3. Blaze of Glory

THREE

Blaze of Glory

Rus was not surprised at Cade Bohannan’s bearded, flannel-shirt-and-jeans mountain man appearance. He’d left the clean-cut FBI look behind when he’d retired, so this was the man who’d taught the class Rus had taken with about a hundred other LEOs.

That said, this man was tense and gave off a vibe as tweaked as Rus was feeling, and he made no attempt to rein it in.

Understandable, considering he was probably thinking what Moran was thinking. That being, whatever was now happening in this town was the same as what happened with Ray Andrews—Bohannan was being called out, his skill at catching killers versus a killer continuing to kill.

Rus was standing when Bohannan moved in, gave a dip of his chin to Moran, who had also taken his feet, and then he was all about Rus.

They shared coloring, both of them dark-haired and olive-skinned. Rus had an inch on Bohannan, but Bohannan had ten pounds on Rus. Both were about genetics, but that ten pounds was all muscle.

He didn’t know exact stats, but he did know Bohannan was around ten years older than him and did what Rus had decided to do that very day.

He retired early.

He had his hand out, and when he arrived, Rus took it.

“Cade Bohannan,” he said, his fingers closing in a firm hold. “And you’re Special Agent Zachariah Lazarus.”

“Rus,” he corrected. A quick squeeze, no unnecessary statements made, and they broke physical contact. “You made some calls,” he noted.

Bohannan didn’t beat around the bush. “Yeah, I did. My son, Jace, dated Brittanie.”

Fuck.

“Cade.” Moran entered the conversation, and his one word had warning dripping off it.

Bohannan didn’t miss it.

This was why he lifted both hands to his shoulders, palms out. “I’m here to offer my services. That’s it. I’ve told the boys to stand down. Jace is out, he knows it. But Jesse is ready if you need him.”

Rus shot an "explain” look to Moran.

He explained. “Cade’s sons, twins, are private investigators.”

He looked to Bohannan. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

He didn’t ask if they were any good. Any father would say yes. Bohannan wouldn’t be lying when he said it.

“You said ‘dated’, past tense,” Rus remarked.

“It lasted a few months. I met her. I liked her. Larue wasn’t a fan. But she doesn’t like any of the boys’ girlfriends.”

“A few months isn’t very long.”

“Jace is twenty-eight, and he’s not giving indication he’s ready to settle down.”

No more needed to be said about that.

Though, twenty-eight was young to be a PI.

There was a story there, but now wasn’t the time for it.

“He willing to talk to me?” Rus asked.

“Definitely. Though, not gonna tell you your business”—a quick side glance to Moran—“your first stop should be Cin.”

And again with Cin.

“That was the sheriff’s suggestion,” Rus told him.

“We were just about to get to the part where the Crystal Killer just happened to pick a woman in our town,” Moran put in, and Rus admired, from the get-go, Moran’s capacity to take a step back, on his own turf, and let Rus run the show.

He’d been impatient since the motel, but he kept a lock on it.

Now that patience had ended.

That was a long time to wait. Said good things about him.

What said more was that, when he was done, he didn’t make any demands. He finessed it. Diplomacy, it was Rus’s experience, was a lost art.

When Bohannan looked back at Rus, he knew that Bohannan was tweaked about his son’s ex-girlfriend being murdered.

And he was tweaked about the possibility the criminally deranged lunatic the media had dubbed the Crystal Killer had decided to match wits with Cade Bohannan like Ray Andrews did.

“I figure you aren’t surprised I’m curious about this too,” Bohannan shared. “Seven women. Now eight. All blondes. All between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-seven. All going missing, tied to a bed in a small, out-of-the-way motel or hotel and continually raped for a period of not more than forty-eight hours, not less than twenty-four, before they’re left to be discovered by staff. This short period of time is not enough for a missing persons investigation to get underway. Also doesn’t give the perpetrator any time to fuck around. He’s going to concentrate on getting what he needs from the experience.”

All true.

Bohannan continued. “Victim found naked, positioned, and bludgeoned. The only thing left behind by the killer is a crystal held between their hands. The first one was in Georgia four years ago, the next in Mississippi. These go unrelated until the third, found in Texas, which is when you were called in. Then you had Iowa, Colorado, Illinois and Maryland. You thought he was going west. He went north, then west again and backtracked. That last victim, very close to where you live. There’s roughly three point eight million square miles that make up the United States. Lots of places for him to get his fix. So I gotta tell you, I’m not real happy, since it makes sense he started dropping victims close to you, considering you’re investigating him, and I’m all kinds of fuckin’ surprised he found his way all the way across the country to here.”

“Why are you surprised?” Rus asked.

“You were in one of my classes,” Bohannan shot back, and now Rus was surprised, because he sat at a desk in that class, one of several he knew Bohannan gave, but he didn’t introduce himself to the man. “Why do you think?”

He wasn’t in any mood to play professor and student.

“I’m an investigator, not a profiler,” Rus returned.

“Right, then, this guy doesn’t want to get caught. He needs this. If he’s tracked down, he’ll commit suicide by cop before he’ll go to prison because he can’t live without it. So until Brittanie, I thought the whole Pacific Northwest would be off limits to him after what Andrews did, because he wouldn’t want to get anywhere near something that might mean I’d feel obliged to get involved. And right now, I feel obliged to get involved.”

“You’re right,” Rus confirmed. “He doesn’t want to get caught. He needs it. He’s determined to keep getting it. And if he doesn’t, there’s a shit storm he’s prepared to unleash if I find him. That shitstorm is going to mean he’s going to go out in a blaze of glory and take unknown numbers of other victims with him.”

Bohannan spoke not a word because from what Rus said, he knew.

He knew what Moran wanted to know.

He knew what Rus told them next.

“Whoever killed Brittanie Iverson isn’t the Crystal Killer. It’s a copycat. And shit just got real because the Crystal Killer is not gonna like that. If we lift the media blackout I put on this case and he finds out, he’s gonna be pissed. And swear to God, if he finds out, I have no idea what he’ll do. I just know we’re going to like it a fuckuva lot less than what he’s already done.”

Harry Moran fell forward into both hands on his desk, arms straight, his head dropping.

Bohannan instantly changed his mind about his earlier friendly offer and demanded, “Give me all you got on this fucking guy.”

Rus didn’t waste time.

He headed to his SUV to oblige.