Saving Face
A
Steve Williams Novel
The Windwalker Serial Killer stalks the inlets
of southern Maine for the next beauty to advance his collection and Special
Agent Steve Williams is frustrated with always being a breath behind the
slippery psychopath. Escalating the pressure, Steve’s adopted sons, CJ
and Tom Ryan, take teenage rebellion to an entirely new level, leaving Steve in
an explosive situation.
When the Windwalker slaughters Tom’s
ex-girlfriend, taking her face as a macabre trinket, Tom is found on the scene
covered in her blood, with her scalped body draped across his lap.
Damning evidence against him is unearthed, his father's secret identity is
about to be exposed, and he's charged with Tanya’s traumatic murder.
To prove his innocence, their only hope
is the worst-case scenario; for the Windwalker to harvest a new face.
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EXCERPT
Chapter
1
The
trees swayed in the breeze, dry leaves rustled, and the stars disappeared
behind a bank of clouds, drawing out the already dark shadows. Shadows he hid
within, watching, waiting, frozen in place by his obsession, his bloodlust.
Testing
the air with a sniff, he tried detecting a trace of her perfume but came away
with only the distinct scent of fall. Crisp. Clean. Carnal.
His
edgy hands begged for action and he clenched them, dropping his arms to his
sides. Tilting his head, he caught a rhythmic pulse, like that of his heart,
but accented with crunching leaves. She was coming and his hand shot to the
worn handle of his hunting knife.
Patience.
His
fingers stroked the soft wood like a lover and he stared at the jogger-beaten
path. The bounce of her headlamp filtered through the thick brush and he blew a
slow stream of air through his lips, calming his pounding heart.
Patience, he told himself again. He
didn’t want to give her enough time to react, to bolt in the opposite
direction. Instead, he counted her steps, watching as the light approached,
bouncing with each of her long-legged strides.
It
wasn’t her lithe frame he was after. It was her face, her scalp. She had passed
by him at the store, catching his fancy and fueling his desire. A fine
specimen. An excellent addition to his collection; with fragile features
stretched into a scream—forever captured in his art.
He
crept closer to the path, crouching and ready to pounce the moment she crossed.
The light drew closer and now he could smell the mixture of Poison and sweat, a
sweet concoction that aroused his hunger and almost uncoiled his predatory
posture. He inhaled deeply, relishing the scent. Her footfalls brought her
close enough to make out her dark form behind the bright light.
He
waited, and when the twig he placed in the middle of the path snapped, he
sprang. In one leap, he caught her, wrapping his arms around her as he tackled.
The yelp of surprise brought a smile to his face and he unsheathed the knife,
plunging it into her chest before she could regain enough oxygen to produce a
blood curdling scream.
Her
eyes widened, blinking at him in the light of her fallen headlamp.
The
thrill of the hunt, of the capture, fueled his blood; pumping it frantically
through his veins, throbbing in his temple, producing little spots of red in
the edges of his eyesight. Ripping flesh accompanied each of his thrusts, along
with muffled cries of pain that gave way to an airy wheeze.
He
grabbed her hair, pulling her head forward and slicing the base of her hairline
with surgical precision. Sliding his fingers under the gaping wound, he peeled
the scalp from the back to the front, separating her skin from the bone.
She
did scream then, a high gurgling wail that died moments later, when his knife
separated the mass of skin and hair and lips that he peeled from her bones,
severing her carotid artery in the process. With the prize pelt in his hands,
he stood, sheathing the knife and taking off toward the river.
Chapter
2
Eight hours
earlier…
“You
are ruining my life!” C. J. Ryan bellowed.
Steve
Williams crossed his arms and stood his ground. “I don’t care. You snuck out of
the house after I said you couldn’t go to that party. You knew damn well I’d
find out, and now both you and your brother are grounded until graduation.” His
gaze traveled to CJ’s mute brother, Tom. “And you, what were you thinking,
stealing that car?”
Tom
thrust his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground.
Steve
clenched his teeth together and glanced out the observation window at the
Brooksfield police department pit.
“You
can’t ground me. You’re not my father.”
His
gaze snapped back to CJ and he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “I may not
be your biological father, but don’t ever doubt my authority here.”
“It’s
your fault my parents are dead.”
The
mental shove made Steve stumble back a step and he caught himself. In two
strides, he stood toe to toe with CJ, his gaze blazing into the azure blue of
the seventeen-year-old’s equally furious eyes.
“You
really want to play that game with me?” he asked, his voice low, almost a
growl, but the kid struck a chord. His father had been caught in the cross fire
of one of his FBI investigations and his mother, his mother was a completely
different story. He had led her right into the belly of the beast.
CJ
dropped his gaze, his eyes traveling to Tom’s before he gave a slight shake of
his head.
“Why’d
you let him steal a car?”
CJ
sighed and shrugged, all the hellfire burned out of him for the moment.
“Why?”
Steve asked and stepped back, addressing Tom.
I wanted to see my dad. Tom thought, meeting his
questioning stare.
“Bullshit.”
Steve shook his head. You see him all the
time. You probably can see him pacing the room behind me. Can’t you?
Tom’s
gaze moved from Steve’s to the angry angel pacing the room behind him. Wings
fluttered and a wealth of curses dropped from his lips, his iridescent blue
eyes glaring at the two boys. Tom nodded. I
wanted to talk with him.
“You
could have asked me to bring you here.” Steve softened. It had been a couple
months since they visited Paradise Cove. The magical portal where their father
could speak to them, to see them, and where Tom had a ghost tongue along with
the miraculous recovery of speech. It was the only place on earth that he could
articulate his thoughts since the psycho in Georgia had cut his tongue out.
But
neither boy had the same mental bond Steve had with their father. Their father
was now his guardian angel, a constant presence intruding on his every thought.
Steve could hear Ty Ryan any time of day or night, even times when he’d rather
not have the voice of reason on his shoulder. Sometimes he wished for the
blessed silence he knew before he met the Ryan family. The absolute
cluelessness to the thoughts around him, to the ghost haunting his every waking
minute, and to the powers he inherited when Ty died. Reading minds came in
handy as an FBI agent, but the constant din in his head was maddening.
“You’ve
been too wrapped up in that case to
take us,” CJ answered.
That case. He almost laughed at the venom
in CJ’s voice. That case shrouded his life, leaving time for nothing else and
he missed more football games and nights of homework and family time his wife
set aside, because of that stinking
case.
Another
killer was loose. The Windwalker eluded the police, eluded the FBI, and eluded
him like he was made of smoke. They had gotten to the last victim minutes after
she died. With her body still warm, they scoured the woods for clues, but the
tracks disappeared at the bank of the river, just like every other dead,
skinned body they found. Stealth, like fog rolling from the snow during
strawberry spring, in and out quickly before the victim really knew what happened,
and it burned him. Becoming a mission. An obsession.
CJ
knew how frustrated he was and to bring it up here was just his attempt to get
a rise out of him, to skirt the real issue.
He
ignored the dig. “So you sneak out of the house, crash that party, have a few
beers and decide it would be a great idea to steal a car?” Exasperated, he
traded glances with the boys. “You crossed state lines. Do you have any idea
how serious this is?”
CJ
started to speak then closed his mouth. He sank into the chair, fidgeting with
his parent’s wedding bands, which he wore on the chain around his neck. Tom
followed suit taking the seat next to his brother.
I’m sorry. It was my idea, not
CJ’s.
“Grand
theft auto is serious and you two are close enough to eighteen for the courts
to look at this as an opportunity to teach a hard lesson.” He slid into the
chair on the other side of the table and leaned forward. “I had to pull a lot
of strings to make this disappear, but this is the last time I will bail you
out. You hear me?” He pounded his index finger on the table, punctuating his
words. “The last time!”
BIO
J.E. Taylor is a
writer, a publisher, an editor, a manuscript formatter, a mother, a wife and a
business analyst, not necessarily in that order. She first sat
down to seriously write in February of 2007 after her daughter asked:
“Mom,
if you could do anything, what would you do?”
From that moment on, she hasn’t looked back and now her writing resume includes six+ published novels along with several short stories on the virtual shelves including a few within eXcessica anthologies.
In addition to being co-owner of Novel Concept Publishing (www.novelconceptpublishing), Ms. Taylor also moonlights as a Senior Editor of Allegory (www.allegoryezine.com), an online venue for Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror. She has been known to edit a book or two and also offers her services judging writing contests for various RWA chapters.
She lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children and during the summer months enjoys her weekends on the shore in southern Maine.
From that moment on, she hasn’t looked back and now her writing resume includes six+ published novels along with several short stories on the virtual shelves including a few within eXcessica anthologies.
In addition to being co-owner of Novel Concept Publishing (www.novelconceptpublishing), Ms. Taylor also moonlights as a Senior Editor of Allegory (www.allegoryezine.com), an online venue for Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror. She has been known to edit a book or two and also offers her services judging writing contests for various RWA chapters.
She lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children and during the summer months enjoys her weekends on the shore in southern Maine.
Visit
her at www.jetaylor75.com
