide. "No!"she screeched. She struggled to push him off her as she felt him straining to get his free hand between their bodies, to reach the zipper of his jeans, and she threw back her head to howl her denial of what he intended. One moment he was atop her, his hand wedged against the juncture of her thighs, the next Cree was dragged away and thrown brutally to the ground. He rolled heavily over the sharp roadside gravel, scraping his chin and palms, grunting with the pain. He landed on his belly, limbs splayed out in the muddy runoff from the overpass. Reacting instinctively, he quickly pushed to his feet and turned to meet head on whomever had dared to interfere. "Move and I'll shoot, asshole! Put your hands behind your neck!" The Georgia State Patrolman stood braced against the battering rain. His service revolver was drawn, pointed right at the killer's chest. The Gemini Killer looked at Brenna, saw the relief on her face as she sat up, clutching her torn nightshirt together, then slowly spread his hands far apart and lifted them over his head. "You don't know what you've done, Brenna," he

said. "I told you to put your hands behind your neck!" the trooper shouted. "Do it now!" He very slowly and with great care lowered his hands to his neck and clasped them. "You all right, Ma'am?" the trooper called to Brenna. She couldn't see his face through the pouring rain, but she could hear the determination in his voice. He was smart enough and trained well enough not to take his eyes off the man he held at gunpoint. She got to her feet. "He's the Gemini Killer," she said, taking a step closer to the men. "Stay over there, Ma'am," the trooper advised. "At least 'til I get him cuffed." "If you live that long," the killer snarled. Brenna heard the threat and, even before she could call out a warning, the loud report of gunfire echoed through the darkness and she screamed, covering her ears with her hands. Her knees gave way and she collapsed to the ground, her keening punctuated by the skirling of police sirens in the distance. "Brenna!" With her eyes nearly popping from their sockets, she looked up to see the killer running toward her. "No!" she yelled and tried to scramble to her feet. When he grabbed her arm, she spun around, striking out blindly, trying to rake her nails down his face. She fought him as he tried to restrain her, kicking out with her bare feet, twisting violently in his arms. "Brenna, stop it!" he bellowed. She looked into his face, saw the reflection of the arriving police car lights reflected in his dark eyes, and began to screech. Her mindless keening as he wrapped his arms around her was the last thing she heard before sinking into oblivion.

Chapter 8 When she woke, Brenna was stunned to find she was lying in a hospital bed, an IV bag dangling above her. A nurse with a kind face was hovering over her, adjusting the bedcovers. "Well, now," the nurse said, a smile quickly forming on her dark face. "It's nice to see those pretty eyes open for a

change." "Where am I?" Brenna whispered, her throat aching. "Albany Memorial, sugar," the nurse replied. She lifted Brenna's arm to take her pulse. "How did I get here?" "By ambulance." Memory of what happened came rushing back to Brenna and she grabbed the nurse's arm. "The trooper!" she said urgently. "He…" "He's all right. Bullet went straight through his side." She shook her head. "Lin Dixon always was a lucky boy!" "The other man?" Brenna insisted, her grip tightening on the nurse's arm. "Did they arrest him? Is he in custody?" The black nurse winced at the pressure on her arm and gently eased Brenna's tight grip. "He got away, but you don't need to worry about that." She smiled. "There's a guard outside your door and he's gonna be there twenty-four hours a day." Brenna searched the older woman's face. "D…did the trooper get a good look at him?" she asked. "The man who…" "I don't know, sugar," the nurse said. "The police want to talk with you as soon as you're up to it." She smiled gently. "Do you want me to have them come in?" Brenna drew her lower lip between her teeth. If the trooper couldn't describe Cree, she didn't want to do it herself for fear of what the murderer would do to her. He had found her once; he could find her again. She dared not take a chance. Sensing her patient's hesitation, the nurse patted Brenna's hand. "If you'd rather wait, I'll just make sure they don't come in here bothering you." "I'll have to talk to them sometime," Brenna replied. "It might as well be now." "And get it over with," the nurse added with a decisive nod. "That's certainly understandable." She turned to leave. "Doctor has ordered a sedative for you, so as soon as the police leave, I'll be back to give it to you." As she waited for police to visit her, Brenna stared blindly across the room. What was she going to tell them? Surely they would know all about her by now. They would know about Des Moines; they would know she might possibly be able to identify the Gemini Killer. It was futile to hope they wouldn't put two and two together and realize the man who had attacked her tonight was the one responsible for the murders in Iowa. When her door opened and the two men walked in, Brenna's heart began to race wildly in her chest. "How are you feeling, Miss Collins?" the younger of the two policemen asked. He was tall—at least 6 feet, 4 inches—and had the build of a college linebacker. His smile was tight on a beefy face that was remarkable for its lack of warmth.

"I'm all right," Brenna replied, looking to the other man in the hopes he would be more receptive; but the absence of expression on the detective's face dashed her expectations. "I'm Detective Williams and this is Detective Crosby," the linebacker stated. He got right to the point. "You want to tell us what happened out there?" Brenna was unaware she was clutching the sheet in her hands. She'd never been good at lying. "He attacked me," she said lamely, trying to keep her eyes steady on Williams' face. Her hand went to her bruised throat. "He tired to kill me." "Who attacked you, Ma'am?" Crosby asked in a gravelly voice that was just as hard sounding as his face looked. "I don't know who he is," Brenna lied, almost unaware her breathing had changed. "He came in through the…" "Through a window," Williams snapped. "Yeah, we know." He cast his partner a knowing look, then turned back to Brenna. "We believe you know who this man is, Miss Collins." When she started to protest, he held up his hand. "You may not know his name, but you know who he is." "The Gemini Killer," Crosby stated as his partner nodded solemnly. "You got a good look at him out in Des Moines," Williams accused. He pronounced it "Dez Moines." "I told the police…" "We know all about what you told the police out there," Crosby cut her off. "They didn't buy it, either." He folded his arms across his chest. "As a matter of fact, they have one of their men down here looking for you." Brenna's heart skipped a beat. "W…who?" she asked, but she already knew. "A dude named Cree," Williams answered. "We're trying to get in touch with him, now. He's down in Milton, Florida." He squinted at her. "That's where you were a month or two ago, wasn't it, Miss Collins?" Before Brenna could answer, Crosby spoke up. "That's near where a murder with all the earmarks of a Gemini killing occurred in Destin." "What we want from you," Williams said, lifting his foot and resting it on the foot board of the hospital bed, "is a detailed description of what this man looks like." His thick upper lips curled with distaste. "And we don't want none of that crap about how you didn't get a look at him." He leaned forward, bracing his upper body on thick arms crossed over his upraised knee. "You almost died tonight, Miss Collins. You'd be stupid as hell to think he won't come after you again to silence you. We might not be around to intervene next time." "Yeah," Crosby grated. "He shot one of ours; now, it's personal." Brenna tensed. "Didn't the trooper see him?" Williams shook his head. "Too dark and too damned much rain. We got a general description of height and build, but…" He narrowed his eyes. "You can tell us exactly what he looks like, can't you?"

Before Brenna could answer, Crosby's gruff voice drew her attention to him. "Unless you help us put this sonofabitch behind bars, he's gonna keep on killing, Miss Collins, and my money is on you as his next victim." Brenna chewed on her lip. There was no way she could tell them Kylan Cree was the murderer. Once he showed up—and she knew he would—it would be her word against his. She hadn't actually seen him shoot Jenner; couldn't be absolutely positive it was his voice speaking to Jenner outside her door that evening. In the absence of fingerprints or an eyewitness, what proof would the police have to convict Cree? He was a decorated policeman, no doubt with a spotless record. What motive would a man like that have for becoming a serial killer? And even though he was in Florida, he had a perfectly good excuse for being there: he'd been looking for her because the Des Moines police hadn't bought her story. "Well?" Williams prompted, his wide face as cold as a Midwestern morning in January. Brenna flinched and looked down at the IV in her hand. "I didn't get a good look at him." Tears came into her eyes. "I didn't want to look at him." Crosby unfolded his arms and moved closer to the bed. "Give us a general description and let's see if it matches what the trooper gave us." "I'm afraid," she said and heard the fear in her voice. There was an annoyed sigh from Williams. "We can protect you, Miss Collins, but you gotta give us something to go on to catch this bastard." "You tell us what he looks like and we'll make sure you're safe until we catch him," Crosby put in. Brenna looked up. "And then what?" She looked from one policeman to the other. "What if you arrest him and he isn't convicted? He'll come after me for sure, then, now, won't he?" The two men exchanged a look and both sighed on cue as though having rehearsed their parts many times. "Witness protection program," Williams said flatly. "We can put you in the program and he'll never find you." Brenna had read about too many witnesses who "had" been found to believe them. "That's not foolproof." "Neither is walking out of this hospital and right into his arms," someone said from the door. The two detectives frowned in unison and turned, missing the terror that was passing over Brenna's face. "Who the hell are you?" Williams demanded, annoyed. Kylan Cree reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out his gold shield. "Cree." His gaze flicked over the two men, then shot to Brenna. "You're a hard woman to catch up with, Miss Collins." "A hardheaded woman," Crosby quipped. He was taking the stranger's measure. "No, just a scared one," Cree returned. "And a lucky one."

A shudder ran down Brenna's spine and she lowered her head, her breath coming in raged hitches. The hands that clutched the sheet were trembling violently. "Why don't you tell us what he looks like, Miss Collins?" Cree insisted. "We know you saw him and we know you can describe him." "I…I…" Brenna had to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. "Nothing's going to happen to you," Cree said gently, willing her to look up at him. When she did, her fearful eyes wet with tears, he smiled knowingly. "I promise." Brenna tore her gaze from his, looked at the detectives and knew they would think her insane if she told them the man standing there in the room with them was the man they sought. Her shoulders slumped. "Tell us," Cree whispered softly. Brenna lowered her head. "He was maybe five-foot-ten or maybe a little taller," she said. "Average weight." "What color hair?" Crosby prompted. "Dark blond," Brenna replied, lifting her head. She shifted her gaze to Williams' brush cut. "Cut short like yours." From the corner of her eye, she saw Cree frown sharply. "What color were his eyes, Miss Collins?" Cree inquired in a tight voice. Brenna looked back at Cree. "Cold eyes," she replied and did not miss the twitch of his lips. "Green or gray. I didn't really notice." "Any distinguishing marks?" Crosby probed, searching her eyes. She shook her head. "No, not that I noticed." "Accent?" Cree queried. Brenna tensed. "No, he didn't have an accent." "You spoke to him?" Williams asked suspiciously. Brenna was looking right at Cree. "He called me several times on the phone." "To threaten you," Cree stated. "Yes," Brenna said, her jaw tight.

"We're gonna get a sketch artist in," Crosby told her. "While his face is fresh in your mind." Brenna shook her head. "I'm not likely to ever forget his face, Detective." Her eyes were steady on Cree. "As long as I live, I will never forget his face." "I would imagine not," Cree agreed.

Chapter 9 She was almost asleep when she felt him standing above her. Though she had not heard him enter the hospital room, she knew he was there. Slowly, tiredly, she opened her eyes and looked up. He was leaning over her, his forearm braced on the headboard. Knowing there was a guard right outside her door, she was not as afraid of him as she knew she should be. "What do you want?" she asked. "You did good this morning, Brennie," he said in a seductive voice. The nickname on his lips unnerved her. "Why don't you leave me alone?" she asked, her voice infinitely weary. "You know I'm not going to tell them who you are." "I know," he whispered. "Then why don't you just go away?" She was on the verge of tears again and her helplessness angered her. "Ah, Brennie," he sighed and sat down beside her. When she attempted to move away from the contact, he put his left hand across her, pinning her in. Her moan of frustration seemed to amuse him. "You can't be as scared as you pretend, now, can you?" She stared at him. "Scared?" she asked incredulously. "You set about terrorizing me and then…" "I haven't terrorized you, Brenna," he said sternly, cutting her off. "Now, if you want me to, I surely can, but I really don't think that's what you want me to do." He cupped her chin in a firm grasp. "Or do you?" "No!" she hissed, pulling away from him. Her chest heaved with emotion and, when she saw his eyes dip to her bosom, she jerked the sheet up to her neck. "If you touch me, I'll scream." He grinned hatefully. "No, you won't."

And to prove his point, he grabbed both her wrists and pulled them over her head, ignoring her gasp of pain as the needle in her left hand was pressed deeper into her flesh. With both her wrists imprisoned in his left hand, he brought his right hand to her breast and covered it. He began to knead the tender flesh—roughly at first, then slowly and with firm pressure—until she began to cry. As his thumb moved over her nipple and she groaned, he leaned down, clamping his lips firmly over hers, his tongue thrusting deep inside her mouth. Brenna squirmed under the assault, sickened and, at the same time, aroused by the possessiveness of his touch, the way he claimed her mouth. When he straightened, she looked up into dark amber eyes that were filled with unmistakable lust. With her breath coming in gasping sobs, she could do nothing as his hand moved from her breast, down under the sheet to the juncture of her thighs where he molded his fingers between her legs. As he leaned down again, she turned her face away, trying to avoid his kiss, but his lips went to her ear. "Maybe not tonight," he whispered, "or tomorrow night. Maybe not even the night after; but one night, when you least expect it, I'll come for you, Brenna." His voice sent shivers down her spine as his breath fanned across her ear, his lips touching the sensitive flesh. "I will come for you and I will take you." He pulled away from her, releasing his hold on her wrists. "And I'll make you like what I do to you." She turned toward him and stared up into his night-darkened gaze. Despite her fear of him, there was no mistaking the virile, handsome animal that he was. His sultry, demanding words still rang through her terrified mind and her flesh still felt the firmness of his possessive touch. A part of her ached for him and she knew he was aware of her arousal, for his smile was predatory and as old as time. He lifted his right hand and ran the backs of his fingers down her left cheek. Once. Twice. Three times. "You're mine," he whispered. "You belong to me now." And then he left her, sobbing uncontrollably into her pillow.

Chapter 10 Kylan Cree was furious. He glared at the bumbling fools standing before him and wanted to pull out his nine millimeter and blow off their idiotic heads. It took every ounce of his strength not to physically attack the two. He would have liked to pulverize their faces into raw meat. "He just went to take a leak," Crosby grunted. "Man has to take a leak now and then." "And I don't suppose it ever occurred to him to have a standby at her door when he did!" Cree threw at the Dougherty County detective.

"Well, hell," Williams snarled, "it wasn't like we expected her to up and flit her ass outta here, Cree!" Cree's hands clenched into fists at his side. "She waltzes out of this piece of shit you call a hospital and not a single, solitary soul saw her leave? What kind of fucking police department are you jackasses running?" Crosby took exception to the insult and moved so that he was toe to toe with the Iowa detective. "You listen here, you goddamned pig farmer from BFE, Ioway: don't you go casting aspersions on our department! You lost that cunt in the first place; not us. At leastwe got a description of the perp. That's more than you bastards did!" "Get outta my face, asshole," Cree said in a tone that was as deadly as a coiled viper's rattle. There was something in the golden-flecked eyes of the Iowa policeman that unsettled Crosby and he took a step back. "Don't you go insulting us no more, then," he snapped, not sure he wanted to tangle with this man. Williams, already having made us his mind Cree wasn't a man to mess with, cleared his throat. "We'll put an APB out on her. She won't get far." Cree snarled something under his breath and jerked his windbreaker from the back of the vinyl chair onto which he'd flung it. "You do that, Detective. I'm sure you won't have any trouble at all finding her!" Crosby and Williams watched Cree storm out of the hospital. Neither admitted they were relieved he was gone. *** Brenna had turned on the radio to get the weather report as she drove northward as fast as she dared on I-75. But the oldies-but-goodies station she found was playing songs she knew and she sang along, the memorized lyrics from long ago keeping her mind from the killer whom she knew was at that very moment stalking her. Ironically, the song playing at that moment was "Chain Gang" and the one before had been "I Shot the Sheriff"…a midnight deejay's attempt at humor. As she passed the exit to Macon, she glanced in the rearview mirror, relieved to see no cars close to her. She eased her foot off the accelerator a bit and relaxed in the seat. Her neck was stiff, her body tense, and the spot where she had torn the IV out of her arm throbbed. She was hungry, but she had very little money with her. Not daring to call for a cab from the hospital, she'd walked several blocks to a convenience store before using the pay phone to call a friend. The woman had driven to the store and reluctantly loaned Brenna forty dollars. "Honey, don't you want to tell me what this is all about?" Brenna's co-worker's gaze went to the lab coat her friend was wearing, but she made no comment on the odd attire. "Pat, please just trust me," Brenna asked. "I have to get home before he finds me." "He's here?" Pat gasped, then noticed for the first time the dark bruise on her friend's neck. "Did he do that to you?" Brenna's job at the dry cleaning shop was quite a long drop from her executive secretary days, but she had made a good friend of Pat Quillen so the job wasn't a complete loss. In the month since she'd been in Albany, the two women had become close. As far as Pat knew, Brenna was on the run from an abusive husband named Trace Rasey.

"Yes," Brenna said, her gaze darting around them. "I have to get home; get my car. I…" "I'll drive you!" Pat stated, her eyes fierce with battle. She'd like nothing more than to give Brenna's husband a piece of her mind! "No!" Brenna quickly denied. "I don't want you involved." Her mouth tightened even as her eyes began to plead with Pat for understanding. "Just loan me the money, Pat. I'll get it back to you somehow." "No need," Pat replied, fishing in her purse for the money. She drew out two twenty-dollar bills and thrust them in her friend's hand, curling Brenna's fingers around the paper. "You just take care and let me know where you are so I'll know you're safe." Brenna didn't want to tell the woman it wasn't safe for her to know where Brenna would be. After a long, heartfelt hug, the two women departed and Brenna picked up the phone to call a cab. In an effort to blur her trail, she had the cabby take her to the Mall. From there, she walked a mile eastward to a strip mall, called another cab company, and had the driver take her to the airport. After making sure that driver picked up a fare, she called once more, this time asking to be taken to another strip mall only two miles from her home. Walking in a light rain that began soon after she left the protective lights of the strip mall, she kept to the shadows through three neighborhoods before cautiously making her way to her own backyard and the window from which Cree had pulled the screen. With difficulty, she climbed through the window, hurriedly found her money and car keys, changed clothes and—with a prayer of pleading to whatever higher power was watching—ran out to her carport, got in the car, and left as quickly as she could. It was only by sheer luck she drove away in the opposite direction from the black Jeep Cherokee coming down her street. She missed Kylan Cree by only thirty-nine seconds.

Chapter 11 Watertown, New York November, 1999

"Angela? Would you come here a moment?" Brenna Collins, who was now using the name Angela O'Neil, turned and smiled at the speaker. She nodded politely in agreement, leaned over to give encouragement to the middle-aged woman she was helping to navigate the mysteries of her word processing program. She patted the older woman encouragingly on the back then started toward her boss.

"Yes, Ma'am?" Angela replied. "Angie," her boss stated, "this is Fred Hewlett. He's our new mail room clerk." She turned to the man beside her. "Fred, this is Angela O'Neil. She's our Internet whiz." Fred Hewlett stuck out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," he said in a thick Southern accent that bordered on hillbilly. Brenna shook hands with the man, trying not to stare at his odd appearance. He was wearing a stripped bow tie that clashed horribly with his checked shirt. His trousers, belted farther up his waist than they should have been because of a very sizeable pot belly, caused the pant legs to be too short for his stooped frame. As a result, the cuffs of his white socks were visible. His shoes were scuffed and had clunky heels that were worn down on the insides. The rust-colored sweater he wore was covered with lint and reeked of mothballs. A set of crooked, yellow teeth as he smiled shyly at her made her cringe inwardly, as did the battered nose that looked like it had been broken many times. "How do you do, Fred?" Brenna asked, looking into faded blue eyes behind thick glasses set in black plastic frames. She looked at his pale blond hair and couldn't help wondering when he'd washed it last. "Please call me Freddie," the man returned shyly, ducking his head. He reached up the middle finger of his right hand to push his glasses farther up his crooked nose. "Freddie is from Arkansas," Brenna's boss told her. "He's a bit down on his luck and was looking for a job." She smiled benevolently on the man. Brenna knew her boss was a kindhearted woman. Chances were, Fred Hewlett had come to the back door of Readers' Retreat looking for a handout and Cathy—true to form—had given him Bill Hussey's old job. "Well, it's nice to have you here, Freddie," Brenna said. She had a lot of work to do before lunch and was eager to be about her duties. She was hoping against hope Cathy wasn't going to have her show Fred Hewlett around the company, but those hopes were dashed by Cathy's next words. "Would you show him where everything is, sweetie?" She looked at her watch. "I've got a meeting with those new e-publishers from Other Ages and I just don't have a minute to spare." Before Brenna could reply, her boss was striding away. "Thanks, Angie!" "But…" Brenna began, then realized it was no use. She pursed her lips and sighed heavily through her nose before turning to Hewlett. The man was looking back at her as though he feared she would send him on his way. From the looks of him, he was used to people treating him in that manner. Her heart went out to the unfortunate fellow. "I'm sorry, Freddie. I'm not angry at you. It's just that I've got tons of work to get through and I was hoping to get it done before we broke for lunch." Freddie sniffed, then ran the sleeve of his aged sweater under his nose. "I understand, Miss Angela," he said in his slow, soft drawl. "I don't wanna be no bother, though." He looked around, his forlorn gaze shifting over the room of order takers. "Just tell me where I need to be and I'll find my way around." He shrugged helplessly, his voice tapering off with hopelessness. "Somehow." "Go ahead and kick his little dog, too,"an inner voice mocked Brenna. She sighed again, this time with resignation, then put a gentle hand on the man's stooped shoulder. "Let's go find the mail room, okay?"

Hewlett's eyes behind the Coke-bottle lens sparkled. "Yes, Ma'am!" he agreed, his head bobbing like a cork in water. Brenna laughed, looping her arm through his and turning to grin at him when he lifted his free hand to cover her fingers with his. "Why thank you, kind sir," she said and giggled. Freddie Hewlett returned her grin. "My pleasure, Ma'am." *** It had been a hard month at Readers' Retreat, the Internet mail-order clearinghouse for electronic books. Brenna was looking forward to the next day when she would be able to take off for the week-long break between Christmas and New Year's. She was bone-tired and her job as the systems support tech for the company was fast becoming more of a headache than it was worth. Some of the order takers at RR knew next to nothing about the computers into which they typed the orders coming in for the e-books; their lack of knowledge of computers and what they could do boggled the mind. At least twice a day, several of them hit the wrong key, deleting order information before it could be saved. At least twice a day, Angela tossed down aspirin like it was candy. If she didn't have a bleeding ulcer by the end of the year, it would be a miracle. Kicking off her shoes as she came into her living room, she flipped on the TV, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, plopped down on the couch and swung her legs up, stretching out with a long, weary sigh. Flipping through the channels until she found the Weather Channel, she pulled the afghan from the sofa's back and burrowed beneath it. "We can expect five to seven inches of snow by mid-day Friday," the weatherman said and Brenna groaned. "Most of the heavier accumulations will be around the Syracuse area. Looks like the North Country is in for a very white Christmas this year!" "Just great," Brenna sighed. She turned off the TV and lay there, staring across the room. She hated driving in snow, but since she had already sent in nonrefundable reservations for a stay in Montreal over the downtime, she'd have no choice but to tackle the tricky driving. She sighed again, feeling like she just couldn't get a break. Things just never worked out for her, she thought with annoyance. Sinking farther down beneath the cozy warmth of her afghan, she closed her eyes and let herself drift off into much-needed sleep. She had almost reached the REM stage when the phone rang, startling her awake. "Hello?" she mumbled, irritated that she'd been disturbed. "Whatcha doing?" came the playful voice from the other end of the line. "Freddie," Brenna said in a tone of exasperation. "I was sleeping." "Oops," her caller replied. "I'll call back." "Oh, no, you don't! What did you need?" "You're leaving tomorrow, ain'tcha?" "You know I am."

"Maybe you ought not to." She frowned for a moment, then remembered the weather report. "Oh, you mean the snow?" She shrugged. "I'm use to it." "Yeah, but it ain't safe, Angie. And you know how I feel 'bout you traveling up there all by yourself!" Brenna laughed. "I'll be all right, Freddie." She appreciated the quaint little man's concern. Since he had come to work for Reader's Retreat, Freddie had become a good friend and close confidante. "I'm a big girl." There was a long pause, then Freddie said in a rush, "You ought to let me go with you." She blinked. "Oh, yeah?" She smiled into the receiver. "And just where do you plan on staying up there?" Freddie giggled, a habit that tended to annoy Angela, making her cringe at times because it sounded somewhat manic. "I can stay with you." "Oh, sure!" Brenna laughed. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, you pervert!" Their friendship had advanced to the playful insult stage Angela had enjoyed with other friends over the years and she felt very comfortable with Frederick Mosby Hewlett. "Would I take advantage of you, little lady?" Freddie returned in a hurt voice. "Only if you thought you could get away with it!" she shot back. "You wound me, Ma'am. You should let me go with you." "Thanks for the offer, but I'll be all right." "Truly?" he asked in a worried tone. "Truly. Don't worry about me, Freddie." "I can't help worrying about you. You're my bestest friend, Angie." Your only friend, Brenna thought as she reassured him again. After he hung up, she lay there thinking what a lonely life Fred Hewlett led. Because of his strange peculiarities, not many people at RR would have anything to do with Freddie. His clothing was outdated and reeked of mothballs and cedar; it was not a pleasant smell. Once, she had hinted at him that he should buy new clothing. "These were my daddy's," Freddie explained. "He's been gone a goodly time, now, but when I wear them…" His eyes shone with childish delight for a moment, then began to tear with memory. "I feel so close to Daddy when I wear his things."

Brenna had not mentioned the clothes again, save once, and that was to ask if he had a good dry cleaner, hinting that she wanted to change the one to whom she took her own clothing. "I can't afford fripperies like that," Freddie answered. "I'm barely making ends meet now in the mail room." Upon hearing her new friend was not doing well financially, Brenna had gone to her boss and Cathy had given Freddie a modest raise. But the raise had resulted in Freddie buying a dilapidated 1960 Pontiac instead of having his clothes professionally cleaned. "Ain't she a beauty?" Freddie asked, sighing over the rust-colored boat of a car he'd purchased. "And boy can she move out!" Freddie spent most of his lunch hours polishing the old car. He cared for it so tenderly, many people at work joked he'd rather wash and wax the car in the parking lot than eat. Brenna wondered if a lack of funds with which to purchase his lunch wasn't one of the reasons Fred Hewlett took such loving care of his automobile. That and the fact that he had only a few meager possessions in the little one-room apartment he rented in downtown Watertown. "I know it ain't much," he'd said the one and only time she had visited him there, "but it's home, Angie." While he was in the restroom, she'd sneaked a peek in his cupboard and fridge. She was shocked to find only canned cat food and crackers in the cupboard and a solitary jug of water in the fridge. She'd cried all the way back to her place. After her visit, she started bringing to work an extra sandwich and chips, a spare can of soda pop, a few more carrot and celery sticks, and insisting Freddie join her for lunch. Although she knew he understood what she was doing, he never once insulted her by protesting the offer. As a result, she grew to care very deeply for Freddie Hewlett. He wasn't handsome, she thought. If truth were told, he was downright homely. His mannerisms left a lot to be desired and his weight certainly needed work. Getting his teeth fixed would go a long way in making him more presentable. But there was something about Freddie that was endearing. Maybe it was his quaint Southern charm. His courtly manners and polite gentility toward women set him apart from the brusque Northern males and couldn't-care-less attitude of the Midwestern men she'd known. He held doors open for women and always said "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am," "please" and "thank you." He never cursed, as the other men at RR did, and four-letter words were never included in his speech. He was just a good man who went to Mass every morning and who wrote long letters to his mother back home in Arkansas. And she and Freddie had so much in common, Brenna discovered while discussing horror novels over the water cooler one day. They liked the same authors, had read the same books, and thrilled to the same movies. It wasn't long after finding out how similar their tastes were that they began going to movies together and swapping books and Celtic CD-ROM music back and forth. Though technically not something she would call "dates," their times together were increasing in frequency and she looked forward to the weekends when she could sit across the table from him at their favorite Chinese restaurant and discuss the latest e-books. Though she wasn't quite ready to admit it even to herself, Brenna was falling in love with the nerdy Arkansas hillbilly and that surprised her. For all the reasons she had not to become involved with him—his weight, his awful teeth and smelly attire—she could name traits he had that would not allow her to stop thinking of him.

Then three nights ago when they had returned from the movies, he had kissed her for the first time and she had felt the first stirrings of passion lying heavy between her legs. "Oh, Lord," Freddie gasped. "I ought not to have done that!" He'd backed away, his eyes wide behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "I liked it," Brenna admitted. "You're a very good kisser, Fred." She blushed. "Better than a lot of men I've been kissed by." He'd taken a step closer to her. "D…do you have any idea how much I love you?" he asked in his twangy hillbilly accent. "Freddie…" she began only to have him shush her with a finger to her lips. "I ain't got no illusions about how I look, Angie, but a man can change, can't he?" "I don't want you to change," she heard herself say, but she had been looking at his yellowed teeth and battered nose as she said it. "I'm saying up money to get 'em capped," he told her, hiding his mouth behind his hand. "I got a ways to go yet, but it'll happen. I'm gonna get me some contact lenses, too." "At least then you won't keep breaking the frames!" She laughed, her gaze going to the piece of white medical tape he'd wrapped around the nosepiece. Freddie had sighed. "I'm a clumsy old rebel." She'd smiled and put her arms around him. "But a very sweet one. It's late. I'd better go in." "Don't give up on me, Angie. I'm gonna make something of myself one day. You'll see. One day everybody's gonna know who Fred Hewlett is!" "Are you still working on your manuscript?" she inquired as she took out her house key and stuck it in the lock. "Got forty pages written last night," he admitted. "It's coming 'long real good." "That's nice," she said, opening the door. She turned around to face him and was stunned to see acute longing on his weathered face. For a long moment their gazes held—his with need, hers with uncertainty—then the moment passed. He shrugged in defeat, then smiled his crooked smile and stepped off her stoop, hunching his shoulders in the blast of the cold Arctic wind. "See ya," he said, walking backwards so he could look at her. "See ya. You drive carefully." He stumbled and almost fell, then grinned like a mischievous boy. "Lock your door."

She had stood at the window watching him slipping and sliding his way down the slick sidewalk. When he reached his battered old car, he stood at the passenger door and waved goodbye. "The good Lord works in mysterious ways," she heard her long-dead mother saying. "That He does," Brenna agreed, coming back to the present. She had already made up her mind to talk to Fred when she returned from her Canadian trip. It was time she told him her real name. She wanted no secrets between them.

Chapter 12 Kylan Cree looked up from the map of Upstate New York. It had taken him awhile, but he'd finally found her. She was in Watertown, about thirty miles from the Canadian border. Using contacts he'd garnered from police departments across the country, he had been able to learn where she worked, where she lived, and who her friends were. He folded the map and looked at his watch. It would be another hour before Brenna left on her trip. He already knew where she was going, where she would be staying, how long she planned on being away. Now, all he had to do was stop her before she crossed the border. *** It hadn't been hard to tamper with her car engine. A remote controlled device in his glove compartment would take care of matters. Twenty miles up Interstate 81, near the town of La Fargeville, her car would simply stop. He'd be behind her about a mile and would make sure no other cars were in sight when he activated the small explosion that would cripple her engine. Once she was alone on the Interstate, out of reach from help of any kind, he'd be able to take her. Even if she fought him, she would be no match for his superior strength and expertly honed law enforcement skills. It was only a matter of time until she was in his hands again. *** Brenna glanced in the rear view mirror as she pulled out on the Interstate. The snow was coming down fairly heavy, but it wasn't as bad as it was going to get later on. Freddie and Cathy both had tried to talk her out of going, but she had been adamant, needing the time away to recharge her batteries. She'd waved away their concerns, kissed both goodbye and left work feeling better than she had in months. There hadn't been a Gemini killing in the five months since she'd fled Georgia. Needing to know there hadn't been another "punishment" from Kylan Cree, she had started listening to the news reports. For a long time, she would hold

her breath as the news came on, but there was never any mention of more serial murders attributed to Gemini and no mention of a man named Kylan Cree. When she thought of him—and she did so almost every day—the thing she remembered most was the feel of his hands on her. That his touch had aroused her made her angry with herself. Allowing him to ignite the repressed need inside her was worse yet. How could you feel attracted to a cold-blooded killer? Well, she thought with sick amusement as she slowed for a snowplow ahead of her, a lot of women did. Some of them even married the bastards while the killer was serving time in jail. How could a woman do that? she wondered, knowing their husbands would never be free men again. "Sick," she said aloud and turned on the radio. As the peppy strains of an old fifties song filtered out of the speakers, she relaxed into the drive, content with the swishing of the wiper blades as she followed behind the plow. Until there was a loud bang under her hood and the car died. "What the hell was that?" Brenna gasped. She looked down at the red light that was suddenly glowing on her dashboard, then looked up at the snowplow rolling on down the Interstate. She pulled on her high beam lever—once, twice, three times—but if the snowplow driver noticed, he ignored her distress signal. Allowing the car to coast to a stop in the emergency lane, she looked in the rear view mirror, seeing headlights coming up behind her. She flicked on her emergency blinkers, watching as the car came closer. When it was apparent the driver wasn't going to stop, Brenna cursed, turning her head to watch the red van rushing by. "Thanks, fella!" Although she tried to crank the car several times, there wasn't even a click when she turned the key. "Wonderful," she hissed through clenched teeth. Outside, the snow was beginning to pile up on the windshield, obscuring her view. She debated whether to get out and raise the hood, but it was getting cold inside the car and she didn't want to let any of the warmth that was left escape. Besides, there were no cars going past her across the median and no cars in sight behind her. Shivering, she reached into the backseat and retrieved the blanket she had decided at the last minute to take along. Thankful she had, she wrapped it around her, keeping her eye on the mirror for help. When the headlights shot through the cold gloom, Brenna tossed the blanket aside, relieved to see the swath of light coming toward her. She was preparing to get out and wave, but realized the driver was slowing. "Thank God," Brenna said as the car pulled onto the emergency lane and stopped behind her. She was unable to see the Good Samaritan's car clearly because of the glare of his headlights in the heavy fall of snow and, because there was no way to lower the power window, she had to open her door when he reached her. When she recognized her rescuer, she gasped, her hand going to her mouth. "Decided to park and wait out the snow?" he asked. "Freddie!" Brenna managed to get out as another car—a black S.U.V.—roared past them in the inside lane.

Freddie turned to look at the speeding vehicle. "What are you doing out here?" she asked him. He stood there for a moment, watching the black car until it was out of sight. There was a deep frown on his face behind the Eskimo-like hood of his parka. His glasses were quickly becoming covered with snowflakes and his breath was a plume of white as he turned to look down at her. His crooked smile was endearing. "I was just watching after you, Angie. Got car troubles?" "It just stopped." She wanted to giggle at his appearance, for he was wrapped up like a snowman with bulky muffler and thick woolen gloves. "Don't you laugh at me, missy," he warned, wagging a finger at her. "Come on and I'll take you somewhere and we'll get your car towed in." He shrugged helplessly. "I'm not good with automobiles." Grateful he had followed her, Brenna took the keys from the ignition, although she wondered why she bothered if the damned car wouldn't start. She reached into the passenger side floorboard for her purse, then started to get out of the car. "Turn your flashers off," Freddie advised. "Why?" "It'll run down your battery." "Oh." That made sense. She reached under the steering column and disengaged the flashers. Taking hold of her arm to lead her back to his rattletrap of a car, Freddie tried to shield her from the severe blast of snow and cold pummeling them. He opened the passenger door, helped her inside, then hurried around to the driver's side. Just as he was about to climb in, he looked across the median and saw a black Jeep stopped on the slab. Obviously, the driver had gone down the Interstate to a crossover point and come back. Freddie lifted his hand and waved the car on. For a moment, the Jeep didn't move, then it shot South like a bat out of hell. "He's got more confidence than I do out in weather like this," Freddie grumbled as he shut the driver door. He took off his thick glasses and used his muffler to wipe at the fog that covered the lenses. "It's guys like that who get the rest of us killed," Brenna replied. She was shivering despite the blasting heat inside the cab. The roar of the straining motor as it idled nearly drowned out Freddie's next words. "Ain't that the truth." He replaced his glasses, glanced behind him and to the side, then pulled carefully onto the roadway. "You look like you could use something hot to drink." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I got hot chocolate in the backseat. Melted some marshmallows in it." "I could use that!" She turned around to retrieve a red thermos from the torn seat. "You have no idea how grateful I am you decided to come after me, Freddie." When he didn't reply, she touched his arm to gain his attention.

Freddie nodded shyly. He glanced at her, watching as she poured a cupful of the chocolate. "Put your seatbelt on, Angie." "You want some?" Brenna asked, holding the cup out to him. "Nah," he replied, shaking his head. "I'm okay. Put your seatbelt on." "Okay, okay," she said and laughed. She put the cup on the dashboard and fumbled for the seatbelt. It was one of the old-fashioned kind that did not hook onto the doorframe. She belted the web around her, fumbling to lock it. "That's better," Freddie told her. Brenna reached for her cup and took a long swallow. The hot chocolate was sweet and rich and infinitely satisfying. It was one of her favorite treats. She savored the smoothness of it, a little disappointed that the marshmallows left a slightly chalky taste in her mouth. "How far are we from La Fargeville?" she asked. "Not far." He turned to smile at her. "Drink that chocolate before you turn into a Popsicle." She chuckled and took another long swallow of the drink. Her hands cupped around the plastic to warm them, she shifted in her seat so she could look at him. "Do you always make a habit of coming to a damsel's rescue." "Aye," he replied, turning to grin at her. "Knight of the Realm, at your service." "Then I'll award you my scarf when we get to the mechanic's," she said and giggled, unable to stop a yawn. The overly warm air blowing out of the vent and the healing richness of the chocolate was lulling her, making her drowsy. She settled into the seat, drawing up her knees as much as the seat belt would allow. "I really do appreciate this, Freddie." "No problem," he replied, casting her another look. When she yawned again, he smiled. "Sleepy?" "I must be," she answered, yawning again. "Then why don't you take a nap, Brenna?" She shook her head. "If I do, I won't…" She stopped. Her head snapped around and she stared at him, although his face was wavering before her. "W…what did you call me?" Freddie Hewlett slowly turned to look at her. "Brenna," he replied and his smile was pure evil. "Or would you prefer I call you sweeting?" Brenna's eyes went wide in her suddenly pale face. She twisted in the seat, lunging for the door handle, but found herself caught by the restricting confinement of the seatbelt. Whimpering with fear, she fumbled with it, blackness already starting to shut down her world. The buckle would not open.

"Just relax, milady," her companion said. "You won't be able to get it open. The moment you shut it, it locked tighter than your beautiful legs are going to around my hips." As the light vanished, the last thing Brenna heard was his laughter.

Chapter 13 He drove off the Interstate just before the crossover into Canada. He went ten miles down a two-lane road—never meeting any cars—and turned onto a snow-clogged lane. The heavy old car's snow tires dug with ease into the accumulating snow. Two miles farther, he took a gravel drive that led to a little farmhouse hidden in a copse of tall trees. Activating the garage remote control, he waited until the door was all the way up before he drove inside. Parking the car beside a brand new luxury sedan sitting in the other bay, he used the remote to close the door. Brenna was slumped against the door, unconscious. He glanced at her for a moment before turning off the engine and getting out of the car. Walking to the trunk of the Lincoln, he opened the lid, leaned inside, and unzipped a sleeping bag. He peeled back the flap, then walked to the old Pontiac's passenger door. Opening it carefully to keep Brenna from being hurt, he braced her body against him, reaching around her to unlock the trick closing of the seatbelt. His hands went under her knees, behind her shoulders, and he lifted her limp body from the car and took her to the open trunk of the Town Car where he gently laid her atop the opened sleeping bag. He lifted one of her arms and laid it atop her chest, pulled off his gloves, reached into the pocket of his parka and took out a hypodermic needle filled with sodium pentathol. He lifted her right hand, slapped gently at her flesh until her veins popped up. Putting the syringe between his teeth, he drew off the cap, then expertly injected the drug into the back of Brenna's hand, directly into a vein. When the syringe's payload was shot, he replaced the cap and put the syringe in his pocket. Taking a roll of duct tape from a satchel he'd placed in the trunk along with the sleeping bag, he bound her ankles and wrists together, then tucked her inside the sleeping bag, pulling the zipper up to her chin so that only her face was uncovered. After a few more necessary precautions, he closed the trunk and went inside the house. Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, he stared at his reflection for a moment, then peeled off the straggly white-blond wig he'd been forced to wear for the last five months. From his pocket, he took a plastic grocery bag and dropped the wig inside. The thick glasses and blue-tinted contact lens were placed in the bag. The mouthpiece that had made his teeth look crooked was next. Since the bulky parka he wore had made him as thickset as the padding he usually wore under his smelly clothes at RR, there was nothing to remove there. However, the latex sheathing that covered his face to hide the telltale mole on his left cheek was peeled away and discarded into the bag. Tying the two ends of the bag together, he took it into the living room and threw it into the cold fireplace, sprinkled lighter fluid on it, lit it, and stood there watching until nothing was left of Freddie Hewlett except ashes. After going into the kitchen and retrieving a metal dustpan and whiskbroom, he swept the still-glowing ashes into the dustpan and carried them to the back door where he released them into the falling snow and skirling wind. When he drove out of the garage ten minutes later, Brenna Collins was unconscious in the trunk of his car. On her face was a mask pumping oxygen from a bottle that had been rolled to the back of the trunk. As he pulled up to the border-crossing kiosk, he pushed the button to roll down his window. "Afternoon, Sir," he said in a pleasant Irish brogue. "Helluva day, isn't it?"

"Your citizenship?" the bored guard inquired, hating anyone rich enough to own such a car. "Canada," he said. "From Quebec." He pronounced it "key-beck." "Your reason for being in the States?" "Went to see me girl, I did," he replied, grinning. The guard took in the handsome face and gleaming dark amber eyes, the sleek brown hair, and white teeth, and hated the man even more. "How long were you in the States?" "Just two days." Without another word, the border guard waved him through. It was as simple as that.

Chapter 14 Gananouque Ontario, Canada

Brenna woke with a vicious headache pounding in her temples. She put up a shaky hand and rubbed the pain. For a few seconds, she had no idea how she'd come to be lying in an old iron bed in a room she'd never seen in her life; but when full memory came back to her, she moaned in abject hopelessness. "It's not as bad as all that, sweeting." Brenna didn't need to lift her head to see who had spoken. She ignored him. "Ah, the silent treatment," he said, chuckling. "That's the Brenna I know and love." There was a squeak of floorboards, then he came into view. He smiled down at her. "Did you have a good sleep?" When she refused to answer him, he sat on the bed. As she made to turn her face from him, he reached out casually and kept her from doing so. Turning her face toward him, he looked down into her hostile eyes and grinned. "You're a piece of work, you know that?" His Southern drawl was soft as molasses.

"Go to hell," she spat, jerking her face from his light grip. "Oh," he sighed, "I've no doubt I will eventually." He leaned over her. "But not before I screw you, sweet thing." She slowly turned her head toward him, then lay there staring fixedly at him for a long time before finally speaking. "You are sick," she said, letting each word drop like a heavy weight. He nodded. "So I've been told." He grinned. Brenna made a helpless sound and looked away from him. "Kylan will come looking for me." He folded his arms over his chest and stretched out his long legs. "Yes, he will." One thick dark brow quirked upward. "What gave me away?" She would not look at him. "The accent," she answered. "You don't have one." He let his head fall back. "Ah, yes. The accent. Identical twins; mirror images of one another. No one else has ever been able to tell us apart before now." He shrugged. "Same profession—him in homicide out in Iowa, me in the D.E.A. in Florida. That's how I got to be so good with disguises!" He laughed. "Remember when I told you it was funny you'd ran to the Florida Panhandle, of all places? Woman, you practically ran right into my arms! By the way, my name is Rylan." "I don't care who you are," she ground out. Rylan Cree tsked. "You thought he was the killer out in Des Moines, didn't you, milady?" She turned to glare at him. "Does he know what you've done?" Rylan Cree grinned. "Of course, he does, but he can't prove it. Anymore than any policeman can prove it. I don't make mistakes and I don't leave witnesses." "You left me." "Ah, so I did," he sighed. He scanned her angry face and was amused that she no longer appeared to be afraid of him. "For you, I made an exception." "Why?" "I really can't say. There was something about you, Brenna. Some quality lacking in all the other women I've known." He cocked his head to one side. "Maybe it was love at first sight. Who knows?" He reached out to touch her face. "Don't touch me!" she snarled. His smile faded. "You know Freddie was in love with Angela and I believe Angela was falling in love with him."

"Freddie never existed." "Yes, he did. Freddie was my father. I…" He stopped and looked behind him, then stood and walked to the window. Using the back of his hand, he eased the drape from the window. He stood there a long time, then turned to look at her. "He's out there." Brenna's heart thudded against her ribcage. "How do you know?" "I just do," he replied and let the curtain fall. Without glancing her way, he walked to the dresser. "What are you going to do?" She gasped when she saw the gun in his hand. Rylan Cree slapped the ammo clip into the base of the nine millimeter semi-automatic weapon and racked a bullet into the chamber. He stuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans, then turned to look at her. "Freddie Hewlett might have been a real klutz, Brenna, but he was deeply in love with Angela O'Neil." He held her gaze. "Maybe when this is all over, Freddie and Angie can take up where they left off." She stared at him. "You're going to kill him," she whispered. Rylan Cree shrugged. "It's the only way. It's either him or me." "He's your brother." "Yes, and the only reason I haven't killed him before now is because it would have been too much like killing myself." A deep darkness flitted through his golden eyes. "But you know what? He's in love with my woman and that will never do." "He doesn't love me. He's never…" "Iknow. I feel what he feels, just like he feels what I feel!" "If that were true, he'd feel the same anger toward twins you do, and he doesn't." He was shaking his head. "You don't know. You have no way of knowing because you aren't a twin! We are identical. No one can tell us apart. Our parents couldn't tell us apart. They were always calling me Kylan or calling him Rylan and it made me so angry. I hated not having my own face. I hated having a name that sounded like Kylan. I wanted them to see me. Seeme! " He thumped his chest. "Look atme! Listen tome! Loveme! " He looked down at his hands, surprised to see them trembling. "Then he must have felt the same way," she said quietly. He wasn't looking at her so she slowly eased her legs from the bed. "He did," Rylan whispered. "But…" He looked at her and saw that she was edging toward the door. His facial expression hardened. "Get back on the bed!"

She lunged for the door, almost reached it before he leapt after her, grabbing her around the waist to swing her away. Brenna tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her, kicking and clawing at his arms, back to the bed. He fell back on the bed, taking her with him, then rolled so she was beneath him, crushed by his weight. "You hush!" he said, his thumb and forefinger pinching her nostrils shut. "Do you hear me, Brenna? Hush!" She was suffocating. Her nails were digging into his right forearm; she could feel the wetness of his blood on her fingers, but he seemed oblivious to the pain. "Do you hear me?" he snarled in her ear and released his hold on her nostrils. After allowing her one deep intake of breath, he squeezed her nostrils closed again. Her frantic squirming to break free made him hard against her thigh. Brenna saw pinpoints of light flashing in front of her and thought her head would explode from the building pressure. Just as she was about to pass out from the lack of oxygen, he released his hold on her mouth and rammed his fist into the side of her head, knocking her unconscious.

Chapter 15 Kylan Cree circled behind the cabin, wondering why he had such an intense feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. By the time he'd doubled back on the Interstate to pick up Brenna, Hewlett was already there, almost as though he'd known she would need his assistance. It hadn't occurred to him until he was three miles down the Interstate looking for a crossover to double back that Hewlett must be Rylan. "Son of a fucking bitch!" he'd snarled, pressing down on the accelerator. From the moment he realized Fred Hewlett had to be his brother, Kylan had known where the killer would take Brenna Collins. The old cabin on the St. Lawrence River had been in the Cree family for over sixty years and had been what their grandfather had euphemistically called his "fishing haven." It had been in that cabin, thirty-six years ago, that Mary Elizabeth Jamison Cree had given birth to twin sons. And it would be in that cabin where one of Mary Liz's sons would die tonight. Insane with jealousy, driven by a need he could not explain even to himself, he burst through the door of the cabin, gun raised to blow his brother into the hereafter. Rylan was standing near the bed, his own weapon pointed straight out in front of him, his left hand bracing his right wrist. His smile was as cold as an Iowa winter. Kylan's eyes darted to the bed for just a second. He didn't know if Brenna was alive. He could only pray that she was.

His gaze zeroed in on a face he hadn't seen in twenty years unless he looked into a mirror. "You'll never have her," Rylan whispered. Stunned by the ominous words, the nine millimeter Stechkin semi-automatic in Ky's hand lowered just a fraction of an inch. "What have you done?" he breathed. "See me, Ky?" his twin asked softly. "Do you seeme?" "I see you, Rylan," was the bitter reply. His brother's face was the last thing he ever saw before two shots fired in rapid succession streaked through his eyes, killing him instantly.

Epilogue Des Moines, Iowa September, 1999

Cree scooted from under his wife's car and stood up, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. "All done," he said. "You should change your oil more than once every twelve months, Bren." Brenna Collins Cree took the rag from him and wiped away a spot of oil clinging to his cheek. "I'll try to remember that, Ky." "Sure you will," he responded. He swatted her on the ass. "Now, go fix your man some lunch." He watched her walk away, grinning as she looked over her shoulder and winked at him. "Saucy wench!" he called after her. He waited until she was inside their home, then began clearing away all the tools he'd used to change the oil. Just as he was coming out of the garage to go inside, he noticed the two men standing across the street, talking. He stopped, watching them for a moment, before continuing on inside. "Is that our new neighbors?" Brenna asked, nodding at the house across the street. "Looks like it," her husband responded as he sat at the kitchen table and pulled off his sneakers. "Gonna take a shower." "Okay."

He padded barefoot down the hall, yanking off his T-shirt as he walked. Tossing the soiled shirt into the hamper, he stripped, turned on the shower and climbed inside. Lathering soap into his sleek brown hair, he thought about the two men across the street. The men who were as identical to one another as two peas in a pod. And he wondered which one he'd kill.

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BLACKWIND by CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO Not of this world but part of hers, they would wage a desperate battle to win her hand... Torn apart by their parents and destiny, Bronwyn McGregor and Sean Cullin face insurmountable odds to find a life together. But despite his desire to be with Bronnie, Sean learns he is a Reaper, an entity that must consume human blood to survive, and fate deals him a cruel, horrifying blow. In her misery over circumstances beyond her ability to control, Bronnie unwittingly summons a Nightwind, an ancient, shapeshifting demon, bound to her by grief and history. In the end, who will win the heart of Bronwyn McGregor: The Reaper or the NightWind?

Excerpt from BlackWind

"He's a vampire," Bronwyn stated, letting the word fall like a heavy stone. Brian nodded. "That is why Dunne kept him locked up." "A vampire…" "The correct term is 'Reaper.' He has to have blood every day to survive." "As in transfusions?"

"No, dearling, to drink." "To drink," she echoed, feeling sick. Brian sighed, then shrugged. "Reapers are shapeshifters, a cross between vampires and werewolves. There is a name for his race. They are called 'dearg duls.' His blood is as black as tar, and when he Transitions, he enters a beastlike state where he resembles a large dog." She stared at him for what seemed to her like a full sweep of the minute hand on a clock, then slumped against the back of the sofa. "You are serious, aren't you?" "Aye, Sweeting." Bronwyn drew in a long breath, then exhaled shakily. "If I didn't know Nightwinds were real, I couldn't accept this." "There is more strangeness in this world than most people know. More creatures than just Nightwinds and Reapers." She sighed. "I am beginning to think my entire world is populated by inhuman creatures…"

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo Charlotte Boyett-Compo is the author of more than two dozen novels, the first ten of which are theWindLegends Saga. For nearly three full years, Charlee has remained—first with Dark Star Publications, and now with Amber Quill Press—the company's most popular and best-selling author. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the HTML Writer's Guild, and Beta Sigma Phi Sorority. Married thirty-two years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashlee. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia, and now lives in the Midwest. Most any fan of electronic books—or fans of dark fantasy and suspense—has at least heard her name mentioned, if not purchased at least one of her many offerings. This prolific author has not only managed to gain multiple nominations and awards for her work, but better still, has built a fan base whose members border on the "fanatical." Currently, Charlee is at work on at least several books in her various series and trilogies.

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