Bucking Bronc Lodge 04(19)

Then an image of her little brother’s face appeared.

She closed her eyes, shook her head and shut the curtain. God help her, she was losing it, becoming paranoid.

She had to get a grip.

Hoping to calm herself, she poured a glass of wine and carried it outside to the porch. She’d keep vigil for a while, chase the ghosts away.

One sip and she tried to relax. She hugged her jacket around her and let the good memories of her childhood back into her soul. The times she and Richie played soccer together. The zoo trip when he was Timmy’s age and he’d made monkey noises the entire ride home. The way he’d crawled into her bed when he’d had a nightmare.

She’d promised to always keep the monsters at bay.

But she’d failed.

She glanced through the window at the ranch land. She wouldn’t fail this time.

The kids would be up tomorrow filling the ranch with their chatter and laughter, the ranch bursting with life.

An hour of studying the landscape told her she had imagined all the shadows and turned them into monsters. Finally the wine lulled her and she yawned, went inside, locked up and crawled into bed.

But sometime later during the night, she stirred. The whisper of someone’s breath bathed her cheek. The husky sound of a murmured voice.

The coarse touch of a man’s hand against her cheek.

She jerked awake, gasping for a breath, searching the room. Someone had been standing over her.

The curtain was flapping against the wall, the window open, the scent of sweat lingering behind.

* * *

MILES STUDIED THE PICTURE of the latest dead woman, Renee Balwinger, his heart hammering. She fit the profile of the others Dugan had murdered.

Attractive, dark hair, brown eyes, lived alone...

He strode into the cabin, spread out the files of the first four victims he’d brought with him and began to study them, searching for some connection they might have missed.

The first four women:

Sandra Broderick—thirty-four, married once, divorced two years ago, worked as a waitress at a saloon in Santa Fe.

Gwen Peterson—thirty-two, separated from her husband, hostess at a steak house in Corpus Christi.

Eileen Gates—thirty, divorced, managed a motel outside Dallas.

Ruth Norman—thirty-four, engaged, worked at a rental car place at the airport.

Once again, he considered why Dugan had targeted them. At first glance, he and the sheriff assumed the victims were random. They lived in different areas, didn’t know one another, did not frequent the same malls, stores or gyms. Their computers hadn’t turned up anything either—they weren’t friends on Facebook, no business or prior school connection. None of them belonged to a singles group or dating service online either. Even their Twitter accounts, which only two of them had, did not cross.

Dugan had to have met them the old-fashioned way—randomly at their jobs. Which meant something about that first meeting had triggered his interest. Then he’d focused his obsession on them.

Miles took another moment to scan the notes he and Blackpaw had taken on each woman. Of course they’d first looked at ex-spouses, boyfriends, lovers, and although there definitely had been some animosity between Sandra and Eileen and their exes, both due to alleged affairs the women had had, both men had alibis. Gwen’s husband had insisted that he had asked for the separation because he’d found a younger woman, but one of Gwen’s friends had implied that Gwen had hooked up with another man the day after the separation.

He flipped to the page detailing the FBI profiler’s statement. According to their specialist, the killer was narcissistic, had an inflated ego, was charming, handsome and could easily persuade a woman into going with him.

Which fit Dugan to the T.

Most serial killers took a trophy from their victim, creating their own signature. The Slasher had done so by not only cutting the women’s throats, but he had taken their wedding and engagement rings.

That in itself implied that infidelity was part of the pattern the killer used in choosing his victims.

Although Ruth was engaged, so far they had uncovered no affair. Of course, Dugan could have perceived her friendliness as flirtation and read her wrong.

Either that, or the fiancé was in the dark.

He massaged the base of his neck where tension knotted his shoulders and shot down his spine as he read further.

None of the friends or family of any of the victims had recognized Dugan or admitted to seeing him with the four victims, and Dugan’s name hadn’t appeared on a rental car agreement or motel registry. Which didn’t mean he hadn’t used the services, only that he’d been smart enough to pay cash or use a different name. He had paid for dinner at the steak house where Gwen worked, but buying dinner didn’t constitute a crime.