shelf pulled down and emptied on top of the clothes.
Someone had tossed the mattress of his king-size bed to the side. All the pillows were split, the feathers spread across the sage carpet. It looked as though someone had slaughtered a truckload of geese. A few of the feathers still floated in the air.
Michael spied his suitcase sitting open in the corner of the room and the urge to get away hit him hard. He needed to get out of here and sort things out. Get his head on straight.
There was no way in hell he could stay in the house another night, another day. If he was somehow the catalyst in these murders, he needed to get as far away from the city as possible. Somewhere isolated. Quiet.
“I’m leaving town for a few days,” he said, standing in front of the suitcase, his back to Denner.
“Like hell you are. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m conducting a murder investigation here. You’re to stay put. I want to know where you are every minute of the day.”
Michael turned around. “Are you charging me with murder?”
The beefy detective shuffled his feet, frustration flickering across his craggy features. “We’ll go downtown for one of our little chats. Maybe we’ll get lucky and you’ll have a flash of conscience and admit to your guilt.”
“Not likely. I’m not inclined to confess to something I didn’t do.” Michael swung his suitcase on top of the box spring. “But once you’ve checked out my alibi and found out I’m not lying about where I was all evening, I’m leaving town. I’m going to my house outside of Keene. You know the one. Your men have been up there to search it more than once.”
“Yeah, I know the one, along with your three other homes outside the country, too.”
“Don’t forget the one outside of Park City,” Michael added, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“Not a chance.” Denner laughed, the tone adding to the pain shooting through Michael’s brain. “But then, you haven’t been out to Utah in over a year. Of course, I had it checked out.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Michael walked over to the clothes left in a heap on the floor and grabbed what he wanted. He stuffed them carelessly into the suitcase before glancing back at Denner. “I’ll turn my passport over to the D.A.’s office in the morning. No passport, no chance that I’d leave the country, right?”
“I’m not a fool, Emerson. You have the financial means to leave the country with or without a passport.”
“So, put a tail on me. Notify the State Police. Do whatever you need to do.” He grabbed a few more items of clothing and threw them on top of the others. He zipped the suitcase shut and swung it off the bed, facing Denner head on. “But unless you’re prepared to arrest me tonight, I’m leaving for Keene after our little chat downtown.”
The look on the detective’s face confirmed his frustration, but Michael knew there wasn’t much Denner could do. “Ready? The sooner I answer your questions, the sooner I can leave town.”
“You might want to put on a hat as I have no plans on sneaking you out the back door. No doubt the press is waiting to get more pictures of that famous face of yours.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, you’re doing just fine, aren’t you? Cool as a cucumber and too damn sure of yourself.”
Resentment shot through Michael. The man didn’t get it. He never would. “In case you’ve forgotten, all the victims of these murders meant something to me. I cared about each and every one of them.”
Denner smirked, his disbelief obvious. “Yeah, right.”
“No matter what you want to believe, their deaths, the way they died and the agony of their families has been first and foremost in my mind.”
“Spare me, Emerson. I have more feeling for these women in my little finger than you do in your entire body.” Denner rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, his hands clenching into fists. “Don’t bother trying to make yourself out to be the victim. No one buys it, least of all me.”
“That wasn’t my objective. There’s enough blame to go around, and that includes you and your elite task force.”
Denner raised a questioning brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I gave you a list of all the women I’ve ever dated. I’ve personally spoken with each and every one of them, warning all of them of the dangers. And yet, they’re still getting picked off one by one. Why haven’t you done more to protect them? Tell me that, Detective Denner.”
Denner stepped in close, his expression tight with rage. He hadn’t expected the attack. Didn’t like being challenged.
But Michael didn’t care. He knew he was right. The women deserved protection, and so far the police had failed miserably.
“Don’t threaten me, Emerson.” Denner leaned in, his breath hot and smelling of onions and sliced deli meat. “We all know who is responsible for their murders. And once I get the goods on you, the killings will stop, and you will be sitting in my jail cell.”
Michael didn’t bother responding. There wasn’t any reason to. Denner had proven more than once that he had a one-track mind, and that track ran in the direction of Michael being the killer.
He brushed past the man and headed for the door.
“Tell me, Emerson, why is it that I have the distinct feeling that more women you know are going to turn up dead with your signature all over them?”
Michael paused at the door and then turned slowly to face the cop. “I don’t know, Detective, why do you feel that way?”
The sneer had twisted and transformed Denner’s face into something ugly and unrelenting. “Because I can smell a liar a mile away. It’s only a matter of time before I find the evidence to convict you. Time and patience. Lucky for me, you’re running low on both.”
Michael fought to keep the panic that surged up inside him off his face.
As much as he hated to admit it, he knew that Denner was right. He was running low on time and patience. And the killer, a man who didn’t tire of advertising his message of death, seemed to have plenty of both.
With the headaches and blank periods getting worse, Michael had the distinct feeling he was closer to the killer than he wanted to admit to anyone—including himself.
Chapter Two
Two Days Later
Within a few minutes of turning onto the fifteen-mile access road leading to Cloudspin Lodge, Kylie McKee wondered if she had made a mistake. The road was worse than she remembered and the fact that she hadn’t driven it in over eleven years didn’t help.
Beneath a blanket of new snow, the pavement was pitted and fractured, and although Kylie was fairly certain the county plow had gone through earlier, pushing mounds of snow up onto the overflowing banks on either side, a new covering of snow had already started to pile up.
In
