Murder Game (GhostWalkers, #7)(28)

Kadan blinked. Sank down into the dirt beside her. “What do you mean, eight players?”

“It’s a game. A game of murder and there are several players. It stands to reason if there are eight game pieces then you have eight players. Have any of the game pieces repeated?”

“Four of them. Two on the East Coast and two on the West.”

She was silent a moment, her expression thoughtful. Blood continued to trickle out of her mouth and nose. Kadan couldn’t stop himself from wiping it away. The sight bothered him more than he cared to admit. She didn’t pull away from him, and he was connected so tightly with her that he could almost follow the speed of her brain as she began computing data with small facts she’d pulled from the brief glimpse she’d received of the killer’s mind.

“It’s possible he’s on a team. He was concerned about losing points if he raped the victims.” She looked up and he swore she blinked back tears. “He did rape them, didn’t he? Both of them. He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. He likes what he’s doing and he needs the rush of it. He needs it more than he wants to win the game.”

Kadan nodded his affirmation. “They were both raped.”

“Control really matters to him. He kept taunting them about choosing the wrong man. Is it possible the wife knew him? It was odd the way he acted. He doesn’t like rejection and obviously feels superior to everyone, men and women. He fed their terror, and the more afraid they were, the higher he became.”

Kadan didn’t want to interrupt her. She was fascinating. Her mind was fascinating. He’d worked with some great minds, yet here was a woman, without training, who thought like a detective, her brain compiling data faster than he’d ever seen.

Tansy swept a hand through her hair, frowning when her fingers caught. He tried not to notice the disarray of her hair, falling like tangled silk around her shoulders and down her back. Her breasts held faint marks, marring the perfection of her skin. He’d done that. Those were his fingerprints on her. His body stirred no matter how hard he tried to control himself.

“Why don’t you get dressed?”

For the first time she seemed aware of her lack of clothing, frowning, a little confused while she looked around her. She nodded and rose unsteadily. Kadan caught her arm to make certain she didn’t fall. Tansy pulled clothes from her backpack and moved out of his sight. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t very well insist she dress in front of him. He spent the few minutes of her absence fixing her a cup of hot coffee.

Tansy was back a few minutes later, her face a little swollen as if she’d been crying. She took the coffee mug and blew on it. “Do the murders follow one another? In other words, if one is committed on the West Coast, then does one follow on the East Coast? Are they alike?”

He shook his head. “Similar. Well planned. More than one person has to be in on the planning, but only one actually performs the kills. At least that’s what I think. There’s never been any evidence of more than one killer at a crime scene. The murders are connected by the game pieces. They’re unusual, carved out of ivory and very distinct.”

Tansy looked around. “Where are my gloves?”

“Why?” His gut protested the question and the answer in her mind.

She flicked him a reprimanding glance. “Don’t be silly. I need to take a look at the piece. I haven’t really examined it and I can’t touch it without gloves on.”

“I don’t want you to touch it again.”

She sighed. “Look, I’ve already got the voices in my head and they aren’t going to leave me alone, so I may as well do what I can to at least point you in the right direction. I pick things up even through gloves if the impressions are strong enough. I have a feeling this man kept the piece with him through the entire planning stages and liked holding it in his hand.”

Kadan swore as he turned away from her. She was gone from him. She had distanced herself from him and he felt the barrier even in her mind. He couldn’t blame her. He even understood, but damn it all, she belonged to him, and the separation after sharing her body and her mind was unacceptable. He could barely breathe with the thought of losing her for good.

Reluctantly he handed her the game piece. It was a small stallion, anatomically correct. She took it between two fingers, turning it over and over. Her index finger began to stroke along the horse’s neck, where there was no wild mane.

“He’s the Italian Stallion. He likes being called that. He enjoys knowing he can manipulate women, and his friends know it. He makes the claim that it’s their responsibility to keep their women away from him, not his.”

“Italian Stallion is so trite. It’s been done too many times.”

Her gaze jumped to his face. “I’m sure it has.”

He wasn’t Italian, but he felt like she was accusing him of seducing her. Damn it. Maybe he had. He hadn’t told her the story of his childhood on purpose. It had slipped out. He’d been horrified, but he couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop the flow once the dam had been pierced. He hadn’t told the story to seduce her, or even to gain sympathy. He was in her mind. Sharing each other. He saw her. Saw inside of her. She was—everything.

Tansy studied the carving from every angle. “He wants this identity more than he wants his own. He encourages this one. Mostly they just call him Stallion. Who are they?”