Crimson Lies

Chapter One

Lisa

It was close to midnight and I sat in darkness.

Edgar Paul Meacher had left three hours ago, driving the white panel van he kept for this purpose alone. Meacher would have switched plates along some quiet dirt road, before going on his own little hunting excursion.

I had searched the farmhouse-found enough evidence to confirm this guy was the real deal, but nothing else of interest. My chair was in the shadows, facing the doorway. The sound of an engine rumbled up the drive. I wasn't nervous. I hadn't been nervous since my first assignment back in 2005.

The farmhouse was about a mile outside the small town of Fleet, North Carolina; the walls pervaded by the slight sulfurous odor of rotten cabbage from the fields surrounding the property. No neighbors close enough to witness the wild parties held at the Meacher residence. No passersby to complain about the screams either. It worked for me too.

I tapped my finger against the cold metal of the SIG P229 fitted with a threaded 9mm barrel and suppressor, listened to the sound of a door slamming, then another door opening. A grunt of physical exertion as something heavy was dragged and hoisted.

The back door opened. I aimed the pistol, ready to end this now. But Meacher trundled straight down to the basement, blind in his excitement to unwrap the latest present he carried in a dirty old blanket.

I climbed to my feet. Walked silently across the century-old farmhouse floors and glided down the stairs like a ghost.

The basement was dark and dusty, the faint odor of decay wafting through the air. Classic serial killer lair. A single bulb lit the corner where a camp bed was set up, all comfy and cozy except for the thick plastic sheet draped across it. The floor and walls were decorated in ubiquitous gray with flecks of rust-colored paint. Except it wasn't paint. It was blood. Blood of victims who ranged in age from nineteen to thirty-five. Women who'd done nothing more than wander into Meacher's field of vision. Ten that the FBI knew about; more the authorities didn't know about. Yet.

There was a conveniently placed drain in the middle of the floor. A bucket, a hose and a few big bottles of bleach-obviously bought in bulk. Several rolls of plastic were propped against the wall, and stacks of duct tape were stashed beside the furnace. Experienced and practical-the guy was an old pro at killing.

So was I.

Meacher was busy securing his latest victim to the bed. Handcuffs laid out in readiness, waiting for the next lucky recipient. The scumbag-a math teacher from the local high school-generally kept the women alive for about a week before putting them out of their misery.

I pushed thoughts of past victims out of my head. Dead was dead and thinking about them only added to my nightmares.

Meacher snapped on the cuffs, fitting them snug to the woman's wrists, the ratcheting sound loud in the otherwise deathly quiet of the basement. Having the woman incapacitated worked for me, so I let Meacher finish. I didn't want her mobile. I didn't want her getting in the line of fire.

The guy never turned, never looked away from the brunette. You'd think someone attuned to stalking prey might sense another predator in his lair.

Obviously not.

Meacher licked his lips and ripped open the woman's blouse. Buttons scattered and pinged across the basement floor. My revulsion for the man grew with every despicable act.

"Edgar," I whispered softly.

Meacher turned, lips forming a surprised circle as he spotted me on the stairs. There was no time for the man to lunge or fight as I put another circle between his eyes. Double tap. The so-called "Snatcher" crumpled to the floor, too dead to bleed out.