Her Last Sunset: A Meredeth Connelly Mind Hunt Thriller (Meredeth Connelly Mind Hunt Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  Her Last Sunset

  Meredeth Connelly Mind Hunt Thrillers

  Book 2

  E.H. Vick

  Dark Triad Publishing

  NEW YORK

  DEDICATION

  For Tony and Sonya, our newest close friends.

  I hope you enjoy Her Last Sunset. If so, please consider joining my online community—details can be found at the end of the last chapter.

  CHAPTER 1

  Driving Missy

  Location unknown

  Fear had become her constant companion since he’d come into her life—the man who’d snatched her from everything and everyone she knew and loved. She closed her eyes against the surge of anxiety and anger that even thinking about that night evoked. The man had made it clear that he wouldn’t stand for disobedience—or ‘sullen recalcitrance’ as he’d put it—or any escape attempts—also known as ‘foolish belief in deliverance.’ Fighting him was out of the question—compared to her rail-thin, narrow shoulder and hipped form, he was a monster. An ogre. A troll.

  She’d only had a brief glimpse of her captor, but it had been enough to cement his physical superiority. It had come as he stuffed her in the back of his SUV…when he’d lifted her one-handed and shoved her into the narrow wooden box lying on its side in the cargo area.

  “You are mine,” he’d said as he closed her inside.

  That had been the last time she’d seen anything other than the harsh velvet blackness surrounding her, the last time she’d felt cool, fresh air on her face, in her nostrils, in her lungs. Since that moment in time, Missy had seen nothing, felt nothing more than the slightly rough interior of the box with its curious round areas of cold at her back, and she heard only what the man wanted her to hear.

  You are mine.

  Those three short words repeated and repeated and repeated without end, without pause, without relief until Missy thought she’d go insane with their reprise, yet she found herself waiting for the next iteration with almost bated breath. She longed to plug her ears, but the box amounted to little more than a thin drawer about her own size, as though he’d crafted her a bespoke oak-walled resonance box, and she could do no more with her hands than flap them uselessly against her ears and hunt around for the speakers by feel, though the only thing under her fingertips was the texture of the oak everywhere, everywhere.

  You are mine.

  She longed to sing, to talk to herself, to make any kind of noise that might blot out his voice in her ears, in her head, but he’d been very clear with his rules…and he’d been very clear about the consequences should she break them. She shuddered as the rules blinked through her brain at light speed. He demanded utter silence, unquestioning obedience, her acceptance of “her new reality.” The consequences he promised made her feel cold, tiny, insignificant. He was…inhuman if he could do those things to another person. A monster. A demon made flesh.

  But she had no doubt he could do what he promised. Her single glimpse at his cold eyes left no room for disbelief. Or hope. She was probably going to die at his hand, but maybe she could avoid additional suffering if she went along with his demands.

  You are mine.

  His voice was insidious, soft, almost cultured, and in the seemingly infinite time he’d had her locked in that box, it had wormed its way inside her head and made itself at home. She found herself silently repeating the three words as the loop played aloud, and she did it in perfect mimicry of his voice.

  You are mine.

  You are mine, she repeated in her mind.

  She hated herself for doing it, hated herself for letting him catch her without even a fight, hated herself for her fear, for her complicity in her own torture. But she was helpless in the matter.

  You are mine.

  I am his, and there’s nothing I can do about it, she thought and shuddered.

  CHAPTER 2

  Friday Morning Headlines

  The New York Times

  JOHN DOE GUILTY! LIKELY SENTENCE: LIFE!

  In a verdict passed down in Cattaraugus County Superior Court earlier today, the .40 Caliber Killer, or “Ankou” as he prefers to be called, was convicted of multiple counts of first-degree murder for his crimes in Western New York last year. When asked for a comment, the man whose identity has eluded both the New York State Police’s and the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s efforts to uncover, said simply, “I’ll appeal, of course.”

  John Doe acted pro se in his own defense—a move that surprised most officials involved in the case—though the now-convicted serial killer did so with aplomb and a certain facility. Matt Steubins, the Assistant District Attorney presiding over the case, noted John Doe’s skill and wondered if the man had formal training, perhaps as a paralegal. Whatever the source of his knowledge and abilities, while giving Steubins quite a fight in the courtroom every day, Doe was able to flood the DA’s office with a veritable river of motions by night, though unassisted by paralegals or other attorneys—he refused to cooperate with the defense attorney the court assigned him as an advisor.

  Inside the courtroom itself, Doe was aggressive in his direct- and cross-examinations of witnesses, merciless in his objections and motions, and he showed evidence of high intelligence. He was, however, gracious in his numerous victories, as well as in his eventual defeat. He went as far as to praise the DA’s office for a case well-fought—and Steubins, in particular, as a worthy “adversary.”

  On the courthouse steps, this reporter asked several members of the jury for comment, and though most were unwilling to respond on the record, one juror stated that: “Doe’s guilt or innocence was never in question. The man practically admitted his guilt numerous times. The only questions in the case were whether any of his numerous motions about technicalities of the law had merit, and if they did, if they bore enough impact that we’d have to release him on a technicality. Thank God above they were found lacking.” The juror then made the Sign of the Cross and walked away.

  The DA released a statement moments before press time, announcing their strategy for sentencings: life without the possibility of parole for each of Doe’s twenty-nine convictions, each sentence to run consecutively. Doe, of course, was unavailable for comment due to the restrictions of his imprisonment.

  CHAPTER 3

  Pass-A-Grille

  Quantico, VA

  Meredeth’s “secret” phone buzzed in her pocket as she and Bobby approached the cafeteria. “Go on, Bobby. I’ll catch up.” She slowed even as she said the words, and Bobby shook his head as he walked on.

  “Tell Kevin I said hello,” he called back to her.

  She gave him her best “Who, me?” look, then pulled out her phone and swiped the lock screen into oblivion. The text was short and sweet: “All counts.” Meredeth’s face split with a wide smile. She couldn’t help it. John Doe was a horror show, and the twenty-nine convictions for first-degree murder virtually ensured he’d never spend another day outside a correctional institution, and the likelihood of spending the rest of his life in maximum security filled her with joy. Is Supermax too much to hope for? she wondered. Still grinning, she texted back, “YES!!”

  “Time for a chat?”

  “Have to be later. Hitting the café with Van Zandt. I’ll call when I can.” She grinned down at the phone as if it were a living extension of Kevin Saunders.

  “10-4,” Kevin replied.

  Connelly slid the phone into her pocket,
then strode down the hall with a bounce in her step. The cafeteria was in its usual state—filled with agents chatting over coffee or breakfast. She found Bobby and slid into the line next to him, still grinning. “Guilty on all counts.”

  “That’s terrific! Although I can’t say I’m surprised.” He lifted his head and stared at the ceiling. “It really is too bad there’s no death penalty in New York.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Think about good old John Doe spending the next thirty or forty years in Supermax.”

  Bobby tilted his head to the side and arched his eyebrows. “Yeah, that might be good. Twenty-three hours a day in lockdown in a room smaller than a trailer bedroom that has to serve as bedroom, bathroom, and dining room. Maybe that will work.”

  “In any case, there’s nothing we can do about it.” She was still grinning, even though her mind had drifted away from the conversation. She had plans for the weekend, and they involved a flight to Buffalo.

  “Well?” asked Van Zandt.

  “Well, what?”

  “Did Kevin say hello back?”

  “Oh, that… I forgot.”

  “You got all moon-eyed again, didn’t you? I’ll tell you, Mere, this new Meredeth Connelly makes me question the nature of reality at times.”

  “Yeah?”

  Bobby nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I’m used to the surliness, the crabby expressions, even the genius, but this—‍”

  “Van Zandt, Connelly, with me,” called Jim McCutchins from the arch leading to the hall. He didn’t wait for questions—or even acknowledgments—just turned and strode down the hall, his long-limbed stride taking him out of sight in a hurry.

  Bobby turned to her and arched his eyebrows, but Meredeth left the cafeteria line without reaction beyond a sigh of regret and a glance at the coffee station. She lengthened her stride to its maximum and followed their boss back to the BAU building and into McCutchins’ office.

  “Sit,” said Jim without looking up as they entered. “Hope neither of you had plans for the weekend—or the next few weeks as far as that goes.”

  Meredeth puffed out her cheeks as she sank into one of the comfortable chairs across the desk from their boss. “Actually, I do.”

  “You’ll have to postpone.” He lifted his head at last and glanced her way.

  She shrugged with her eyebrows. “What’s up, Jim?”

  “I just got off the phone with the Pinellas County DA’s office.”

  Meredeth closed her eyes against the twinge that flared behind her left eye. “They found one of the missing women?”

  “They found a torso that fits the general characteristics of the missing women. I doubt she’ll be identified unless she’s had a DNA scan for something in the past.”

  After sucking a deep breath in through her nose and blowing her cheeks out with it, Meredeth opened her eyes and met Jim’s direct gaze. “Just one?”

  “So far, yes, but given the number of missing…” He shook his head.

  “Yeah. One’s as good as the lot of them, but how can they be sure this isn’t something else? Another petite woman who met a foul end?”

  “They can’t. Not yet, at least, but given the other deaths…”

  “Any news on that front?”

  “Beyond the fact that the last person each of the missing women had plans with has fallen victim to a strange accident or a murderous home invader? No, nothing new, but the ADA in charge of the case has high hopes you’ll be able to spot something Pinellas County missed.”

  “Me? How does he know we’ve been following the case?”

  “She. Sonya Sargent. And she doesn’t know you’ve been following anything. She requested you by name.” McCutchins rolled his eyes. “Actually, she requested ‘Super profiler’ Meredeth Connelly.”

  Meredeth groaned. “Won’t that ever die?”

  McCutchins shrugged. “Maybe…if you can keep your face out of the national media for more than ten minutes.”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s not like I look for the coverage,” murmured Meredeth. “What about the torso?”

  Jim gave her a curt nod, then looked down at his laptop screen. “The torso washed up on Pass-A-Grille Beach, near St. Petersburg, Florida. Sargent pushed the ME for an early report on the particulars. The torso belongs to a female in her early twenties, give or take. The ME says he’ll have a more precise number after he runs some tests. She’s never given birth based on her pelvis structure— Correct that, he says, “Decedent never carried a child to term.” He believes the cause of death will be exsanguination. He thinks she went into the water already dead, but there is evidence of torture and abuse antemortem.”

  “Rape?” asked Connelly.

  Jim shook his head. “Just…” He shook his head and shrugged.

  “Penetration by foreign objects?”

  “A knife. And the decapitation and amputations were done with a power tool. The ME thinks the unsub might have used a butcher’s power knife.”

  “Shit,” Bobby breathed. “This one’s furious.”

  Meredeth only nodded. “White male, early twenties to mid-thirties. He’s good-looking, a charmer, but probably slight of build and thin.”

  “Why?” asked McCutchins.

  “All the victims are petite—he wants to be in control, to physically dominate his victims. And why use a power knife unless you lack the physical strength and endurance to butcher the body with a hatchet or a hack saw or something?”

  “Reasonable assumption,” said Jim. “The charmer part I get—he can talk them into going with him or we’d have abduction reports. He can’t be so lucky to find all these look-alike women alone in a place with no witnesses when he wants them.”

  “Right,” said Meredeth. “Plus, he’s probably luring them away from their friends. That means he’s good-looking”—she glanced up and wagged her head—‍“and maybe has a nice car and dresses well. A good job—a professional of some kind—is also likely. He must be someone a young, pretty woman would consider a good catch, or they wouldn’t take a risk on him.”

  “Wait a second,” said Jim, “why are you assuming he meets them when they are with a friend.”

  “The other murders, boss,” said Bobby. “The unsub has no reason to go out of his way to kill the last person the victims were seen with unless they’ve seen him.”

  “Ah, right.” McCutchins frowned down at the table. “But should we be assuming those murders are related to the abductions? Maybe he’s looking at the victim’s phones, then blowing off steam with the last person they talked to.”

  “To what end?” asked Van Zandt.

  McCutchins shrugged. “To release the tension? To keep the victims alive longer rather than have the constant itch to kill them?”

  “Maybe,” said Meredeth in a noncommittal tone.

  “Personally, I can’t come up with a good reason beyond Bobby’s theory or my own. But I’m not trying to dictate your profile, Meredeth, I’m just offering suggestions.”

  “I know, Jim,” she said and treated him to a sad smile. “We’ll know more about the unsub and his tendencies once we get down there and get a feel for the series. Tell me about this ADA.”

  “Like I said, her name is Sonya Sargent. I called the Assistant US Attorney for the Middle District of Florida and asked what they knew about her. She’s—and I’m quoting the AUSA here—a young Turk, as ambitious as any man.”

  Meredeth scoffed.

  “Yeah, I know. But by all accounts, she’s a good prosecutor. ‘Dogged in the pursuit of justice’ is another quote from the AUSA. She gets the job done. She has a conviction rate of over ninety percent.”

  “That’s easy to accomplish if you’re willing to give out sweetheart plea deals,” said Bobby.

  “That’s true,” said Jim, “but by all accounts, Sargent is barely willing to make plea deals at all, let alone sweetheart deals.” He shook his head. “The AUSA says her deals are almost as bad as being sentenced for the worst
charges.”

  “I like her already,” said Meredeth. “When do we go?”

  “As soon as you are packed. I got you authorized for a ride on one of the Bureau jets due to the profile of the case.”

  Meredeth arched one eyebrow.

  “Sargent’s already announced we’re involved—before we responded we’d assist, I might add. She’s already been on CNN and MSNBC, calling the series ‘the worst spate of serial murders in recent history.’”

  “With one body?”

  “Yeah, Van Zandt, with a single headless torso. She says it’s only a matter of time before there are more.”

  “Unless we catch him.”

  McCutchins nodded. “Get down there and nab the bastard.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Counting Sheep

  Location unknown

  Music blasted her from all sides, the same three songs played on a loop: the Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch cover of Good Vibrations, Achy Breaky Heart by Billy Ray Cyrus, and Nuthin’ But A G Thang by Snoop Dog and Dr. Dre. The volume pierced her every thought and gave her no peace. It had started after the interminable barrage of just his voice on a loop and had played constantly for what felt like a week. Even so, the words in her head never missed a beat.

  You are mine.

  You are free of your bondage, your past, your attachments.

  I am all you need.

  You are mine.

  Resistance equals pain.

  This is your home.

  You are free.

  The mantra had grown, and she had no idea how. Are these my own thoughts? If so, have I gone crazy? Why would I think such things? Is it my mind taking over for his recording? The music held no answers for her, and the rapped lyrics of Good Vibrations turned into a constant stream of gibberish broken only by the sampled vocals and the drum machine licks melting her eardrums. She had no idea what the song was about, and if she were honest, she’d loved the song before…before everything. But not so much after hearing it sixty million times, she thought. When the loop switched to Achy Breaky Heart, it was a momentary relief, but then Billy Ray Cyrus began to sing, and her stomach rolled over in her guts. Not that he was a bad singer, she’d just grown to hate the song—all three songs, really—despite her mind mirroring the lyrics as Billy Ray sang them.