The White Lily Read online

  The White Lily

  Book Two, The Harvester Series

  Susanne Matthews

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2015 by M.H. Susanne Matthews.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-9121-0

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9121-1

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-9122-9

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9122-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Olaf Simon; 123RF: cygnusx, pinkynoise.

  Prologue

  Exhausted and thirsty, Lilith hung from the cold basement wall, her arms extended, shackled at her wrists, in a re-creation of the crucifixion. Her tired legs wouldn’t be able to support her weight much longer, and if she collapsed or fell asleep, her shoulders would separate, tearing the muscle from the bone, and the pain would increase exponentially. With her arms ripped from their sockets, her chest would sag, stretched to its full extent, and she’d inhale until her lungs were fully expanded, and then, unable to exhale because her muscles couldn’t function in that position, she’d slowly suffocate. The irony of this method of torture wasn’t lost on her.

  How long had she been in here? Hours? Days? The total darkness of the grave surrounded her. She was going to die just like Turner had. They’d found his brutalized body in the desert, about thirty miles from the compound. Forensics had proven he’d been killed elsewhere, and she’d bet it had been in this dungeon. Had he been crucified on this wall? Had his blood embedded itself into the cold stone at her back? Pooled at his feet like hers did? The coroner claimed exsanguination as the cause of death, but perhaps Turner had simply given in to the pain.

  Lilith, when you screw up, you really make a mess of things.

  Turner had been one of the agency’s best men, with years of covert experience under his belt. She’d volunteered to take his place and infiltrate the Faithful Followers of the Word, looking for Senator Kirk’s granddaughter, the fourteen-year-old girl who’d vanished from her bunkhouse at ski camp almost a year ago. Why had she assumed she’d succeed where he’d failed?

  There’d been concern about sending a female agent into this environment, especially one with no undercover experience, but in her arrogance, Lilith had argued a young woman might have a better shot at being accepted than another man. After all, wasn’t she the agency’s expert on cults? Besides, they’d had no real proof Kelly Kirk was there other than an anonymous tip and a grainy photograph taken by an aerial surveillance plane, so Lilith might simply be gathering vital information.

  But she’d misread the dynamics of the cult. Foolishly, because his was the face everyone saw, she assumed Rivers was in charge.

  Her left knee buckled, and she gasped as the handcuffs bit deeper into her wrists. Forcing herself upright once more, she gritted her teeth. Her tormentor was probably out there right now, waiting to hear her cry out once more, and by God, she’d die before she’d give him the satisfaction.

  Inhaling slowly, her expanding chest ripping open the fresh wounds on her torso and increasing her agony, she swallowed the pain.

  It was her own fault that she was in this predicament. She’d been so close to completing her assignment, but she’d made a rookie mistake, one that would end in her death and condemn who knew how many young girls to this sick lifestyle.

  After weeks of kowtowing to just about everyone living in the compound, she’d finally been allowed into the “holiest of holies” the large building specifically designed to house Rivers’s mates. She’d barely recognized Kelly, now heavily pregnant. Grossed out at the thought of Rivers rutting with girls as young as fourteen, Lilith jumped the gun, approached the girl, and identified herself as a family friend sent to rescue her. Sadly, brainwashed into believing she carried God’s grandchild, Kelly had betrayed her to the man who called himself the son of God.

  Before Lilith could call in and report, two men stormed into her room, tore the place apart, and found the cell phone hidden under her mattress. They’d dragged her to this hellhole for re-education and introduced her to the monster. The Spanish Inquisition could’ve learned a trick or two from this guy, but she’d clung to her cover story in spite of the torture.

  Licking her swollen lips with what little saliva she could produce, the sharp pain from the tooth she’d lost for joking about a crown of thorns, reminded her that she hadn’t gone down without a fight. In spite of everything those bastards had done to her, she hadn’t broken, and there was still a chance her team would get to her in time.

  Her head tipped forward, allowing her chin to brush against her grandmother’s locket. Ironically, while they’d ripped away her clothes, the good luck piece still hung around her neck, its pendant hiding a miniaturized GPS placed there by the FBI technician before she’d entered the compound.

  Her legs trembled and threatened to give way again. One mistake. One stupid mistake, but there might still be a chance for good to come from it. When she didn’t report in at her scheduled time, her team would storm the compound. Kelly and the other women and children would be rescued, and Rivers and his sick cronies would pay for their crimes—crimes that would include multiple cases of statutory rape and the murder of two federal agents.

  Lacking the necessary strength to raise her head from her chest, unable to stem the tears coursing down her dirty cheeks, she took another agonizing breath and sought the sanctuary inside her head, the safe place she’d created years ago when her heart had been broken, the refuge she’d escaped into during the worst of the torture.

  Gunshots echoed through the stuffy basement, rousing her, pulling her out of the daydream and bringing with it all the pain she’d suppressed. Her arms ached; the open wounds from the lashes, cuts, abrasions, and burns stung. Her body was on fire, a seething mass of agony.

  Familiar voices shouted her name, but she couldn’t answer. She sighed. It wouldn’t be long now. The secret panel opened, revealing her dungeon. Part of her was humiliated at having her colleagues see her this way; another part didn’t care. It was over.

  “What the hell have they done to her? Is she alive?”

  Fingers on her throat checked for her pulse, and she fought to open her eyes. Pain from the brightness of the LED flashlight tore through her head, forcing a groan from her parched throat.

  “For God’s sake, get her down and get the paramedics in here. Hang in there, Lilith.”

  “Did you get them? Did you get them all?” she asked, her voice a mere whisper, but before he could answer, the blackness swallowed her once more.

  Thank you for purchasing a Crimson Romance novel. Please sign up for our [weekly newsletter] for information on new releases, contests, discounts and more.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

&n
bsp; Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  Still annoyed with herself for not having the backbone to stand up to the director and refuse this transfer, even if it was only a temporary one, Lilith Munroe stepped into crowded Terminal B at Logan Airport, grateful to finally breathe something other than the plane’s stale recycled air and that overblown windbag’s cheap cologne. Why people maintained flying was a great way to travel was beyond her. Even in business class, and she’d paid the additional fare out of her own pocket, she’d been crowded into the corner of her seat by a man who should have paid for two seats instead of one. That he’d hit on her had only made things worse. He’d better not hold his breath waiting for her to call him the next time she was in Washington. On top of that, the damn plane had been hotter than hell. Air conditioning, my ass.

  What was the worst the director could’ve done? Demote her? Fire her? Either of those might’ve been the better option, but she had to stay where she was, needed access to all of those government databases. Why this “promotion” now? She didn’t want it, hadn’t asked for it, and apparently didn’t have a say in it either.

  For five years, she’d managed to avoid anything to do with cults and fieldwork, preferring the security of her cubicle and using her computer skills to provide others with the information they needed to solve the most vicious crimes. Now, she was being forced into what potentially could be the biggest cult case of the century because of a skill set she’d hoped everyone had forgotten.

  The Harvester. For months, the elusive killer, the charismatic leader of a cult, had terrorized the Boston area before disappearing with his followers, leaving several bodies in his wake. As much as she avoided reading about such cases, this one had affected the FBI itself, and it had been the topic of conversation around the cooler for weeks.

  Swallowing her frustration and hitching the carry-on bag higher on her shoulder, Lilith looked around the arrivals area, searching for the signs indicating where she’d find the rest of her luggage. She’d taken no more than twenty steps when she came nose to chest with a behemoth blocking her path. Knowing her gun was in her bag didn’t help since she couldn’t pull it out and tell him to back off. Swallowing her fear, she moved to the right to step around him.

  He put out his hand and gripped her shoulder, holding her in place.

  “Agent Munroe?”

  “Yes,” she answered, staring pointedly at the offending hand, trying to hide the panic threatening to engulf her. “Release me, now.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Detective Rob Halliday at your service,” he said, removing his hand and extending it. “Welcome to Boston. Agent Clark sent me. The director described you quite well if you’re wondering how I recognized you.”

  Damn. She smiled awkwardly, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. It could’ve been worse. I might’ve screamed or attacked the guy. This was a mistake. The sooner she got back to the safety of Quantico, the better.

  She reached for the proffered hand. “Let me guess. It’s the shoes, right?” she asked, hiding behind the sarcasm that served her well. At barely five feet, two inches tall, her preference for exotic-looking shoes with the highest heels imaginable was legendary among the agents at the BAU.

  Detective Halliday chuckled. “Maybe, but I’d say it was the whole package. Do you want to see my credentials?” he asked pulling his ID out of the inside pocket of his jacket, exposing his Glock in the process.

  More than a little embarrassed since she now recognized the burly Boston detective from the photograph in the file she’d read last night, Lilith reached for the photo ID and examined it closely.

  “Thanks. Cut your hair, I see.”

  “Yeah, a few months back. It’s actually grown in quite a bit.”

  “It suits you.” She closed the wallet and handed it to him. “A girl can never be too careful.” She was grateful when he didn’t comment but simply nodded. “I have a couple of bags to claim.”

  “Domestic flights discharge their luggage over this way.”

  Moving as quickly as her four-and-a-half-inch heels allowed, she followed him to the unmoving carousel and waited impatiently for her suitcases to appear. Why did these things always take so long? Tossing bags onto a conveyor belt wasn’t rocket science. The longer she stayed in this place, exposed like this, the worse she felt.

  “Trevor says you’ve been brought up to speed on the case.”

  “If you mean have I had time to read the five-pound file the director handed me yesterday, then the answer is yes, but brought up to speed? I doubt that. There’s nothing in that file that’s less than three months old. I don’t see why Agent Clark thinks I can be of any help. I haven’t worked in the field in years.” The carousel started to turn. “There’s one of my bags,” she said, pointing to the large green tapestry case with the bright pink nametag on it, “and here comes the other.”

  Detective Halliday reached for the matching luggage, picking them up as if they were empty, and turned to his left. “What have you got in here? Rocks?” he asked, hefting what she knew was the overweight bag.

  “Shoes,” she answered defensively, holding her chin just a little higher, waiting for some snarky comment.

  Instead of giving her a reason to maintain her foul mood, he laughed. “I should’ve guessed. My wife never travels with less than half a dozen pairs—and that’s for an overnight stay. As for Clark, maybe he feels we need a fresh pair of eyes on this. The car’s over here.”

  He led the way to the parking lot where he’d left his dark blue sedan. The only thing identifying the vehicle as a police car was the black and white banner displayed on the dash. Unlocking the passenger door for her, he put her suitcases in the trunk before getting in on the driver’s side.

  “I’m taking you straight to headquarters so you can meet Clark and the rest of the team,” he said, starting the engine. “When you’re through, I’ll see about getting you a set of wheels from the motor pool and let you follow me to your hotel.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lilith sat back as Detective Halliday negotiated the Boston traffic, dreading the fact she’d have to do it on her own later. Thanks to the Harvester’s bulging file, she knew exactly who Rob Halliday was—a Boston PD homicide detective seconded to the FBI task force. The man’s wife was Faye Lewis, a reporter for the Boston Examiner, one of the women kidnapped by James Colchester and rescued in a daring eleventh-hour raid on a secret compound in New Hampshire. They’d killed Colchester, believing him to be the Harvester. Finding out he wasn’t the one calling the shots and that the murders were the work of more than one sick man had been disheartening. That little tidbit of information had brought on another night of bad dreams starring Cliff Rivers and assorted members of the Faithful Followers of the Word, leaving her even crankier than she normally was. The last thing she needed was to have another breakdown. She shivered.

  “Cold?” he asked, leaning forward to turn down the car’s AC.

  “Not really. Just tired. I was up late last night reading. Tell me, Detective, do you know why Agent Clark asked specifically for me? If it was just because he wanted another opinion, there are lots of agents with field experience far more knowledgeable than I am.”

  “Call me Rob. Wish I had an answer for you, but as you noticed from the file, the case has more or less ground to a standstill. I’ve been spending more time on BPD homicides these last few weeks. Clark called me to pick you up and come in today, so maybe he’s found something.”

  “I see. Call me Lilith or Munroe—your choice. You do realize this lull won’t last. Sooner or later
, the Harvester’s going to come back for his people.” She thought he already had, but no one seemed interested in her theory—or was that why she was here? The director hadn’t been very forthcoming with information. He’d simply handed her the file and the plane ticket, explaining that her job at Quantico would be waiting for her when she got back.

  “I know,” he said grimly, his face conveying his fear, “and since he thinks my wife is carrying one of his children—which she isn’t—she’s in as much danger as any of the others. He flipped the left turn signal and entered an underground parking garage. “That’s what keeps me up at night. Welcome to Boston Police Headquarters. You can leave your stuff in the car, and we’ll transfer it later. Come on. We’re using space on the fourth floor.”

  Lilith grabbed her oversized purse that doubled as her computer bag and followed him to the elevator. After the brightness of the midday sun, the parking area was dark. She bit her lower lip, her gaze quickly scanning the almost deserted area.

  God, will I ever be able to go anywhere without searching the corners for monsters?

  The doors closed, and the elevator moved smoothly up to its destination, jerking to a stop as a bell sounded. When the doors slid open, they revealed a large room containing six desks and a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard covered in photographs and notes. Those disturbing pictures had been in the file she’d been given; some of them had shown up in last night’s dreams. Keeping it all together here, especially with that wall always on display, was going to be harder than she’d thought.

  “Welcome to the bullpen. That’s our brainstorming area, but it hasn’t seen any action in months. My desk is the one on the right. That mess over there belongs to my partner Tom Adams. Believe it or not, he can find anything on there in seconds. Calls it organized chaos.”

  She chuckled. “I work with a guy at Quantico with the same filing system. Where will I set up?”

  “Not sure. Maybe at one of the empty desks here, or Trevor might let you use an interview room. It’ll depend on how much space you need. We have a few uniformed officers attached to us, too, but only two or three of them are here at any given time. Trevor’s office is down this hall.”