True Vision

by Joyce Lamb

  “She might have strapped herself down,” Logan said. “Who knows what crazy people do?”

  “So it’s over,” Charlie said. She felt lighter all of a sudden, relief a large, helium-filled balloon beneath her feet.

  Noah gestured at the note in Logan’s hand. “May I?”

  Logan handed it over. “Coroner says she’s been dead about six hours.”

  “Why didn’t anyone hear the gunshot?” Noah asked. “It would have echoed in that stairwell like a son of a bitch.”

  “Good question,” Logan said. “Maybe she did it during the thunderstorm. The thunder was pretty vicious.”

  “I can’t believe she did it under the stairs,” Charlie asked, unable to wrap her brain around it. “What if a kid found her?”

  Logan said, “Some people are dramatic that way. They want to make an impression.”

  “Sometimes we just can’t explain what killers are thinking when they do what they do,” Noah added.

  Charlie shuddered. So many lives caught in the cross fire. Laurette. Alex. Noah.

  Noah handed the letter back to Logan then put his arm around Charlie’s shoulders. “So I guess this means you don’t have to play bait after all.”

  Logan’s forehead creased. “Uh, bait? What’s that about?”

  “Nothing,” Charlie said quickly. “We’ll get out of your hair and let you finish up here.”

  “Before you go, any word on Alex?” Logan asked.

  Charlie smiled at him, patted his shoulder. “She’s doing really well. I’m hoping to get to talk to her when I go back to the hospital.”

  He smiled, his relief as palpable as hers had been. “Excellent. Tell her hi for me.”

  “I will.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  He let himself into the bastard’s house through the unlocked back door. Amazing the level of trust in Lake Avalon, as though nothing bad ever happened here. If he weren’t the one causing all the recent trouble, he’d have been locking and double-locking his doors at night.

  Hearing the clink of glass in the kitchen, he crept across the floor in that direction.

  After this, he had only one more loose end. Charlie Trudeau.

  He planned to take his time with that one, expected she would provide exactly what he needed to get back on track, to get himself unfucked-up.

  Killing the hotel bitch had helped. She’d actually smirked at him when he’d pointed the gun at her, smirked and laughed, said he couldn’t even maintain an erection to fuck her, he certainly didn’t have the balls to pull the trigger.

  He showed her.

  He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t stupid. He was strong. Ironically, because of her. She’d shown him that killing wasn’t anything to be afraid of. Before he’d put her down, he’d killed twice, and no lightning bolts had shot out of the clouds.

  Killing her was easy. Made him invincible. She couldn’t manipulate him anymore. She couldn’t make him do her dirty work anymore.

  Now it was his dirty work.

  Now all he had to do was clean up the mess, fix what was wrong with him, what she made wrong, and move on.

  First, clean up the mess.

  When she’d realized he really would pull the trigger, she’d started to babble. About the other guy. That bastard. “You think I wanted him for sex? I used him for insurance. I told him all about you. Everything you’ve done, everyone you’ve blackmailed, including me. I made sure he knew it was you and only you. If something happens to me, he’ll know who and why, and he’ll go to the police.”

  Rage had burst and burned behind his eyes like fireworks in furious, glittering red.

  He’d shot her. Covered the gun with her own pretty pillow and shot her. So easy. So powerful.

  And then he’d put her where someone would find her soon, somewhere where he knew she would hate to be found, a place symbolic of everything about him she held in contempt, and made it look like suicide. So easy again. The cops here were too stupid to look further once they read the suicide note.

  Stopping in the kitchen door, he gazed at the guy kneeling in front of the kitchen sink. He had something cradled in his hands. What was it?

  He angled his head, saw it was a bottle of booze. The guy seemed to be trying to decide whether to open it and chug.

  He tightened his fingers on the handle of the pipe wrench.

  Better drink fast.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Charlie sat at Alex’s bedside, her fingers linked with her sister’s and her head down on the side of the bed near Alex’s hip. God, she was tired. And her head was doing its usual clumsy tango, a steady bass line beat in her temples. Tylenol hadn’t even taken the edge off. Hopefully, a little time with her head down and her eyes closed would help.

  Noah had dropped her at the hospital, then took off to take care of a mysterious errand, promising he’d catch up with her at her place in a couple of hours.

  She couldn’t believe it was over. Just like that. Bad guy committed suicide, leaving a note packed with confessions. Anticlimactic, to say the least. Amazingly tidy, really.

  She felt a bit cheated. The woman who’d shot Alex was dead, and Charlie didn’t get to make her suffer for it. Inflicting some suffering would have made her feel better—or maybe not. She had no idea. She was just plain tired.

  And then she jerked her head up and blinked against the bright light, disoriented and muzzy, surprised that she must have drifted off. The beeping alarm that had awakened her drew her gaze to the heart monitor. Alex’s pulse had spiked to over 100.

  All fogginess vanished as Charlie lunged for the door and whipped it open. “Nurse! Doctor! Somebody!”

  When she saw a nurse come running, she returned to Alex’s bedside. The alarm had stopped, and a glance at the monitor told her Alex’s heart rate was already slowing.

  Charlie took her sister’s hand again, her own pulse racing as the nurse hurried into the room and started pushing buttons on the bedside equipment.

  “What happened?” Charlie asked when the nurse said nothing.

  “Looks like she’s waking up.”

  “But her heart rate . . .”

  “It’s okay now. Blood pressure’s elevated but not dangerously. Let’s just take a minute and see what happens.”

  Charlie fixed her gaze on Alex’s face, willing her to wake up, to be okay.

  Alex’s lips moved, and her eyelids fluttered. She said something, but it was unintelligible.

  Charlie got on her knees beside the bed and stroked Alex’s cheek. “Hey, Alex, you in there?”

  Alex turned her head, tried again to open her eyes. “Charlie?”

  Charlie clasped her sister’s hand in both of hers, not caring that tears already slipped down her cheeks. Happy tears. “Welcome back. You’re okay. You’re doing great. Don’t worry, okay?”

  “Dead woman.”

  Charlie leaned closer, barely able to hear the soft, raspy words. “What?”

  “Dead woman . . . under stairs . . .”

  A gasp escaped Charlie’s lips. How did Alex know about that? “Don’t worry about that. Everything’s okay.”

  Alex moistened her lips. “Thirsty.”

  On cue, the nurse handed Charlie a cup with a straw. “Thanks,” Charlie said to the nurse, then held it for Alex. “Here’s some water.”

  Alex sipped some, still blinking as though trying to focus. “What happened?”

  “Ninja with a gun delivered our room service,” Charlie said lightly. “We won’t be staying there anymore.”

  A small smile curved Alex’s lips. “You’re okay?”

  “I’m great now that you’re talking to me.”

  “Noah?”

  “He’s great, too.”

  “You like him.”

  Charlie laughed, and more tears slid free. “Yeah.”

  “Noah and Charlie sitting in a tree . . .”

  “Why am I surprised that you’re able to be a smart-ass even when you’re only semiconscious?” She brushed at
the hair on Alex’s forehead. “How’re you doing? Any pain?”

  Alex sighed. “Good drugs.” She opened her eyes wide, looked at Charlie with absolute coherence for a short moment. “You should get some . . . for that headache.”

  Charlie swallowed the renewed swell of emotion that clogged her throat. “You worry about you for now, okay?”

  Alex’s eyes drifted closed.

  After a few minutes of listening to her steady breathing, Charlie looked at the nurse, who nodded. “She’s going to be fine,” the woman said. “But she needs her rest.”

  Charlie gave her a grateful smile, pressed a kiss to the top of her sister’s head then walked out to deliver the good news to their parents.

  She was just outside the room door when it hit her that there was no way Alex could have known about the dead hotel manager under the stairs. Or even that Charlie had a headache. Only if . . .

  Charlie stopped dead and glanced down at her hand. She’d been holding Alex’s when her sister had regained consciousness.

  Had Alex awakened to an empathic flash?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Charlie let herself into her house and left the heavier door open so fresh air could come through the screen into the stuffy place. In the kitchen, she paused to listen to the silence. Atticus ambled in from the other room and sat his butt down to stare at her, looking ambivalent at her return, and perhaps a bit miffed at her prolonged absence.

  “I’ll make it up to you, Fur Butt,” she said and dropped her bag onto a kitchen chair. “I’m sure you got plenty of attention from Mrs. Wiggs.” The older woman from across the street loved to come in and hang out with Atticus when Charlie was out of town or had to work late.

  She squatted beside him as he rubbed his soft, silky fur against her calf. She massaged his ears the way he loved, and purring promptly commenced.

  After some quality time loving up the man of the house, Charlie opened the patio doors and a few windows to let in fresh air, then went into the office and looked up Simon Walker’s number. She’d made a decision about his offer and wanted to discuss it with him. When she picked up the phone, she noticed the light blinking on Nana’s old answering machine. The glowing red number on the ancient device she hadn’t been able to bring herself to get rid of told her she had seven messages.

  First, she had to call Simon Walker, before she lost her nerve.

  When she got his voice mail, she said, “Hello, Mr. Walker, this is Charlie Trudeau. After giving your generous offer some serious thought, I have a proposition for you. Of the journalism kind.”

  She hung up the phone and smiled. Maybe he’d go for it, maybe he wouldn’t. But she’d give it a shot and see what happened. Still smiling, and feeling like maybe, just maybe, she’d get it right this time, she pushed the “play” button on the answering machine.

  First message, at 8:06 from two nights before: “Charlie, it’s Mac. Could you please call me at work?” Simple, to the point, a conciliatory note in his voice. Maybe he’d finally forgiven her.

  Second message, at 9:13 the same night: “Hi, Charlie, this is Lucy Sheridan. I heard from a neighbor that a woman who sounded like you was looking for me. I took one of those last-minute cruises to the Caribbean. You know, to get away from everything and refresh. I . . . well, I guess I was a little scared of what might happen, and I ran away. At any rate, I’m home now if you still need to talk to me.” Well, that was a relief. Dick was still a dick, but he apparently wasn’t a murderous dick.

  Third message, at 10:11, still the same night: “Hey. Mac again. Just wanted to let you know I’m headed home from work now. You can reach me at home or on my cell, okay? Um, okay, well, I hope to hear from you soon. I, uh, left a message on your cell, too.” He followed that up with a soft laugh, as if he’d embarrassed himself.

  Fourth message, 11:03: “It’s me again. Look, I know I’ve been a jerk. A total jerk. And I’m sorry. But I really need to talk to you. Please call me. It doesn’t matter what time it is.” His tone carried a hint of desperation. And he sounded like maybe he’d been drinking.

  Fifth message, 12:05 A.M.: “I’m an idiot, okay?” Definitely drunk, his words slurring. “A stupid fucking idiot. I . . . when we ran into each other at the hotel, and . . . you were right. I’d been with someone. Donna Keene. I . . . I ran into her and she was lonely and I was lonely and we drank too much and . . . well, I kind of liked her, and now I find out she was a nutcase and blackmailing half of Lake Avalon and trying to kill you and now she’s dead. I think she seduced me to try to find out where you were so she could go after you again. But I didn’t know where you were, thank God. I didn’t know. But, I mean, how fucking stupid am I? Letting you go was the dumbest thing anyone could have done on the planet. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. Well, yeah, I was thinking, but not about what it would be like not to have you beside me. I miss you, Charlie. God, I miss you so fucking much. I miss everything about us. Everything. I want to try again. I want us back. I’ll fix what I did. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Just tell me what to say, what to do, and I’ll do it. I . . . I need you, Charlie. You’re my compass. Without you I do really stupid shit. Charlie, please—” The message cut off with a long beep.

  Sixth message, at 8:39 yesterday morning: “It’s me . . .” His voice paused for a long moment, and she could hear his uneven breathing. “I . . . I’m . . . damn it, I’m sorry. I got drunk, and I said some things. I mean, I meant them, I think. But, look, I’m sorry, okay? I just need to talk to you, to clear the air. I’m . . . I’m kind of not in a good place right now. Please call me. Please.” Voice thick and sleepy but sober and probably smarting from a hangover. She felt sorry for him, wished she’d been there to take his call. She missed him, too, more than she’d expected.

  She picked up the phone to call him back.

  “I wouldn’t bother.”

  She whirled toward the voice behind her, surprised and baffled to see a young man standing in the door of her office. He looked no more than twenty-two, with thick, brown hair and dark brown eyes. Slim yet muscular, like he worked out a lot or did physical labor for a living. His smile, friendly, even a little apologetic, confused her at first but calmed her initial burst of alarm. Had he entered the wrong house?

  “Can I help you?” she asked. So weird to ask that of a man who’d walked in uninvited, but he didn’t look threatening or sinister. He looked like one of those fresh-faced college kids selling magazines to win an exotic trip or a Mormon boy making sure all the souls in the neighborhood were in good repair.

  He nodded, that friendly, amenable smile still in place. “I think you can, yes.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Noah set down his coffee. “So you think it’s doable.”

  Logan nodded, toying with the slim plastic straw he’d used to stir his own coffee. “I don’t see why not. You should probably run it by Charlie, though.”

  “Of course. I just—”

  Logan’s ringing cell phone cut him off. “Hang on.” A moment later, the phone pressed to his ear, he said, “Logan.” He listened for a few moments before his brow started to furrow and his eyes went dark. “Are you sure?” Another long pause. “Run it through the database and call me right back.”

  He snapped the phone closed and shoved back from the table, his tan already faded into an ashen hue. “Where’s Charlie?”

  Noah felt his head snap back in shock. “She’s probably home by now. Why?”

  “That was the lab. Donna Keene’s body was moved after she was shot. She didn’t kill herself.”

  Noah got to his feet, fear spiking through the top of his head as Logan raced for the door at a dead run.

  Noah fumbled his cell phone out as he followed on Logan’s heels. Charlie’s phone was ringing in his ear when he realized something else Logan had said. “What are they running through the database?”

  “Hairs inside the balaclava found in Keene’s suite don’t belong to her. If we’re lucky, we’ll ge
t a DNA match.”

  “Fuck,” Noah said under his breath. He shouldn’t have left Charlie alone. Damn it, he shouldn’t have let her out of his sight. He remembered Donna Keene’s body under the stairs at the Royal Palm. There’d been no blood spatter. Why the hell hadn’t he noticed that before? But he knew why. He’d been completely focused on Charlie, completely wigged out because she’d tried to get an empathic flash off of a corpse.

  “Come on, Charlie, answer.”

  Logan didn’t argue when Noah got into the squad car with him.

  As the engine roared to life, Logan glanced sideways at Noah. “Anything?”

  Noah shook his head. “No answer,” he croaked, dread obliterating his voice.

  Logan set his mouth into a grim, determined line. “Where did you see her last?”

  “Hospital with Alex. She would have left by now, though. We were meeting at her house in”—he checked his watch—“half an hour.”

  “Call and check anyway.”

  Noah’s hand shook as he squinted at the keypad on his phone. Don’t lose it, don’t lose it. “I don’t know the number.”

  Logan rattled it off. “That’s direct to Alex’s room.”

  A minute later, a man’s voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Is Charlie there?” Noah asked.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  He bit into his lip. Just answer the fucking question! “Noah Lassiter. Is this Mr. Trudeau?”

  “Yes. Hello, Mr. Lassiter. Charlie left about half an hour ago. You can probably reach her at home by now.”

  “Thank you,” Noah said, and clicked off the call. He felt sick. Seriously ill. “She should be home.”

  “Then she’s in the shower,” Logan said, nodding emphatically. “Let’s not panic.”

  Noah sat back and clenched a fist on his knee, his other hand curled around the safety handle near his head as Logan yanked the squad car into a sharp turn at tire-squealing, fish-tailing speed.

  She’s in the shower. That worked. That made sense. She’d want to wash away the stench of Donna Keene’s death. They’d get to her house, and she’d be standing in the kitchen in a towel, her silky hair damp around her shoulders, droplets of water glimmering in the hollow of her pale throat. He’d have to move fast to keep Logan from getting an eyeful.