The Fifth Victim

Book 3: Cherokee Pointe Trilogy

by Beverly Barton

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

Some things shouldn't be seen ...

Cherokee Pointe, Tennessee. Deep in the Smoky Mountains, the victim lies, sacrificed on a makeshift altar—the gruesome work of a killer who has evaded the authorities in state after state. FBI agent Dallas Sloan knows the scene all too well—just as he knows the killings won't stop until there are four more bodies.

Some warnings won't be heeded ...

Genny Madoc's "sixth sense" has brought many of Cherokee Pointe's residents to her isolated log cabin, looking for help. But now it's Genny who needs help from the disturbing visions she sees—images that are getting stronger and more violent day by day.

Some fears can't be stopped ...

Thrown together by necessity, drawn to each other by desire, Dallas and Genny must band together, searching the darkest heart of a town's hidden secrets before a twisted killer can complete a sinister plan that will make one of them the fifth victim.

Release date: February 27, 2018

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

FBI Special Agent Teri Nash glanced at the fax in her hand. A letter and a photograph. While waiting for Dallas to shower and shave, she’d sat down at his cluttered desk in the corner of the living room. The fax had come in while she’d been relaxing with a gin-and-tonic. Dallas and she hadn’t dated in several years, and she was actually involved with a profiler at the Bureau, but she still considered Dallas a good friend. Since his niece’s death eight months ago, she’d tried to keep tabs on her old lover. Although he’d handled Brooke’s brutal murder as he did everything else—with little emotion and iron control—she’d seen past his steely facade to the pain beneath. Once he’d returned to FBI headquarters in D.C. after Brooke’s funeral, he’d begun a personal search for any information that might lead him to his niece’s killer. Using the Bureau’s vast resources for unofficial use had become a bone of contention between Dallas and the assistant director of the Criminal Investigation Division. Although Dallas and Tom Rutherford disliked each other personally, Tom had allowed Dallas a lot of slack. Teri wondered for how much longer?

She read the fax for the third time. The message was in response to a letter Dallas had sent out to local law enforcement officials nationwide. This was the seventh such response in the past few months, but she had a sinking feeling that this was the one he’d been waiting for ever since Brooke’s murder. Teri didn’t want to look at the faxed photo again. Once had been more than enough. It wouldn’t be easy forgetting the sight of the young blond girl with her body sliced wide open. Teri shivered.

The sheriff of Cherokee County, Tennessee, had reported what appeared to be a sacrificial killing in his county early this morning. The details of her death were practically identical to those of Brooke’s horrific murder in Mobile, Alabama, in May of last year.

As Teri finished scanning the information again, she shook her head and sighed. The minute Dallas saw this fax, he’d be off and running. On some sentimental, protective level, she wished she could just dump the fax in the garbage and pretend it didn’t exist. Even though her love affair with her fellow agent had been short-lived and had ended three years ago, she still had strong feelings for him. The poor guy had been through enough, had followed too many dead-end leads these past few months. She hated to see him go off on another wild-goose chase, searching for an elusive serial killer. That is, if there was a serial killer. Dallas had come up with his own theory that there was a barbaric serial killer on the loose. Besides, she wasn’t sure how many more vacation days he could take before he used them all up. Or how much longer Rutherford would put up with Dallas’s absenteeism.

Dallas Sloan, his dark blond hair damp from his shower, emerged from the bathroom adjacent to the small bedroom in his three-room efficiency apartment. Teri sucked in a deep breath. Damn, the guy still took her breath away. Wearing nothing but his white briefs, he exposed his tall, lean body for her perusal. A dusting of brown hair covered his legs and arms and created a V over the center of his muscular chest. Teri forced her gaze from his body to his face. He grinned at her. Wickedly.

“Just enjoying the scenery,” she told him. “Not buying the property.”

“What have you got in your hand?” he asked as he stared point-blank at the fax.

“This?” She held up the two sheets of paper as if they were a trophy. “It’s a fax.”

“Lusting after my body is one thing, honey, but reading my mail is something else altogether.” Dallas rummaged around in his closet, pulled out a pair of well-worn jeans, put them on, then removed a cream knit sweater from the chest of drawers and yanked it down over his head. “Who’s the fax from?”

Teri walked over to where he’d sat on the bed and was putting on his socks. “It’s from Sheriff Jacob Butler in Cherokee County, Tennessee.”

Dallas slid his feet into his boots, tied the laces, and then glanced up at Teri. “Is it about—”

“He’s had what appears to be a sacrificial killing in his county.” Teri held out the fax. “This morning.”

Dallas grabbed the papers out of her hand, scanned them quickly, then cursed under his breath. “I need to call him—now.” Dallas stood. “Look, honey, why don’t you go on and meet the others. If this is what it appears to be, I’ll be taking a flight out tonight for Tennessee.”

Teri grabbed his arm. “Are you sure you want to do this again? So far, none of the reports you’ve received turned out to be—”

“This is different. I can tell the similarities to Brooke’s death are obvious just from the fax.”

“Even so, with all the old reports on sacrificial killings you’ve compiled, none of the victims had even one thing in common, nothing to link any of them to one specific killer, other than they were all sacrificed.”

“There’s a link,” Dallas said. “We just haven’t figured it out yet. Linc only started work on a profile for me last week, and since he’s doing it on his own time and trying to keep Rutherford off his back, it’ll take time.”

“Do you have any vacation or sick days left?” She knew better than to continue arguing with a man who couldn’t be persuaded.

“Three.”

“And what if this killing turns out to be the one you’ve been waiting for, a new piece of the puzzle?”

“I’ll take a leave of absence.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

“I can count on you and Linc, can’t I?”

“Unofficially.”

Dallas kissed her. No passion. Just a thank-you gesture. “You don’t have to wait around. Go ahead and leave now. I’ll call you on your cell phone if I take a flight out tonight.”

Teri caressed his cheek. “I hope this is the one.”

He didn’t bother walking her to the door, so she let herself out, then paused in the doorway. She sighed. He’d already forgotten all about her. He picked up the telephone and dialed the 865 area code and then the number for the sheriff’s office.

“Yes, this is Special Agent Dallas Sloan, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to speak to Sheriff Butler.”

Teri eased the door closed, walked up the hall and down the flight of stairs to the first floor of the apartment building. There’s nothing for you here, she told herself. Hoping Dallas would change his mind and want something permanent with her was nothing but a pipe dream. She had to remove those last fragments of hope—otherwise her relationship with Linc would never work out the way she wanted it to.

“It’s gonna snow. I feel it in my bones,” Sally Talbot said as she tossed another log into the cast-iron potbellied stove.

“The weatherman on TV said sleet and rain,” Ludie Smith corrected. “Who should I listen to—your old bones or an educated man who knows all about cumulus clouds and dew points and heat indexes?”

“I swear, Ludie, ever since you took that adult education class at the junior college last fall, you done gone and got all uppity on me.”

“Me uppity?” With large, expressive black eyes, Ludie glared at Sally. “You’re the one who’s been acting like rich folks ever since Jazzy had that white siding put on the outside of this shack of yours.”

“Are you calling my house a shack? What do you call that place of yours—a palace?”

“I call it a cottage,” Ludie replied. “That’s what I call it. A cottage. Like one of them pretty little places you see on calendars and in the movies about the English countryside before World War Two.”

“Now what would an old Cherokee squaw from the hills of Tennessee know about the English countryside? Besides, your house ain’t no cottage. It’s a four-room, wooden sharecropper’s shack, the same as mine.”

“Well, Miss Know-It-All, I know as much about the English countryside as you do. And who are you? Just a crazy old white heifer from the Tennessee hills.”

Jazzy Talbot stood in the doorway that separated her aunt Sally’s kitchen from the living room where Sally and her best friend Ludie stood arguing together as they’d done as far back as Jazzy could remember. Any outsiders listening to the two old women would swear they hated each other, when in actuality the exact opposite was true. Ludie and Sally had been friends all their lives, but neither would ever admit how much they truly loved each other. Their favorite form of entertainment seemed to be debating a wide variety of subjects—everything from the weather to the proper way to cook collard greens.

Jazzy cleared her throat. Both women hushed immediately and turned to face her. Rawboned, with big hands and feet, Sally stood nearly six feet tall, possessed a shock of short white hair and ice blue eyes. With black eyes and steel gray hair, Ludie, on the other hand, was barely five feet tall and round as a butterball. Jazzy had no idea exactly how old either woman was, but her best guess would be that her aunt and Ludie had both passed their seventieth birthday.

“How long you been here?” Sally asked, a broad smile on her face.

“Just got here. Didn’t you hear the Jeep?”

“She was too busy caterwauling,” Ludie said. “She thinks it’s gonna snow, but the weatherman said plainly that—”

“It’s going to sleet and ice over first, then snow,” Jazzy said.

Both women stared at her with round eyes and wrinkled brows.

“How do you—you’ve seen Genny today, haven’t you?” Sally lifted another piece of wood, then stuffed it into the stove. After shutting the door and trapping the fire inside, she wiped her hands off on her faded jeans.

“Did Genny say it’s going to snow?” Ludie asked.

Jazzy nodded. “I heard her tell Jacob that they’d better go over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb now because of the bad weather we’ll get tonight. She thinks it’ll be really rough.”

“Then we’d better get ready for it,” Sally said. “That gal ain’t never wrong about the weather. She’s just like her granny. Melva Mae had the sight, too.”

“Ain’t it awful about that poor little Susie Richards.” Ludie shook her head. “What kind of person would do such a thing to anybody, least of all a seventeen-year-old girl?”

“Why were you up at Genny’s?” Sally asked. “Did she have another spell?”

Jazzy nodded. “She saw the Richards girl being killed. But that information is not to be broadcast by either of you.”

Ludie keened. “Lord have mercy!”

“She called Jacob and told him where he could find Susie’s body. Now, he’s got a murder case to solve and a county filled with scared people.”

“Jacob ain’t got the manpower or the up-to-date equipment to handle a crime scene investigation.” Sally headed toward the kitchen. “You staying for supper, gal, or you heading back to your place before the weather turns bad on us?”

“Guess I’ll head home,” Jazzy replied. “I just stopped by to see if you needed anything. With you out here so far away from town, you might not be able to make it in to Cherokee Pointe for several days if there’s ice under the snow.”

“Got all I need.” Sally called from the kitchen. “Want a cup of coffee before you leave?”

“Coffee and a piece of that custard pie I saw on the counter.” Jazzy winked at Ludie, knowing full well that Ludie had baked the pie and brought it over. Sally wasn’t much of a cook—never had been. If it hadn’t been for Ludie’s good cooking, Jazzy figured she’d have grown up on nothing but cornbread, fried potatoes, and whatever greens were in season. Ludie had a real talent for cooking and worked at Jazzy’s restaurant in town. Last year, she’d cut back from full-time to only a few days a week.

When Jazzy and Ludie joined Sally in the kitchen, Sally had already sliced the pie and set three plates and forks on the table. She lifted an old metal coffeepot from the stove and poured steaming black coffee into mismatched earthenware mugs.

As the three sat around the yellow oilcloth-topped table, Sally and Ludie got awfully quiet. Jazzy had an uneasy feeling that there was something wrong. Something other than the fact that there had been a murder in Cherokee County yesterday.

“Business good?” Sally asked.

“As good as it usually is in January,” Jazzy replied. “We’ve got a handful of tourists staying in the cabins and a few more stopping by the restaurant on their way to Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg.”

“It’ll pick up in the spring,” Ludie said. “Always does.”

“I’m ready for spring, myself.” Sally sipped on her coffee.

“Me too.” Ludie sighed. “Nothing like spring birds chirping and buttercups and tulips blooming.”

Jazzy caught her aunt and Ludie exchanging peculiar glances. “All right, what’s going on?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sally stared up at the bead-board ceiling.

“Might as well tell her,” Ludie said. “I’m surprised she hasn’t already heard.”

“Heard what?” A tight knot formed in the pit of Jazzy’s stomach.

“Just ’cause he’s back don’t mean you gotta have anything to do with him.” Sally skewered Jazzy with a warning glare. “If he comes sniffing around, send him packing. That’s what you’ll do if you’re smart. He ain’t no good. Never was.”

“Who are you talking about—my God! You don’t mean that—”

“Heard it in town this morning, before the news about the Richards gal got out,” Ludie said. “Jamie Upton showed up at the farm two days ago, and his granddaddy done brought out the fatted calf to celebrate the prodigal’s return.”

“Tell her the rest,” Sally said.

Ludie hung her head and avoided eye contact with Jazzy. “He’s brought home a woman with him.”

“A wife?” Jazzy asked.

“A fiancée,” Ludie replied.

“He’s been engaged before,” Jazzy said. “That doesn’t mean anything. You know how Jamie is.”

“I know he ain’t worth shooting.” Sally finished off her coffee, then rose and poured herself another cup.

Jazzy toyed with the piece of pie. She loved Ludie’s pies but knew that if she took a bite now it would taste like cardboard in her mouth. It wasn’t that she was still in love with Jamie. Actually she wasn’t sure she’d ever loved him. But she’d wanted him. God, how she’d wanted him. He’d been her first, back when she’d been young and foolish enough to think Big Jim Upton’s only grandson would marry the likes of her, a white-trash bastard raised by a poor, eccentric old woman half the town thought was crazy.

Jazzy rose to her feet. “I’d better be heading into town. Can I give you a ride home, Ludie?”

“Goodness no. You know my place ain’t a quarter of a mile from here.”

“But with a killer on the loose—”

“Got my revolver in my coat pocket, as always,” Ludie said. “You know I don’t go nowhere without it.”

Ludie carried an old Smith & Wesson that had belonged to her father; and Sally toted a shotgun. A couple of old kooks, that was what most folks thought.

Jazzy hugged Ludie, then turned to her aunt. “Keep your doors locked.”

“I intend to,” Sally assured her. “I’ve got my shotgun, and I’ll bring Peter and Paul in before nightfall, like I always do in the dead of winter. Them dogs ain’t gonna let nothing slip up on me.”

Five minutes later Jazzy headed her Jeep down the mountain toward Cherokee Pointe, all the while her mind swirling with memories of Jamie Upton. His smile. His laughter. The way he called her darlin’. The little presents he’d given her over the years—ever since she’d been sixteen and had given him her virginity. Expensive trinkets. Payments for services rendered? He’d told her at least a hundred times that he loved her. Every time he left town for months, even for years, he came home expecting her to be there waiting for him, with arms wide open. Actually, a better expression would be with legs spread apart. Why was it that every time he came back, she found herself unable to resist him?

Because, idiot, every time he comes back into your life, he convinces you that he loves you, wants you, and someday you’ll have a future together. Even when he’d brought home a fiancée, on two other occasions, he’d come to her for sex. How could she have been so damn stupid?

Well, this time Mr. Jamie Upton could find himself another whore. That’s the way he made her feel—like the whore people thought she was.

Just as she rounded the next corner, the county roads intersected. She halted at the four-way stop and glanced to her left at the arched gates and long driveway that led up to the biggest farm in Cherokee County—the Upton farm. Half a mile up the private drive sat a typical Southern mansion, fashioned after old antebellum homes and built over a hundred years ago for Big Jim Upton’s grandmother, who’d been a Mason from Virginia.

Once, long ago, Jazzy had dreamed of marrying Jamie and living in that big white house, with hot and cold running servants. All her life she’d wanted more, needed more than four walls and a roof. Something inside her yearned to be a lady, and to her that meant being wealthy.

Jazzy swallowed the emotions lodged in her throat, laughed out loud, then gunned the motor and raced through the intersection. Maybe this time Jamie wouldn’t come looking for her. But if he did, maybe this time she’d find the strength to turn him away.

Jacob Butler zipped up his brown leather jacket, positioned his brown Stetson on his head and headed out of his office. He hadn’t had a bite to eat since he’d wolfed down a scrambled egg sandwich at seven this morning while he’d been heading toward Scotsman’s Bluff. It had been a long, tiring day. He was now facing his first murder case since he’d been elected sheriff.

Deputy Bobby Joe Harte called out as Jacob passed by his desk, “That FBI guy just called. He said to tell you he’s in Knoxville and has rented a car. Said he was heading out soon and wanted to talk to you tonight when he gets in.”

“Did you tell him it was going to snow tonight?” Jacob asked.

“No sir. I figure the guy had checked the weather.”

“I’m not going by what the weathermen are predicting. Genny said heavy snowfall tonight.”

“Funny how she’s always right about things like that.” Bobby Joe grinned.

“Look, if he shows up—this Sloan guy—before I get back, tell him I’m over at Jasmine’s eating supper.”

“Just curious, Jacob, but what interest do the Feds have in a local murder case?”

“The Feds don’t have an interest,” Jacob replied. “It’s a personal matter with Sloan. He had a niece who was killed the same way Susie Richards was—slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb.”

“Ah, man, that’s gotta be rough.”

Jacob left the Sheriff’s Department, located on the first floor of the south side of the Cherokee County courthouse, closed the door behind him, and walked out onto the street. A frigid evening wind whizzed around him, blowing tiny new-fallen snowflakes up from the sidewalk. When he looked at the dark sky, he saw snow dancing downward in the glow from the nearby streetlight.

As he walked up Main, he thought about the young girl who’d died at the hands of a monster early this morning. Pete Holt, the coroner and owner of Holt’s Funeral Home, had said she probably hadn’t been dead more than a couple of hours when he’d examined her at the site. He and Pete had done their best to make sure proper procedures were followed, that all the evidence was gathered, and nothing was left undone. He’d called in Roddy Watson for advice. Roddy had been the chief of police in Cherokee Pointe for the past fifteen years, and what he lacked in brains he partly made up for with experience. Roddy had told Jacob that with a case like this, they’d have to send all the evidence over to Knoxville to the crime lab there.

Jacob rounded the corner onto Florence Avenue and headed straight for Jasmine’s, the best restaurant in town. As he drew near the front entrance to the renovated two-story building, he sensed he was being followed. When he glanced over his shoulder, he didn’t see anyone, but he couldn’t shake the notion that someone was watching him.

Damn, Butler, get a hold of yourself. Just because there was a gruesome murder in your county this morning doesn’t mean there are boogeymen lurking in the shadows.

He stood across the street and watched the sheriff as he entered Jasmine’s.

Jacob Butler. Got elected by a landslide. Local boy done good. Jacob had left Cherokee Pointe when he’d been eighteen and joined the navy. The big guy—he stood six-five and had to weigh in at no less than two seventy five—had become a SEAL, been decorated for bravery, and got wounded bad enough on his last assignment to end his career at the ripe old age of thirty-five. Despite his quarter-breed heritage, he’d been welcomed home by the whole town and talked into running for office six months after his return.

He knew all about Jacob, which would make everything so much easier. Knowing one’s enemy was wise. What was the old saying about keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer. He intended to know every move Jacob made concerning the Susie Richards case.

There was no reason for anyone to ever suspect him. His reputation was above reproach. So when the next murder occurred, the local authorities would be stumped again, unable to figure out who and why. All he had to do was the same as he’d done countless times before—be diligent and patient and careful. With each death, his strength increased. But this time it would be different. This time he had found the perfect fifth victim.

Genny had spent the day recuperating, and now she was restless. A winter storm was brewing—an unexpected storm. By morning there would be several inches of ice beneath a thick layer of newly fallen snow. There were things she needed to do to prepare for the isolation that lay ahead for her here in the mountains. Although she hadn’t regained all her strength after her dream vision, she had recovered enough to care for herself without any assistance. Jacob had called to check on her twice, and Jazzy had even driven up Cherokee Mountain late in the afternoon to see about her for the second time today. Jacob and Jazzy were the only two people to whom she could turn in moments of crisis, especially if the crisis was a result of her inherited second sight.

Having shared a childhood bond with Jacob, who was like a brother to her, and with Jazzy, with whom she’d been best friends since they were in diapers, she trusted them both implicitly. They understood she was different—Jazzy said she was special—and each stood by her, supported her, and loved her. They might not understand fully what she went through, but they understood better than anyone else ever had…anyone except Granny.

Some people didn’t believe in a sixth sense of any kind, and half of those who did believe in it were afraid of anyone they thought might have it. During her twenty-eight years, she’d been called some terrible names, as her maternal grandmother before her had been. Granny Butler had been ridiculed by those who didn’t understand she had little or no control over her psychic gifts. The ability to see things, to know things that should be impossible for her to see or know had been a mixed blessing, even a curse sometimes. Narrow-minded folks in Cherokee County had called her grandmother “the witch woman,” and many had been deathly afraid of her. But just as many had come to Granny, seeking her out for her special powers. And now those same people, as well as their children and grandchildren, often came to her. Sometimes she could help them; other times she either frightened them or sent them away without the help they’d been seeking.

She thanked the good Lord every day of her life that she’d had Granny to teach her, guide her, advise her, and protect her for so many years. Granny’s death six years ago had left a huge hole in Genny’s heart. She’d been two and Jacob eight when her mother had died in the same car wreck that had killed Jacob’s mother, leaving both children motherless. And since her own father had deserted her pregnant mother before Genny’s birth, Jacob’s father, Uncle Marcus, had been the only father she’d ever known.

During her years at Cherokee County High School, she’d tried to hide her abilities, had tried to fit in and be just one of the gang. But everyone had known about her grandmother. People had whispered behind her back, saying that Granny and she were witches. Jacob had gotten into numerous fist-fights defending their honor. How did you explain to people that you weren’t a witch, that you didn’t practice any type of magic, black or white?

The blood of a Cherokee shaman and a Celtic Druid princess had run in Granny Butler’s veins.

“Both my grandmothers had the sight. It skipped over your mother and your uncle Marcus and came right to you, just as it skipped over my mother and her siblings and came directly to me.” Granny had explained her unique inheritance to Genny when at six she had experienced her first vision.

Never a gregarious person and always one who enjoyed being alone, Genny had gravitated more and more to living a solitary life here in the massive old house where she and Jacob had grown up in Granny’s loving care.

Taking her heavy winter coat from the rack on the enclosed back porch, Genny headed for the door. The evening wind whistled around the corner of the cabin and cut into her skin like a thousand frigid little blades. She slipped into the coat hurriedly, grabbled in the pockets until she found her hat and gloves, then put them on. The moment she stepped into the backyard, Drudwyn came racing out of the woods that lay all around the half acre clearing where her great-grandfather had built a home for his family.

“Been visiting your lady friend again?” Genny asked as she reached down to stroke the huge dog’s head and back.

He gazed up at her with the eyes of a wolf, with his father’s eyes. She knew that someday he would leave her to run wild with the wolf pack that lived high in the mountains. She hadn’t seen Drudwyn’s leaving her in a vision, but she had sensed it several times lately when they spoke to each other. One of her several abilities was the rare gift of being able to communicate with animals. It wasn’t that she actually talked to animals and they replied; it was simply that she sensed what they thought and felt, and they in turn seemed able to do the same.

“I have to check the generators,” Genny said. “The electricity will likely go out tonight and I can’t have the greenhouses without power.”

Drudwyn followed at her side as she went through the routine of checking the generator and the greenhouses. Her livelihood depended upon those greenhouses, where she grew specialty flowers and various herbs that were sold locally and by mail-order throughout the country. She hadn’t expanded her nursery of shrubs and trees to her mail-order business, but had hopes of adding it in the near future. During the winter she and Wallace were able to handle everything, but come spring every year she hired a dozen part-time workers.

Wallace drove up from Cherokee Pointe every day except Sunday and Monday. He hadn’t made the drive today since today was Monday. Wallace was a hand-me-down employee from Granny. The old man had worked in the nursery for as long as Genny could remember. People in and around the area had been as unkind and cruel to Wallace because he was “slow-witted” as they had been to Granny because she was “fey.” It didn’t matter that Wallace was Farlan MacKinnon’s younger brother and the MacKinnons were one of the two wealthiest families in the county. Long ago Mr. Farlan had ceased trying to control his mentally impaired brother and simply let him do as he pleased. It had always pleased Wallace to work for Melva Mae Butler.

Genny lifted an armful of wood from the huge stack at the back of the house and carried it inside to the box on the back porch. When the electricity went out—and it would. . .