The Man from Gossamer Ridge. Пола Грейвс
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“Hello?” he called again, giving the unlatched door a light push. It swung open with a loud, groaning creak.
The light was off in the back room, hiding most of the area from Gabe’s view. He felt along the wall until he located a switch and gave it a flick.
Yellow light from a single bald bulb filled the room with a muddy glow, revealing what the shadows had hidden.
A woman lay on the floor, her legs stretched out and her hands flat on the floor by her side. Her clothes were neatly in place and her eyes were closed. But across her belly, a series of bloody puncture wounds marred the pale gray of her blouse.
For a second, Gabe was no longer in the middle of a convenience store back room. Instead he was in the woods of Chickasaw County, only a few yards from the trucking company where Brenda had worked, staring down at the bloodstained body of his sister-in-law.
He forced himself to touch the store clerk’s throat to check for a pulse, knowing what he’d find as surely as he knew his own name.
This killer wasn’t going to leave behind a live victim. He never had before.
Gabe pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.
Then he pulled out the card still resting in his back pocket. The one Alicia Solano had handed him before she let him out of her apartment.
Alicia answered on the third ring, her voice raspy and alarmed.
“It’s Gabe Cooper,” he said tersely, not bothering with small talk, since he knew she wouldn’t want it. “There’s been another murder.”
“What?” She sounded more awake now, and over the phone, he heard the rustle of fabric, as if she were throwing on a robe. Gabe was tempted to let himself dwell on the picture that rose to mind at that thought, if only to drive out the sight of the dead woman lying at his feet.
He’d give almost anything to get that image out of his head.
“I stopped at a convenience store on Route 7—Stiller’s Food and Fuel,” he said aloud. “Nobody came to ring me up, so I looked for the cashier. I found her in a back room. Dead. It’s the same guy, Alicia.”
“As the other two coed murders?” she asked carefully.
“As all of them,” he answered, his gaze drawn back to the murderer’s handiwork. “All of Victor Logan’s murders. Or the ones he helped facilitate,” he added, giving in to the probability that Alicia’s theory was right. “Alicia, this guy’s still killing. And you’re right. We have to stop him.”
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