Waking Nightmare Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  Ryne delivered the understatement in a steady tone. “What our task force needs, what I requested from Commander Dixon, is another investigator. What we definitely do not need is a shrink.”

  There was a flicker in Abbie’s calm gray eyes that might have been temper. “I have a doctorate in forensic psychology—”

  “We need a doctor even less.”

  She ignored his interruption. “And since joining Raiker Forensics, I’ve been involved in nearly three dozen high-profile cases.”

  At the moment diplomacy eluded him. “Do you realize what kind of case we’re working here? I’ve got a serial rapist on the loose. I need another experienced investigator, not someone who’ll shrink the skell’s mind once we get him.”

  She never flinched. “You’ll have to catch him first, won’t you? And I can help with that. Of the cases I’ve worked, well over half involved serial rapists. I’m exactly what you need on this case, Detective Robel. You just don’t realize it yet.”

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  WAKING NIGHTMARE

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / September 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Kim Bahnsen.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

  violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14001-7

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To John, who pesters me, challenges me,

  and never fails to make me laugh. I love you.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to writing buddies Cindy Gerard and Roxanne Rustand, for having faith even when I didn’t, and sharing encouragement and wisdom when I needed it most.

  Thanks also to my agent, Danielle Egan-Miller, for your unfailing enthusiasm and support.

  Great appreciation and thanks to Wally Campbell, Laboratory Manager, GBI-DOFS, Coastal Regional Crime Lab, for your patience with my unending questions about the workings of the lab and toxicology; to Lieutenant Danny Agan, Atlanta Homicide Detective, Ret., and Sergeant Robert Gavin and Sergeant Mike Wilson, SCMPD, for your assistance with police procedural questions. All of you saved the day! Any errors in accuracy are mine alone, undoubtedly due to my not asking the right questions.

  Prologue

  It was the cold that roused her. It seeped into her bones, crept along nerve endings already unbearably sensitized. Her eyelids fluttered as she battled unconsciousness, but it was tempting to sink back into that numbed cocoon once again. And perhaps she would have, if her sluggish brain hadn’t finally registered what her senses had been screaming at her.

  She was in water.

  Surrounded by it.

  Submerged in it.

  Panic shot through her. She tried to lurch to her feet. Her head slammed against the top of her prison with enough force that her body crumpled; stars burst behind her eyelids.

  Immediately salt water filled her nostrils, stung her eyes, seared a path to her lungs. She coughed desperately, but found she couldn’t open her mouth. Weakly, she fought her way to her knees, the water lapping around her neck and shoulders, and waited for her mind to clear.

  When it did, terror rushed in.

  She’d been buried alive in water. Cold. Deep. Suffocating. The darkness was absolute. She moved her head experimentally, but couldn’t feel a blindfold. Tried to shriek, but could only manage a muffled moan.

  She was bound. Gagged. The salt water set her knife wounds on fire. Tiny teeth and pinchers from unseen sea creatures feasted on her shredded flesh.

  A scream ricocheted in her mind as she frantically threw herself against the walls of her prison. Metal screeched against metal and her cage pitched, immersing her more deeply into the water. Each ripple and ebb sent waves splashing into her nostrils, taunting her with its reach. A sob trapped in her chest, she rose to an awkward crouch and pressed her face against the top of her prison, hauling in several deep breaths of salt-scented air. Her exhausted muscles started cramping, but she didn’t dare move. Her only thought was of survival, and even that seemed more and more unlikely.

  For Barbara Billings, the nightmare had just begun.

  Chapter 1

  Summer gripped Savannah by the throat and strangled it with a slow vicious squeeze. Most faulted the heat and cursed the humidity, but Ryne knew the weather wasn’t totally to blame for the suffocating pall. Evil had settled over the city, a cloying, sweaty blanket, insidiously spreading its tentacles of misery like a silent cancer taking hold in an unsuspecting body.

  But people weren’t going to remain unsuspecting for much longer. This latest victim was likely to change that, and then all hell was going to break loose.

  Compared t
o Savannah, he figured hell had to be a dry heat.

  The door to the conference room opened, and the task force members began filing in. Most held cups of steaming coffee that would only make the outdoor temperature seem more brutal. Ryne didn’t bother pointing that out. He was hardly in the position to lecture others about their addictions.

  Their voices hadn’t yet subsided when he reached out to flip on the digital projector. “We’ve got another vic.”

  A close-up picture was projected on the screen. There was a muttered “Jesus,” from one of the detectives. After spending the last two hours going through the photos, Ryne could appreciate the sentiment.

  “Barbara Billings. Age thirty-four. Divorced. Lives alone. She was raped two days ago in her home when she got off work.” He switched to the next set of pictures, those detailing her injuries. “He was inside her house, but we don’t know yet if he’d been hiding there or if he gained access after she arrived. She got home at six, and said it was shortly after that he grabbed her. She’s hazy on details, but the assault lasted hours.”

  “Where’d he dump her, the sewer?” Even McElroy sounded a little squeamish. And considering that his muscle-bound body housed an unusually tactless mouth, that was saying something.

  Ryne clicked the computer mouse. The screen showed a photo of a pier, partially dismantled, with the glint of metal beneath it. “A cage had been wired to the moorings beneath this dock on St. Andrew’s Sound. That’s where he transported her to afterwards.”

  “Looks like the kennel I put my Lab in,” observed Wayne Cantrell.

  Ryne flicked him a glance. As usual, the detective was sitting slouched in his seat, arms folded across his chest, his features showing only the impassive stoicism of his Choctaw heritage. “It is a dog kennel,” Ryne affirmed. The next picture showed a close-up of it. “Sturdy enough to hold a one hundred thirty-pound woman. The medical exam shows she was injected twice. It’ll be at least a week before we get the tox report back, but from her description of the tingling in her lips, heightened sensation, and foggy memory, this sounds like our guy.”

  “Shit.”

  Ryne heartily concurred with Cantrell’s quiet assessment. It also summed up what they had so far on the bastard responsible for the rapes.

  The rest of the photos were shown in silence. When he got to the end of them, he crossed to the door and switched on the overhead lights. “Marine Patrol wasn’t able to get much information from her when they found her, so they processed the secondary scene. Her preliminary statement was taken at the hospital, before the case got tossed to us.”

  “Where’s she at now?” This was from Isaac Holmes, the most seasoned detective on the case. With his droopy jowls and long narrow face, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the old hound seen on reruns of The Beverly Hillbillies. But he had an enviable cleared case percentage, a factor that had weighed heavily when Ryne had requested him for the task force.

  “She was treated and released from St. Joseph/Candler. She’s staying with her mother. The address is in the file.”

  “Where the hell is that other investigator Dixon promised?”

  McElroy’s truculent question struck a chord with Ryne. He made sure it didn’t show. “Commander Dixon has assured me that he’s carefully looking at possible candidates to assign to the task force.” He ignored the muttered responses in the room. If another member weren’t assigned to the group by the end of the day, he would have it out with Dixon himself. Again.

  “We need to process the primary scene and interview the victim. Cantrell, I want you and . . .” His words stopped as the door opened, and a slight young woman with short dark hair entered. Despite the double whammy of Savannah’s heat and humidity, she wore a long-sleeved white shirt over her black pants. He hadn’t seen her around before, but given the photo ID badge clipped to the pocket of her shirt and the thick folder she carried, he figured her for a clerical temp. And if that file contained copies of the complete Marine Patrol report, it was about damn time.

  “I’m looking for Detective Robel.” She scanned the occupants in the room before shifting her focus to him.

  “You found him.” He gestured to a table near the door. “Just set the folder there and close the door on your way out.”

  Her attention snapped back to him, a hint of amusement showing in her expression. “I’m Abbie Phillips, your newest task force member.”

  “Does the department get a cut rate on pocket-sized police officers?” There was an answering ripple of laughter in the room, quickly muffled. Ryne shot a warning look at McElroy, who shrugged and ran a hand through his already disheveled brown hair. “C’mon, Robel, what is she, all of fourteen?”

  “Welcome to the team, Phillips.” Ryne kept his voice neutral. “We can use a woman to help us interview the victims. We’ve been borrowing female officers from other units.”

  “I hope to give you more assistance than that.” She handed him the file folder. “A summary of my background.”

  The folder was too thick for a rookie, but it also wasn’t a SCMPD personnel file. He flicked a gaze over her again. No shield. No weapon. Tension knotted his gut as he took the folder she offered. He gestured to the primaries in the room in turn. “Detectives Cantrell, McElroy, and Holmes. We had another rape reported last night and I was just catching everyone up.” To the group he said, “I’ll need all detectives and uniforms to the scene. Holmes, until I get there, you oversee the canvass. I’ll meet you later.”

  There was a scraping of chairs as the officers rose and made their way to the door. Abbie turned, as if to follow them. His voice halted her. “Phillips, I’d like to talk to you first.”

  She looked up at him. At her height, she’d look up to most men. She couldn’t be much more than five foot two. And her smoky gray eyes were as guileless as a ten-year-old’s.

  “We could talk in the car. I’m anxious to get a look at the scene.”

  “Later.” He went to the projector and shut it off. Pulling out two chairs beside it, he gestured toward one.

  She came over, sat down. He sank into the other seat, set her file on the table in front of him, and flipped it open. He read only a few moments before disbelief flared, followed closely by anger.

  “You’re not a cop.”

  Abbie’s gaze was steady. “Independent consultant. Our agency contracts with law enforcement on problematic cases. If you’re worried about my qualifications, the file lists my experience. Commander Dixon seemed satisfied.”

  Dixon. That backstabbing SOB. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Ryne delivered the understatement in a steady tone. “What our task force needs, what I requested from Commander Dixon, was another investigator. Preferably two. What we definitely do not need is a shrink.”

  There was a flicker in those calm gray eyes that might have been temper. “I have a doctorate in forensic psychology—”

  “We need a doctor even less.”

  She ignored his interruption. “And since joining Raiker Forensics, I’ve been involved in nearly three dozen high-profile cases.”

  “Shit.” He was capable of more finesse, but at the moment diplomacy eluded him. “Do you realize what kind of case we’re working here? I’ve got a serial rapist on the loose, and with this latest victim, the media is going to be crawling up my ass. I need another experienced investigator, not someone who’ll shrink the skell’s mind once we get him.”

  She never flinched. “You’ll have to catch him first, won’t you? And I can help with that. I consulted on the Romeo rapist case last year in Houston. The perp is currently doing a twenty-five-year stretch at Allred. Of the cases I’ve worked, well over half involved serial rapists. I’m exactly what you need on this case, Detective Robel. You just don’t realize it yet.”

  The mention of the Houston case rang a bell, but he didn’t bother to pursue the memory. “If we have need of a psych consult, we can always get one from a department psychologist.”

  “And how many of them�
�how many of your department’s investigators—have been trained by Adam Raiker?”

  Ryne paused, studying her through narrowed eyes. He had no trouble recalling that name; few in law enforcement circles would. The former FBI profiler had achieved near legendary status until he’d disappeared from the radar several years earlier. “Raiker? I thought he was—”

  “Dead?”

  Maybe. “Retired.”

  Her smile was enigmatic. “He’d object to either term.”

  He was wasting his time. The one he needed to be leveling these objections against was upstairs, where the administrative offices were housed, playing political handball. His chair scraped the floor as he rose. “Wait here.” He left the room and strode through the squad room. But halfway up the stairs leading to the administrative offices, he met the man he was seeking, followed by his usual entourage.

  He shouldered his way through the throng surrounding Dixon. Raising his voice over the din, he said, “Commander, could I have a word with you?”

  Dixon held up a hand that could have meant anything. In this case, it apparently meant to wait until he’d finished the joke he was telling to a couple suits that seemed engrossed in his every word.

  Derek Dixon had barely changed in the nearly dozen years since Ryne had first met him. The observation wasn’t a compliment. He had pretty boy blond looks and the manner of a chameleon. Jovial and charming one moment. Sober and businesslike the next. He was the ultimate public relations tool, because he was damn good at being all things to all people. Ryne happened to know that his habit of trying to be one thing to all women had nearly destroyed his marriage.

  But being a womanizing narcissistic prick hadn’t slowed the rise of his career. In Boston he’d been the department’s special attaché to the mayor. He’d come to Savannah three years ago as commander of the Investigative Division. The fact that his wife was the chief’s niece might have had something to do with his procuring the job, but Ryne was hardly in a position to judge. When he’d accepted Dixon’s surprising offer of a job here a year ago, he’d hitched his career to the other man’s.