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  KILLER ON THE LOOSE

  “Is there any connection to your department?” Pauline asked. “Some kind of grievance against the police that may have instigated this attack?”

  “The similarities between this case and the one last February would make that unlikely,” September answered.

  “Are you saying the two crimes are definitely connected, Detective?”

  “The MO would suggest that.”

  “Not a copycat?”

  “There are pieces of information that we purposely with-held that we believe only the same person would know. Our working theory is that it’s one killer.”

  “And a woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s surprising that the killer is a woman,” Pauline said in a voice that implied September was giving her a load of bull. “How is she attacking these men, and why?”

  “As soon as we have some answers, we’ll let the public know.”

  “Do we have some deranged serial killer in our midst once again? Should we be locking our doors against this woman?”

  She was digging away. Trying to worm any information from September that she could. But there wasn’t much more to say. Unfortunately, September was running more on feeling than fact, and how this woman targeted her victims was still a mystery....

  Books by Nancy Bush

  CANDY APPLE RED

  ELECTRIC BLUE

  ULTRAVIOLET

  WICKED GAME

  WICKED LIES

  UNSEEN

  BLIND SPOT

  HUSH

  NOWHERE TO RUN

  NOWHERE TO HIDE

  SOMETHING WICKED

  NOWHERE SAFE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Nowhere Safe

  NANCY BUSH

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  KILLER ON THE LOOSE

  Books by Nancy Bush

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  The ground was hard, cold, and damp beneath him. He came to slowly, hearing the rustle of leaves around him and feeling a chill breeze against his arms that made his breath shake and his body quiver. He focused straight ahead, staring down the length of his own bare legs to his toes, now bluish in tone. As he registered his nakedness he watched orange and russet and gold leaves eddying away, a small tornado rushing up against the chain-link fence that separated the school yard from the street.

  He was inside, looking out, and his surroundings came into full focus with a rush of recognition.

  Twin Oaks Elementary School.

  “Shit . . .” he whispered, cold panic flooding through his veins.

  He tried to leap to his feet and smacked his head against the metal pole behind him. Yowling in pain, he momentarily saw stars and squinched his eyes closed. He heard something fluttering overhead and opened one eye to see a woven basketball hoop dancing in the stiff breeze. He was sitting on the concrete basketball court, he realized, and the ache in his arms was because they were bound behind him, around the pole. His wrists throbbed from the pressure, his flesh pinched from the hard bindings.

  Gulping in fear, he could feel his heart galloping inside his chest. He was inside the playground, tied to a pole . . . at the school where he was employed.

  Blinking, jerking his body around, his eyes frantically searched his surroundings for an answer. He realized belatedly that he did have some clothing on. His boxer shorts. Nothing else.

  That bitch. That bitch who’d zapped him with the stun gun! She’d done this. Tied him here on purpose. What had she said when he’d asked her who the hell she was? What had she said?

  “I’m Lucky.”

  Christ. Oh, my God. Jesus Christ. Oh, God! If the kids saw him like this . . . the staff? How would he explain it? What could he do?

  My God . . . my God . . .

  He strained against the bindings and slowly got his feet under him with an effort, tiny bits of dirt and gravel digging into his soles. Straining, he slid his arms up the pole until he was at his full height. But that put his upper body above the hedge outside the chain-link fence and made him more visible to the street. Did he want to be seen? In the hope that someone would help him?

  Hell, no.

  He sank back down to the ground with a thud, jarring his tailbone. His teeth chattered spasmodically. He couldn’t stop them. He was freezing and shuddering with fear.

  There was a placard around his neck. With dread he looked down, knowing what it said, strangely hoping he had it wrong though he’d written it himself because she’d forced him to! Dipping his chin, he could make out the bottom words—I CAN’T HAVE—and it wrung a tortured cry from his soul.

  That fucking bitch! She’d done this to him! She’d made him drink the drug that had knocked him out, and now he cringed inside, recalling the way he’d begged her to let him go, pleaded with her for mercy. She’d strapped him into the passenger seat of his own van when he’d been disabled by the shock, tying him down, and when he’d feebly fought her, she’d zapped him again. But he’d refused to drink her concoction. Wasn’t going to let her take her damn abduction to another level. Wouldn’t do it!

  So she’d held up the gun and pressed the button and he’d heard the crackle, smelled the scent of dangerous electricity, seen the determination in her eyes. He’d babbled on and on, promising her things he could never deliver on, anything to be set free. He told her she had the wrong man. Whatever her deal was, he wasn’t the right guy. There was some error here. She must realize that, right?

  Her answer had been a hard, “No mistake, Stefan,” and he’d gone slack-jawed at the sound of his own name. She knew him? She’d specifically targeted him?

  She’d waited then, the drink in one hand, the stun gun in the other. He’d tried to reason with her once more and had screamed when she’d lost patience and hit him with the stun gun a third time. Everything he’d said to her fell on deaf ears. She wouldn’t listen to him. She just didn’t care.

  So, he’d drunk the small cup of fluid she’d held to his mouth. All of it, because he believed her when she added coolly, “Spit it out and you’re a dead man.”

  The bitch was capable of anything.

  And now he’d woken up at the school—his school!—hours later. Who the hell was she? Well, fuck that, he didn’t have time to care. He had to get out of this predicament. Before classes started. Before the sky grew any lighter.

  Moving his hands, he realized the binding was plastic zip-ties. Like the kind his stepsister and brother—the goddamned cops—used as handcuffs if they didn’t have the real thing, or they just needed another pair. Handcuffed . . . How the hell was he going to get
free?

  And then he thought of the young girls, coming to school in their little dresses and shoes, their hair shining, their faces soft and pink. He’d only wanted one . . . just for a little while . . . just to love her.

  They couldn’t see him like this!

  He struggled once more, aware that the bitch knew of his secret desires. How? He’d been so careful. She was getting some kind of payback here, but he hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t. Yes, he’d taken those pictures of his stepniece in the bath, but he’d never touched her! Never.

  Only because you didn’t get the chance . . .

  Cold tears collected in his eyes and he tried to blink them away. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

  The bitch had assured him the drink wouldn’t kill him, so he’d complied. What else could he do? But now . . . now he almost wished it had killed him. He couldn’t have people know.

  He started crying in earnest, sick with fear. And then he heard the footsteps. Someone jogging, nearing him, just on the other side of the hedge. He looked up urgently and saw a man in a stocking hat running by. As if feeling Stefan’s gaze, he glanced over and nearly stumbled, his mouth dropping open in surprise, his breath exhaling in a plume.

  “Hey!” the man called. “You okay?”

  No . . . no . . . He was never going to be okay.

  With every ounce of fortitude he possessed, Stefan put a smile on his trembling lips. “Stupid prank . . . Can’t . . . get free. Can you . . . help?”

  Immediately, the man turned back around and circumvented the wall of greenery that barricaded the school from the street. Stefan’s back was to him as he approached, but he imagined him jogging up the sidewalk, crossing the grass at the front of the building, then looping toward the playground. He could hear his pounding steps as he hit the concrete and then he was in front of Stefan, breathing hard, his hands on his knees. “Holy God, man,” he said. “Whoever did this is no friend. You could freeze to death!” He stood up and dug a cell phone from a zippered pocket, his eyes drifting to the sign around Stefan’s neck.

  “Who . . . rrrrr . . . ya callin’?” Stefan chattered.

  “Nine-one-one. Jesus . . .”

  No. No!

  But it was too late, the man had connected and Stefan wildly racked his brain for a possible explanation. He couldn’t stick with the prank idea. He would have to come up with names if he did, some reason he felt it had all been done in “fun.” That wasn’t going to work. He had to come up with a Plan B.

  Minutes later a Laurelton Police Department Jeep, light bar flashing in the gray light of morning, wheeled to a sharp stop in front of the school. Stefan was sweating. Fine. Good. Get here and get him the hell free because soon, soon, the kids would be arriving. Hurry, he thought, his new story in place, ready to tell. Hurry.

  The jogger waved the cop over just as an ambulance came screaming up the road. An ambulance—shit. He didn’t want to go to the hospital. Too much attention. Oh, God . . .

  The uniform bent down and looked him in the face. He was young. Dressed in dark blue, his expression stern. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here.” He pulled out a knife to cut the zip-ties. “What happened?”

  The jogger looked about to speak up.

  “I was robbed,” Stefan cut in, a very real quaver to his voice. “He knocked me out and took my clothes and my wallet and left me here.”

  The jogger’s head jerked around. “Man, I thought you said it was a prank.”

  “A very dangerous one,” the cop said repressively as he cut through the ties. Stefan’s arms flopped down to his sides, damn near impossible to lift.

  The uniform helped Stefan to his feet, as two EMTs wheeled a gurney his way. Behind the ambulance Stefan saw a first car arrive at the school, its headlights washing the hedge and the ambulance and the cop car, still with its lights flashing. The EMTs helped Stefan onto the gurney. Fine. Cover me up, he silently begged, pulling the placard from around his neck with rubbery arms. Better for them to think he was ill.

  “Not a prank, eh?” the uniform asked, taking the placard in his gloved hand.

  The van? Where was his van? That fucking bitch took his van!

  Sensing the cop’s hard eyes on him, Stefan muttered, “He jumped me and took everything I had,” as the EMTs pushed him toward the waiting ambulance. A flutter of worry arose in his chest as he thought of his cell phone. She had it. But at least the pictures he’d taken weren’t on it any longer. He’d made prints, removed the images, and even the prints were gone now, too.

  I WANT WHAT I CAN’ T HAVE, the uniform read as the gurney rattled away from the playground, the words filling Stefan with dread, following after him like a bad smell.

  How the hell was he going to explain the placard?

  He had a momentary vision of being hauled down to the Laurelton Police Department and being grilled by September, or even worse, her twin brother, August—both cops.

  A groan of pure misery erupted from his throat as the doors to the ambulance slammed shut behind him.

  It just wasn’t fair!

  Chapter One

  Someone other than Guy was manning the desk as September passed through the front doors of the Laurelton Police Department. Someone new who gazed at September a bit anxiously, as if knowing there was a tiny war going on between Guy Urlacher, the usual gatekeeper, and all of the department detectives as Guy was such a goddamn stickler for protocol that everyone wanted to throttle him. September’s partner, Gretchen Sandler, who was currently on administrative leave for shooting the man who’d been in the process of stabbing September ten days earlier, was fierce enough that whenever she gave Guy the evil eye, he would back down and let her pass without showing her ID. Not so September, who was fairly new to the department and, well, a nicer person than Gretchen. Guy demanded her ID even if she’d just gone out for lunch. He truly was a pain in the ass.

  “Where’s Guy?” September asked the new woman, whose name tag read GAYLE.

  “Sick with the flu, I guess,” she answered. “It’s my first day,” she added unnecessarily.

  Without being asked, September pulled out her ID and Gayle looked relieved that someone was going to be cooperative. But then September said, “Memorize my face,” as she turned toward the hallway that led to the inner workings of the Laurelton PD. “Urlacher tries to make us show our ID every time we go by the front desk and it ticks everyone off.”

  “Detective Pelligree said it’s department policy.”

  September paused before pushing through the door. “Wes is screwing with you. Trust me. Urlacher bugs him more than anyone.”

  “Oh.”

  Gayle looked like she didn’t believe her and September let it go. She’d given the woman good advice. It was her decision whether to take it or not.

  September went directly to the break room, found her locker, set down her messenger bag, which she carried like a briefcase these days because of her injury, and eased out of her jacket. The wound at her shoulder was healing fine but it still hurt like fire sometimes. She’d been told to take more time off, but after the past week of being a semi-invalid at her boyfriend’s house, she’d thought she might go out of her mind. Jake knew better than to be too solicitous; she might just bite his head off. Still, she’d been relieved every time he left for work and she had the place to herself—which didn’t bode well for their long-term living situation. Was she just too used to being by herself? Or, was it being under someone’s care that she couldn’t stomach?

  She hoped it was the latter.

  “Tell me you’re coming back to work,” Detective George Thompkins expelled in relief as he saw her enter the squad room, his chair protesting as he swiveled his bulk around.

  “I’m coming back to work.”

  “My prayers have been answered,” he said, watching a bit worriedly at the careful way she moved into her desk chair.

  September sent him a reassuring smile. “You look like you haven’t slept in days,” she said, to
which he gave a loud snort.

  “I haven’t.”

  No need to ask why. The detective squad was down in numbers, and though Wes “Weasel” Pelligree, who’d been seriously injured on a job the previous summer, had just returned to work on a part-time basis, September had been out for the last ten days, and her partner, Gretchen Sandler, was going to be off for a while. Auggie, September’s brother and another detective with the Laurelton PD, was currently on semipermanent loan to the Portland police. All of which left George doing pretty much all the detective work. Since he preferred sitting on his butt in front of his computer to any sort of fieldwork, September could just imagine how the days had been for him.

  “Where’s Wes?” she asked.

  “Around. He got a call about some guy tied to a pole.”

  September had been looking at the jumble of papers on her desk, notes left by Candy in admin along with messages and papers that George had dumped there as well. There was even a memo from Lieutenant D’Annibal, asking her to check with him as soon as she got in, which looked like it might have been left yesterday. But her head snapped up at George’s last comment. “Tied to a pole?”

  “Yeah, I know. You were working on that other case.”

  “The postman who was stripped down and tied to a flagpole. Died of exposure.”

  George nodded. “Same thing with this guy but he was left at an elementary school.”

  She sucked in a breath. “What school?”

  “Check with Weasel. He left about an hour ago to go talk to the vic.”

  September had already snatched up her desk phone and was punching in the numbers for Wes’s cell. The line rang about four times before he answered, “Pelligree.”

  “Wes, it’s September. You got a guy tied to a pole? At an elementary school?”