Love You to Pieces

It's been a few months since Jaycen McCain's troubled wife fell victim to a sadistic killer. Losing Kelly Jo has haunted him deeply, and his failure to keep her safe has driven Jay to the brink of a bleak, self-destructive despair. But the small-town police detective has bigger problems to deal with when a string of serial murders crop up on his home turf--murders with eerie similarities to the violence perpetrated on his wife.

Compelled to stop the killer and find much-needed answers about Kelly Jo's final hours, Jay is forced to enlist the help of a woman too tempting for his own peace of mind: Kelly Jo's pretty cousin, Sara St. James. Together, Jay and Sara embark on a pursuit for justice that will take them into an underground world of dark places and dangerous, irresistible desires. As an unwanted passion kindles and combusts between them, the killer closes in, pulling Jay and Sara into the web of an evil that will rock them to their core.

THE COLD-HAMMERED barrel of his Glock 10mm pressed flat against Jaycen McCain’s temple as his finger tightened on the trigger. He took a final look around the floral bedroom, the room they had shared.

His finger shook.

His brow beaded with sweat.

Gritting his teeth, a tear of anger and frustration rolled down his cheek. Bitter bile filled his mouth. When the bullet entered his skull and pulverized his brains, it would all end. Blessed nothingness. Oblivion would be better than his fucked-up existence.

The phone jangled, causing him to fumble the gun. Cursing, he tossed it onto the bed and grasped the receiver. He knew the identity of the caller without waiting for the acknowledgement. “What the fuck do you want, Sara?”

“I called to see if you’re okay.”

“Stay the hell out of my life.”

“Dammit, Jaycen, how can I help you if you won’t let me?”

He laughed, knowingly cruel. “I don’t want your concern, Sara. Save it for someone who does.”

“Jaycen—”

He slammed down the receiver. His gaze traveled back to the gun. Sliding from the bed to the floor, he hugged his knees and shook his head. He didn’t have the courage to pull the trigger.

Jaycen glanced up and saw the five-by-seven wedding picture on the dresser across the room. So damn much had happened in the few months since Kelly Jo stormed out of the house. If he could only go back and change his parting words. Tell her how much he loved her. But truth be told, they hadn't gotten along for much of the past year. Ever since Alexis passed away, Kelly Jo swore he’d crawled inside himself to an unreachable place. Neither of them had been good at handling grief. They took it out on each other after ten-year-old Alexis succumbed to leukemia.

He was supposed to be there for her first date, take pictures of her prom, teach her to drive…walk her down the isle, for crissake. Not stand over her casket as his tears washed her lifeless face. Kelly Jo handled her grief differently and wanted what they had before Alexis died. Didn’t she realize they could never go back?

Jaycen rocked back on his heels, trying his damnedest to keep the images at bay, his gaze fixed on the floral wallpaper. Paper Kelly Jo had picked out, the matching quilt on the bed. The whole damned room was stamped with her presence.

Other, more disturbing images from three months past flooded his thoughts. A cardboard box, attention Jaycen McCain. No return address. Standard packing tape sealed all edges.

Hardening his jaw, Jaycen stood, picked up his Glock and whipped it across the room, smashing the picture on the dresser, sending glass shards scattering and tinkering about.

The phone rang again.

Jaycen grasped it from the stand and pulled the cord from the wall, ending its trill. Just as he was about to let it sail across the room, the fight drained from him, leaving him numb. The phone dropped to his feet.

Running both hands down his whiskered jaw, he slumped to the mattress, fighting off the signs of an oncoming panic attack that had begun plaguing him since about the time his wife left and never returned. He lay back across the bed, dangling one arm over his eyes, and concentrated on steadying his breathing. He recalled the day he opened the box.

Using a utility knife, he’d hastily slit the tape and jerked open the flaps.

His stomach turned. He dashed for the bathroom, leaping over the broken glass. Grasping both sides of the basin, he dry-heaved.

Inside the box, preserved in a vacuum-sealed food storage bag, had lain a severed left hand, complete with wedding ring and mole, Kelly Jo’s latest manicure bloodied and tattered.

A single piece of white computer paper had held the typed phrase: Ding Dong! Your wife is dead. Which old Wife? The Wicked Wife!

Sara St. James replaced the receiver in the cradle. Jaycen needed her. Sure, he had thrown her concern back at her, told her he didn’t want it, but she’d be damned if she’d allow him to self-destruct. She owed it to her cousin, Kelly Jo, to stick by him even though most of his friends hadn’t. Kelly Jo had been like a sister, and Sara, an only child, had treasured their relationship above all else.

She grabbed her car keys from the hook by the back door and headed for the red ’02 Honda Accord. She hoped Jaycen wouldn’t do anything stupid before she got there. After losing Alexis he had been shaky at best. And Kelly Jo’s death had been hard enough on her that she couldn’t fathom how deeply the wounds cut Jaycen.

Sara rounded the first curve down State Route 34, just past Stryker. Keith Urban’s “Raining on Sunday” filtered through the airwaves. Reaching over, she increased the volume. Country music soothed her, and right now, she needed the tranquility. The fifteen-minute trip to Jaycen’s house had taken entirely too long. She easily caught up to a slow moving green Ford Taurus. Why was it, whenever in a hurry, she met up with every Sunday driver on the road? Downshifting, she flipped on her left turn signal, then hit the gas and pushed the gear into fourth. Sara easily passed the white-haired gentleman driving as though he had days to reach his destination.

Taking the second curve at an accelerated speed, she caught sight of Jaycen’s driveway. His onyx Dodge Ram sat at the far end of the long drive, near the garage. Relief washed over her as she let off the gas. The gravel crunched beneath the tires as she pulled behind it. Sara leapt from the car, jogging to the entrance of the brick house. She knocked several times and waited. Nothing. The knob held fast as she tried to turn it. Reaching above to the rim of the awning, she pulled out the spare key Jaycen kept hidden. She quickly unlocked the door and slipped into the dim, cool interior. The Mr. Coffee light glowed from the breakfast nook and the half-full pot was hot.

“Jaycen?” Sara glanced down the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

Tiptoeing along the carpeted corridor, she peeked into the dark bathroom and past the closed door on her right. Alexis’s room. Jaycen hadn’t entered it since his daughter passed away. The room had been left intact, a mausoleum.

“Jaycen?” Silence continued to greet her. As she grasped the doorknob to his bedroom, the door swung inward, taking her with it. She was jerked rudely against his naked chest. Thank the good Lord he’d had enough sense to wear pants.

“What are you doing here, Sara?” He released her.

She noted the broken glass and busted frame. “What happened?”

“Shit happens.”

“You want to talk about it?”

His eyes were wide and crazed. “Do I look like I want a fucking shrink? I told you I didn’t want you here.”

“I want to help. I’m worried.”

“Don’t. Go back to your little apartment and forget about me. I’m fine.”

She answered with a mocking laugh. “You’re not fine, Jaycen. I lost her, too, you know.”

His hands fisted. “And I suppose now you’ll tell me you know how I feel.”

“You think you’re the only one suffering from Kelly Jo and Alexis’s loss? Dammit, Jaycen…I hurt, too.” She placed a hand on his whisker-roughened cheek. “I can help you get through this. Kelly Jo wouldn’t—”

Jaycen batted her hand away and backed out of reach. “I don’t need you, Sara. I can get through this on my own.” His jaw hardened.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, not allowing the tears to form. “She was my cousin. I lost her, too. I care about you, Jaycen, and I’ll be damned if I’ll allow you to ruin your life. I know Kelly Jo would want me here, helping you.”

“You don’t know shit, Sara. It’s my life to ruin. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

Sara wiped away the tears that she could no longer hold back. “You know what? Maybe I am wasting my breath. Screw you, Jaycen McCain. Self-destruct for all I care.”

She spun on her heel and stomped down the hall. She’d had enough of his hatred and self-loathing for one lifetime. Maybe everyone had been right and Jaycen couldn’t be helped. Let him wallow in self-pity and disgust.

Just as she reached the entrance, he gripped her shoulder, and spun her about. The clip from her hair flew against the foyer wall and clattered to the ground. Her auburn hair fell around her face in wild disarray. Sara raised her hand but paused in mid-strike as she took in his haunted gaze.

“Go ahead and hit me,” he said. “It’s nothing I don’t deserve.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

His hand left her shoulder and grasped the turquoise cross, that Kelly Jo had given him on their honeymoon in Cancun, dangling his neck.

“All I’m asking is that you allow me to help you.”

Jaycen chuckled, dropped his hold on the necklace and ran his hand through his unkempt hair. “The only thing you can do for me right now is help me figure out who this sick piece of shit is so I can put a bullet in his head.”

The sandy blond, ex-marine slid open the drawer to his red toolbox and extracted a steel hacksaw, holding the black handle at eye level as he inspected the jagged edge. The teeth could slice through bone and flesh with ease.

Granite eyes focused on the petite figure lying bound behind him on the sofa. She watched him pace about the room, her panic evident in her wide eyes and shallow breathing. He could smell her fear in the perspiration dotting her lined brow and dampening the armpits of her cropped tee. He’d have to be quick about this. Just her presence had begun to get beneath his skin. She reminded him too damn much of his mother: the fake black hair, the gross kohl eyeliner. And that squeaky voice, which had grated on his every nerve. Duct tape had securely ended the annoyance or he’d have cut her tongue out before they ever arrived.

He placed the cold steel on the Formica tabletop, then turned his back on the woman once more. She repulsed him…made his skin crawl. At the club, when he’d spotted her weaving through the crowd as if she owned the place, and later gyrating on the floor like a porn queen, he had known she was the one. Being blessed with boy-next-door looks, he’d found it quite easy to entice her. How readily she had slipped into his arms when he had slithered up behind her and offered to buy her a drink. They’d moved together on the dance floor effortlessly while her backside brushed intimately against his penis. She had wanted him. As if!

After supplying her with plenty of liquor, she had been a breeze to get into his van. The two-and-a-half-hour trip home with her, bound and gagged behind the front seat, had left him highly anticipating the evening’s festivities.

He whistled a little ditty as he finished readying the table. Damn, he enjoyed this part of the job, knowing she lay behind him, scared to high hell. He’d definitely send her there.

In good time.

After pulling a couple thirty-six gallon trash bags from the kitchen drawer—Don’t get mad, get Glad—he covered the floor with them. A third plastic bag draped the table. Can’t have blood spattering his linoleum. No Luminol and black lights proving wrongdoing here. He was far too intelligent to be caught by the backwoods idiots of this town.

He glanced out the sliding door off his kitchen to the cement deck and the Maumee River that lay beyond. His personal burial ground. He loved standing on his deck on a bright sunny day, knowing the corpses lay beneath the soles of his shoes and eight inches of concrete. Though with each body, his patio increased in size. Something he’d need to consider in the future.

He had only a few hours before the sun crested, limiting his playtime, he thought. He’d best get to work and leave the reminiscing for another day. Opening his pantry, he extracted his vacuum sealing system and bags. The finishing touch.

Shoulders back and spine straight, he stalked over to the sofa and knelt beside the woman. She flinched when he ran his hand down her arm. His nostrils flared. The scent of her sweat meant she feared him. He dropped his hand and seized her purse lying on the floor by the sofa, rummaging through it. After pulling out the wallet, he flipped it open to her driver’s license.

“Anybody missing you, Anita Campbell? A lover? A mother? Or perhaps a husband?”

A tear leaked from the corner of her eye. He swiped it with his pinky and licked the salty droplet. “You know this won’t be half as fun if there’s no one home to receive your package.”

Her gaze widened.

“Ah, yes. You see, someone will be the lucky recipient of something that belongs to you. A memento. Do you live alone, sweetheart?”

She shook her head.

“Parents?”

Again, a quick shake of her head.

“A boyfriend perhaps?”

She nodded. More tears filling her eyes.

He pursed his lips. “You mean, while I was dancing with you, there was a man at home waiting for you in your bed? Shame on you. You’re a naughty little girl, Anita. You know what happens to naughty little girls?”

Her head shook more violently.

“They must be punished.”

He stood quickly, grabbed her around the waist and slung her over his shoulder. She tried to resist, shifting and kicking, but his strength and her bound limbs stymied her efforts. He tossed her on the plastic-covered table, her head thumping against the Formica. The tape deadened her moan.

“Scared, Anita?”

She lay frozen, her nose now running along with her eyes.

“Good, because you see…as long as you’re feeling something, you’re still alive. Remember that. Because just as quickly…you could be feeling nothing.”

Smiling, he grasped the steel hacksaw and circled the table, passing the jagged edge gently across her flesh as she wiggled and squirmed.

“Which part of you do you want to send home to your loved one, Anita?”

Her brow creased.

“Your hand?” He lightly sliced the wrist, leaving a trickle of blood, as the tape muffled her cry. “Your foot with its cute little toe ring?” He left another stinging hairline cut.

She struggled vainly to sidle away from his touch and nearly managed to roll from the table, but his free hand pinned her to the surface. “Or how about those earrings?”

Her ear boasted several small hoops running from the lobe up the cartilage. It might make a nice trophy to send back to her lover and certainly would make an attractive display all vacuumed-sealed in an airtight bag.

Decision made, he placed the blade above the left ear and cleanly sawed through the flesh. Her screams barely penetrated the tape and her eyes rolled back in their sockets. Blood ran freely from the side of her head. He slapped her cheek a few times to keep her awake for the rest of the activities.

“Remember what I said, Anita…as long as you are feeling something, you’re still alive.”

He chuckled as her eyes slowly opened again. “Let the fun begin.”