No Escape Read Online Free Page B

reports were secured to the canvas with double-stick tape. The seven women stared out at him from their pictures. All of those shots were from before Gibson had finished with them. All of them had a photo of a black card with an embossed white rabbit on them. They’d been sent to the various police departments within days of the discovery of the murders.
    Below them were crime scene photographs. Some of them were bloody. Sometimes, and the profilers attached to the murders didn’t know why, the killer liked to cut his victims. Other times, like with Megan Taylor, he just killed them.
    Muriel Evans, the weather girl in Newark, New Jersey, had been shot through the head.
    Tina Farrell, the masseuse in Los Angeles, had had her neck broken in a manner that suggested Special Forces training.
    The Taylor woman had been the first to get strangled.
    The White Rabbit Killer didn’t seem like a disorganized killer. He was too methodical, too good at what he did. But an organized killer often used the same weapon. Like the knife.
    Janet had been tied up and thrown into a hotel room shower, then had a naked electrical cord dropped in after her. Her death hadn’t been easy. Heath still smelled her burned flesh in his nightmares.
    So far, the White Rabbit Killer hadn’t killed the same kind of victim or in the same city. Not even in the same state. The serial killer was a traveler, but he took some kind of pride or satisfaction in his kills because he always left a calling card behind: a black card embossed with a white rabbit.
    At first, no one in the media or in the homicide squads that were investigating the murders knew what the white rabbit meant. Janet had been the first detective to match the white rabbit to the magician Gibson. She’d been the one who’d discovered Gibson had been in all of the cities of the victims during the time they were killed.
    But there was no evidence linking Gibson to the murders. And now, even with Janet among the victims, there was still no evidence.
    The killer’s pace was picking up, though. Only two weeks had passed since he’d killed Janet. His timetable was picking up speed. Either he was growing more confident, or whatever he got from murdering women wasn’t lasting as long as it had.
    Heath took the pistol out and placed it on the desk. He reached into the small refrigerator near the desk and took out a beer. The air-conditioning in the room was weak and he was already sweating.
    In the center of the canvas, Gibson stared out with those malevolent eyes and that mocking smile.
    Heath sipped his beer and considered his next move. Gibson was on the island. He stayed locked away somewhere up in the hills. No one Heath had met knew for certain where, and the local police force wasn’t being overly helpful in finding the man. They had no reason to interfere with the man’s privacy. Or maybe they didn’t know.
    Gibson wasn’t wanted in Jamaica, and he wasn’t wanted by anyone in the United States, either. At least, not yet.
    Heath’s cell phone buzzed for attention. He took it from his pocket and glared at it. The unit was a throwaway he’d gotten in Atlanta before leaving the city and didn’t have caller ID, but he knew who it was. Only one person had the number.
    Cursing, Heath took the call. “Yeah.”
    “How’s it going down there?” Jackson Portman sounded totally relaxed, but then he always did. An ex-football player and African-American, Jackson’s build and don’t-cross-me demeanor made him look more like a movie heavy than a homicide detective.
    “It’s too hot.”
    “Can’t be no hotter than ’Lanta.”
    “Did you call for a reason? Or are we just gonna talk about the weather?”
    “You busting any heads yet?”
    “No. Why?”
    “Got a call about you.”
    “From the locals?”
    “Nope. I already talked to them. Inspector Myton don’t look like he’s gonna be a fan of your work anytime soon. Said you had no business bein’ up in their business.”
    “I’ve