Blood Moon: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (A Grant & Daniels Detective Kidnapping Series Book 3) Read online

  Blood Moon

  A Grant & Daniels Detective Kidnapping Series

  Charlotte Raine

  Contents

  Author Notes

  Copyright

  Preface

  1. Aaron (Friday afternoon)

  2. Sarah (Friday afternoon)

  3. Sarah (Saturday afternoon)

  4. Aaron (Saturday afternoon)

  5. Teresa (Saturday afternoon)

  6. Sarah (late Saturday afternoon)

  7. Aaron (late Saturday afternoon)

  8. Sarah (Saturday night)

  9. Sarah (late Saturday night)

  10. Aaron (Sunday morning)

  11. Teresa (Sunday afternoon)

  12. Sarah (Sunday night)

  13. Aaron (Sunday night)

  14. Teresa (Sunday night)

  15. Sarah (Sunday night)

  16. Teresa (Monday morning)

  17. Aaron (Monday morning)

  18. Sarah (Monday morning)

  19. Teresa (Monday morning)

  20. Aaron (Monday afternoon)

  21. Teresa (Monday afternoon)

  22. Sarah (Monday afternoon)

  23. Teresa (late Monday afternoon)

  24. Sarah (Monday night)

  25. Aaron (Monday night)

  26. Sarah (Early Tuesday morning)

  27. Teresa (early Tuesday morning)

  28. Sarah (Tuesday morning)

  29. Teresa (late Tuesday morning)

  30. Sarah (Tuesday afternoon)

  31. Aaron (Tuesday afternoon)

  32. Teresa (Thursday morning)

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Charlotte Raine

  About the Author

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  This book is the last installment in the Grant & Daniels romantic suspense . You should read MIDNIGHT SUN and DEVIL’S DAWN before starting this book.

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  Copyright © 2015 by Charlotte Raine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Preface

  And I will show wonders in the heavens and on the earth, blood and fire and columns of smoke. The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes. —Joel 2:30-31

  I watched as he opened the sixth seal. There was a great earthquake. The sun turned black like sackcloth made of goat hair, the whole moon turned blood red. —Revelation 6:12

  Chapter One

  Aaron (Friday afternoon)

  The urn that holds Nick's ashes is made of dark blue marble with swirls of lighter blue, which makes me think of storms and lightning. I wanted to get something more extravagant for him, but nothing fit his personality. He wasn't a flashy person who desired material things.

  Yet, no matter what the pastor says, the idea of Nick's soul watching over my pathetic life isn't comforting when he isn't physically here. If his soul is lingering somewhere, why can't he show himself to me? Why does he have to stay away in some afterlife destination?

  "When someone has passed, it can be a terrible weight for those he has left behind, but you can all be comforted by the fact that Nicholas is with God. The Good Book says, 'He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.' Death is seen as a fearful aspect by today's society, but those who believe God has vanquished death by his great abounding mercy should not fear it. He is safe in God's arms."

  I'm not even sure if Nick believed in God, much less, if he was "saved." The only reason I chose to hold his funeral at the Church of Christ in Wyatt is because Pastor Renard officiated my marriage to Becky. Since Becky thought of him as a father figure, we continued to go to the church, and I found my own faith strengthen with her by my side. When Renard spoke at her and Lisa's funeral, I could see he was deeply upset by their deaths, but I couldn't care much about anyone else's grief when I could barely survive my own. I saw him once in a grocery store since their funeral, but I avoided him, and I hadn't seen him since. It's hard to believe there is an all-powerful being watching out for you when He keeps allowing the murders of those you love.

  "Lord, please look after Nicholas. Give him your love, your peace, and your eternal light. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

  "Amen," some of the congregation mumbles.

  Pastor Renard bows his head and everyone stands. Several of them come up to me to shake my hand and give me their condolences. I just want to go home and sleep. Through these last two funerals—Becky and Lisa's were held at the same time—I've realized that this whole process is done more for others than for the family. Nothing anyone could say would make me feel better or have closure. I would only feel better by catching whoever killed him and staged his body as if it were a suicide, but the detectives, the FBI, and the medical examiners have found nothing significant. There were numerous fingerprints in the fisherman's hut he was found in, but none of them were in any government databases. There weren't any surveillance cameras around Silver Lake—the closest ones are near the center of town. Everywhere I turn—or, more accurately since I'm not allowed to work on the case, everywhere they turn—is a dead end.

  Pastor Renard is the last one to walk up to me after almost everyone has dispersed.

  "Aaron," he says, clasping my hand in between his two warm palms. "How are you doing?"

  "I'm fine, Father."

  He smiles. "I mean, really, how are you? I haven't seen you in so long and I've heard you've had some trouble in the last few years. Now with the death of your foster son…I imagine it hasn't been easy for you."

  "Well, it hasn't been a party," I say, snark emerging from my voice.

  His smile doesn't waver. "Have you been speaking to God about your troubles?"

  "I don't speak to God at all. There's nothing he could say to justify what He has done to me."

  "You don't speak to God for Him to give you motives for what has occurred in your life. You speak to God to find comfort in His presence and to listen to where He wants to lead you to keep you on a righteous path. He will restore and heal you with His grace. Perhaps you should return to our services and you can find comfort in your brothers and sisters."

  I hold back a grimace. I don't intend to be rude to Renard. I know he only wants what's best for me, but I've always found it ridiculous to tell someone in mourning that their loved one's death is in God's plan, that God works in mysterious ways, or to insist that increasing the amount of time you go to church will help the pain. Why does it have to be part of God's plan to take someone away from me? In all of His infinite power, is he punishing me by allowing everyone I love to die? What is the grand plan in making me feel like shit?

  "Thank you," I finally say since he continues to watch me, as if
he expects an answer.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. "I know this is all hard to understand, Aaron, and I can't imagine the pain you are feeling right now. I just want you to know you can come to me at any time you want. Even if it's not for any religious reason and you just want to talk." He slides his hand in his pants pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to me.

  On the front is a glowing cross and the text:

  Pastor Samuel Renard

  Church of Christ

  104 Main Street

  Wyatt, Alaska 99971

  Phone: 907-301-9941 Fax: 907-301-9940

  "For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God." -Ephesians 2:8

  "Really, Father? A business card?"

  He laughs. "Well, I figure if Jesus had some business cards, he could have reached a few more people, and all I want to do is reach as many people as I can."

  "What if people don't want to be reached? What if they're standing outside of your arm's length?"

  He shows his palms—in a gesture of surrender or harmlessness. "Then I wait for them to be ready to step forward."

  Chapter Two

  Sarah (Friday afternoon)

  I stay in the corner of the church as everyone's faces are red and covered in tears. Most of them didn't even know Nick and they're only here in support of Aaron Grant, but they still cry as if they lost their own child. I don't understand it. People die every day—someone dies in the US every seven seconds. Why waste tears over it? Everyone knows we all have to die. Immortality is a myth.

  One person isn't crying—who doesn't even act like he's at a funeral. He originally caught my attention when he seemed dismissive of what Pastor Renard was saying, even laughing when he talked about God's love. He has to be in at least his midtwenties, tall and lanky with black, unruly hair. Since I grew up in Wyatt, it's rare for me to see someone I don't know in town.

  After I've watched him for a few seconds—intrigued by his utter lack of interest in what's happening around him—he turns to look straight at me. I glance away, embarrassed to be caught staring, but not before I saw his eyes. One was dark brown and one was pale blue.

  When I try to sneak another peek of him, he's walking toward me. I try to stop myself from blushing, but I can still feel heat rushing to my cheeks.

  "You're Judge Latham's daughter, right?" he asks.

  "I am," I say. "And you are…?"

  "Elijah Walker." He offers his hand.

  His hand is warmer—than I'd imagine—without being sweaty. "Did you…know Nick?"

  "No," he says. "I come from another church and I was interested to see how this one functions. The easiest way to see how it works is during a funeral. You can see how earnest the pastor is and how the congregation reacts toward a death."

  "That's macabre."

  "It's life," he says. "Or death. However you want to see it."

  "So, how did this church do? Did they mourn correctly?"

  He shrugs. "They reacted like most churches. Crying, obsession with the physical body, worshipping of idols, the pastor caught up in the past words of Christ instead of his forewarnings."

  "And your church does things differently?"

  "Yes. We understand death is an inevitability, an effect of original sin. It's when we get to meet God. Unlike these other churches, we do not weep over death or consider it anything less than what we deserve," he says. "You should come visit us sometime. It's the Alpha and Omega Temple."

  "A temple?"

  "My father didn't like the word church, so he used temple."

  "Your father? Is he the pastor or something?"

  "You might call him that. He's the founder of the Temple. We all call him Father, though he is biologically my father as well…"

  He peers over my shoulder. I glance behind me to see what has distracted him. Pastor Renard is walking toward us.

  "I should go," he says. "Church leaders tend to not like it when I snoop and call them out on their fraudulent faith."

  He turns on his heel just as Pastor Renard reaches me.

  "Who was your friend?" he asks.

  I force a smile. "I don't know him. He was just asking me if I knew any good restaurants he could stop at, so, of course, I told him The Charcoal Grill."

  He nods. "Good. I don't think I've seen him here before. How are you doing, Sarah? I heard you and Nick were close."

  "I'm…dealing with it." I bite my lip and cross my legs in an attempt to make myself look as young and small as possible. I need to keep the image of the innocent child who was tragically kidnapped a few months ago. "I just…need some space."

  I scurry away as I try to look sad enough to be grieving without appearing depressed enough that he'll start quoting Bible verses to me.

  "You think he's a child molesting pastor or a hypocrite who's screwing men behind closed doors?"

  I turn to see Debbie, my half sister. Debbie died before I was born and since my kidnapping, she's insisted on haunting me, though I have to admit this apparition has given me damn good advice.

  "I think he's naive like the rest of his flock," I mutter, careful to make sure the last few stragglers in the church don't see me talking to myself.

  "Someone has to lead them in the wrong direction," she says. "Like that Elijah guy will mislead you. You've worked so hard to make yourself independent from everyone, but you get all gooey-eyed for some religious freak?"

  "I was not gooey-eyed." I hiss.

  "I'm in your head, Sarah, you can't trick me. I can only hope it's not delayed regret over killing Nick. You don't even like religion, for Chrissake. If you're going to throw away your life for someone, at least make it some crazy anarchist who doesn't get on his knees for any higher power."

  She skips ahead toward my father standing at the entrance. He's talking to Walter LaPonte. At six two, he's still an inch shorter than my father, but with his dyed black hair, he appears much younger than my father, whose hair is usually dyed black, but his grey roots are beginning to grow out, making him appear closer to his sixty-two years.

  "—It's all taken care of," my father finishes saying. He turns to me. "Sarah, you've met Mr. LaPonte, haven't you?"

  "I think we met at one of your fundraisers when I was a kid." I shake his hand.

  "I think so. You were cute back then, too." LaPonte turns back to my father. "Well, Judge Latham, as always, it's a pleasure to talk to you."

  "The same to you, Representative LaPonte," he says.

  LaPonte strides out of the church and toward a white sedan. It's strange hearing them refer to each other by their professional names because I have vague memories of him at my house, and I swear, they referred to each other by their first names. I suppose they're keeping up appearances.

  Without looking at each other, my father and I walk out of the church, too. We get into his silver 2015 BMW sedan, and he fumbles with his keys while peering at the other people standing in the parking lot, most likely chatting about how short life is and other clichés I can't be bothered to care about.

  "Did you do everything I told you to do with the evidence?" he mumbles, barely moving his lips as if someone could hear through the car doors.

  "Yes. I burned all the clothes I wore when I killed him and the burner phone. I buried the gun. It's done."

  It occurs to me that my father and LaPonte ramping up the professionalism and Junior's death might be connected. LaPonte was best friends with Junior. Is he holding something over my father? No, LaPonte would have wanted Junior dead because Junior knew that LaPonte killed his sister, Zoë. Knowing my father, he probably took credit for killing Junior.

  "And you didn't tell anyone, right?"

  "Daddy, how would I even fit that into a conversation? Who am I even close to?"

  He puts his keys into the ignition and starts the car. "Good point." He jerks toward me to kiss my cheek. It takes all my effort not to pull away, to not wipe away the feeling of his lips on
my skin.

  As he begins to drive, I glance at my hands. These hands have killed three people, but they look the same as they did before I killed them. Appearances are deceiving. Sometimes it looks like I'm a cute, little girl with no ill will toward anyone.

  Sometimes it looks like I need my father when I really just want to grab the wheel of this car and send us into the middle of traffic. I suppose I could use Elijah's words when describing how I feel about my father—fraudulent faith, but unlike the other people around here, I have no need to keep pretending for long. I am already going to hell, so I have nothing left to lose.

  Chapter Three

  Sarah (Saturday afternoon)

  Alpha and Omega Temple is located in Milton, so I have to drive nearly twenty-five minutes. As I drive up to the Temple, I'm surprised to see a community. The central building is dome-shaped with the material switching between steel and glass windows with vines growing up it and seeming to be hooked onto something on the building. The surrounding structures seem like small huts made out of driftwood.

  There's also an iron fence enclosing the whole place, which makes me feel restricted, but yet similar to a gated community.

  As I walk up to the fence, I try to pull it open, but it's locked. I see a few women walking toward the temple, but they quickly cast their eyes away and scuttle into the building. I wrap my hands around the fence, wondering if I could climb over it.

  "That seems a little overambitious just to see some boy," Debbie drawls.

  "I'm just curious about this place," I say. "I mean, they seem to accept death in the most pessimistic and optimistic ways possible. Doesn't that intrigue you?"

  "You know what intrigues me? That I'm dead and I spend my days around you."