Collecting Evidence
Книга "Collecting Evidence", авторами которой являются Литагент HarperCollins EUR}, Rita Herron, представляет собой захватывающую работу в жанре Зарубежные детективы. В этом произведении автор рассказывает увлекательную историю, которая не оставит равнодушными читателей.
Автор мастерски воссоздает атмосферу напряженности и интриги, погружая читателя в мир загадок и тайн, который скрывается за хрупкой поверхностью обыденности. С прекрасным чувством языка и виртуозностью сюжетного развития, Литагент HarperCollins EUR позволяет читателю погрузиться в сложные эмоциональные переживания героев и проникнуться их судьбами. EUR настолько живо и точно передает неповторимые нюансы человеческой психологии, что каждая страница книги становится путешествием в глубины человеческой души.
"Collecting Evidence" - это не только захватывающая история, но и искусство, проникнутое глубокими мыслями и философскими размышлениями. Это произведение призвано вызвать у читателя эмоциональные отклики, задуматься о важных жизненных вопросах и открыть новые горизонты восприятия мира.
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Table of Contents
Award-winning author RITA HERRON wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded storytelling to kids for romance, and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her website at www.ritaherron.com.
To Jamie, a brave and courageous young girl—may all your dreams come true!
Special Agent Dylan Acevedo pressed the blade of the knife against Frank Turnbull’s fleshy neck.
“Go ahead, kill me,” Turnbull muttered.
Dylan jabbed the blade into his skin, a smile curving his mouth as a drop of blood seeped to the surface. He should just do it.
The man deserved to die.
The images of the women the serial killer had brutally murdered—all young Native Americans in their twenties—flashed into Dylan’s head in sickening clarity. Their delicate throats slashed, bodies left exposed in the rugged terrain of the desert, blood dripping as if to lure the wild animals to feed on their remains.
Young lives lost for no reason except to fulfill the sick cravings of a demented mind.
Dylan glanced down at the knife in his hand. The knife that had belonged to Turnbull. The same kind he’d used to cut the women’s throats.
It was only fitting he die by the same instrument.
With his throat sliced open by a Ute ceremonial knife made from white quartz and Western Cedar, the kind of knife used to cut the umbilical cord of a newborn or to harvest herbs for sacred ceremonies.
Another important component of Turnbull’s MO was his calling card—he’d left a piece of thunderwood by each victim. Another dig to the Ute people who had a religious aversion to handling thunderwood—a piece of bark from a tree struck by lighting. The Utes believed that thunder beings would strike down any Ute Indian who touched it.
Turnbull’s swollen eye twitched with menace and a dare. A challenge to Dylan to feel the thrill of the kill, Turnbull seemed to say silently.
Dylan clenched his jaw. He wanted to see fear in Turnbull’s eyes. Wanted to hear him scream as his victims had. Hear him beg for his life.
Instead Turnbull laughed, a hideous deep growl that punctured the night like a wild animal just before it tore into a smaller one’s carcass.
“You’re just like me,” Turnbull mumbled. “I can see the evil in your eyes.”
Dylan’s fingers tightened on the knife handle. At that moment he did crave the kill. But his need was driven by revenge and justice, not depraved indifference.
“Dylan, don’t…”
His brother Miguel’s voice rumbled from behind him. Miguel, who was a saint compared to him. He’d been an altar boy while Dylan had been the troublemaker.
They hadn’t always gotten along, but as adults they’d forged a bond and developed a healthy respect for one another’s differences. Miguel was a forensic scientist, and they often worked together on cases, relying on each other’s expertise.
Miguel’s footfalls echoed on the ground as he approached. “Come on, Dylan. We’ve got him. Let’s take him in and make him pay for what he did. Make him face the families of the victims.”
Dylan’s hand trembled as his gaze once again locked with the monster. Then he saw the fear in the man’s eyes. Turnbull wanted him to kill him.
Because he didn’t want to face the families.
Miguel was right. Having to look into the pain-filled eyes of the parents of the women he’d hurt would be his worst punishment.
His hand slipped, caught the skin just enough to cause a flesh wound, then he gestured for Miguel to cuff the bastard.
HOURS LATER, after their debriefing and a press conference to announce they’d finally arrested the ruthless Ute killer, Dylan walked into the Vegas bar. All he wanted was to purge his rage, and drown out the images of the girls he hadn’t been able to save.
Just like he hadn’t saved his fifteen-year-old sister, Teresa, when she’d been gunned down in a gangrelated drive-by.
Suddenly, the most exotic creature he’d ever seen approached him. Long black hair that hung down to her waist swayed seductively as she walked, her dark chocolate eyes raking over him appreciatively.
She was Ute, fit the profile of the victims he’d fought so hard to obtain justice for. Could have become number eleven on Turnbull’s kill card. Yet here she was, alive and smiling at him.
“Agent Acevedo,” she said in a purrlike voice with the faint accent of her heritage. “I saw you on the news. Thank you for arresting that killer.”
