Forsaken (Morgan Cross #14)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Morgan's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as she followed the line of emergency vehicles threading through the darkness of rural Dallas. Red and blue lights bounced off bare tree branches, creating a strobing nightmare of color against the night. Beside her, Derik gripped the dashboard as she took another curve too fast, her instincts screaming that every second counted.

The radio crackled with chatter—multiple units converging on the location where Hannah Smith's car had been found. Morgan's mind raced through the possibilities, through all the ways this could end. She'd seen too many bad endings, both as an agent and an inmate.

"Slow down," Derik said softly. "We're no good to Hannah if we wrap ourselves around a tree."

Morgan eased off the accelerator, but her jaw remained tight. The dashboard clock read 1:47 AM—Hannah had been missing for five hours. Five hours of whatever ritual their killer had planned for her. The wind buffeted their vehicle, sending dead leaves skittering across their headlight beams like omens.

They found the scene lit up like daylight, portable floods casting harsh shadows across an empty field. Hannah's car sat at an odd angle near a drainage ditch, its driver's door hanging open like a broken wing. The spring tulip still adorned the hood, its perfect petals reflecting the artificial light with unnatural vitality. Crime scene techs moved around the vehicle with practiced efficiency, their cameras flashing like lightning in the darkness.

The familiar buzz of investigation filled the air—radio chatter, shouted commands, the hum of generators powering the flood lights. But something about the scene felt wrong to Morgan. It was too perfectly arranged, like a stage set waiting for its actors. The car's position, the carefully placed flower, even the way the door hung open—everything seemed calculated for maximum effect.

She thought of Diana Grove in custody, of Victor Hale's greenhouse, of how each piece of evidence in this case had led them down carefully constructed paths. Just as her own frame-up had been meticulously crafted, each detail positioned to tell a specific story. The killer wasn't just staging crime scenes—he was staging their entire investigation.

Morgan was out of the car before Derik could speak, her boots crunching on gravel and frost-killed grass. The night air carried the bite of approaching winter, along with the organic decay of fallen leaves. This killer had to be leaving the scenes on foot—which meant Hannah's body would be nearby.

"I want air support," she called out to the nearest sergeant, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd survived worse nights than this. "And every available unit doing a grid search. Focus on water sources, fields, anywhere that fits his ritual staging." Her hand brushed against her weapon, an unconscious gesture born of years spent defenseless in a cell.

Detective Martinez appeared through the chaos, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that emphasized the exhaustion in her face. "Already got choppers en route," she said, falling into step beside Morgan. "And K-9 units setting up a perimeter. But this guy—he knows what he's doing. No trace evidence at any of the scenes."

Just like the evidence in Morgan's frame-up had been perfectly crafted to eliminate any possibility of doubt. She thought of Cordell somewhere in the city, watching and waiting. Was this connected to him somehow? Another move in his elaborate game of destruction?

Derik appeared on her other side, his shoulder nearly touching hers—a subtle reminder that she wasn't alone in this hunt anymore. "Morgan," he started, but she was already moving.

She set off across the field at a fast clip, her flashlight beam cutting through darkness thick enough to swallow sound. Derik's footsteps followed, matching her pace. The beam caught patches of dead grass, skeletal trees, the remnants of summer turned to shadows by autumn's advance. Their killer liked to stage his tableaus in places where death and life intersected—cornfields, riverbanks, places where seasons changed.

"There has to be more water," Morgan said, her breath fogging in the cold air. "He drowns them in whatever matches his ritual. For Emily it was corn silk, for Laura it was river water. He'll want something symbolic for Hannah too."

The wind carried the distant sound of helicopters approaching, their searchlights beginning to sweep the darkness like probing fingers. But Morgan knew they had to hurry. Their killer wouldn't want his latest masterpiece discovered by random patrol units. He would have left signs for them, breadcrumbs leading to his latest performance.

They crested a small rise, and Morgan's light caught something that made her pulse quicken—a line of spring flowers, their delicate blooms impossibly vital against the dying grass. Daffodils and tulips created a path through the darkness, each one placed with artistic precision. The beam followed their arc toward a stand of trees that might hide a pond or stream.

"Like breadcrumbs," Derik muttered, his hand moving to his weapon. "He's leading us to her."

Morgan moved faster, following the trail of impossible flowers. Her senses registered every detail—the way the wind moved through dead grass, the distant sound of police radios, the crunch of their footsteps on frozen ground. The darkness pressed around them like a living thing, broken only by their bobbing lights and the occasional flash of emergency vehicles in the distance.

The floral path led them to a small copse of trees, their bare branches reaching skyward like gnarled fingers. As Morgan and Derik approached, the smell of stagnant water mixed with something sickeningly sweet assaulted their senses. The trail of flowers led them deeper into the stand of trees, their branches forming a twisted canopy overhead. The air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. Morgan's flashlight beam danced across the gnarled trunks, casting grotesque shadows that seemed to writhe in the darkness.

The trees opened onto a small pond, its surface black as obsidian in the night. Morgan's beam caught movement—ripples spreading across water that should have been still. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she swept the light along the bank, searching for what she knew they would find.

The beam found Hannah Smith laid out like a sacrifice on the pond's edge, her body arranged with the same artistic precision as the flowers that had led them here. Her red curls fanned out around her head like flames, woven through with spring blooms that glowed eerily in the artificial light. Her arms were positioned gracefully at her sides, palms up as if offering something to the night sky. Water lapped at her feet, creating the ripples they'd noticed—each wave making her body shift slightly, like a puppet moved by invisible strings.

But it was her face that made Morgan's breath catch. Hannah's eyes were open, staring at nothing, while more flowers spilled from her parted lips like some twisted parody of speech. Spring blooms poured from her mouth in an impossible cascade, as if she'd tried to swallow an entire season and choked on its sweetness.

Behind her, Morgan heard Derik calling it in, his voice steady despite the horror before them. But she couldn't look away from Hannah's face, from the way the flowers seemed to glow against her cold skin. Their killer wasn't just taking lives anymore—he was transforming them into art, into installations that mocked the very laws of nature.

“We’re too late,” Morgan managed.

Derik was still beside her, sharing in her anguish.

Morgan's jaw clenched as she took in the grotesque tableau before her. The killer had elevated his craft, turning Hannah's death into a perverse work of art that defied the natural order. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air.

"He's evolving," she said, her voice low and taut. "This isn't just about death anymore. It's about transformation."

Derik nodded grimly. "The flowers from her mouth... it's like he's trying to force spring from winter. Life from death."

The wind picked up, sending dead leaves skittering across Hannah's still form. They mixed with the spring flowers in a dance of seasons, a collision of death and artificial life that seemed to perfectly capture their killer's vision. And there, half-hidden among the petals spilling from Hannah's lips, Morgan caught a flash of white that made her blood run cold.

A small card, pristine despite the water and flowers, bore a message in messy handwriting: "Some seasons never end."

The words hit Morgan like a physical blow, resonating with everything she knew about their killer. He wasn't just staging deaths or creating art—he was making a statement about power and control, about bending reality to his will.

“He’s making a mockery of us,” Morgan said, strained with emotion. “He’s killing these women… and for what?”

Morgan's words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their implications. Derik stepped closer, his presence a steady anchor in the surreal landscape of death and blooms.

"For control," he said softly. "To prove he can reshape the world according to his vision. To prove he can. To show us he controls life and death."

Morgan nodded, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. She forced herself to look away from Hannah's face, to take in the entire scene with the clinical detachment. The flowers weren't random - each bloom had been chosen with care and arranged to create a specific effect. Tulips for rebirth, daffodils for new beginnings, hyacinths for sorrow.

"He's telling a story," she murmured, crouching down to get a better look without disturbing the scene. "Every detail means something."

Above them, the moon emerged from behind clouds, casting everything in silver light that made the scene look even more artificial, more staged. Morgan knew something about staged evidence, about carefully constructed lies. She'd spent ten years behind bars because of just such an arrangement.

Voices approached through the trees—other officers following their trail of flowers. Soon, this quiet tableau would be transformed into another crime scene, with cameras, evidence markers, and numbered flags destroying the killer's careful composition. But for now, it was just Morgan and Derik and the dead woman who had become their killer's latest masterpiece.

Hannah's open eyes reflected the moonlight, turning them into mirrors that held the truth Morgan had been missing. This wasn't just about death, or ritual, or even art. This was about transformation—about forcing nature itself to bend to someone's will. Just as Cordell had bent truth to serve his purposes, just as he'd transformed Morgan's life into a cautionary tale with his careful frame-up.

The wind carried the sound of approaching sirens, of boots moving through dead grass, of a world rushing to witness what they were already too late to prevent. But Morgan barely heard it. Her attention was fixed on those flowers spilling from Hannah's lips, on the message they carried about power and control and the perversion of natural law.

Their killer wasn't just staging deaths. He was staging revelation.

And somewhere in the darkness, he was watching, waiting to see if they would finally understand what he was trying to show them. Morgan felt his presence like a weight in the air, heavy with the promise of more performances to come.