Racing From Chaos: Sunrise Runners Duology, #2

By Aubrey Parr

Racing From Chaos is Book Two in Aubrey Parr’s Sunrise Runners Duology.

The KC Kidnapper is still terrorizing the Kansas City area. Mere months ago, he was an amateur, but he’s quickly learned how to feed his insatiable appetite for pain. And runners are still on the menu.

It’s Violet Moretti’s job to report each abduction on the morning news. She can’t escape the details; they consume her thoughts and haunt her dreams. The obsession is causing her life to crumble.

Detective Dean Kelly has been on the case since the first runner went missing, and he won’t sleep until he has the Kidnapper in cuffs. Even in the midst of this chaos, Violet and Dean have found friendship, bound together by the ordeal. Can Dean help her keep it together and smiling for the camera each morning?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aubrey Parr
• Release date: Apr 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386565420

Book preview

Prologue

Earlier that year…

Shhh…"

He didn’t want anyone to hear her struggling. The space was small, and it was dark. He fumbled as a beginner would, not knowing enough to completely stop her from fighting back.

I’ve covered your mouth, because I don’t want to hear you scream, he whispered in her ear. He tried to alter his voice a bit, but he wasn’t very good at any of this yet.

He had her sitting on an old, rickety chair. It went to a kitchen table, back from when he first graduated college. (He’d had the same damn table and chairs for almost twenty years.) Her arms and legs were both zip tied to the chair. He switched to it after reading too many online guides about people breaking free from duct tape.

It was hellishly hot in the small space and the air was stagnant. Her blonde hair was beginning to fall in her face and stuck to her cheeks, as she sweated and cried. The ski mask he wore was damp from his own sweat dripping off his face. Maybe next time he’d have a fan, so he didn’t suffocate from the heat.

I’m going to put these on your ears, so that you don’t hear what I’m saying.

She began to squirm and fight as best she could from her chair, yelling behind the tape, although it didn’t allow any real sound to escape.

The thing is, sweetheart, I’m not going to kill you. So, I don’t want to incriminate myself. I just have a few things I’d like to experiment with. With his last word, he placed the earmuffs (stolen from the gun range) safely over her ears. She wouldn’t be able to hear a thing and it would most likely heighten her other senses, making the events which were about to happen even more painful.

Her pupils dilated with terror. Experiment was a terrifying term. Especially when you’re a woman tied up in a dark, dingy place with a crazy man. He didn’t think he was crazy, just extremely curious about a few things. He had finally got the nerve to try them out. She had seemed so unaware running along the trail, lost in whatever she was reading on her phone. He decided that mobile phones were the reason why women lost a sense of their surroundings. He wondered if there were statistics, showing an increase in female abductions alongside the rise in smart phones.

He took out two different brands of cigarettes. He wanted to find out if the smell of singed skin was the same between the brands. He had smelled one particular brand for so long that it practically made him sick whenever the scent hit the air. He had almost lost his mind one day when a poor soul lit one up outside of his building.

She could see what he was doing, and more tears began to stream from her eyes. She shook her head, as if telling him no just might make a difference. He lit the cigarette, breathing in to pull oxygen into the vile thing. He made sure not to inhale. He hated the godforsaken things. Then, he gave her body a once over.

Could he really do this? He figured he’d start small. Without another thought in his mind, he pushed the fire-red end into her thigh, exposed by her tiny running shorts. She tried to scream against the tape again. Her eyes widened until he thought they might pop right out of her head. He tried not to look at her; she wasn’t really the focal point of this. He wanted to know about the smell of singed skin. He threw the first cigarette aside, having sufficiently put it out on her leg. Next, he lit the second brand. She began shaking her head. This time, he chose the other thigh, shaking in sympathy for her flesh.

Hmm. Same smell. Well that’s disappointing. He was speaking directly to her even though she couldn’t hear a word. He thought about whether to continue with the burning, since he had already crossed the line. He knew he’d return her to where he had found her once he was finished with his experiments. He just wasn’t quite sure if he was finished with her yet.

Chapter 1

Violet

It had been months since the shit hit the fan in Kansas City. The man terrorizing the city had been dubbed the KC Kidnapper. As an anchor with Fox Four, Violet Moretti had coined the term one morning on the air without realizing it would stick .

Though only months had passed, it felt like a lifetime ago that her best friend, Gabriella Winters, was taken and held for ransom by the man that everyone assumed was the KC Kidnapper. Turned out everyone had been wrong.

I’m not sure I can handle another story. Resting her head in her hands, elbows on the desk, Violet knew it sounded petty when thinking about what the abducted runners were dealing with. All she had to do was report the story. But still, it was hard. And taking its toll.

You might be too close to the case, Brice commented.

She knew her co-anchor, Brice Newman, was referring to her relationship with Gaby.

Telling the aftermath is difficult. It makes me want to become a detective and find this lunatic. Violet’s mind reeled with everything that had happened.

Gabriella’s abduction had been hard enough. But then, it had just gotten more complicated from there. Dylan paid a ransom for her, something the KC Kidnapper had never ordered before. He wanted to hurt women; yet money had never seemed to be part of the plan. Gaby was saved, relatively unharmed. While they waited for Joseph Gibbon’s trial, their sunrise runs were a little less tense. But then another victim was taken, tortured like the others before her. The man who had abducted Gaby was in custody, so he couldn’t have done it.

The news shocked the city to its core. Joseph had been forced to take Gabriella under duress, the worst kind of duress for any man. Poor Joseph Gibbons was a mere husband, trying to live his life and be a good person. But what is a man willing to do when his wife is taken? Pretty much anything. That’s exactly what happened to Joseph. He came home one day to his wife tied to a kitchen chair with a man standing behind her. The intruder didn’t have a weapon, didn’t need one. The crazed look in his eyes, shining through his mask, was enough to scare the shit out of Joseph Gibbons.

Everyone in Kansas City knew the details of what happened that fateful day. It all came out at the trial when Joseph Gibbons and his wife were interviewed by anyone and everyone determined to prove Joseph’s innocence to even the harshest of skeptics.

Not only had she heard Gabriella’s personal account, Violet had reported this story as well. The details stuck with her. The KC Kidnapper gave Joseph Gibbons his marching orders. For some reason, Joseph was to abduct Gabriella Winters. He was to let her believe that he was the man abducting runners in the Kansas City area. Then he was to demand a ransom from her wealthy new boyfriend. Simple enough. If Joseph complied with these demands, his wife would remain unharmed. If he went to the police, the KC Kidnapper told Joseph, I will have more fun with your wife than any of my other captors. She will suffer more than any before her.

Joseph swore under oath the true kidnapper was trying to keep any evidence from pointing in his direction, so he could make Joseph take the fall for all the previous female victims. Joseph admitted that he would have done it, too. He would have gone to prison for life to keep his wife safe. No one knows what would have happened if that scenario played out. Instead, the KC Kidnapper couldn’t resist the temptation to take another victim, a fact that may very well have saved the Gibbons.

Joseph was true to his word during the beginning of the trial. He never breathed a word that he wasn’t guilty. Rather, he pled not guilty by reason of insanity. Which was somewhat true. He was going insane trying to keep his wife unharmed by the psychopath holding her hostage. He was dealing with a real-life situation, all the while pretending he would hurt his own hostage. The thought of hurting another human being disgusted him. Any time he gave a sadistic pep talk in order to scare Gabriella, it made his stomach turn. He would agree to the Kidnapper’s request, hang up the phone, and cry. He’d sit in middle of that horrible warehouse and cry. Sometimes, he would pray for the strength to save Carol. Then he’d find some courage, walk into the office, and do his best to scare the shit out of the poor woman. Once done, he’d leave and immediately go throw up whatever contents were swimming around in his stomach.

Once the cops announced that Joseph was taken into custody, Carol Gibbons was dropped off under an overpass with a bag over her head. Now, both safe and out of harm’s way, neither of the Gibbons had any idea why they were chosen, or why Gabriella Winters and her boyfriend, Dylan Hart, were targeted. And when you didn’t know why something happened, how were you to stop it from happening again?

Don’t go all Judy Bloom on us; I need you next to me at this godforsaken hour, Brice half-joked with Violet. Plus, isn’t Detective Kelly on the case?

You know from the last time he was here, they’re as stumped as the rest of us. This guy leaves no evidence. The women remember nothing about being transported. They’ve got no leads, she pointed out.

Violet felt utterly defeated. She wasn’t the one responsible for finding the KC Kidnapper but sitting there, doing nothing, just plain sucked. It wasn’t time for defeat. It was time to sit up, take in a deep breath, and report local news for the greater Kansas City area. That morning’s news included the story of another missing woman. Violet would say the words, and the city would hold its breath. Wait to see what would happen to this poor runner. Would she survive the ordeal? The KC Kidnapper hadn’t become a murderer. Yet. But when would the urge become too great?

Violet decided that the hardest part of reporting these stories was knowing the victim’s friends and family found out about their loved one through their television, by watching and listening to Violet Moretti. How many people dropped to their knees upon hearing her speak? Violet hated being the messenger of such horrible news. But it was all part of the job. In the job description, so to speak.

Violet dragged herself into her condo. The heavy door shut hard with the weight of her body against it. The last time she entered her place, she was pumped up on endorphins from her runner’s high. Light on her feet, she jogged through the living room and bumped into her husband, Alexander (though everyone called him Lex). He was in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, his body still wet and red from the heat of the shower. Their impromptu make-out session turned into them both jumping in the shower together. It was simply the best way to start her day.

After hearing the news of another abduction, the wind was pulled violently from her sails. Now, her body heavy with tension, as she trudged over to the couch. She landed straight on her face, blonde curls falling all around her. Too tired to scream or cry, Violet decided it was a good time for a nap. Closing her eyes, she said a quick prayer for the newest victim’s fast release. They were never missing for more than a day or two. This woman had never returned from her evening run. That meant they were approximately twelve hours into a forty-eight-hour countdown.

Chapter 2

Dean

Another one!" After hanging up the phone, Detective Dean Kelly threw his coffee cup against the wall of the small office. The mug was empty, but it still felt good to hear it crash and break into pieces. Dean wished it was the KC Kidnapper’s head .

They had just discovered the body of his last victim days ago, barely clinging to life, left on the same running trail where she was taken. Dean had seen some serious shit during his career in law enforcement, but this guy, this KC Kidnapper, made even his stomach turn.

The fucking treadmill works for me!

Dean kept that thought in his head. He didn’t want to come across like a complete jerk. It wasn’t the victims’ fault, and he knew it. Still, there was a part of him, the part wanting to keep this city safe that wondered why women were still running outside. Why were they still putting themselves at risk?

This case was called in by the victim’s husband. It was hard, in the Special Victims Unit, to keep feelings separated from work. To be part of that unit, a detective needed to have a certain level of sympathy. Especially when talking with a victim’s family. There was no way to truly train or prepare someone for those conversations. Dean wasn’t married himself, but he could image what that poor man was going through. A husband was supposed to protect his wife. Dean wasn’t sexist, but he was just a little bit old school in his thought process. He knew that it had to ache a little bit more for a man, knowing his wife was in the hands of a maniac and that she was going to be hurt.

During the entire phone call, the husband, Michael, switched between crying and screaming, blaming himself and declaring he’d kill that motherfucker. His words came broken by sobs, but Dean had become fluent in the language of broken-hearted, family members. Once he was able to confirm he heard Michael’s address correctly, Dean said he’d be right over. Grabbing his keys and jacket, Dean didn’t bother to tell anyone he was leaving. The station was already buzzing with the news. It spread like wildfire. The police chief, Litko, was already standing outside on the front steps, making a statement to reporters and warning citizens in the Kansas City area to be smart and safe while running. It never ceased to amaze Dean how quickly reporters -vans, cameras, and all- could set up, drooling for any information possible.

Dean’s mind reeled about the case, as he made his way towards the victim’s house. This guy goes on binges; he seems to fulfill his urges with two or three women and then keeps it at bay for a few weeks before he’s back at it. Dean wondered if that was by choice or impulse. Would this lunatic prefer having a woman captive at all times? Or did life get in the way to prevent that possibility?

All the victim’s memories were incredibly foggy; powerful drugs had been used in their systems to keep their memories cloudy. The department called every profiler possible trying to capture this guy. So far, with victim accounts and profiling, they believed he was mid-thirties and white. Whether he was married or single had them at a hung jury. Plus, why was he specifically targeting runners? Some theorized that runners were simply putting themselves at risk more easily, while others believed that there must be more to the sick story. Personally, Dean was trying to keep an open mind about it. It was easier to miss things when you operated on one theory alone.

Pulling into the neighborhood, Dean drove slowly, seeing the wide trail that followed behind the large houses into the woods behind the residential development. Knowing what had just transpired somewhere on that trail sent an eerie chill down Dean’s spine. Without realizing it, his hands tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He drove that way, on autopilot, following the directions coming from his phone. Once pulled into the driveway, he leaned back into the seat and gave himself a second. Dean rolled his head back and forth, each crack offering a little bit of relief. Putting on his detective face, he prepped himself to see a broken husband and threw open the car door.

The entrance was grand, a large porch with a picturesque swing hanging at one end and centered by wide, double doors. His police training taught him to take in every detail, looking for any similarities among the cases. So far, wealth and age didn’t have much to do with the selection. There had been a range of college-aged girls in apartments to women in their fifties from well-to-do homes. What seemed to matter was that they ran and that they were, for the most part, blonde. Other than the weird situation with Joseph Gibbons and the redhead. That threw the entire department for a loop.

As Dean raised his hand to knock, the door opened. Just as he expected, what stood in front of him was a half-crazed, shell of a man. Michael’s eyes were red and sunken, surrounded by dark circles, strands of hair sticking out everywhere from being pulled for hours on end. His lips were dried out and cracked from lack of thirst. Though the two men had never met, Dean guessed the man had aged a decade overnight.

Detective Kelly. He said nothing after the brief introduction. Dean wanted to give him a minute to process. Having a detective in the victim’s house made it all the more real for the family members.

Hey,… ummm… please come in, Michael replied in a daze. Coffee?

No, no. Thank you. Let’s just sit down and chat for a bit.

Sure. Michael Tanner led him into the breakfast nook and sat down at the table. What do you need to know? As the words came out, tears began to escape the corners of his eyes.

I know this is tough. We’re going to do everything we can to help find your wife.

Vanessa, Michael interrupted.

Yes, Vanessa. Dean nodded with a reassuring smile. Were you home when she left to go running? Meaning, do you know what time she left? It was easy for a spouse to assume he was a suspect. Though Dean knew, from the moment he saw the man, that there was no faking this emotion.

No, I was at a dinner with a client. Michael stood and began to pace.

Okay, did she have a regular routine for running? Dean scanned the expansive kitchen and into an attached sitting area, looking for pictures. He was willing to put a lot of money on the fact that Vanessa was tall and blonde. They all were.

She usually ran at night when I would have dinners. Michael screamed, grabbing at his hair. Pulling hard, he dropped down to the floor and hung his head between his arms. Fuck!!! This is my fault. If I hadn’t been so focused at work, she wouldn’t have run at night. She’s being tortured, and I could have stopped this. He raised his head up slowly and met Dean’s eyes with a pleading look.

Dean’s heart ached for him. This kidnapper had eluded the police for over six months now, and