“He’s been going through a rough time. He was captured by terrorists, lost his brother, and then received a public beating by a former colleague. He needed a friend. I’ve known him since he was five years old-please don’t make me choose between you.”
Jones grew more agitated. He rose to his feet, almost losing his balance on the bobbing boat. “I just get really jealous when I see you with him. I wish you wouldn’t see him.”
Gwen stood and walked to him. She’d never felt so vulnerable in her life. “Kyle, you are the man in my life. JP is the past. He’s the one who should be jealous of you, not the other way around.”
He peered at Gwen with a chilling look.
“What about your old girlfriend in Arizona? What was her name-Lucy something-or-other? Maybe I should be the jealous one.”
“How do you know about Lucy?”
“You told me about her,” she replied, trying to sound casual.
“I never told you about Lucy.”
“How else would I know about some old girlfriend of yours? I’m a good reporter, but not that good. I don't even know her last name.”
“Are you prying into my past, Gwen?”
“No different than you checking with the hospital about me. But if you have nothing to hide, then why are you so upset? I thought you said I could trust you, Kyle? I went out on a limb to tell you about Betsy O’Rourke being involved in the Leeds case.”
He took a deep breath. “You can, Gwen … I’m sorry. I just have never felt this way about a woman before, and I guess it makes me a little crazy.”
A little?
“Not even Holly from the bowling alley?”
“Not the way I feel about you.”
“Then why can’t you just say you love me, Kyle Jones? Do you love me?”
Jones stared at her with his creepy eyes. “Of course.”
“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say you love me. I need to hear the words.”
A strange look came over his face. Most of his looks were either placid or strange, but this one she never saw before. “I’ll do better than that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small jewelry box. He then knelt down on the boat deck. “Gwen Delaney, will you marry me?”
She stood silent, but horrified. She sure didn’t count on this. She didn’t know what to do-she had to say something.
As she attempted to stutter an answer, she was rescued by the ring of her phone.
“Don’t answer it,” Jones pleaded.
Gwen was torn and nervous. “It might be about Tommy,” she said and took the call. On the other end was JP. He’d saved her again.
Gwen spoke into the phone, “I’m fine, thanks for asking … we’re out on a boat on Silver Lake … in Ocracoke Island where Kyle lives … I’m fine, just a little tired … I’m in the middle of something, can I call you back? … Okay … talk to you later.”
She ended the call, and looked at Jones. “It was my father.”
He angrily shut the ring box. “Don’t lie to me, Gwen. That was him.” He rose from his kneeling position and turned his back to her.
Gwen moved over to him, struggling with her footing on the bobbing boat. She rested her hand tenderly on his shoulder. “You are right, Kyle, it was JP. But that doesn’t change how I feel about you. Maybe it was just a sign from above that we’re not ready for marriage.”
He pushed her hand away. His shoulders slumped as he moved to the anchor and began to hoist it.
“Come on, Kyle-it’s such a beautiful night.”
“We must go,” he said, still refusing to look at her.
“Back to your house?”
“No, back to Rockfield. I just have to pick up a few things at the house and then we can leave.”
“Please don’t be angry with me, Kyle. Let’s stay.”
“Don’t talk to me, Gwen,” he said in a hurt voice.
Chapter 55
After about thirty minutes, the “lovebirds” came out of the house. Gwen wore a string bikini that made the trip worth it for Carter. But then she put on a baggy sweatshirt. There was always a catch.
They left the house in his pickup truck with sailboat trailing behind. Carter knew if he planned to kill her on the water, there was nothing he could do about it. So he stayed behind to check out the insides of the beach house.
He wasn’t sure how he would get in. That was, until he noticed that Jones did him a favor by cracking open his bedroom window. The sloppiness didn’t seem to match JP’s scouting report on Jones. Perhaps that bikini was messing with his mind.
He scaled the outside of the house, using a paracord climbing-rope he always kept in his backpack. He normally used it to tie people up, both enemies and girlfriends, rather than climbing. Also in the pack were his videophone, a gun (in case Jones came back), and a few bottles of beer (in case he didn’t).
Within ten minutes, he was standing in the master bedroom. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary, so he walked out to the main area of the house. Nothing unusual-just as he thought. He did a sweep of the bathroom, along with the other bedrooms. He only found Gwen’s bag, and her clothes folded neatly on the bed.
Carter was convinced the house was clean. He also knew that if they went sailing, they’d be gone for a while. He had time. He popped open a bottle of Corona with his teeth and sat on a chair in the living room. Part of him hoped Jones would return, so Carter could get some payback for their last meeting. The thought made him grin.
When he finished the beer, he decided to move on to his next mission-to find out if Ocracoke had any strip clubs-and returned to the master bedroom with plans to exit out of the same window he entered.
As he walked through the bedroom, something pulled him toward the closet. A sixth sense that had developed from his many years spent in the danger zone.
He stepped in the closet and moved the clothes out of the way, expecting to find someone hiding. Maybe Jones had a partner in crime. But what he found was a door with a complicated lock scheme. A piece of wood paneling was missing-obviously Jones wanted to keep this room secret. Which begged the question: why would he put so much effort into securing the room, yet leave it cracked open? He was pretty sure the credit should go to Gwen’s bikini.
Carter entered the room. It was small, eight by eight, and dark. He found a light switch and flipped it on.
The photos on the wall illuminated. Some he knew, some he didn’t. The Xs drawn over the faces weren’t subtle.
Carter continued to scan the photos and remembered JP telling about the unlucky fireman named Casey Leeds. Another picture was a friend of a friend, which puzzled him. Didn’t he die in a freak accident in front of numerous witnesses?
The picture of Senator Craig Kingsbury with his face crossed out dropped his mouth. But then his logical side kicked in, and he grew skeptical. It was unlikely a simple cop could get so close to a US senator. He must have been celebrating their deaths with his hit list, but involvement in some wasn’t possible.
He walked to a cork bulletin board. It was full of push-pinned newspaper articles about the deceased members from the wall of fame. Some were old and had turned a shade of yellow. The most recent were a New York Times article on the demise of Craig Kingsbury and the Rockfield Gazette story on the death of Noah Warner.
The article refocused Carter on Noah’s photo. He was captivated by the resemblance to JP. He could smell the fresh smell of magic marker and his anger boiled once more.
The only piece of furniture in the room was a cheap, plastic bookshelf. On it sat a three-ringed binder. Carter placed his backpack next to the bookshelf and picked up the binder. He opened it and began to read. It was quite a page-turner, to say the least.
Any doubts of Jones’ involvement evaporated. It detailed each murder in horrific detail, outlining his deepest thoughts, perverted reasons, and sickening joy of the acts. Unless Jones was writing fiction, he was more than some small town menace-he was on his way to becoming one of the most notorious murderers in history!