His eyes flared. “My mother was a fallen woman. She cheated on my father, who was God’s prophet. A truly blessed soul. She deserved to die.”
Laurel pulled her right arm back, working the ropes. “Did you kill her?”
Robert shrugged. “God smote her. That’s all that matters.”
Quiet descended all around them, broken only by the rush of icy water against frozen rocks in the river. “You spoke about your father in past tense. Did you kill him, too?”
Robert’s head jerked back. “Of course not. I loved him. Only him. She killed him, and you know it.”
“Abigail?” Laurel angled her right elbow beneath the door handle. “You’re saying that your sister killed her own father.”
“I’m not saying anything,” Robert replied wearily. “She did kill him, and you’ll never catch her. Or rather, you never would’ve caught her, if you’d had the chance. You have to go, Laurel. You’re in the way.” He tapped a finger on her nose. “It’s unfortunate that you’re not blond.”
“Like your mother and the other dirty women?” Laurel asked, her mind focusing. Could she get inside his brain? “How did you feel when Abigail chose to wear a blond wig? Did she do that to hurt you?”
Robert nodded emphatically. “Of course, she did. She did that to torture me. Sometimes she’d change to a black or brown wig, but then she’d always return to the blond. So cruel.” Spittle dropped from his bottom lip and stuck in his beard. “You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with her any longer. For that, you should thank me.”
“You want me to thank you for killing me?” Laurel asked.
He lifted a shoulder. “Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to get back to church soon. My time of silent contemplation in the downstairs Zen garden can’t last too long.”
She gulped, her stomach rolling over. “Where is Kate, Robert? Tell me.”
“She’s near. I’ll bury you together, if you want,” he offered as if doing her a great favor.
Laurel closed her eyes. Pain slashed through her chest. Kate was dead? “How many women have there been?” She opened her eyes and tightened her injured shoulder.
“I don’t know. Probably around thirty,” he said carelessly. “Counting was never my thing.” He drew a knife out of the pocket of his door. “I much prefer a blade to a bullet, don’t you?”
“Did Casey Morgan prefer a blade?” Laurel asked, her stomach cramping.
He smiled, his eyes glowing. “If you want to know if she was one of mine, just ask.”
“Was she?” There had to be a way to get to safety.
“Oh, yeah,” he said softly, fondly. “She was a fighter, and man, I wish I could’ve made her death last longer. Although, she was also a mistake. My first kill.”
“So you moved on to prostitutes to perfect your sick game?” Laurel asked, her throat hurting.
He threw back his head and laughed, refocusing quickly. “Yes. That’s exactly what I did, and you never would’ve found those broken birds, those bodies, if the weather hadn’t helped you.”
Laurel moved fast, kicking her feet toward his face and nailing him in the nose. She jerked her shoulder down and her elbow up, opening the door and falling outside into the snow. She landed hard, performed a summersault, and bounded up on her feet. The world spun around her and she settled her stance, sucking in freezing cold air to center herself.
“You bitch.” Robert slammed his door and stomped through the snow around the front of the truck, blood pouring from his nose.
She glared. “That’s going to be hard to explain. Do you often get your nose broken during your silent contemplation at church?” She kept his attention on her face while she slid one leg back, more than ready to use her feet again. Her hands were still tied and she struggled furiously with the ropes. Her injured shoulder and her various bruises all clashed pain through her.
He lifted the knife and snarled. Blood dripped into his teeth, coating them red. He lunged for her, and she kicked him again, hitting him beneath the chin. He roared in anger and lunged, tackling her into the snow. Her butt hit first and then her head. He manacled her around the waist and lifted her to her feet, the knife at her throat.
Panic seized her, and she screamed.
“Hold it right there, brother.” Abigail Caine walked around a tree behind the truck, a Glock 43 with a pink slide in her uninjured hand. Her sprained wrist was still bandaged.
“Abby.” Robert turned them both toward her. “What are you doing here?”
Abigail wore tufted snow boots over dark jeans and a long wool coat zipped up tightly. “I saw you run my sister off the road and I followed you, parking in the hollow on the other side of these trees.” The snow was up to her thighs but she continued to push through it, her gun hand steady. “You don’t think I’m going to let you hurt my sister, do you? How could you? After everything I’ve done for you?” She kept moving.
“For me?” Robert spat, throwing his free hand in the air. “Are you kidding me? You killedmyfather. Our father.”
