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14
J.T. Ellison
Ten victims, each with pale skin and long dark hair.All have been slashed across the throat, the same red lipstick smeared across their lips. In the mid-1980s the Snow White Killer terrorized the streets of Nashville, Tennessee. Then suddenly the murders stopped. A letter from the killer to the police stated that his work was done.Now four more bodies are found, marked with his fatal signature. The residents of Nashville fear a madman has returned, decades later, to finish his sick fairy tale. Homicide Lieutenant Taylor Jackson believes the killings are the work of a copycat killer who's even more terrifying.For this monster is meticulously honing his craft as he mimics famous serial murders…proving that the past is not to be forgotten.Praise for J.T. Ellison"A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut." - Lee Child "A taut, striking debut. Mystery fiction has a new name to watch." - John ConnollyThe Taylor Jacksons series1. All The Pretty Girls2. 143. Judas Kiss4. The Cold Room5. The Immortals6. So Close the Hand of Death7. Where All the Dead Lie
Praise for J.T. Ellison’sALL THE PRETTY GIRLS
“Mystery fiction has a new name to watch.”
John Connolly, New York Times bestselling author
“Tennessee has a new dark poet.”
Julia Spencer-Fleming
“J.T. Ellison’s debut novel rocks.”
Allison Brennann, New York Times bestselling author of Fear no Evil
“Creepy thrills from start to finish.”
James O. Born, author of Burn Zone
“Fast-paced and creepily believable … gritty, grisly
and a great read.”
M.J. Rose, internationally bestselling author ofThe Reincarnationist
“A turbo-charged thrill ride of a debut.”
Julia Spencer-Fleming, Edgar Award finalist and author of All Mortal Flesh
“Fans of Sandford, Cornwell and Reichs
will relish every page.”
J.A. Konrath, author of Dirty Martini
Praise for 14
“A nail-biting sequel to her debut novel, All the Pretty Girls. If you’re a fan of the genre, you’ll love 14.” —BookPage
“14 is a twisty, creepy and wonderful book … Ellison is relentless and grabs the reader from the first page and refuses to let go until the soul-tearing climax.” —Crimespree
“Ellison’s second Taylor Jackson story is precisely plotted
and crisply written, and there are several effective twists.
It’s guaranteed to elicit shivers with its cold-blooded,
sociopathic villain—and to keep readers on edge
until the last page.”
—Romantic Times,4½stars!
About the Author
J.T. ELLISON is a thriller writer based in Nashville, Tennessee. She writes the Taylor Jackson series, and her short stories have been widely published. She is a weekly columnist at Murderati. com and is a founding member of Killer Year. Visit her website, JTEllison.com for more information.
14
Jt Ellison
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
For Jay and Jeff: my ribs
And as always, for my Randy
And now Snow White lay a long, long time in the coffin, and she did not change, but looked as if she were asleep, for she was as white as snow, as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony.
—The Brothers Grimm Snow White
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
When you’re a writer, it never feels like enough to say thank you to the people surrounding you day to day. We write the books, they make them into novels. I have several magicians I’d like to send my humble thanks:
My extraordinary editor, Linda McFall, and the entire MIRA team, especially Adam Wilson, Heather Foy, Margaret Marbury and Dianne Moggy, and the brilliant artists who create these fabulous covers!
My incredible agent, Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group.
My independent publicist, Tom Robinson, who is such a pleasure to work with and feeds me blueberry pie.
Detective David Achord of the Metro Nashville Homicide Department, a true friend and a great man.
Bob Trice, Response Co-ordinator/CERT program manager/ESU supervisor at the Nashville Office of Emergency Management, for giving me the tools to make the drowning scene work.
Laura McPherson, who taught me good journalism rules, which I in turn gleefully broke.
Vince Tranchida, for the medical expertise.
Pat Picciarelli, for giving me Long Island City and the bar across from the 108th precinct.
Tribe, for the Spanish bits.
The Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Janet, Mary, Rai, Cecelia, Peggy, Del Tinsley and my wonderful critique partner, J.B. Thompson, who read, cheer, suggest, support and love.
First reader Joan Huston for making all the difference, as she always does.
My darling Linda Whaley for babysitting on the rainy nights.
My esteemed fellow authors, Tasha Alexander, Brett Battles, Rob Gregory-Browne, Bill Cameron, Toni Causey, Gregg
Olsen, Kristy Kiernan and Dave White, for constantly cheering me on and making me laugh.
My fellow Murderati bloggers, who keep me honest. Lee Child, for the always spot-on advice.
John Connolly, for the music.
My parents, who always tell me I can do anything I put my mind to, and Jay and Jeff, the best brothers a girl could wish for. My parents gave me the spine, my brothers built the ribs. And my amazingly generous husband, who suffered through too many pizza nights and 2:00 a.m. loads of laundry to count. It just wouldn’t be any fun without you, baby.
Nashville is a wonderful city to write about. Though I try my best to keep things accurate, poetic licence is sometimes needed. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations are mine alone.
Prologue
Would the bastard ever call?
Smoke drifted from the ashtray where a fine Cohiba lay unattended. Several burned-out butts crowded the glass, competing for space. The man looked at his watch. Had it been done?
He smashed the lit cigar into the thick-cut crystal. It smoldered with the rest as he moved through his office. He went to the window, grimy panes lightly frosted with a thin layer of freezing condensation. It was cold early this year. With one gloved finger, he traced an X in the frost. He stared out into the night. Though nearly midnight, the skyline was bright and raucous. Some festival on the grounds of Cheekwood, good cheer, grand times. If he squinted, he could make out headlights flashing by as overpaid valets squired the vehicles around the curves of the Boulevard.
He tapped his fingers against the glass, wiping his drawing away with a swipe of leather. Turning, he surveyed the room. So empty. So dark. Ghosts lurked in the murky recesses. The shadows were growing, threatening. Breath coming short, he snapped on the desk lamp. He gasped, drawing air into his lungs as deeply as he could, the panic stripped away by a fluorescent bulb. The light was feeble in the cavernous space, but it was illumination. Some things never change. After all these years, still afraid of the dark.
The bare desk was smeared with ashes, empty except for the fine rosewood box, the ashtray and the now-silent telephone. The room, too, was spartan, the monotony broken only by the simple desk, a high-back leather chair on wheels and three folding chairs. He opened the humidor and extracted another of the fortieth anniversary Cohibas. He followed the ritual—snipping off the tip, holding the lighter to the end, slowly twirling the cigar in the flame until the tobacco caught. He drew deeply, soothing smoke pouring into his lungs. There. That was better.
The isolation was necessary. He didn’t like people seeing him this way. It was better if they perceived him as the strong, capable man he’d always been, not this crippled creature, this dark entity with gnarled hands and a bent back. How would that image strike fear?
Not long now. Fear would be his pale horse, ridden from the backs of red-lipped girls. His duplicates. His surrogates. His replacements.
The ringing of the phone made him jump. Finally. He answered with a brusque “Yes?” He listened, then ended the call.
An unhurried smile spread across his face, the first of the night. It was time. Time to start again, to resurface. A new face, a new body, a new soul. With a last glance out the window, he snubbed out the cigar, closed up the humidor and braved the shadows. Moving resolutely toward the door, he disappeared into the gloom.
The phone was ringing. Somewhere in the recesses of her brain, she recognized the sound, knew she’d have to answer. But damn it, she was having a really nice dream. Without opening her eyes, Taylor Jackson reached across the warm body next to her, positioned the receiver next to her ear and grunted, “Hello?”
“Taylor, this is your mother.”
Taylor cracked an eyelid, tried to focus one eye on the glowing clock face—2:48 a.m.
“Who’s dead?”
“Goodness, Taylor, you don’t have to be so gruff.”
“Mother, it’s the middle of the night. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? Because you have some kind of bad news. So if you could just spit it out so I can go back to sleep, I’d appreciate it.”
“Fine. It’s your father. He’s gone missing. From THE SHIVER.”
A rush of emotion filled her, and she sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Win Jackson. Winthrop Thomas Stewart Jackson IV, to be exact. Her illustrious father, gone missing? Taylor let the lump settle in her throat, blinked back the uncharacteristic tears that came to the surface.
Her father. Her chest tightened. Oh, man, she didn’t even want to think what this might mean. Missing. That equals dead when you’re gone from a boat in the high seas, doesn’t it?
Father. Amazing how that one word could trigger an avalanche of bitterness. She heard the rumors fly through her head like migrating birds. Daddy got his little girl a place in the academy. Daddy bought his little girl a transfer out of uniform into Homicide. Daddy gave the mayor a major campaign contribution and bought his little girl the lieutenant’s title. Good ole Win Jackson. Corporate raider, investment banker, lawyer, politician. An all-around crook, wrapped up with a hearty laugh into a deceptively handsome package. Win was a Nashville legend. A legend Taylor tried to stay as far away from as possible.
Sitting on the edge of her bed in the darkened bedroom, the thought of him evoked a rich scent, some expensive cologne he’d gotten in London and insisted on importing every year for Christmas.
She heard her mother shouting in her ear.
“Taylor? Taylor, are you there?”
“Yes, Mother, I’m here. What was he doing out on THE SHIVER anyway? I didn’t think he was sailing anymore.”
“Well, you know your father.”
No, I don’t.
“He decided to take the yacht to St. Bart’s. St. Kitts. Saint, oh, who knows. One of those Caribbean islands. I’m sure he had some little slut with him, sailed off into the sunset. And now it seems he may have gone overboard.”
There was no emotion in Kitty Jackson’s voice. Devoid of emotion, of love, of feelings. Taylor wondered sometimes if her mother’s heart had ceased to beat.
“Have the Coast Guard been called in?”
“Taylor, you’re the law enforcement … person. I certainly don’t know the answer to that. Besides, I’m leaving the country. I’m wintering in Gstaad.”
“Huh?”
“Skiing. October through January. Don’t you remember? I sent you the itinerary. I won’t have time to deal with this and get packed.”
The petulant tone made razor cuts up Taylor’s spine. Kitty’s first concern had always been Kitty. For Christ’s sake, her husband was missing. It was possible he had gone overboard, was dead … but that was Kitty for you. Always ready with a self-absorbed tale of woe.
“Thank you for letting me know, Mother. I’ll look into it. Have a lovely vacation, won’t you? Goodbye.”
Taylor clicked off the phone before her mother could respond.
Jesus, Win. What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?
Taylor started to roll back into place, determined to get at least another hour of sleep, when the phone rang again. Now what? She looked at the caller ID, recognized the number. Answered in a more professional tone than she’d used with her mother.
“Taylor Jackson.”
“Got a dead girl you need to come see.”
“I’ll be right there.”
One
Two months later Nashville, Tennessee Sunday, December 147:00 p.m.
A vermilion puddle reflected off the halogen lamps. It was frosting over, lightening as it inched toward the freezing point. Little bits of black hair floated under the hardening surface, veining the blood. As it froze, it pulsed once, twice, like the death of a heart. Life’s blood, indeed.
