Evil Never Dies (The Lizzy Gardner Series Book 6) Read online

  Also by T.R. Ragan

  Abducted (Lizzy Gardner Series #1)

  Dead Weight (Lizzy Gardner Series #2)

  A Dark Mind (Lizzy Gardner Series #3)

  Obsessed (Lizzy Gardner Series #4)

  Almost Dead (Lizzy Gardner Series #5)

  Also by Theresa Ragan

  Return of the Rose

  A Knight in Central Park

  Finding Kate Huntley

  Taming Mad Max

  Having My Baby

  An Offer He Can’t Refuse

  Here Comes the Bride

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 T.R. Ragan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477827703

  ISBN-10: 1477827706

  Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects

  DEDICATION

  To my best friends who also happen to be the most wonderful sisters in the world: Cathy, Patty, Sally, and Lorry. Love you all.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I am a natural born killer. I have been killing since I was a child. These people were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can lock me up and throw away the key, but it won’t make a difference because evil never dies.

  —The Sacramento Strangler

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lizzy Gardner Investigations had gone rogue.

  While handling the usual skip-traces, missing persons searches, and workmen’s compensation cases, Hayley, Kitally, and Lizzy had handpicked six criminals who needed to be punished. The worst of the repeat offenders. The list included five men and one woman, all of whom had committed numerous crimes, including rape, stabbings, muggings, and assault and battery.

  At the moment, Hayley stood over one of the men on their list. He couldn’t see her through the thick duct tape she’d wound around his head to cover his eyes.

  But she could see him.

  Owen Dunham was naked and blindfolded, and his hands and feet were each tied to a separate bedpost. He was a rapist. He was the number two man on their list of creepers living right here in Sacramento. The number one guy on their list was Wayne Bennett, but Lizzy was handling him.

  Divide and conquer. That was the plan for now.

  Following Owen around all night, watching him stagger from club to club, Hayley and Kitally had waited patiently before making their move. It was well past midnight when they followed him onto the freeway, then watched him weave through traffic and somehow make it back home without killing anyone.

  By the time he stumbled through the door to his apartment, he was an easy target. They pushed him inside and sent him crashing to the floor. Kitally locked the door, and then they were both upon him, riding him as he thrashed about like a slimy beached fish until Hayley succeeded in injecting him with etorphine hydrochloride. Hopefully not enough to kill him, although Hayley wasn’t too worried either way.

  Lucky for him, the drug appeared to be wearing off fast, which meant he wasn’t dead from an overdose. Dragging him through the apartment and getting him onto the bed had taken some work, but they’d managed.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing?” he asked as he came to, wriggling beneath the tape and ties.

  Ignoring him, Hayley told Kitally to get the knife ready. She could have done that ten minutes ago, but she wanted him to hear every word. She wanted him to sweat, to know what it was like to have zero control. And mostly she wanted him to know that something bad was about to happen.

  Kitally began sharpening the blade, making certain he could hear the sound of metal scraping against metal.

  Owen Dunham had raped twin girls. Eight years old. Open-and-shut case. He was linked to the sexual assault of five others, but for some reason prosecutors had only concentrated on the twins. Unlike most rapists, Owen spent ten years in prison. He was released two years early for good behavior.

  It wasn’t long before he met a woman who happened to be the mother of a blonde, curly-haired six-year-old. She and her daughter lived in a trailer park. The woman could not believe her good fortune in finding such a wonderful man, and she swallowed his story about the reason for his prison sentence (unjustly accused by a vindictive ex-girlfriend after he broke up with her) hook, line, and sinker. Not only was he handsome, he helped her around the house and even did things for her, like change the oil in her car. For her birthday, he bought her an entire year of yoga classes because he knew how difficult raising a child could be for a single mother. He also offered to babysit. He wanted her to relax and have some time to herself.

  But two months later, class was canceled unexpectedly and the woman came home to find her wonderful, too-good-to-be-true boyfriend raping her daughter.

  The police were called.

  The rapist took off before the sirens sounded in the distance. Investigators gathered facts and DNA samples. They took pictures and interviewed the child’s mother. The woman’s six-year-old daughter was subjected to all sorts of tests, lots of probing and prodding. Owen Dunham was ultimately arrested, but something happened along the way, and he was released on a technicality.

  This time, he’d gotten away with his crime. Or so he thought.

  “If you don’t let me go,” Owen growled, “I will hunt you down and make you wish you were never born.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hayley told him. “After I’m done with you, you’re the one who’s going to wish you were never released from prison.”

  “Wait a second. Is this some sort of birthday prank? Did my brother set this
up? This is Larry’s doing, isn’t it?” Nervous laughter erupted. “I don’t know how much he paid you to do this, but undo the ties and I’ll double it. I’m asking nicely. The money is in my wallet, across the room in my top drawer.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  His voice deepened. “What do you want, then?”

  “We’re here to make sure justice is served.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Prison time didn’t teach you a thing.” Hayley drew in and released a long, frustrated breath. “And so now it’s up to me and my friend to do what they should have done in the first place.”

  “I never touched those girls.”

  “And which girls might you be referring to?”

  He said nothing.

  “More than one examiner determined that both of the Vicente girls were raped.”

  “I’m not saying they weren’t, but it was their father who raped them, not me.”

  “I wonder how it was that your DNA was found on the girls?”

  “We were neighbors. He planted my sperm. Took used condoms right out of the garbage. It wasn’t me.”

  “And what about the daughter of your latest girlfriend? Who raped her?”

  “That woman is crazy. I met her once.”

  “Well, I guess those pictures all over the news of you and the little girl at the park and the zoo were just the mother’s imagination.”

  “Let me go right now,” he warned. “You’re starting to piss me off.”

  Hayley looked at Kitally, who put down the sharpened knife, picked up the duct tape, ripped off one more piece, and taped his mouth shut.

  “You’re not the only one who’s pissed off,” Hayley said. With every word out of his mouth, she’d felt the rage building within. She was so tired of assholes like him taking advantage of innocent young girls. Owen Dunham should have been left in prison where he belonged.

  Muffled noises sounded beneath the tape as they both put on latex gloves. Hayley looked at Kitally. “Should we cut off his balls, or do you want to perform surgery to try to sterilize him instead?”

  “Hell, yes, I’ll give it a try,” Kitally said, retrieving the knife. “Although I think castration might be the way to go.”

  The muffled cries rose in pitch.

  Kitally went to the side of the bed. “Maybe we should carve rapist across his forehead.” Kitally put the tip of the knife against his forehead. “Don’t move or you might end up losing an eye.”

  The man growled.

  Kitally pulled the knife away.

  “What is it?” Hayley asked.

  “I changed my mind. I’m going to perform a vasectomy instead. More of a challenge, less mess, and we’d still be making sure he won’t reproduce.” She climbed up on the bed. It took her a moment, but she made the first tiny incision. The man moaned and quivered all over. “Easy, easy there now,” she said. “I don’t know. Even if he holds still, I’m not sure this will work. It’s a delicate procedure.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure it’s worth the bother,” Hayley said. “Give me the knife.”

  Kitally climbed off the bed, and Hayley took over.

  “Just count yourself lucky that I’m only going to cut off your balls,” Hayley told him as she moved to the side of the bed. He was huffing wetly now against the tape. “I could remove just one, but I think your crimes justify the removal of both. I’m leaving your penis for now.”

  His face was red from exertion, his wrists and ankles raw from trying to free himself.

  “You’ll be sterile,” she said matter-of-factly. “The procedure should reduce the production of testosterone and hopefully your desire to rape.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug and then leaned over, grabbed a handful, and cut his testes off in one clean swipe.

  He thrashed and bellowed obscenities beneath the tape.

  As far as Hayley was concerned, Owen Dunham fell into a particular grouping of rapists: the worst of the worst. He deserved to die for what he’d done to those girls. She could guarantee there were more victims out there. How many lives had Owen Dunham ruined?

  Hayley’s heart was racing. She felt a tremendous urge to pick up the knife and plunge it into his heart. The last time she didn’t finish a job like this, her mom had ended up a casualty of that mistake. But Kitally was standing nearby, and killing the man was not part of tonight’s plan. Maybe he would bleed to death or infection would set in. She could only hope.

  “If this doesn’t work,” Hayley said, close to his ear as she slid his bloodied parts into a plastic bag, “if you rape again, I guarantee you I’ll be back for the rest.”

  When she straightened, she held up the bag.

  Her work was done here.

  His testicles would be buried in some open field or maybe thrown into the river. She would make it impossible for a surgeon to sew them back on. Been there, done that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He carried pen and paper to the table out on his balcony where he could see the magnificent view of the American River. Peaceful. Tranquil. The morning sun hit the water just so, making it sparkle. He then filled his glass with his favorite energy drink, opened his leather-bound journal to its opening pages, which he’d left blank all this time until he felt inspired to supply this introduction, and began to write.

  I am a natural born killer. Although some people might beg to differ, I would say I am normal, as far as normal goes. Throughout elementary school, the teachers always liked me. I suffered no psychological abuse while growing up.

  Never wet my bed. Not once.

  Neither have I abused alcohol or drugs.

  I make friends easily, but I prefer to be alone.

  You might be surprised to know that I feel things . . . really feel things: emotions, sentiments, and desires. I have them all. I never pretend to be happy or sad. The emotions are right there to be viewed, like the angry scars etched across so many people’s wrists. Unlike most of the people I have encountered throughout life, I am rarely angry or stressed. Drama is something I steer clear of at all costs.

  Let’s see. What else?

  I have amazing and supportive parents. After forty years, Mom and Dad are still together. And still alive, which was no small feat on my part, thank you very much. There were many times when I wanted to take the butcher knife from the kitchen and carve their hearts out.

  Yes. You heard me right. I wanted to kill my parents, butcher them. I wanted to kill them so many times, in fact, it forever boggles the mind to see them alive and thriving. My dad has one of those buzz cuts, along with a big nose and a craggy face. Mom is prematurely gray, though petite, perky, and cute. Not only do they make me smile, seeing their faces also makes me shake my head. They have no idea how lucky they are: two people in their fifties, buzzing around town, always bragging about their only son, the same son who killed their only daughter . . . my sister.

  For me, killing is a lot like having an intense craving.

  Have you ever been on a diet and you’re watching TV and a commercial comes on? Some big-breasted broad is biting into a big, juicy, perfectly cooked hamburger? Makes my mouth water every time.

  Well, that’s how it is for me when it comes time to kill someone. Same exact thing. Same sensation, multiplied by one hundred. When the urge hits, my mouth waters, my heart pounds. Sometimes I manage to hold off for a day or two, maybe even a week, but in the end there’s no stopping me. Somebody out there is going to die. Mostly I already know who it’s going to be.

  These victims of mine did nothing to me. My urges have nothing to do with anger or resentment. They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. So I killed them.

  And the reason is this: I like death.

  No, let me rephrase that. I love death.

  The idea of the soul rising up, perhaps to make its way to earth again in
one form or another, intrigues me. The grim reaper is pure genius. Predation is orgasmic. Death by malnutrition and disease, not so much. Suicide fascinates me. Accidents aren’t half-bad—if there’s a car crash, I’m definitely the one craning my neck, causing traffic jams as I try to get a good look at some random victim of circumstance.

  But nothing beats killing a human being with my own two hands.

  My favorite part is watching closely, intently, as the eyes lose their luster, until the only thing left is a dull, blank stare.

  Like most serial killers, I did start with animals. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Most critters are easy to control. Clueless, really. I used to enjoy watching the animals fight for their last breath. But killing people is so much more of a thrill. I wish I could explain it well enough for you to understand.

  It’s a compulsion.

  Yes. I have a compulsion to kill. I was born with the yearning to kill. When I was eight years old, I killed my first human being—my four-year-old sister. My palms are sweaty just thinking about it. My heart is drumming against my chest. I take a deep breath.

  Thirty years have passed since that day.

  There are times when I am confronted with remorse. I even hate myself for a moment or two. But more often than not, I feel gladness that she was able to pass so effortlessly once she began to sink. Her eyes were wide open as she descended to the bottom. Her arms and legs hardly moved at all. To this day, I think she knew what was happening and she accepted it. I remember it all so clearly. You see, I have what researchers call highly superior autobiographical memory. This allows me to remember episodes from the past in detail. But even though I have the ability to recall these events in full HD color, I still put every detail in this leather-bound journal.

  Why?

  Because as much as I love reliving the details stored in my brain, I adore rereading my own vividly descriptive passages filled with sensory details that whisk me back to a time and place where I can see the fear, smell the tangy blood, and taste the panic in the air.

  I have other ways of remembering these incidents, too, but we’ll get to that later.

  Back to my first kill.