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  Last Words

  Mariah Stewart

  THIS KILLER TAKES THEIR BREATH AWAY.

  A nine-year veteran of the FBI, special agent Mia Shields thinks she’s seen it all. But nothing prepares her for the terror that descends upon the idyllic bayside community of St. Dennis, on Maryland ‘s Eastern Shore, where a depraved killer has left a grisly surprise for Chief of Police Gabriel Beck: the body of an unidentified woman, naked and completely encased in plastic wrap, stretched across the backseat of Beck’s car. Hidden in the wrapping is a tape recording of the victim’s last, gasping words, terrifying evidence of the horror endured at the hands of a madman. Soon the body count begins to rise as more victims are found, all gruesomely cocooned, their final pleas also captured on tape.

  Determined to catch the sadistic killer, Beck and Mia team up and set a trap – with Mia as bait. But their prey is closer than they ever could have imagined. Now Beck must race against time to save Mia from becoming the next victim of a serial killer as elusive as he is evil.

  Mariah Stewart

  Last Words

  The second book in the Last series, 2007

  For Laurie, self-proclaimed stalker/fan, and Elsie, her sister, who tries to keep her in line

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to C. J. Lyons, M.D. (and author of medical suspense novels), for so patiently answering all my questions about the decomposition of the human body under extraordinary conditions.

  Prologue

  July 2005

  He leaned a little closer to the mirror, checking for signs of five o’clock shadow, tilting his head this way and that to satisfy himself there was no stubble to sully his image. He washed his hands and dried them on the beige hand towel his wife had hung on the bar that morning, then adjusted the collar of his polo shirt and straightened his shoulders.

  He did look fine.

  “Honey?” His wife called from the hall. “Are you watching the time?”

  “Not closely enough, apparently.” He called back, taking one more glance in the mirror before snapping off the bathroom light.

  “Don’t forget to say good night to the kids,” she called over her shoulder.

  “I won’t.” He fought to keep the touch of annoyance from his voice. As if he’d forget.

  God, but she was annoying sometimes.

  He poked his head into the kids’ rooms. If he’d been an honest man, he’d have admitted that the delay was more to let the excitement within him continue to build than to have an extra ten minutes with his children. But he was far from honest, and so divided the time equally between them before reminding both to finish their homework and say their prayers before they turned off their lights at bedtime.

  “See you at breakfast,” he promised as he headed downstairs.

  “I wish your out-of-town clients could show up during normal business hours,” his wife complained when he came into the kitchen. She was rinsing the dinner dishes before stacking them methodically in the dishwasher and didn’t bother to turn around when he came into the room. He fought an almost overwhelming urge to bash in the back of her skull with a heavy object. Which fortunately-or unfortunately, depending-was not within reach.

  “What’s the big deal?” He patted her on the butt with what he hoped would pass for affection, “It’s barely seven. And you know very well it’s not unusual to see clients in the early evening hours.”

  “Well, it just seems you’re out more and more in the evenings.” She turned to him. “But I guess I should be grateful you get home every night to have dinner.”

  “You know how strongly I feel about families sitting down at the table together at the end of the day.” He opened his briefcase and pretended to be looking for something. “And I probably don’t need to remind you that you work through dinner more often than I do.”

  “Not my idea,” she protested.

  “Not the point.” He closed his briefcase with a snap.

  “I don’t get to set my own hours,” she reminded him.

  “I’m aware of that. I’m not finding fault. I’m just saying that sometimes if I leave work early to spend time with the kids, I have to make up that time later, which is what I’m doing tonight. It’s a trade-off, that’s all. I know you don’t have that luxury.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll try not to be too late.”

  He kissed her cheek and walked out the door that led to the garage. On the way, he took a deep, healthy breath of fresh air. It smelled of lavender and late summer roses, and underneath it all it smelled of freedom. Of promise. Of something wicked and yet oh-so-fulfilling.

  He drove carefully through town, stopping at the stop sign at the end of his street, and waving casually to a neighbor. He made a left at the first light and went on to his office, where he parked his car and went inside. Leaving the lights on inside-anyone passing by would think he was working late, as he often did-he slipped out the back door and walked to his destination. It took him a while, and he was mildly winded by the time he arrived.

  Unlocking the padlock he’d installed after his last visitor had almost departed on her own, he stepped into the dark.

  “Honey, I’m home.” He singsonged as his hands reached up for the flashlight he’d left on a hook on the right side of the wall. “Did you miss me?”

  His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor and he walked slowly, following the stream of light deeper into the building, letting the anticipation build in him-and the fear in her. He stopped when he came to a doorway, and stood still, sniffing the air, as a dog might, seeking the scent that a woman gave off when she was terrified.

  There, there it was.

  Lovely.

  He stepped into the room and paused to light the candles on the makeshift dresser that stood along one wall. Inside, her clothes were folded and stacked. She would no longer have a need for them but he didn’t have the heart to toss them out, so he’d washed them and put them away neatly.

  “I missed you all day, sweetheart. I couldn’t think about anything or anyone except you.” He knelt down next to the bed. “About being here with you, just like this.”

  She struggled against the restraints, her eyes wide with fear, her cries muffled by the gag that protruded from her mouth.

  “Oh, look at you.” He tsk-tsked softly. “You’ve soiled yourself again. What am I going to do with you?”

  He left the room for several moments, then returned with the garden hose.

  “We’re just going to have to give you a little shower, aren’t we?” He smiled. “Can’t have you getting all snuggly with your man, looking like that.”

  He unlocked the shackles on her ankles, then one of the restraints that tied her wrists to the bedpost. Forcing her to stand on unsteady legs, he moved her as far away from the bed as he could, stretching the arm that was still attached to the bed as far as it would stretch. When he realized that he couldn’t hose her down without getting the mattress wet, he debated momentarily before releasing her other arm. He knew her legs wouldn’t support her even if she had the strength to try to get away-which she obviously wasn’t about to do-and led her several feet to the right before turning on the nozzle.

  The first blast of cold water hit her right in the middle, and she cried out, raising her arms to shield her eyes as best she could.

  “Now, now, sweetheart, this will just take a minute.” He turned her around to hose off her back and the backs of her thighs. “And you know, if you hadn’t been such a naughty girl, this wouldn’t be necessary.”

  He walked around her with the hose, enjoying her efforts to avoid getting the harsh spray in her face. When he was done, he dried her off with one of several towels he kept there for this purpose.

  He noted the red welts all over her body. “The m
osquitoes have really been feasting on you this week, haven’t they? Maybe if you’re nice to me, I’ll bring something to put on those bites. They really are unattractive, you know.”

  He forced her stiff legs to carry her back to the bed. Tiny tears rolled down her face as she submitted to the humiliation of having her arms locked above her head once again. The shackles were not, however, refastened to her legs.

  He stood and took off his polo shirt in one motion and placed it on the back of the chair he’d brought here when he first decided to feather his love nest. His shoes were next, then his pants, which were also carefully folded and then laid on top of the shirt.

  “Like what you see, sugar?” He leaned down and touched the face of the woman on the bed. “I know you do, baby. And it’s all yours. All for you…”

  He eased himself down on top of her, his breathing coming faster now.

  “And if you’re a good girl, after I’m finished with you, maybe I’ll give you some water. Would you like that?”

  The woman struggled inside her bonds. The sounds she made were choked, incoherent.

  “Yes, I know you would. Now, are you going to be a good girl?”

  She nodded her head with as much vigor as she could muster.

  He chuckled and pulled the gag from her mouth.

  “Now, sweetheart, you know that-”

  She spat in his face.

  At first he froze, then he laughed. “Well, well, we still have a little fight in us, do we? Baby, you ought to know there’s nothing that turns me on more than a little bit of fight.”

  He shoved the gag back into her protesting mouth. Before he forced himself inside her, he reached under the bed, seeking the recorder he kept there. Once located, it was activated with the touch of a finger.

  “Later, baby,” he whispered over her muted cries. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later…”

  1

  Two years later

  The sun was just rising, hot and round, tentacles of color wrapping around the early morning sky like fingers around an orange. From his kitchen window, Gabriel Beck watched the pinks turn coral then red.

  Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.

  “Oh, yeah,” he grumbled under his breath. “This sailor’s taking warning…”

  The coffeepot beeped to announce its brew was ready, and he poured into the waiting St. Dennis Chamber of Commerce DISCOVER SAINT DENNIS! mug. He unlocked the back door then stepped onto the small deck and inhaled deeply. Early June in a bay town had scents all its own, and he loved every one of them. Wild roses mixed with salt air, peonies, and whatever the tide deposited on the narrow stretch of coarse sand that passed as beach overnight. It was heady, and along with the coffee he sipped, was all he really needed to start his day off right.

  His cell phone rang and he patted his pocket for it, then remembered he’d left it on the kitchen counter. He went back inside, the screen door slamming behind him.

  “Beck.”

  “Chief, I hate to do this to you so early in the morning, but we have a two-vehicle tangle out on Route 33,” Police Sergeant Lisa Singer reported.

  “Injuries?”

  “One of the drivers is complaining of back pain. We’re waiting for the ambulance. Traffic’s really light right now, but if we can’t get these cars out of here within the hour, we’re going to have a mess. I’ve got Duncan directing traffic around the accident but it’s going to get hairy here before too much longer.”

  “Christ, the Harbor Festival.” So much for starting the day off right. “I’ll call Hal and see if he can come in a little early today.”

  Beck tossed back the rest of the coffee and set the mug in the sink. “You called Krauser’s for a tow truck?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t get an answer. I called the service and asked them to page Frank, but I haven’t heard back yet.”

  “I’ll have Hal stop by on his way in, see if he can shake someone loose. Chances are Frank left his pager on the front seat of his car and he and the boys are outside shooting the shit and no one’s opened the office yet.”

  “That’s pretty much what I was thinking.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Beck turned off the coffeepot and the kitchen light, then headed out to his Jeep, his phone in his hand. Once behind the wheel, he punched in the speed-dial for Hal Garrity as he backed out of his driveway. Hal, one-time chief of police in St. Dennis, Maryland, was now happily retired but always agreeable to working part-time hours in the summer when the tourists invaded the small town on the Chesapeake Bay. At sixty-five, he was still in fine shape, still took pride in being a good cop, and had no problem taking direction from his successor. After all, he’d been instrumental in hiring Beck.

  Hal answered on the first ring. He was already on his way in to the station, but was just as happy to head out to the accident scene, and wouldn’t mind a stop at Krauser’s Auto Body to check up on that tow truck. Beck smiled when the call ended. As much as Hal loved retirement, he sure did love playing cop now and then.

  The narrow streets of St. Dennis were waist-high in an eerie mist that had yet to be burned off by the still rising sun. Wisps of white, caught in the headlights, were tossed about by Beck’s old Jeep, the ragged pieces floating across Charles Street, the main road that ran through the village, from the highway straight on out to the bridge over the inlet that led to Cannonball Island. Here in the center of town all was unbroken silence. No other cars were on the street, no shops opened, no pedestrians passed by. All was still. Peaceful.

  This was the St. Dennis Beck loved, the one he remembered when he thought about moving back two years ago. But, with all the renovations, and every available building being bought up and fixed up and turned into one fancy shop or another, the St. Dennis he’d known would someday be little more than a fond memory. Now, though, in the early morning hours, before the tourists came out and the shop lights went on, the village was his home again. Peaceful, the way it was supposed to be.

  Except for that damned traffic accident out on the highway, and knowing that by nine this morning the first of the tourists would arrive. They would be eager to spend their money in the picturesque boutiques and crowd his peaceful streets as they did every day starting in the middle of April and going strong right on through till Christmas. Today would be especially lively.

  Beck checked the time. It was not quite six. The third annual Harbor Festival officially began at two that afternoon, but soon the first cars would begin to pull into the free parking lots across from the municipal building, and the early arrivals would descend on one of the three eateries in town that opened for breakfast.

  He made a left onto Kelly’s Point Road and eased slowly down the narrow stretch to the municipal building. He parked in front of the sign that read RESERVED: G. BECK and got out of his car. The tightly compacted crushed clam and oyster shells that covered the parking lot and served as fill crackled under his feet as he walked toward the building.

  Beck entered his department through double glass doors off the lobby and was greeted by the dispatcher.

  “Morning, Chief.”

  “Morning, Garland. You’re in early. Who was on night dispatch?”

  “Bill Mason. He had an asthma attack around five and called me to come in.”

  “Mason called you at five and asked you to come in?” Beck frowned.

  “I didn’t mind. I was already awake. He filled in for me when my car died in Baltimore a few weeks back.”

  “Glad you guys get along.”

  “Two peas in a pod,” Garland replied before turning all business. “You heard about the accident out on thirty-three?”

  “Lisa called a while ago. She’s out there with Duncan. Hal should be out there by now, too.” Beck looked through a short stack of phone messages that had come in overnight. “Give Lisa a call and tell her to come on in. And tell Duncan to make sure he’s back in town before nine. I want him on foot patrol. By then, Hal ought to have the acciden
t scene cleaned up, and we can put him on parking.”

  “Will do.” Garland Hess, a thirty-five-year-old transplant from Boston three years earlier, went to work.

  A long hall separated the quarters assigned to the police department exactly in two. Beck’s office was at the end of the hall, and ran the width of their end of the building. On the opposite side of the lobby were the town’s administrative offices, and a combination of meeting rooms and conference rooms, with storage on the second floor. The basement was a damp black hole that invited mold to grow on anything placed down there, and the attic was hot in summer and cold in winter. Some old police files and council meeting records going back decades were packed away in fading boxes tucked under the eaves, though no one ever ventured up there. Beck suspected that if examined, many of the boxes would be found to have been gnawed on by mice or covered with bat droppings.

  Every once in a while Beck thought about climbing the open stairwell to the third floor to see just what-all had accumulated up there over the years, but he hadn’t made it yet, and wasn’t likely to any time soon. The “archives,” as Hal liked to refer to the stored files, would have to wait until the tourist season had come and gone. This weekend’s Harbor Festival, slated to run from Friday through Sunday night, was just one of many weekends planned by the mayor and the Chamber of Commerce to bring in crowds and revenue. The merchants, understandably, all thought it was swell. The old-timers, like Hal and some others, thought it was all a pain in the butt.

  “These narrow little streets weren’t designed for so much traffic,” Hal complained to Beck when he made it back to the station after having directed traffic out on the highway for two hours.

  “That’s why the powers that be had those parking lots put in behind the shops on Charles Street.” Beck said, and took the opportunity to remind him, “Rumor has it that you were one of the powers who thought it was a good idea.”

  “That was six years ago. Harbor Day was barely a gleam in the mayor’s eye back then.” Hal shook his head. “Who’da figured this sleepy little town was about to wake up?”