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While Jack was gone out of the command center on his way to Mountville, Luke, Monty, and Blaise immediately went to work collating the data gathered.

“Find their property,” Monty shouted, as Luke responded, “On it.”

Within a minute, Luke displayed three properties that Stanley Taylor Jefferson owned. Monty called it into the FBI who was on route to the main residence, where the family was, in the suburbs of Richmond. They would be there shortly.

“Got two others besides his mom’s place,” Luke called out. “One is property he owns about halfway between here and Richmond. No house but could be outbuildings. Chad, get a visual. The other is a piece of land on the far side of Richmond.”

Within a minute, Chad brought up satellite images of the property. Monty immediately sent the information to the FBI, cursing that they had no idea which one Stan would use .

Blaise turned around, catching the eyes of the others while listening to the radio earpiece. “Roger that,” he called out, then lifted his eyes to Luke. “Jack is on his way back. The cabin’s empty. No sign of Taylor or Bethany. And a shattered glass of bones was on the floor.”

“Fuckin’ hell!” Luke shouted out in frustration.

Within ten minutes Jack, Bart, and Blaise charged back into the command center.

“Give me everything you’ve got,” Jack growled, panting, his expression ravaged.

Monty started to report but was interrupted as Luke jerked around, pinning Jack with his gaze. “We’ve got her,” he said, drawing all eyes to him. “Ann’s tracker bracelet. It’s at the closest property that Stan owns. He’s taken her there.”

“She’s wearing the bracelet?” Bart asked, disbelieving her location could be identified so easily.

“Jesus,” Jack said. “She started putting it in her pocket each day. She said it gave her comfort and I sure as shit forgot about it.” Pivoting quickly, he barked out, “Suit up. We’re going in.”

The men grabbed their tactical equipment and headed back out of the door. Filling four SUVs they spun gravel behind them once more, this time knowing exactly where they were going and what they were going to do when they got there.

Please God, don’t let it be too late.

As Stan moved closer to Bethany, she cowered against the wall, the fear making her limbs quiver and her stomach lurch. He seemed distracted as he continued to mutter, “I’m not ready. This isn’t the right time.” He gazed at her, saying, “I heard Roscoe tell you there was a noise. I didn’t know what to do. I thought it was a good hiding place. I couldn’t keep my trophies at my house. But when we would come visit you, it was easy to add to my collection. No one would think to look there. But you did.”

She stared, not knowing what to say to his explanation…not even sure if he expected a response.

Rubbing his hand over his forehead, he grimaced as though in pain. “But you were such a good girl, taking care of your grandmother.” He shook his head back and forth several times, continuing to mutter. “You have to go away now that you found out. But…it’s not right.” He paced the floor before stopping right in front of the wall of photographs.

He turned slowly, his eyes boring into hers. “You slept with that man. You’re just a slut like the rest of them.” Nodding now, he seemed to have come to a conclusion. “Yes, yes. I have to take care of you too.”

Fear overrode her numbness and she struggled to get away, only managing to snap her wrist held in captivity. The pain sliced through her arm, causing the nausea to fill her mouth once again.

As he bent toward her, the offensive cloth in his hand, he added, “You can’t stop what has to happen. I’ll make it work.”

Her mind finally coming unglued, she reacted immediately, taking the only move she knew how to make—she rolled her face away from him on her back while bringing her feet up and kicked him in the groin as hard as she could.

Howling, he went down on the floor, dropping the chloroformed rag and grabbing his crotch with both hands. Tears streaming out of his tightly closed eyes, he was unable to speak. Rising to a kneeling position, she wanted to search his pockets for the key to the metal lock but realized his hands were in the way.

In a panic, she grabbed the cloth with one hand and twisted her face away to keep the odor from affecting her. Slapping the wet fabric over his face, his cries stilled, and his body stopped writhing on the floor. She stuck her good hand into his pants pocket and found a keyring.

Trying several of them, she discovered the correct one and, with her hands shaking with fright and adrenaline, she opened the metal cuff. She could not tell if her wrist was broken, but she used her good hand to push herself up. Holding on to the wall as she hauled herself upward, she then stumbled toward the door, pulling it open. The monstrous smells of the death room fell behind her as she made her way outside, gulping the fresh air deep into her lungs as she pitched forward onto her knees on the gravel drive.

The sun was slicing through the tree foliage, and she could see his car parked to the left. Staggering to his vehicle, she discovered the car keys were not in her hand. Too afraid to go back inside to search for them, she attempted to run, although the lingering effects of the chloroform made her unsteady on her legs.

The trees on either side of the road became flashes of fall colors all swimming in front of her eyes. The sunlight beating down seemed too bright, causing her to squint. Got to get away. Just keep going, her muddled mind screamed.

A sound ahead had her stopping in the middle of the drive. Hearing the noise of an automobile, she froze, her disoriented mind unable to ascertain from which direction it came. Turning too quickly, she slid down the gravel drive’s edge, rolling and tumbling into a small ravine. Thorns and underbrush tore at her clothing, scraping her limbs until she finally came to a stop at the bottom. Covered in leaves and dirt, she lay exhausted, praying that she was hidden from whatever terrors might come.

Making the thirty-minute drive in only fifteen minutes, the men coordinated their assignments while en route. Jack drew on his Special Forces training to slow his heart rate and focus on the mission at hand but found the task almost impossible.

Monty’s voice came through the earpieces, “ETA for FBI is ten more minutes.”

“Not waiting,” Jack growled, his body moving with the speeding vehicle driven by Bart as they took the country curves at a speed much too fast for ordinary drivers .

Pulling to a stop just down the drive from the property’s windowless structure deep in the woods, they alighted, immediately circling. The car sitting outside curled Jack’s stomach. I saw that car driving around whenever Taylor’s family was at Mountville. I was so close to the killer and never fuckin’ knew it.

“Boss,” Blaise said, causing Jack to jerk his head toward the left. “Get it out of your head. Not going to help her now.”

Sucking in a huge breath to clear his mind, Jack nodded. Time to go down, asshole.

Approaching the door, Chad was prepared to blast it open when they saw that it was slightly ajar, allowing Jack and Bart to storm in first. Jack’s gaze looked for Bethany, his stomach lurching as he saw the blood-stained table and gruesome photographs on the wall. But no Bethany.

Bart ran to Stanley, beginning to stir on the floor near chains connected to the wall. Seeing the chloroform rag next to his face, he barked out, “She must have turned this on him. She’s out.”

Blaise and Chad entered as Jack stomped over to Stanley and picked him up with one arm. “Where the hell is she?” he roared.

Just then the area was swarming with FBI as Monty led them to the hideaway of death. Chad caught Jack’s arm as it was swinging toward Stan’s face.

“The knife,” Chad yelled, catching Jack’s attention. “There’s no blood on it. Swear to God, Jack, I think she escaped.”

Blaise quickly said into his radio, “Luke, find her with the tracer. We’re at the location. Got Stan but Bethany’s not here.”

Luke’s answer had Jack and the Saints pounding out of the structure, leaving it to the FBI as they ran back down the drive. Looking side to side as he ran, Jack noticed broken branches in the gorse. “Here,” he shouted.

Moving off the gravel drive, he fought his way past the brambles, seeing a torn piece of cloth clinging to a thorn bush. He heard another Saint behind him and called out, “She’s been here,” knowing his men would be following.

Pushing past the last of the brambles along the steep slope, he saw movement in the underbrush down by the ravine. Just as he slid to a stop, shouting her name, Bethany’s scratched face peeked out from the brambles. Dazed and confused… but beautiful.

Charging into the ditch, he slid down beside her, pulling her into his arms. “Jesus, Jesus, thank Jesus,” he said over and over, his chest near to bursting.

“Jack?” her weak voice said, as she buried her face in his neck, her good arm clawing to find its way around him as she held her injured arm close to her body.

“I’m here, beautiful. I’ve got you.”

Hearing noises beside them, he did not have to look to know his men were circling around to assist. Feeling hands help them up, he turned as Blaise said, “Jack, get her up to the road and let me check her out.”

Nodding, Jack stood with her in his arms, allowing the men to get them to the road. Kneeling with her in his embrace, he realized his body was shaking. Not knowing what horrors she had faced before escaping, he warred with wanting to talk to her and simply wanting her to never think of it again.

Bethany’s slightly dilated eyes took in the men around her as Jack held her tightly. “I’m…I’m okay,” she stammered.

Blaise gently wiped her scratched face and arms, noting her clothing was intact and there were only slight bruises on her neck. Her wrist seemed to have suffered the most injury as it was swollen, abraded and bleeding from the metal cuff.

Blaise opened his backpack and pulled out the makings for an emergency splint, quickly binding her wrist.

His eyes met Jack’s and he gave an imperceptible nod, Jack’s breath letting out slowly. Monty came running down the drive, having informed the FBI of her whereabouts.

Several ambulances pulled into the drive, one stopping at the group. Jack placed Bethany on the stretcher against her protests.

“Babe, not taking a chance. I want you seen,” Jack ordered gently.

Still clutching at his shoulders, she peered into his face, fear written on her expression. “Don’t leave me!”

Touching his lips to her forehead, he nodded. “I’ll be with you always, beautiful.”

One week later, the Saints gathered at Jack’s house, not heading down to the command center but piling up in the living room instead, surrounding Jack who was sitting on the sofa with Bethany tucked into his side. Each leaned over, kissing Bethany’s head or offering a hug as they entered. Jack caught her nervous smile as her eyes sought his and he winked his encouragement. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her more tightly into his embrace.

“You okay, babe?” he whispered.

Biting her lip, she breathed, “Yeah.”

He kept his arm around her as the men took their seats and settled in. Engaged in small talk, the group avoided discussing the Campus Killer.

Jack’s mind wandered back to the events of the past week.

Sitting in the hospital ER bay with her while she was checked out, he began to shake as the adrenaline wore off. With antibiotic salve on her scratches and her bruised and injured wrist wrapped in a cast, she was ready to be discharged.

It was afterward that took him over the edge. Monty came in to let them know an FBI investigator needed to question her. “Would you be more comfortable doing this at home?” Monty asked, concern on his face.

Shaking her head fiercely, she cried, “No! I can’t go there!” The idea of seeing her cabins was terrifying.

Jack squeezed her, saying, “She’s coming to my place.”

“No!” Bethany cried. She glanced up at him, seeing his concerned expression, and explained, “I don’t want it there. I don’t want to relive it there.” Her gaze begged him to understand. “I want to get it out and then leave it. I don’t want it to stay with me.”

Jack and Monty shared a glance, both knowing that she was not going to be able to talk about it without dealing with the aftereffects. Monty nodded and said, “They’ll meet us in the local sheriff’s office and do the interview there.”

Two hours later, sitting with Jack at her side and the Saints listening in as well, she recounted her tale. All her encounters with Stan and his family. How he always asked for the same cabin when they came to stay and no, she did not think that was weird. And then, the events of the day.

She maintained her composure until describing the wall of photographs. Her voice faltered as her eyes filled with tears. Face pale, she began to shake. Jack wrapped his arms around her in an attempt to share his body heat with hers, but her mind had completely taken over her body. Haltingly, she talked of finding the jar of bones. Finding the knife. Having him rush at her and placing a rag over her mouth. Waking up in the room, shackled by chains to the wall. Seeing what she thought was a rusty table, before realizing it was blood. Then the photographs.

“Do you need a break, Ms. Bridwell?” the investigator asked.

She did not hear him. All she could hear in her mind were the screams of the women on the wall.

“Enough!” Jack growled, starting to stand .

“No,” she whispered, her tearful eyes imploring his. “I need to do this for them.”

“These investigators will get their information from the evidence. They don’t have to have you relive this nightmare.”

“No,” she whispered again, her small hand on his arm. “I have to do it. For them. For the women.”

He searched her eyes, seeing fear mixed with strength. Then, sighing, he nodded as he settled back down, pulling her into his side. His eyes met the investigators, daring them to keep their mouths shut as she talked.

She finished her tale of terror, recounting his unstable ramblings, explained her attack on him and subsequent escape. “I think the only reason I had a chance was that he kept saying ‘this wasn’t how it was supposed to be’.”

“Most serial killers have a routine they’re comfortable with. You didn’t fit that profile, nor was he expecting to have to kill at that time, so your situation threw him off his norm.”

Finishing the interview, she suddenly turned to Jack and said, “Take me home.” The investigator informed her that Mountville had been barricaded from the public and the cabin had been sealed off for the investigation.

“Oh, Jack, what about my guests?”

Assured that Roscoe and Sally had taken care of them all, she leaned heavily against him. He took her weight wordlessly, with another squeeze around her shoulders. “I’ll have to close Mountville,” she said, bringing her hands up to her face. Twisting around to face him, she moaned, “The publicity will kill me.”

Now it was a week later and the gathering in Jack’s living room kept the conversation lively, no one wanting to upset her. Neither she nor Jack had brought up the events, each dancing around the subject.

Finally, not able to stand it any longer, she blurted, “I need to know.”

Jack gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and the others stared. First at her. Then at Jack. Then at each other.

“Babe, there’s no need to?—”

“Jack,” she interrupted, twisting around to look up into his scowling face. “I’m fine. Don’t you get it? I’m fine. Yes, what happened sucked, and I’ll have nightmares about that horrible room and wall for years. But honey,” she said, bringing her face in close while cupping his jaw, “I got out. I’m safe.”

“If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget how scared I was,” he confessed. Leaning forward, touching his forehead to hers, he forced his heart rate to return to normal, giving a little nod.

With a nod from Jack, Monty began, “When all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, it appears that Stan began killing when he saw his father bang—uh…having sex with a young woman that he knew. Whether his mom asked him to get rid of her or he did it on his own out of spite to his father, who knows.”

Luke added, “We assume that started his journey into killing. He thought of her as a good girl and was upset that she was being…well, in his mind…being a slut.”

“But he was married! He had kids!” Bethany exploded. “And he seemed so nice!”

“It’s a myth that most serial killers are loners and completely antisocial,” Luke continued. “From what we can tell, he had to leave college after stalking a woman who spurned him.”

“He worked for a marketing company selling advertising and would continue to go to campuses, try to pick up women he had watched and determined were good girls. Maybe he wanted sex with them, and if they turned him down, that’s when he would go after them. We have no idea how many he may have watched, but when he would come across one who changed their patterns, like going dancing or to bars, or one-night-stands. He would kidnap them, and then…um…”

Chad had taken over the explanations but hesitated at this part of the story. His eyes darted to hers and his voice faltered.

“He would rape them, torture them, and kill them,” Bethany finished for him. “What about what I found? In the bathroom?”

Bart replied, “It appears those were souvenirs. He would…um…” he stumbled over his choice of words, looking to Jack for guidance when he saw Bethany’s wide eyes.

Jack, hating the conversation, squeezed her shoulders. Sucking in a deep breath, he said, “Babe, you’ll go over all this with your counselor, but I’m trying to get these images out of your head. So, this is the last of it. Some killers keep something to remind them of what they’ve done. For memories, for a power trip, for the hell of it.”

“But why here? Why not at his house? Or that…that…place?”

“Don’t know, but if I had to guess, it was because he felt safe at the cabins. He always asked for the same one. Figured no one would find them. If they were found, it wouldn’t be tied to him since you have lots of guests who stay there. It was…safe.”

The room grew quiet, each to their own thoughts while attuned to the young woman, so close to the same fate, that had come to mean so much to their boss…and to them.

After a few minutes of reflection, she said, “While I never thought it was one of my guests, I would have assumed Horace over Stan.”

“The writer?” Blaise asked.

“The who?” Bethany asked, in surprise.

Chuckling, Blaise continued. “Yeah, when he was checked out by the FBI, he was indignant he had to leave his cabin. Seems he lives in a very noisy building so he would come to Mountville at least once a month for the quiet and solitude to write his mystery novels under a pen name.”

Before Bethany could respond to that, Jack interrupted her thoughts and said, “You’re also going to have to talk to Roscoe.”

Jerking her gaze to his, her brow furrowed in question. “Huh? ”

“He’s been keeping some hooch stashed in the tool shed,” Bart laughed.

“Hootch?”

“Uh, moonshine,” he explained. “He’s been buying some locally distilled whiskey and found the storage shed to be a good place to keep it.”

The idea that one of her favorite guests was a serial killer, one of her unusual guests was a mystery writer, and her handyman was storing his bootleg whisky in her shed had her falling back against Jack’s body.

“So much for my idea of a wedding venue,” she mumbled. “So far the press hasn’t come around, but I know they will, and I’ll be ruined.”

“It’ll be fine, baby,” Jack murmured against her hair.

Monty shook his head slightly, saying, “Bethany, don’t worry. The FBI is keeping Mountville out of the press.”

Jack’s eyes darted to his friend as she jerked her gaze toward Monty.

“How?” she asked incredulously.

Chuckling, Monty looked down for a few seconds before lifting his gaze back to hers. Softening his tone, he just replied, “Called in a few favors. Racked up quite a few while I was with the Bureau, so it was time for a little payback. Press gets the story, but Mountville is kept out.”

Her throat clogged with emotion as she mouthed her appreciation to him. Thank you so much .

Monty smiled in return, offering a simple nod to both her and Jack .

“It’s a good thing you were wearing your grandmother’s tracer,” Bart said.

She smiled as she nodded. “When Gram moved to the memory-care facility, I felt so alone. She never wore jewelry, or I probably would’ve worn that. But since her tracker bracelet was the only thing I had, I kept it in my pocket and whenever my fingers would happen across it, I felt as though she were right here with me.” She looked into Jack’s face, “Kind of like my own personal Saint.”

Looking down at her face, Jack said gruffly, “We done?” his voice belying his need to take away her fears.

“Yeah, sweetie,” she said, knowing he hated talking about what had happened, “We’re done.” She smiled remembering what he told her last night. “You need to talk, beautiful, we’ll talk. You need to see a counselor to get over the nightmares, we’ll do that too. Whatever you need…that’s what I’ll give to you.” She then smiled wider, remembering what she needed last night…his powerful body rocking into hers, the moonlight streaming through the windows, two major earth-shattering orgasms, and then cuddling.

Yeah, whatever she needed…he gave to her.