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Authors: Kay Hooper
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boundaries.”
“Especially at times like now?” he suggested. “On the drive down here, all I heard on the radio was about all those young women abducted and killed in the mountains. Four dead so far, with two more missing.”
Her face tightened slightly, but her voice remained calm. “Yeah, we’re keeping in touch on that account. The girls have been taken along the southern part of the Blue Ridge, with abduction and dump sites miles apart. Hard to track, maybe even impossible, but they think he’s moving south.”
Deacon half nodded. “I know there’s an FBI team working that case, including a couple of very good profilers. But it’s the kind of case that can drag on for months, even years.”
“God, don’t say that,” she muttered. “Six women abducted since just after Christmas, four of them already dead—and the last four taken awfully close together in the timeline. That’s not just efficient; that’s scary efficient.”
“And scary prolific,” Deacon said. “I don’t see how he can keep to this pace much longer, but if he does . . . a lot more women are going to die.”
“He’s operating in a wilderness, and so far that’s worked for him. But all the media coverage coupled with rangers, cops, feds, and even private investigators and bounty hunters crawling all over the mountains, plus helicopters buzzing overhead during the day, is bound to shrink his victim pool.”
“They’ll stop making it easy for him,” Deacon agreed. “No more hikers or motorists stopping at lookouts or even rest stops. I heard the last two were taken from a pretty deserted rest stop.”
“Yeah, and now every rest stop along the Blue Ridge and the general area is being manned by state cops or rangers, twenty-four-seven.”
“A sensible precaution.”
“It could drive him down into the towns to hunt, you know that. And there are way too many small, isolated mountain towns where hunting would be relatively easy for him.”
“Like Sociable?” Deacon said.
“Like Sociable.”
—
CATHY SIMMONS NORMALLY took a brisk walk before work nearly every day, weather permitting, and used the gym three times a week, usually after work. But since Scott’s death, she had noticed she wasn’t the only one electing not to be out walking or jogging alone.
The gym was crowded for a Thursday morning; it was a good thing she’d taken an early lunch, or she probably wouldn’t have gotten a treadmill to herself.
Since there was a line waiting to use the equipment, she didn’t linger but did a brisk thirty-minute walk, then gave up the machine and went to the locker room for a quick shower. She figured if she hurried, she’d have time to stop in next door for a salad or a half sub, even if she had to eat it in the break room at the bank—
“Hey, Cathy.”
She started, swearing inwardly. “Hey, Jackson.”
“Did I scare you? I’m sorry.” Jackson Ruppe was a big man who towered over most everyone around him, but he was also the stereotypical gentle giant—unless he intercepted a bully or someone otherwise picking on the smaller and weaker.
Cathy could remember at least once in junior high when a couple of the “mean” girls had been verbally picking on her near her locker; Cathy had been to the point of tears when the girls had suddenly shut up and melted into the crowd. And Cathy hadn’t been very surprised to turn and find Jackson looming.
He had smiled, winked, and gone on his way before she could even say thank you. And whether he had done something else or merely made his protection obvious, she had never again had to worry about being picked on—at school or outside it.
Smiling, she said, “I’m just jumpy. I think a lot of people are right now. Bad enough Scott’s gone, but not knowing who killed him has everyone on edge.”
“Yeah, that’s all anybody’s talking about down in the valley.” Jackson worked on his family’s horse ranch, raising and training beautiful Arabians that
“Especially at times like now?” he suggested. “On the drive down here, all I heard on the radio was about all those young women abducted and killed in the mountains. Four dead so far, with two more missing.”
Her face tightened slightly, but her voice remained calm. “Yeah, we’re keeping in touch on that account. The girls have been taken along the southern part of the Blue Ridge, with abduction and dump sites miles apart. Hard to track, maybe even impossible, but they think he’s moving south.”
Deacon half nodded. “I know there’s an FBI team working that case, including a couple of very good profilers. But it’s the kind of case that can drag on for months, even years.”
“God, don’t say that,” she muttered. “Six women abducted since just after Christmas, four of them already dead—and the last four taken awfully close together in the timeline. That’s not just efficient; that’s scary efficient.”
“And scary prolific,” Deacon said. “I don’t see how he can keep to this pace much longer, but if he does . . . a lot more women are going to die.”
“He’s operating in a wilderness, and so far that’s worked for him. But all the media coverage coupled with rangers, cops, feds, and even private investigators and bounty hunters crawling all over the mountains, plus helicopters buzzing overhead during the day, is bound to shrink his victim pool.”
“They’ll stop making it easy for him,” Deacon agreed. “No more hikers or motorists stopping at lookouts or even rest stops. I heard the last two were taken from a pretty deserted rest stop.”
“Yeah, and now every rest stop along the Blue Ridge and the general area is being manned by state cops or rangers, twenty-four-seven.”
“A sensible precaution.”
“It could drive him down into the towns to hunt, you know that. And there are way too many small, isolated mountain towns where hunting would be relatively easy for him.”
“Like Sociable?” Deacon said.
“Like Sociable.”
—
CATHY SIMMONS NORMALLY took a brisk walk before work nearly every day, weather permitting, and used the gym three times a week, usually after work. But since Scott’s death, she had noticed she wasn’t the only one electing not to be out walking or jogging alone.
The gym was crowded for a Thursday morning; it was a good thing she’d taken an early lunch, or she probably wouldn’t have gotten a treadmill to herself.
Since there was a line waiting to use the equipment, she didn’t linger but did a brisk thirty-minute walk, then gave up the machine and went to the locker room for a quick shower. She figured if she hurried, she’d have time to stop in next door for a salad or a half sub, even if she had to eat it in the break room at the bank—
“Hey, Cathy.”
She started, swearing inwardly. “Hey, Jackson.”
“Did I scare you? I’m sorry.” Jackson Ruppe was a big man who towered over most everyone around him, but he was also the stereotypical gentle giant—unless he intercepted a bully or someone otherwise picking on the smaller and weaker.
Cathy could remember at least once in junior high when a couple of the “mean” girls had been verbally picking on her near her locker; Cathy had been to the point of tears when the girls had suddenly shut up and melted into the crowd. And Cathy hadn’t been very surprised to turn and find Jackson looming.
He had smiled, winked, and gone on his way before she could even say thank you. And whether he had done something else or merely made his protection obvious, she had never again had to worry about being picked on—at school or outside it.
Smiling, she said, “I’m just jumpy. I think a lot of people are right now. Bad enough Scott’s gone, but not knowing who killed him has everyone on edge.”
“Yeah, that’s all anybody’s talking about down in the valley.” Jackson worked on his family’s horse ranch, raising and training beautiful Arabians that
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