The Eighth Trumpet (The Jared Kimberlain Novels) Read Online Free

if you’re right about it being only one mind,” Kimberlain told him, unaware that his hands had clenched involuntarily into fists. “Serial killers key on something that attracts them and keeps attracting them. While they’re active no other factor is as important as that one single thing, because it allows them to attain their own version of superiority. It dominates their consciousness. Killing allows them to maintain the illusion that they’re still in control, and even to increase that control. And killing the object of their obsession maintains their feeling of superiority.”
    “You’re talking about Peet.”
    “A worthy suspect.”
    “Forget it. He remains under twenty-four-hour guard. He never even leaves his cell without a four-man escort.”
    “That’s not much for him to overcome.”
    “A three-mile swim through frigid waters would follow even if he did.”
    “He could manage it. Believe me.”
    “Not behind bars he couldn’t.”
    Kimberlain smiled. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you back at the cabin, David, but I should have three years ago.”
    The plane brought them to a small airfield in southern Connecticut, where a helicopter was waiting to carry them the short distance to the Lime estate.
    “I had the room sealed,” Kamanski explained above the chopper’s roar as they buckled themselves in. “Body parts removed, of course, but nothing else altered.”
    “You’re a true professional, David,” Kimberlain said. And when they were in the air, through the headset, “I’ll want to hear and see your tapes first. I want to experience it from the perspective of all your helpless security guards.”
    “I’ll arrange it.”
    The vastness of the Lime estate was the first thing that struck Kimberlain. It was much too large for anything but an entire army to patrol. Kamanski said Pro-Tech had made it impregnable and boasted that the surveillance equipment could pick out a fly if it wasn’t wired properly. The Ferryman nodded and let him drone on, not bothering to point out that all that hadn’t been able to stop Jordan Lime from being mutilated in his bedroom.
    The front gate was still manned, but the perimeter guards had been dismissed. The sprawling mansion was shrouded by the misty, damp day, and the drizzle felt like ice against Kimberlain’s cheeks as Kamanski led him up the steps to the mansion’s entrance. The marble foyer that had contained the surveillance station was empty, so they made their way to the library, which had a big-screen television with a built-in VCR.
    The tape in question was already loaded.
    “There’s nothing to see,” Kamanski claimed. “I’ve been over it myself a hundred times.”
    “Push PLAY, David.”
    Kamanski punched the button and the screen filled with the last image of Jordan Lime’s bedroom, its occupant resting beneath the covers, unaware of the awful violence that was to come. There was the crash of glass, and in the next instant the picture became a snowy, almost total blur.
    “What was the crash?”
    “Picture fell off the wall.”
    “How?”
    “We don’t know.”
    Now the blur was in motion, darkened seconds later by the splash of blood against the lens. Kimberlain rewound the tape and watched it a second time. “Any idea what caused the video breakup?”
    “The feed line running from the wall was partially severed.”
    “And the line ran close to the picture that conveniently slipped from the wall?”
    “Close enough.”
    Kimberlain watched the tape again, this time with the volume turned up higher. He didn’t know precisely what he had been expecting, but this was worse. Total silence, then the sudden, awful screams—sounds of a struggle, maybe—followed by the dripping of blood.
    “What if the killer was already inside the room when Lime hit the sack?”
    Kamanski shook his head. “No way. The room was checked before Lime entered and was under guard all day. Even supposing the killer could have hidden himself for a number of