Look-Alike. Rita Herron

her wet clothes, salt water stinging her eyes. A dog howled behind her, and she forced her rubbery legs to take another step. Up ahead, she thought she heard a noise. The whistle of the wind? A rabid dog? Thunder?

      Traffic. A car zooming over the slushy pavement.

      Panting, she tore through the bramble, jumped over a patch of overgrown weeds and ran onto the highway, waving her arms. She yelled for the driver to stop, but the ancient pickup rattled by, ignoring her, spewing muddy slush. Fighting panic and dizziness, she began to walk along the edge of the road, hopes dwindling as she realized the late hour and weather would prevent travelers from tackling the narrow deserted roads.

      Exhaustion intensified her despair, but she reminded herself not to give up hope. Another car would come by. It had to.

      One more step. Another.

      It seemed as if hours had passed, but finally a noise broke the silence. Tires squealed, brakes churned. An eighteen-wheeler spun around the curve, crossing the center line. She yelled and waved her arms frantically, praying his headlights caught her, that he didn’t run her down.

      He hit the brakes and gears screeched as he slowed and pulled over to the embankment. The door swung open, and a man’s face appeared, shadowed by the smoke-filled cab interior. The strong odor of French fries and sweat wafted from the truck. “Miss, are you all right?”

      “Yes, I—” her teeth chattered “—need a ride.”

      “Your car break down?” He scratched his beard as his eyes scanned the dark deserted stretch of highway.

      Had she not been so terrified of getting caught and restrained in that mental ward, she would have been afraid of him. His beefy arms swelled over a thin wife-beater T-shirt, and a plaid flannel shirt hung loose around his beer belly.

      Desperate though, she climbed in, grateful for the warmth of the cabin. She only prayed she hadn’t escaped one nightmare to be thrust into another.

      Raven’s Peak

       North Georgia

      THE PHONE RANG at 5:00 a.m. Before he even answered it, Miles sensed it was bad news.

      “Your wife has been saved now, she’s repenting for her sins.”

      His throat closed. “What? Who the hell is this?”

      “She was reborn at Devil’s Ravine.”

      A coarse, sinister laugh reverberated over the line, then the phone clicked into silence.

      Frantic, Miles hit the call-back feature. Nothing. Dammit. Panic rolled through him in waves as he yanked on his jeans and grabbed a shirt, but his cop instincts kicked in.

      He had to go. He headed toward the door. Agent Brown already thought he was guilty of hurting his wife. He’d better cover himself and give him a call.

      His fingers shook as he punched in his deputy’s number. He’d let him handle things at his office today while he dealt with this. Then he phoned the FBI agent.

      Seconds later, Agent Brown’s voice echoed over the line. “What is it?”

      “I just received an anonymous call,” Miles said. “A man. He said I’d find my wife at Devil’s Ravine.”

      Brown cleared his throat. “Where are you now?”

      “At my place. But I’m on my way out the door.” He grabbed his gun and shoved it into his jeans. “It’ll take me about ten minutes to reach the ravine.”

      “I’ll meet you there.”

      Miles’s head spun as he fumbled for his sunglasses and raced to his car. Images of Caitlin surfaced. Caitlin with her silky long hair. Caitlin teasing him in bed.

      Caitlin lying naked and cold and alone.

      Dead.

      His pulse pounded as he started his SUV and tore down the graveled drive. Thankfully the sleet had let up. As much as he’d told himself he didn’t care anymore, that he never had, emotions clogged his throat. He had loved her. And maybe she hadn’t left him. Maybe someone had kidnapped her and held her all these weeks and she had prayed he would save her.

      But he’d failed.

      Guilt suffused him, making his chest tight. The towering pines and hardwoods rushed by in a blur. His tires squealed, grappling with the slick asphalt as he wound around the mountain. The steep incline forced him to downshift and brake, the miles of dense forest and deserted country roads endless. If a hiker got lost or was in trouble, they might never be found.

      Unless someone alerted the police. Meaning the killer wanted them to find his victim.

      Because he felt remorse, or because he liked the game?

      A ray of sunshine fought through the gray clouds as he accelerated and maneuvered the narrow dirt road. Bush and trees marred the rest of the way. He’d have to park, and hike to the ravine.

      He yanked on his jacket, checked his weapon, climbed from his SUV and scanned the wooded area. Was the caller still around? Was he watching?

      Senses on overdrive, he listened for footsteps and began to weave through the dense brush and trees. Barring the wildlife creatures, the squirrels and birds foraging for food, the forest remained asleep. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he descended the rocky terrain leading into the ravine, rocks skittering down and pinging into the creek below. When he reached the lower bank, he turned in a wide arc and scanned the horizon, the edge of the woods, the cliff above. Vultures soared overhead, a hunter’s gunshot reverberating in the distance. Wind blew damp leaves into a cluster.

      Where was she?

      His gut tight, he forced himself to turn around again, scan the woods, then the water.

      Heaven help him. It was her. Caitlin.

      She was lying naked in the icy creek, wedged between some rocks, her arms outstretched, her dark hair tangling around her pale face. White lilies floated around her head like a halo. He stepped closer, his gaze drifting over her bruised body.

      A stab wound marred her bare chest, the letter A carved across her breasts in blood. He choked out a breath. Two murders in Savannah the year before and three in Atlanta had the same MO. The police had dubbed the killer The Carver. Dear God, now he was here in Raven’s Peak.

      And he had killed Caitlin.

      Savannah, Georgia

      THE SUN SLITHERED through the dark morning sky as the driver pulled in to a station to get gas. Caitlin saw the sign for Savannah, and vague memories surfaced—she had a sister, she knew she did. They had been close—she felt her presence as if she were here somewhere. Surely her sister had been looking for her. Or did she know Caitlin had been locked in that mental hospital?

      The driver climbed from the eighteen-wheeler with a tired grunt and lumbered toward the men’s room, and she slid from the seat and ran toward downtown Savannah. Traffic clogged the narrow streets. Signs for River Street goodies, bars and restaurants, and the market floated by while sightseers roamed the squares. A ghost tour through a cemetery caught her eyes, and she glanced at the tombstones, a shiver racing up her spine.

      She spotted a local diner and she decided to slip inside and warm up. Maybe get some coffee. Unfortunately, she had no money or ID. Maybe she could offer to wash dishes in exchange. At least she could get a glass of water, sit down and think.

      Steam from the griddle sizzled above the den of people as she entered the cafe. She knew she looked ragged so she rushed to the restroom and cleaned up. The scent of coffee, sausages and shrimp grits filled the cramped space. Heat enveloped her as she claimed a corner booth and grabbed a menu.

      A waitress wearing a name tag that read Verna and a white apron splotched with grease stabbed a pencil behind her ear and glided toward her with coffee, but halted suddenly, her eyes glued to the TV set in the corner. “Oh, my word!” Verna flicked up the volume. “There’s been a woman murdered in North Georgia.”