Lover Unleashed - J. R. Ward [212]
And it was the very best of anything he had ever had.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Thomas DelVecchio knew exactly where his killer was going next.
There was no question in his mind. Even as Detective de la Cruz was back at HQ, working with the other boys on theories and leads—all of which were smart enough—Veck knew where to go.
And as he approached the parking lot of the Monroe Motel & Suites with his lights off and his motorcycle in an idle, he thought it was probably a good idea to call de la Cruz and let the guy know where he was.
Ultimately, however, he left his phone where it was in his pocket.
Halting the BMW in the trees to the right of the parking lot, he kicked out the stand, dismounted, and hung his helmet on the handlebars. His gun was in its holster under his armpit, and he told himself it was going to stay there if anyone showed.
Mostly believed the lie, too.
The terrible truth, however, was that he was animated by something that had been dormant for a long, long time. De la Cruz was right to be wary about him as a partner—and correct to question where the father’s sins ended and the son’s began.
Because Veck was a sinner. And he’d joined the police force to try to drain that out of himself.
It was probably better to get that shit exorcised, however. Because sometimes he felt like there was a demon inside of him, he really did.
Still, he wasn’t here to kill anyone. He was here to take a killer into custody before the bastard got back to work.
Honest.
As Veck approached the motel, he stuck to the darkness of the trees and focused on the room where that latest girl had been found. Everything was as the CPD had left it: There was still crime scene tape in a triangle around the door and the portion of the sidewalk right in front—also a seal in place at the jamb, which theoretically could be broken only on official business. No lights on inside the room or out in front of it. Nobody around.
Settling behind a thick-trunked evergreen, he used his blackgloved hands to pull his black wool hat down closer to his black turtleneck.
He was very good at staying so still that he all but disappeared. He was also very good at channeling his energy into a pervasive calm that conserved resources while leaving him hyperalert.
His prey was going to show up. That murdering madman had lost all his trophies—his collection was now in the hands of the authorities, and the CSIers were scrambling to tie him to multiple unsolved murders across the nation. But the sick bastard wouldn’t come here in hopes of getting some or all of it back. The return would be about revisiting and mourning the loss of what he had put so much effort into acquiring.
Would it be reckless on his part? Absolutely, but then, that was part of the gorging cycle. The killer wouldn’t be thinking clearly, and he would be desperate from his losses. And Veck would just cool his heels over the next couple of nights until the appearance was made.
As time passed and he waited, and waited, and waited some more . . . he was as patient as any good stalker. Although it did dawn on him that this could be disastrous, him being here alone. With a knife holstered on the back of his waist. And that damn gun—
The snap of a twig drew his eyes to the right, although not his head. He did not move or change his breathing or even so much as twitch.
And there he was. A surprisingly slight man weaving his way cautiously through the forest’s crinoline of fluffy bushes. The expression on the man’s face was nearly religious as he approached the flank of the motel, but that wasn’t the only part of what identified him as the killer. His clothes were covered with dried blood, his shoes, too. He was limping, as if he had a leg injury, and his face had streaks gouged in it—from fingernails.
Gotcha, Veck thought.
And now that he was staring at the killer . . . his hand crept down to his hips and went around to the back. To his knife.
Even as he told