Once Lured

Blake Pierce is author of the bestselling RILEY PAGE mystery series, which include the mystery suspense thrillers ONCE GONE (book #1), ONCE TAKEN (book #2), ONCE CRAVED (#3) and ONCE LURED (#4). Blake Pierce is also the author of the MACKENZIE WHITE mystery series and AVERY BLACK mystery series.

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Blake loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.blakepierceauthor.comwww.blakepierceauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2016 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright GongTo, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

PROLOGUE

The man worried as he sat in his car. He knew he had to hurry. Tonight, it was important to keep everything on track. But would the woman come along this road at her usual hour?

It was eleven o’clock at night, and he was cutting it close.

He remembered the voice he had heard, reverberating in his head, before he’d come here. Grandpa’s voice.

“You’d better be right about her schedule, Scratch.”

Scratch. The man in the car didn’t like that name. It wasn’t his real name. It was a folktale name for the Devil. As far as Grandpa was concerned, he was a “bad seed.”

Grandpa had called him Scratch for longer than he could remember. Although everybody else called him by his real name, Scratch had stuck in his own mind. He hated his grandpa. But he couldn’t pull him out of his head.

Scratch reached up and slapped his own skull several times, trying to get the voice out.

It hurt, and for a moment he had a sense of calm.

But then came Grandpa’s dull laughter, echoing somewhere in there. It was a little fainter now, at least.

He looked anxiously at his watch. A few minutes past eleven. Would she be late tonight? Would she go somewhere else? No, that wasn’t her style. He’d scouted her movements for days. She was always punctual, always stuck to the same routine.

If only she understood how much was at stake. Grandpa would punish him if he botched this. But there was much more to it than that. The world itself was running out of time. He had a huge responsibility, and it weighed on him heavily.

Car lights appeared, far back along the road, and he sighed with relief. That must be her.

This country road only led to a few houses. It was usually deserted at this hour except for the woman who always drove from her job straight to the house where she rented a room.

Scratch had turned his car around to face hers and stopped it right in the middle of this little gravel road. He stood outside, hands trembling, using a flashlight to peer under his hood, hoping it would work.

His heart slammed as the other vehicle drove by.

Stop! he pleaded silently. Please stop!

Soon, the other vehicle pulled to a stop a short distance from him.

He bit back a smile.

Scratch turned and looked toward the lights. Yes, it was her shabby little car, just as he had hoped.

Now, he just had to lure her to him.

She lowered her window, and he looked over at her and smiled his most pleasant smile.

“I guess I’m stranded,” he called out.

He turned the flashlight briefly on the driver’s face. Yes, it was definitely her.

Scratch noticed that she had a charming, open face. More importantly, she was very thin, which suited his purposes.

It seemed a shame, what he was going to have to do to her. But it was like Grandpa always said: “It’s for the greater good.”

It was true, and Scratch knew it. If the woman could only understand, perhaps she’d even be willing to sacrifice herself. After all, sacrifice was one of the finest features of human nature. She ought to be glad to be of service.

But he knew that was too much to expect. Things would get violent and messy, just like they always did.

“What’s the problem?” the woman called.

He noticed something appealing in how she spoke. He didn’t yet know what it was.

“I don’t know,” he said. “She just died on me.”

The woman craned her head out of the window. He looked straight at her. Her freckled face framed by bright red curly hair was open and smiling. She didn’t seem to be the least bit dismayed by the inconvenience he’d caused her.

But would she be trusting enough to get out of the car? Probably, if the other women had been any indication.

Grandpa was always telling him how horribly ugly he was, and he couldn’t help thinking of himself that way. But he knew that other people – women especially – found him rather pleasant to look at.

He gestured toward the open hood. “I don’t know anything about cars,” he yelled back to her.

“I don’t either,” the woman called back.

“Well, maybe the two of us together can figure out what’s wrong,” he said. “Do you mind giving it a try?”

“Not at all. Just don’t expect me to be much help.”

She opened her door, got out, and walked toward him. Yes, everything was going perfectly. He had lured her out of her car. But time was still of the essence.

“Let’s take a peek,” she said, stepping beside him and looking at the engine.

Now he realized what he liked about her voice.

“You’ve got an interesting accent,” he said. “Are you Scottish?”

“Irish,” she said pleasantly. “I’ve only been here two months, got a green card especially so I could work with a family here.”

He smiled. “Welcome to America,” he said.

“Thanks. I love it so far.”

He pointed toward the engine.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “What do you think that is?”

The woman bent over for a closer look. He tripped the release and slammed the hood on her head with a thunk.

He opened the hood, hoping not to have to hit her again. Luckily, she was out cold, her face and torso stretched limp across the engine.

He looked all around. Nobody was in sight. Nobody had seen what had happened.

He shook with delight.

He gathered her up in his arms, noticing that her face and the front of her dress were now smeared with grease. She was as light as a feather. He carried her around to the side of his car and stretched her out on the back seat.

He felt certain that this one would serve his needs well.

Just as Meara began to regain consciousness, she was jolted by a deafening barrage of noise. It seemed like every kind of sound she could imagine. There were gongs, bells, chimes, birdcalls, and sundry melodies as if from a dozen music boxes. They all seemed deliberately hostile.

She opened her eyes, but nothing came into focus. Her head was splitting with pain.

Where am I? she wondered.

Was it somewhere in Dublin? No, she was able to put together just a bit of chronology. She’d flown here two months ago, started working as soon as she got settled. She was definitely in Delaware. With an effort, she remembered stopping to help a man with his car. Then something had happened. Something bad.

But what was this place, with all its horrible noise?

She became aware that she was being carried like a child. She heard the voice of the man who was carrying her, speaking above the racket.

“Don’t worry, we got here on time.”

Her eyes began to focus. Her vision was filled by a staggering number of clocks of every conceivable size, shape, and style. She saw massive grandfather clocks flanked by smaller clocks, some of them cuckoo clocks, others with little parades of mechanical people. Still smaller clocks were ranged across shelves.

They’re all sounding the hour, she thought.

But in all the noise, she couldn’t begin to pick out the number of gongs or bells.

She turned her head to see who was carrying her. He looked down at her. Yes, it was him – the man who had asked for her help. She’d been a fool to stop for him. She’d fallen into his trap. But what was he going to do to her?

As the noise from the clocks died away, her eyes went out of focus again. She couldn’t keep them open. She felt her consciousness fading.

Got to stay awake, she thought.

She heard a metallic rattling, then felt herself lowered gently to a cold, hard surface. There was another rattling, followed by footsteps, and finally by a door opening and closing. The multitude of clocks kept ticking.

Then she heard a pair of female voices.

“She’s alive.”

“Too bad for her.”

The voices were hushed and hoarse. Meara managed to open her eyes again. She saw that the floor was gray concrete. She turned painfully and saw three human forms seated on the floor near her. Or at least she thought they were human. They seemed to be young girls, teenagers, but they were gaunt, little more than skeletons, their bones showing clearly beneath their skin. One seemed barely conscious, her head hanging forward and eyes staring at the gray floor. They reminded her of photos she’d seen of prisoners in concentration camps.

Were they even alive? Yes, they must be alive. She’d just heard them both speak.

“Where are we?” Meara asked.

She barely heard the hissed response.

“Welcome,” one of them said, “to hell.”

CHAPTER ONE

Riley Paige didn’t see the first punch coming. Still, her reflexes responded well. She felt time slow down as the first jab flashed toward her stomach. She backed away from it perfectly. Then a broad left hook came toward her head. She jumped to the side and dodged it. When he closed in with a final jab to her face, her guard went up and she took the punch to her gloves.

Then time resumed its normal pace. She knew the combination of blows had come in less than two seconds.

“Good,” Rudy said.

Riley smiled. Rudy was dodging and weaving now, more than ready for her attack. Riley did the same, bobbing, faking, trying to keep him guessing.

“No need to hurry,” Rudy said. “Think it through. Think of it like a game of chess.”

She felt a twinge of annoyance as she kept her lateral motion going. He was going easy on her. Why did he have to go easy on her?

But she knew that it was just as well. This was her first time in the sparring ring with an actual opponent. Until now, she’d been testing her combinations on a heavy bag. She had to remember that she was just a beginner at this form of fighting. It really was best not to hurry.

It had been Mike Nevins’s idea for her to take up sparring. The forensic psychiatrist who consulted with the FBI was also Riley’s good friend. He had gotten her through a lot of personal crises.

She’d recently complained to Mike that she was having trouble controlling her aggressive impulses. She was losing her temper frequently. She felt on edge.

“Try sparring,” Mike had said. “It’s a great way to let off steam.”

Right now she felt pretty sure that Mike was right. It felt good to be thinking on her feet, dealing with real threats instead of imagined ones, and it was relaxing to be dealing with threats that weren’t actually deadly.

It was also good that she’d joined a gym that got her away from Quantico headquarters. She spent too much time there. This was a welcome change.

But she had dawdled too long. And she could see in Rudy’s eyes that he was preparing for another attack.

She mentally chose her next combination. She popped abruptly toward him for her attack. Her first punch was a left jab, which he dodged and countered with a right cross that grazed her sparring helmet. She followed in less than a second with a right jab, which he took to his glove. In a flash she launched a left hook, which he dodged by lurching to the side.

“Good,” Rudy said again.

It didn’t feel good to Riley. She hadn’t landed a single punch, while he had clipped her a little even while defending himself, and she was starting to feel irritation building up. But she reminded herself of what Rudy had told her at the very start …

“Don’t expect to land a lot of punches. Nobody really does. Not with sparring, anyway.”

She was watching his gloves now, sensing that he was about to launch another attack. But just then, a strange transformation took place in her imagination.

The gloves turned into a single flame – the white hissing flame of a propane torch. She was caged in darkness again, the prisoner of a sadistic killer named Peterson. He was toying with her, making her dodge the flame to escape its searing heat.

But she was tired of being humiliated. This time she was determined to strike back. When the flame leaped toward her face, she simultaneously ducked and launched a fierce jab that didn’t connect. The flame hooked around to her, and she countered with a cross that also didn’t connect. But before Peterson could make another move, she threw an uppercut, and she felt it smash into his chin …

“Hey!” Rudy shouted.

His voice brought Riley back to her present reality. Rudy was stretched out on his back on the mat.

How did he get down there? Riley wondered.

Then she realized that she’d hit him – and hit him hard.

“Oh my God!” she shouted. “Rudy, I’m sorry!”

Rudy was grinning and getting back on his feet.

“Don’t be,” he said. “That was good.”

They resumed sparring. The rest of the session was uneventful, and neither of them landed any punches. But now the whole thing felt good to Riley. Mike Nevins was right. This was just the therapy she needed.

All the same, she kept wondering when she’d ever be able to shake off those memories.

Maybe never, she thought.

Riley cut enthusiastically into her steak. The chef at Blaine’s Grill did a great job with several less conventional dishes, but today’s workout at the gym had left her hungry for a good steak and a salad. Her daughter, April, and her friend Crystal had ordered burgers. Blaine Hildreth, Crystal’s father, was in the kitchen, but he would be back any moment now to finish up his mahi-mahi.

Riley gazed around the comfortable dining room with a deep feeling of satisfaction. She realized that her life didn’t include enough warm evenings like this with friends, family, and a nice meal. The scenes her job presented were more often ugly and unsettling.

In a few days she would testify at a parole hearing for a child-killer who hoped to get out of jail early. And she needed to make sure that he didn’t get away with that.

Several weeks ago she’d closed a disturbing case in Phoenix. She and her partner, Bill Jeffreys, had caught a killer who murdered prostitutes. Riley was still having trouble feeling that she’d done much good in solving that case. Now she knew too much for her own comfort about a whole world of exploited women and girls.

But she was determined to keep such thoughts out of her mind right now. She felt herself relaxing little by little. Eating out at a restaurant with a friend and both of their kids reminded her what it could be like to live a normal life. She was living in a nice home and growing closer to a nice neighbor.

Blaine returned and sat down. Riley couldn’t help observing yet again that he was attractive. His receding hairline gave him a pleasantly mature look, and he was lean and fit.

“Sorry,” Blaine said. “This place runs fine without me when I’m not here, but if I’m in view everybody decides they need my help.”

“I know what that’s like,” Riley said. “I’m hoping that if I keep out of sight, BAU will forget me for a while.”

April said, “No chance of that. They’ll call soon. You’ll be headed off to some other part of the country.”

Riley sighed. “I could get used to not being on constant call.”

Blaine finished a bite of his mahi-mahi.

“Have you thought about changing careers?” he asked.

Riley shrugged. “What else would I do? I’ve been an agent most of my adult life.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are lots of things a woman of your talents could do,” Blaine said. “Most of them safer than being an FBI agent.”

He thought for a moment. “I could picture you being a teacher,” he added.

Riley chuckled. “Do you think that’s safer?” she asked.

“Depends on where you do it,” Blaine said. “What about college?”

“Hey, that’s an idea, Mom,” April said. “You wouldn’t have to travel all the time. And you’d still get to help people.”

Riley said nothing as she mulled it over. Teaching at a college would surely be something like the teaching she’d done at the academy in Quantico. She’d enjoyed doing that. It always gave her a chance to recharge. But would she want to be a full-time teacher? Could she really spend all her days inside a building with no real activity?

She poked at a mushroom with her fork.

I might turn into one of these, she thought.

“What about becoming a private investigator?” Blaine asked.

“I don’t think so,” Riley said. “Digging up dirty secrets about divorcing couples doesn’t appeal to me.”

“That’s not all that PIs do,” Blaine said. “What about investigating insurance fraud? Hey, I’ve got this cook who’s collecting disability, says he’s got a bad back. I’m sure he’s faking it, but I can’t prove it. You could start with him.”

Riley laughed. Blaine was joking, of course.

“Or you could look for missing people,” Crystal said. “Or missing pets.”

Riley laughed again. “Now that would make me feel like I was doing some real good in the world!”

April had dropped out of the conversation. Riley saw that she was texting and giggling. Crystal leaned across the table toward Riley.

“April’s got a new boyfriend,” Crystal said. Then she silently mouthed, “I don’t like him.”

Riley was annoyed that her daughter was ignoring everybody else at the table.

“Stop doing that,” she told April. “It’s rude.”

“What’s rude about it?” April said.

“We’ve talked about this,” Riley said.

April ignored her and typed a message.

“Put that away,” Riley said.

“In a minute, Mom.”

Riley stifled a groan. She’d long since learned that “in a minute” was teen talk for “never.”

Just then her own phone buzzed. She felt angry with herself for not turning it off before leaving the house. She looked at the phone and saw that it was a message from her FBI partner, Bill. She thought about leaving it unread, but she couldn’t make herself do that.

As she brought up the message, she glanced up and saw April grinning at her. Her daughter was enjoying the irony. Silently seething, Riley read Bill’s text message.

Meredith has a new case. He wants to discuss it with us ASAP.

Special Agent in Charge Brent Meredith was Riley’s boss, and Bill’s too. She felt tremendous loyalty to him. Not only was he a good and fair boss, he’d gone to bat for Riley many times when she was in trouble with the bureau. Even so, Riley was determined not to let herself get drawn in, at least for the time being.

I can’t go traveling right now, she texted back.

Bill replied, It’s right here in the area.

Riley shook her head with discouragement. Standing her ground wasn’t going to be easy.

She texted back to him, I’ll get back to you.

No reply came, and Riley put the phone back in her bag.

“I thought you said that was rude, Mom,” April said in a quiet, sullen voice.

April was still texting.

“I’m through with mine,” she said, trying not to sound as annoyed as she felt.

April ignored her. Riley’s own phone buzzed again. She cursed silently. She saw that the text was from Meredith himself.

Be at BAU meeting tomorrow 9 AM.

Riley was trying to think of a way to excuse herself when another text followed.

That’s an order.

CHAPTER TWO

Riley’s spirits sank as she looked at the two images looming on screens above the BAU conference room table. One was a photo of a carefree girl with bright eyes and a winning smile. The other was her corpse, horribly emaciated and lying with her arms pointed in odd directions. Since she had been ordered to attend this meeting, Riley knew there must be other victims like this one.

Sam Flores, a savvy lab technician with black-rimmed glasses, was running the multimedia display for the four other agents seated around the table.

“These pictures are of Metta Lunoe, seventeen years old,” Flores said. “Her family lives in Collierville, New Jersey. Her parents reported her missing in March – a runaway.”

He added a huge map of Delaware to the display, indicating a location with a pointer.

He said, “Her body turned up in a field outside of Mowbray, Delaware, on May sixteenth. Her neck had been broken.”

Flores brought up another pair of images – one showing another vibrant young girl, the other showing her almost unrecognizably withered, her arms stretched out in a similar way.

“These pictures are of Valerie Bruner, also seventeen, a reported runaway from Norbury, Virginia. She disappeared in April.”

Flores pointed to another location on the map.

“Her body was found stretched out in a dirt road near Redditch, Delaware, on June twelfth. Obviously the same MO as the earlier killing. Agent Jeffreys was brought in to investigate.”

Riley was startled. How could Bill have worked on a case that hadn’t involved her? Then she remembered. In June, she had been hospitalized, recovering from her horrible ordeal in Peterson’s cage. Even so, Bill had visited her frequently in the hospital. He’d never mentioned that he was also working this case.

She turned toward Bill.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she asked.

Bill’s face looked grim.

“It wasn’t a good time,” he said. “You had troubles of your own.”

“Who was your partner?” Riley asked.

“Agent Remsen.”

Riley recognized the name. Bruce Remsen had transferred out of Quantico before she had come back to work.

Then after a pause, Bill added, “I couldn’t crack the case.”

Now Riley could read his expression and tone of voice. After years of friendship and partnership, she understood Bill as well as anybody did. And she knew that he was deeply disappointed with himself.

Flores brought up the medical examiner’s photos of the girls’ naked backs. The bodies were so wasted away that they barely seemed real. Both backs bore old scars and fresh welts.

Riley felt a gnawing discomfort all over now. She was taken aback by the feeling. Since when had she gotten queasy about photos of corpses?

Flores said, “They were both starved almost to death before their necks were broken. They were also severely beaten, probably over a long period of time. Their bodies were moved to where they were found postmortem. We have no idea where they were actually killed.”

Trying not to let her rising unease get the best of her, Riley mulled over similarities with cases she and Bill had solved during the last few months. The so-called “dolly killer” had left his victims’ bodies where they could be easily found, posed naked in grotesque doll-like positions. The “chain killer” hung the bodies of his victims up off the ground, wildly decked in heavy chains.

Now Flores brought up the image of another young woman – a cheerful-looking redhead. Alongside the photo was one of a beat-up, empty Toyota.