eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
A serial killer finds new hunting ground in the Smokey Mountains in this “smart, sexy and scary as hell” thriller by the New York Times bestselling author (Lisa Jackson, New York Times bestselling author).
Just outside Cherokee Pointe, Tennessee, a victim is sacrificed on a makeshift altar—the gruesome handywork of a killer who has evaded authorities in state after state. FBI agent Dallas Sloan knows the scene all too well—just as he knows the killings won’t stop until there are four more bodies.
Genny Madoc’s “sixth sense” has brought many of Cherokee Pointe’s residents to her isolated log cabin, looking for help. But now it’s Genny who needs help from disturbing visions that are getting stronger and more violent by the day.
Thrown together by necessity, drawn to each other by desire, Dallas and Genny must band together, searching the darkest heart of a town’s hidden secrets before a twisted killer can complete a deadly ritual that will make one of them the fifth victim.
“Fast . . . edgy . . . sexy . . . I loved The Fifth Victim!” —Linda Howard, New York Times bestselling author
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780786041084 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Kensington |
| Publication date: | 02/27/2018 |
| Series: | Cherokee Pointe Trilogy Series , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Sales rank: | 63,658 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Date of Birth:
December 23, 1946Date of Death:
April 21, 2011Place of Birth:
Tuscumbia, ALPlace of Death:
Tuscumbia, ALRead an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
FBI Special Agent Teri Nash glanced at the fax in her hand. A letter and a photograph. While waiting for Dallas to shower and shave, she'd sat down at his cluttered desk in the corner of the living room. The fax had come in while she'd been relaxing with a gin-and-tonic. Dallas and she hadn't dated in several years, and she was actually involved with a profiler at the Bureau, but she still considered Dallas a good friend. Since his niece's death eight months ago, she'd tried to keep tabs on her old lover. Although he'd handled Brooke's brutal murder as he did everything else — with little emotion and iron control — she'd seen past his steely facade to the pain beneath. Once he'd returned to FBI headquarters in D.C. after Brooke's funeral, he'd begun a personal search for any information that might lead him to his niece's killer. Using the Bureau's vast resources for unofficial use had become a bone of contention between Dallas and the assistant director of the Criminal Investigation Division. Although Dallas and Tom Rutherford disliked each other personally, Tom had allowed Dallas a lot of slack. Teri wondered for how much longer?
She read the fax for the third time. The message was in response to a letter Dallas had sent out to local law enforcement officials nationwide. This was the seventh such response in the past few months, but she had a sinking feeling that this was the one he'd been waiting for ever since Brooke's murder. Teri didn't want to look at the faxed photo again. Once had been more than enough. It wouldn't be easy forgetting the sight of the young blond girl with her body sliced wide open. Teri shivered.
The sheriff of Cherokee County, Tennessee, had reported what appeared to be a sacrificial killing in his county early this morning. The details of her death were practically identical to those of Brooke's horrific murder in Mobile, Alabama, in May of last year.
As Teri finished scanning the information again, she shook her head and sighed. The minute Dallas saw this fax, he'd be off and running. On some sentimental, protective level, she wished she could just dump the fax in the garbage and pretend it didn't exist. Even though her love affair with her fellow agent had been short-lived and had ended three years ago, she still had strong feelings for him. The poor guy had been through enough, had followed too many dead-end leads these past few months. She hated to see him go off on another wild-goose chase, searching for an elusive serial killer. That is, if there was a serial killer. Dallas had come up with his own theory that there was a barbaric serial killer on the loose. Besides, she wasn't sure how many more vacation days he could take before he used them all up. Or how much longer Rutherford would put up with Dallas's absenteeism.
Dallas Sloan, his dark blond hair damp from his shower, emerged from the bathroom adjacent to the small bedroom in his three-room efficiency apartment. Teri sucked in a deep breath. Damn, the guy still took her breath away. Wearing nothing but his white briefs, he exposed his tall, lean body for her perusal. A dusting of brown hair covered his legs and arms and created a V over the center of his muscular chest. Teri forced her gaze from his body to his face. He grinned at her. Wickedly.
"Just enjoying the scenery," she told him. "Not buying the property."
"What have you got in your hand?" he asked as he stared point-blank at the fax.
"This?" She held up the two sheets of paper as if they were a trophy. "It's a fax."
"Lusting after my body is one thing, honey, but reading my mail is something else altogether." Dallas rummaged around in his closet, pulled out a pair of well-worn jeans, put them on, then removed a cream knit sweater from the chest of drawers and yanked it down over his head. "Who's the fax from?"
Teri walked over to where he'd sat on the bed and was putting on his socks. "It's from Sheriff Jacob Butler in Cherokee County, Tennessee."
Dallas slid his feet into his boots, tied the laces, and then glanced up at Teri. "Is it about —" "He's had what appears to be a sacrificial killing in his county." Teri held out the fax. "This morning."
Dallas grabbed the papers out of her hand, scanned them quickly, then cursed under his breath. "I need to call him — now." Dallas stood. "Look, honey, why don't you go on and meet the others. If this is what it appears to be, I'll be taking a flight out tonight for Tennessee."
Teri grabbed his arm. "Are you sure you want to do this again? So far, none of the reports you've received turned out to be —"
"This is different. I can tell the similarities to Brooke's death are obvious just from the fax."
"Even so, with all the old reports on sacrificial killings you've compiled, none of the victims had even one thing in common, nothing to link any of them to one specific killer, other than they were all sacrificed."
"There's a link," Dallas said. "We just haven't figured it out yet. Linc only started work on a profile for me last week, and since he's doing it on his own time and trying to keep Rutherford off his back, it'll take time."
"Do you have any vacation or sick days left?" She knew better than to continue arguing with a man who couldn't be persuaded.
"Three."
"And what if this killing turns out to be the one you've been waiting for, a new piece of the puzzle?"
"I'll take a leave of absence."
"Yeah, that's what I figured."
"I can count on you and Linc, can't I?"
"Unofficially."
Dallas kissed her. No passion. Just a thank-you gesture. "You don't have to wait around. Go ahead and leave now. I'll call you on your cell phone if I take a flight out tonight."
Teri caressed his cheek. "I hope this is the one."
He didn't bother walking her to the door, so she let herself out, then paused in the doorway. She sighed. He'd already forgotten all about her. He picked up the telephone and dialed the 865 area code and then the number for the sheriff's office.
"Yes, this is Special Agent Dallas Sloan, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'd like to speak to Sheriff Butler."
Teri eased the door closed, walked up the hall and down the flight of stairs to the first floor of the apartment building. There's nothing for you here, she told herself. Hoping Dallas would change his mind and want something permanent with her was nothing but a pipe dream. She had to remove those last fragments of hope — otherwise her relationship with Linc would never work out the way she wanted it to.
"It's gonna snow. I feel it in my bones," Sally Talbot said as she tossed another log into the cast-iron potbellied stove.
"The weatherman on TV said sleet and rain," Ludie Smith corrected. "Who should I listen to — your old bones or an educated man who knows all about cumulus clouds and dew points and heat indexes?"
"I swear, Ludie, ever since you took that adult education class at the junior college last fall, you done gone and got all uppity on me."
"Me uppity?" With large, expressive black eyes, Ludie glared at Sally. "You're the one who's been acting like rich folks ever since Jazzy had that white siding put on the outside of this shack of yours."
"Are you calling my house a shack? What do you call that place of yours — a palace?"
"I call it a cottage," Ludie replied. "That's what I call it. A cottage. Like one of them pretty little places you see on calendars and in the movies about the English countryside before World War Two."
"Now what would an old Cherokee squaw from the hills of Tennessee know about the English countryside? Besides, your house ain't no cottage. It's a four-room, wooden sharecropper's shack, the same as mine."
"Well, Miss Know-It-All, I know as much about the English countryside as you do. And who are you? Just a crazy old white heifer from the Tennessee hills."
Jazzy Talbot stood in the doorway that separated her aunt Sally's kitchen from the living room where Sally and her best friend Ludie stood arguing together as they'd done as far back as Jazzy could remember. Any outsiders listening to the two old women would swear they hated each other, when in actuality the exact opposite was true. Ludie and Sally had been friends all their lives, but neither would ever admit how much they truly loved each other. Their favorite form of entertainment seemed to be debating a wide variety of subjects — everything from the weather to the proper way to cook collard greens.
Jazzy cleared her throat. Both women hushed immediately and turned to face her. Rawboned, with big hands and feet, Sally stood nearly six feet tall, possessed a shock of short white hair and ice blue eyes. With black eyes and steel gray hair, Ludie, on the other hand, was barely five feet tall and round as a butterball. Jazzy had no idea exactly how old either woman was, but her best guess would be that her aunt and Ludie had both passed their seventieth birthday.
"How long you been here?" Sally asked, a broad smile on her face.
"Just got here. Didn't you hear the Jeep?"
"She was too busy caterwauling," Ludie said. "She thinks it's gonna snow, but the weatherman said plainly that —"
"It's going to sleet and ice over first, then snow," Jazzy said.
Both women stared at her with round eyes and wrinkled brows.
"How do you — you've seen Genny today, haven't you?" Sally lifted another piece of wood, then stuffed it into the stove. After shutting the door and trapping the fire inside, she wiped her hands off on her faded jeans.
"Did Genny say it's going to snow?" Ludie asked.
Jazzy nodded. "I heard her tell Jacob that they'd better go over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb now because of the bad weather we'll get tonight. She thinks it'll be really rough."
"Then we'd better get ready for it," Sally said. "That gal ain't never wrong about the weather. She's just like her granny. Melva Mae had the sight, too."
"Ain't it awful about that poor little Susie Richards." Ludie shook her head. "What kind of person would do such a thing to anybody, least of all a seventeen-year-old girl?"
"Why were you up at Genny's?" Sally asked. "Did she have another spell?" Jazzy nodded. "She saw the Richards girl being killed. But that information is not to be broadcast by either of you."
Ludie keened. "Lord have mercy!"
"She called Jacob and told him where he could find Susie's body. Now, he's got a murder case to solve and a county filled with scared people."
"Jacob ain't got the manpower or the up-to-date equipment to handle a crime scene investigation." Sally headed toward the kitchen. "You staying for supper, gal, or you heading back to your place before the weather turns bad on us?"
"Guess I'll head home," Jazzy replied. "I just stopped by to see if you needed anything. With you out here so far away from town, you might not be able to make it in to Cherokee Pointe for several days if there's ice under the snow."
"Got all I need." Sally called from the kitchen. "Want a cup of coffee before you leave?"
"Coffee and a piece of that custard pie I saw on the counter." Jazzy winked at Ludie, knowing full well that Ludie had baked the pie and brought it over. Sally wasn't much of a cook — never had been. If it hadn't been for Ludie's good cooking, Jazzy figured she'd have grown up on nothing but cornbread, fried potatoes, and whatever greens were in season. Ludie had a real talent for cooking and worked at Jazzy's restaurant in town. Last year, she'd cut back from full-time to only a few days a week.
When Jazzy and Ludie joined Sally in the kitchen, Sally had already sliced the pie and set three plates and forks on the table. She lifted an old metal coffeepot from the stove and poured steaming black coffee into mismatched earthenware mugs.
As the three sat around the yellow oilcloth-topped table, Sally and Ludie got awfully quiet. Jazzy had an uneasy feeling that there was something wrong. Something other than the fact that there had been a murder in Cherokee County yesterday.
"Business good?" Sally asked.
"As good as it usually is in January," Jazzy replied. "We've got a handful of tourists staying in the cabins and a few more stopping by the restaurant on their way to Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg."
"It'll pick up in the spring," Ludie said. "Always does."
"I'm ready for spring, myself." Sally sipped on her coffee.
"Me too." Ludie sighed. "Nothing like spring birds chirping and buttercups and tulips blooming."
Jazzy caught her aunt and Ludie exchanging peculiar glances. "All right, what's going on?" "Don't know what you're talking about." Sally stared up at the bead-board ceiling.
"Might as well tell her," Ludie said. "I'm surprised she hasn't already heard."
"Heard what?" A tight knot formed in the pit of Jazzy's stomach.
"Just 'cause he's back don't mean you gotta have anything to do with him." Sally skewered Jazzy with a warning glare. "If he comes sniffing around, send him packing. That's what you'll do if you're smart. He ain't no good. Never was."
"Who are you talking about — my God! You don't mean that —"
"Heard it in town this morning, before the news about the Richards gal got out," Ludie said. "Jamie Upton showed up at the farm two days ago, and his granddaddy done brought out the fatted calf to celebrate the prodigal's return."
"Tell her the rest," Sally said.
Ludie hung her head and avoided eye contact with Jazzy. "He's brought home a woman with him."
"A wife?" Jazzy asked.
"A fiancée," Ludie replied.
"He's been engaged before," Jazzy said. "That doesn't mean anything. You know how Jamie is."
"I know he ain't worth shooting." Sally finished off her coffee, then rose and poured herself another cup.
Jazzy toyed with the piece of pie. She loved Ludie's pies but knew that if she took a bite now it would taste like cardboard in her mouth. It wasn't that she was still in love with Jamie. Actually she wasn't sure she'd ever loved him. But she'd wanted him. God, how she'd wanted him. He'd been her first, back when she'd been young and foolish enough to think Big Jim Upton's only grandson would marry the likes of her, a white-trash bastard raised by a poor, eccentric old woman half the town thought was crazy.
Jazzy rose to her feet. "I'd better be heading into town. Can I give you a ride home, Ludie?" "Goodness no. You know my place ain't a quarter of a mile from here."
"But with a killer on the loose —"
"Got my revolver in my coat pocket, as always," Ludie said. "You know I don't go nowhere without it."
Ludie carried an old Smith & Wesson that had belonged to her father; and Sally toted a shotgun. A couple of old kooks, that was what most folks thought.
Jazzy hugged Ludie, then turned to her aunt. "Keep your doors locked."
"I intend to," Sally assured her. "I've got my shotgun, and I'll bring Peter and Paul in before nightfall, like I always do in the dead of winter. Them dogs ain't gonna let nothing slip up on me."
Five minutes later Jazzy headed her Jeep down the mountain toward Cherokee Pointe, all the while her mind swirling with memories of Jamie Upton. His smile. His laughter. The way he called her darlin'. The little presents he'd given her over the years — ever since she'd been sixteen and had given him her virginity. Expensive trinkets. Payments for services rendered? He'd told her at least a hundred times that he loved her. Every time he left town for months, even for years, he came home expecting her to be there waiting for him, with arms wide open. Actually, a better expression would be with legs spread apart. Why was it that every time he came back, she found herself unable to resist him?
Because, idiot, every time he comes back into your life, he convinces you that he loves you, wants you, and someday you'll have a future together. Even when he'd brought home a fiancée, on two other occasions, he'd come to her for sex. How could she have been so damn stupid?
Well, this time Mr. Jamie Upton could find himself another whore. That's the way he made her feel — like the whore people thought she was.
Just as she rounded the next corner, the county roads intersected. She halted at the four-way stop and glanced to her left at the arched gates and long driveway that led up to the biggest farm in Cherokee County — the Upton farm. Half a mile up the private drive sat a typical Southern mansion, fashioned after old antebellum homes and built over a hundred years ago for Big Jim Upton's grandmother, who'd been a Mason from Virginia.
Once, long ago, Jazzy had dreamed of marrying Jamie and living in that big white house, with hot and cold running servants. All her life she'd wanted more, needed more than four walls and a roof. Something inside her yearned to be a lady, and to her that meant being wealthy.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Fifth Victim"
by .
Copyright © 2003 Beverly Burton Beaver.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
What People are Saying About This
"Fast . . . edgy . . . sexy...I loved The Fifth Victim!"--(Linda Howard, New York Times bestselling author)
"Smart, sexy and scary as hell. Beverly Barton just keeps getting better."--(Lisa Jackson, New York Times bestselling author)
Related Subjects
Customer Reviews
Explore More Items
