Avenging Angel Read online

  Dare has a knack for romance and spins

  an engrossing tale."—Publishers Weekly

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS

  OF JUSTINE DARE

  High Stakes

  "It is always an extraordinary treat when a new Jus-

  tine Dare book is released. You can always bank on

  Ms. Dare to deliver an outstanding and exciting read-

  ing experience." —Romantic Times

  "Intensely passionate characters.... Fast-moving,

  suspenseful." —The Romance Reader

  Night Fires

  "Intrigue and mystery permeate Night Fires. Once again rich characterizations and emotional depth lift Ms. Dare's tales to memorable heights."

  —Romantic Times

  Dangerous Games

  "Dangerous Games is going to win much acclaim for

  Justine Dare. The lead characters are a wonderful

  couple and the villain is as deadly a killer to come

  along in a novel in a very long time.... Ms. Dare has

  dared to raise the quality level [of] rousing romantic

  intrigue." —Midwest Book Review

  'This is a page-turner, with an emotional and sexual intensity that makes it stand out from the crowd."

  —Under the Covers

  "When it comes to intrigue, passion, and deft character­izations, no one delivers like the incomparable Justine Dare. Stake out your local bookstores today, so you won't miss getting your copy of Dangerous Games."

  —Romantic Times

  "A dynamic page-turner!" —Catherine Coulter

  Dangerous Ground

  "Dark, mysterious, erotic... wonderful."

  —Elizabeth Lowell

  "Your pulse will pound and your blood will sizzle...

  the very best suspense." —Romantic Times

  Now, in her most powerful thriller to date, Justine Dare follows the trail of a killer who is making men pay for their crimes--with their lives....

  The newspapers have dubbed him The Avenger. But to members of the battered women's shelter Rachel's House, he is an angel. What no one disputes, however, is that a serial killer is systematically slaying abusers--and that the victims of each of the murdered men have all been residents of Rachel's House.

  As the shelter's devoted director, Regan Keller has access to records on every case of abuse. She also has the kind of caring heart that makes each case personal. But these things only draw attention to Regan, making her the focus of two men. One is a new worker at the shelter who shares her passion--and her bed--but not his darkest secret. The other is a police detective who believes Regan herself is the killer....

  ONYX

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street

  ,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S .A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Hannondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, December 2002

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Janice Davis Smith, 2002 All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are people who come into your life and make a difference, people who are so very special for so many different reasons. People who are always there, or people who are in the right place at the time when you need them the most. Some say they are only doing their job, yet they do it in the best possible way, and in that alone make a difference. Some begin as strangers doing a job, but end up as precious friends.

  As someone who desperately needed some of those kinds of people in her life recently, I want to thank them all. Not just the doctors, who usually get their thanks firsthand, but the frontline people, the people in the trenches, the ones who make the day-to-day differences. There are more than I could ever list here, but to begin:

  Pamela, ICU nurse extraordinaire, and one of those most precious friends who was there when we needed her. Again and again and again.

  The North Kitsap Fire paramedics, who have twice come through for us like the heroes they are.

  The ER and Neurosurgery staff at Harborview Medical Center, Seattle.

  Eric, visiting ICU nurse extraordinaire; if s a great gig and you play it well.

  Alicia, Neuro ward nurse, who personified caring.

  Josie, rehab nurse in name, guardian angel in fact. Nei­ther of us would have made it without you.

  The entire staff of Martha and Mary, Poulsbo.

  Anne, Diane and S.K., therapists par excellence, helping us make those first steps back into life.

  The entire staff of Harrison Silverdale Rehab.

  And most especially Dr. Susan Shlifer, that rare and trea­sured kind of family physician, the kind with a passion for her patients and her work that gives you hope and peace.

  Our eternal and heartfelt thanks to all of you. We still have a very long way to go, but when we make it, it will be thanks to all of you.

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  PROLOGUE

  "Never again." The voice was low and harsh, the words fierce. "You will never hurt a woman again."

  "What the hell are you talk—"

  The blade glinted as it moved closer to the man's throat, and the angry flow of words stopped with a gasp. Silence, broken only by harsh breathing, descended, the kind of silence only the night can bring. The man's feet scraped on the asphalt of the deserted parking lot. The light from the pole tower­ing above was yellow, casting a sulpherous sort of glow. The silence made him even more aware that there was no one around, not even another parked vehicle awaiting its owner, no hope of help. He was in the middle of civilization, yet as alone as if it were wilderness. Except for the apparition that had loomed up out of nowhere, as if it had materialized out of the shadows.

  "You know what I'm talking about. You've escaped justice too many times. You will not escape again."

  "Look, whoever you are, I never—"

  "Your lies will do you no good now. You've lied to the police, to the court, and probably to yo
urself. But now you will face the truth."

  A shudder went through the man. He was beginning to believe.

  "Look, she drove me to it—"

  The blade drew blood. It trickled down the man's neck.

  "That is the biggest lie of all, the lie of making it your victim's fault. They are innocent, you are the guilty one. It is you who is rotten to the very core. And it is you who will, at last, pay the price."

  Pressure, unrelenting, impossible to resist, began on the arms trapped behind him. Pain shot through him, and tears filled his eyes. It kept on, and he had no choice but to fall to his knees. The rough texture of the asphalt dug into soft flesh.

  "That's where you belong," the voice said. "On your knees, begging for forgiveness. Beg it from your God, because you won't get it from me."

  "But I never meant to really hurt—"

  "Another lie. You knew what you were doing. The pitiful, small man you are has to feel bigger by exerting power over those smaller or weaker. How does it feel to have the tables turned? To be the weak, helpless one, your life in another's hands?"

  The man croaked out a sound that might or might not have been a word.

  "You have another lie to tell?"

  "No ... I... I'll never ... I promise ..."

  "You promise you'll never beat your wife again?"

  "Yes, I—"

  "And how many times have you made that promise before?"

  "But this time I mean it, I—"

  "As you meant it when she came back to you, against all advice, and within minutes you slapped her?"

  The man went very still. "How could you know that? Who are you?"

  The laugh that came from above his head was tri­umphant, joyous, and terrifying. "All you need to know is that I am your final judgment come to life."

  The man thrashed again, trying to escape the steely hold. There was desperation in him now. Hands grabbed at the blade, a futile effort. Blood ran down helpless fingers.

  The sound that escaped the man now was a whimper. "Please—"

  "Are you afraid? You should be. By rights, you should live a very long time in fear, as those you damaged were forced to. But I can't indulge in that much balancing of the scales, so you get off much too easily."

  His hands were suddenly released, the blade lifted. "My God," he whispered, sagging in relief. He brought his hands in front of him, easing the ache in his shoulders. He rubbed at his wrists, shakingly thankful that it was over at last.

  He had misinterpreted the words, as intended. He thought he was going to live.

  "My God," he said again, and as a moment passed with no response from his captor, his mind flicked to the woman who had caused all this. Had

  she hired this crazed avenger? She must have, how else would he know those details? If she thought he'd let her get away with—

  "How quickly you forget." The harsh whisper struck a chill through him; it was as if this dark phantom had read his mind. "You go ahead and pray to your God. You will have to tell your lies to him now. He is waiting. See if he believes you."

  "Wait!"

  "Pray to him. Now. It's the only thing left to you." The knife was at his throat once more. "Pray! Your hands in front of you, like the good boy you never were."

  He went rigid again, panicking now. "No, don't, please!"

  "You want more time? I'll give it to you. I want you to think of your wife, the last time you battered her into unconsciousness. Think of the last time you kicked her so hard you broke her ribs. Think of what the decent world considers you, trash not worth sweeping up off the street. Do you have any idea how revolting the rest of the world finds you?"

  He struggled again, flailing wildly.

  Laughter, strong and relentless, rang out in the darkness. "Had a little accident, did you? Wet your pants like the bully you are? What a perfect ending. And the perfect way for God to send you straight to hell."

  He shuddered. "No, please, you can't do this!"

  "Give me one good reason. One reason that will make up for what you did to the ones you were supposed to protect."

  "It wasn't my fault!"

  The blade edged forward. Blood flowed.

  "The last cry of the trapped coward. But now you're going to do what you should have all along."

  "I'll do anything, I swear—"

  "Not anything. One thing. What any real man would do for his family."

  "I'll do it, I promise!"

  "Yes, you will."

  "Tell me, just tell me what to do!"

  That laugh again, triumphant now. "Why, you'll die to protect them, of course."

  The blade flashed, bit, slashed. Blood gushed. Then pumped. The gurgling sound was grim, final. Severed vocal chords were useless. The man flopped like a landed fish. Then slumped, dying, released at last from the steely grip. His killer knelt beside him and reached for the trophy, the symbol taken from them all, stripping it from the dead man's wrist before rising and looking down at the prayerful corpse.

  "Vengeance may be the Lord's, but payback is mine."

  CHAPTER 1

  The newspapers were calling him "The Avenger." The women at Rachel's House were calling him an angel.

  Deep down inside, beneath her natural repugnance for violence, Regan Keller was experiencing a sense of satisfied retribution she wasn't sure she was proud of. Just as she wasn't sure she was proud of the fact that what mattered to her most was that the killer not be one of her women.

  "Good morning!"

  The cheerful hail from their neighbor, Mr. Pilson, seemed jarring after her grim thoughts. The thin, wiry man was unfailingly chipper, to the point of being annoying. But he was so good about having Rachel's House as his next-door neighbor, always willing to lend a hand that she didn't want to be rude.

  "Good morning, Mr. Pilson. How are you?" "I'm fine, just fine. Good news this morning, isn't it?"

  She blinked. "What?"

  "Another piece of slime cleaned off our streets."

  A little stunned at their bespectacled neighbor's rather cold-blooded observation, she was glad to be saved from trying to answer when his telephone rang and he retreated into his tidy little house. In a way his reaction was comforting, but it was also unsettling.

  She picked up the newspaper, still warm from the California morning sun, and looked at the picture on the front page.

  The victimizer becomes the victim....

  She'd have to tell Dawn. The coroner's deputy who had called this morning—as an ex-wife Dawn didn't rate a personal visit—had offered to tell her, but Regan had said she would do it. She didn't want the already unsteady woman to hear it that way, from a stranger over the telephone.

  Nor did she want her to just see it in the newspaper, which the deputy had warned her already had the news. When she'd agreed to be the director of Rachel's House, she'd agreed to all that came with it, including dealing with fragile psyches. And Dawn's was definitely fragile.

  Regan wasn't sure what this news would do. Most people on the outside would assume it would be good news; with her abuser dead, her hell was finally over. But most people hadn't been in Dawn's shoes, with her world ordered, controlled, and consumed by her husband. Convinced that it was love. That that's what love was.

  But if she'd stayed with Art any longer, Regan knew Dawn would likely be dead.

  Now he was dead. And there was no denying the pattern that had formed. "Regan?"

  She nearly jumped. She turned to look toward the kitchen doorway, where Marita Bowers, who had been at Rachel's House the longest, was standing. Once a strikingly beautiful woman, her loveli­ness was now marred by the crooked line of her nose, broken once too often by her brutal ex.

  "Yes, Marita?"

  "Dinner at six, or should we plan for seven, give time for Amber to get here?"

  Regan knew Marita was being optimistic. The chances of Amber Winn returning to the shelter that had given her a brief respite from her boyfriend's abuse were slim to none. Regan had learned to judge such thin
gs over the years. That Amber might be unable to come back was something Regan knew she didn't have to bring up. These women had lived Amber's life; they knew too well how fragile it was.

  So all she had to decide was if it was better for them to maintain the fiction for a while, or face the truth now: after twenty-four hours Amber wouldn't be coming back.

  When in doubt, go with the truth, she told herself.

  "Six," Regan said. Marita hesitated, then nodded. She turned toward the kitchen, then stopped and looked back. Her gaze flicked from Regan to the newspaper she held, then back.

  "Another one?"

  Of all the women at Rachel's House, Marita was the most stable. She had come a long way since her arrival several months ago. She was, Regan thought, the least likely to fall apart. Or fall back, back into the life she'd escaped.

  "Yes," she said.

  "Number three."

  Regan nodded. A third brutal murder that everyone, despite the caution of the police, knew was connected to the previous two. They had to be con­nected. Every victim had been male, and according to the news story, the only common thread between them was that each had at some time been charged with domestic abuse.

  There was another factor they had in common, something Regan doubted the reporters knew. But she knew. She knew, and it put her in a very difficult place.

  She suppressed a shiver. So much was at stake here. There was too much invested in Rachel's House, in too many ways, to make a hasty decision, to do what her instinct said and call the police im­mediately. So, she thought, perhaps she should start by calling the person who had made the largest investment. Rachel's House wouldn't exist, after all, without the money behind it, and the per­son whose dream it had been. And if that dream was now threatened, it only seemed fair to—

  "Not mine, I suppose. I'm not that lucky," Marita said, looking at the newspaper with a grimace.

  Regan understood the woman's biting sarcasm completely, but didn't answer. She couldn't tell anyone before she told Dawn, not even Marita, who had become her unofficial assistant.

  Marita had left behind one of the most brutal men Regan had ever come across. She'd only seen Daryl Bowers once, when she'd gone to court with Marita for moral support, but she knew his heart and his twisted mind by what he had done to his wife. The memory of the woman's face, battered and swollen, the cast upon an arm broken for a third time in a year, would stay with Regan for the rest of her life.