baby and undergo treatment, so she chose to give her baby life instead of saving her own.” She sniffed. “That’s the kind of unselfish woman she was.”
Mason chewed the inside of his cheek. Had the killer known her history?
If he had, would it have made a difference?
Or was he too demented to possess any sense of moral decency at all?
The sheriff approached, his boots crunching the gravel. “Are you finished, Dr. Winchester?”
Cara nodded and dried her eyes. “Yes.”
“Cause of death?” the sheriff asked.
“It appears to be exsanguinations, just like Nellie Thompson. He cut out her reproductive organs, as well. But we’ll need to verify that with the autopsy.”
“So we definitely have a serial killer,” Sheriff McRae mumbled. “The press is gonna be all over this.”
“We aren’t going to reveal the details of the crime,” Mason said. “We have to hold back or we’ll have copycats trying to take credit for the murders.”
“So what do we say?” Sheriff McRae asked.
“I’ll talk to one of the profilers from the bureau. She can handle the press and offer a profile to help law enforcement and citizens know who to look for.” He showed the flier he’d taken from Sherese to the sheriff and Cara.
“Do you remember this guy, Cara?”
She studied it for a moment, then shook her head. “He could have left it with Sherese when I was gone. You know I divide my time between the BBL, the Winchester Clinic and the res.”
“I’m going to question this preacher,” Mason said. “Then we’ll head to the res. You can talk to Sadie Whitefeather while I meet with Liam Runninghorse about the knife the killer used.”
“What about the knife?” Cara asked.
“It’s a handmade Native American piece,” Mason said. “Since this killer has used the same M.O. twice, he probably used the same type of weapon. If Runninghorse knows someone who favors this knife, maybe it’ll lead us to the killer.”
* * *
H E SAT PERCHED on top of his black stallion, watching as the sheriff and that half-breed Blackpaw combed the grounds near the grave. He’d done his homework on Blackpaw.
The bastard boy had become a tracker for the police.
But he had Indian blood in that brown body of his. And a mean streak that he tried to channel into hunting down those who broke the law.
He was a worthy adversary. A man who would play the game until the end.
Until death came for one of them.
It would be for Blackpaw, but the man didn’t know it yet.
He smiled, his blood heating as he’d watched tears fall from Dr. Winchester. She acted like a damn saint.
But she wasn’t a saint. She was just as much a whore as the woman in the ground now. Just as much of a sinner.
No, worse. She led the other lambs astray. Taught them to give away their young.
But his people treasured their children more than life itself.
And for her transgressions she had to pay.
A vehicle arrived to transport Yolanda Farraday’s body, and he watched the men lift her from the grave. Dirt and debris fluttered down like brown snowflakes, her human remains stiff with rigor and ready to begin the descent into ashes.
He glanced down at his palm and traced a finger over the strands of hair he had removed before he’d put her in the ground. He would thread them into the navel fetish he planned to leave on Dr. Winchester’s pillow tonight just as he had threaded Nellie Thompson’s hair through the first one.
He wondered if their forensic team had figured out that secret yet.
Still he kept a strand for himself, one that he would weave into the bow that he hung above his bed as a symbol of his devotion to his people and their ways.
One strand for each of the women he would save.
His bow wouldn’t be complete until his mission was complete, and Dr. Winchester lay in the ground beside her lambs where she belonged.
Her hair would be the final strand in his bow, the one to make it complete.
Chapter Eleven
Cara closed her eyes while Mason drove
Mason chewed the inside of his cheek. Had the killer known her history?
If he had, would it have made a difference?
Or was he too demented to possess any sense of moral decency at all?
The sheriff approached, his boots crunching the gravel. “Are you finished, Dr. Winchester?”
Cara nodded and dried her eyes. “Yes.”
“Cause of death?” the sheriff asked.
“It appears to be exsanguinations, just like Nellie Thompson. He cut out her reproductive organs, as well. But we’ll need to verify that with the autopsy.”
“So we definitely have a serial killer,” Sheriff McRae mumbled. “The press is gonna be all over this.”
“We aren’t going to reveal the details of the crime,” Mason said. “We have to hold back or we’ll have copycats trying to take credit for the murders.”
“So what do we say?” Sheriff McRae asked.
“I’ll talk to one of the profilers from the bureau. She can handle the press and offer a profile to help law enforcement and citizens know who to look for.” He showed the flier he’d taken from Sherese to the sheriff and Cara.
“Do you remember this guy, Cara?”
She studied it for a moment, then shook her head. “He could have left it with Sherese when I was gone. You know I divide my time between the BBL, the Winchester Clinic and the res.”
“I’m going to question this preacher,” Mason said. “Then we’ll head to the res. You can talk to Sadie Whitefeather while I meet with Liam Runninghorse about the knife the killer used.”
“What about the knife?” Cara asked.
“It’s a handmade Native American piece,” Mason said. “Since this killer has used the same M.O. twice, he probably used the same type of weapon. If Runninghorse knows someone who favors this knife, maybe it’ll lead us to the killer.”
* * *
H E SAT PERCHED on top of his black stallion, watching as the sheriff and that half-breed Blackpaw combed the grounds near the grave. He’d done his homework on Blackpaw.
The bastard boy had become a tracker for the police.
But he had Indian blood in that brown body of his. And a mean streak that he tried to channel into hunting down those who broke the law.
He was a worthy adversary. A man who would play the game until the end.
Until death came for one of them.
It would be for Blackpaw, but the man didn’t know it yet.
He smiled, his blood heating as he’d watched tears fall from Dr. Winchester. She acted like a damn saint.
But she wasn’t a saint. She was just as much a whore as the woman in the ground now. Just as much of a sinner.
No, worse. She led the other lambs astray. Taught them to give away their young.
But his people treasured their children more than life itself.
And for her transgressions she had to pay.
A vehicle arrived to transport Yolanda Farraday’s body, and he watched the men lift her from the grave. Dirt and debris fluttered down like brown snowflakes, her human remains stiff with rigor and ready to begin the descent into ashes.
He glanced down at his palm and traced a finger over the strands of hair he had removed before he’d put her in the ground. He would thread them into the navel fetish he planned to leave on Dr. Winchester’s pillow tonight just as he had threaded Nellie Thompson’s hair through the first one.
He wondered if their forensic team had figured out that secret yet.
Still he kept a strand for himself, one that he would weave into the bow that he hung above his bed as a symbol of his devotion to his people and their ways.
One strand for each of the women he would save.
His bow wouldn’t be complete until his mission was complete, and Dr. Winchester lay in the ground beside her lambs where she belonged.
Her hair would be the final strand in his bow, the one to make it complete.
Chapter Eleven
Cara closed her eyes while Mason drove
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