For so many reasons—crazy in love with him, my ass!—that shifted Charlie’s attention instantly back to Tony. She wouldn’t even give the infuriating creature the satisfaction of glaring at him.
“Thanks—I think,” Charlie said to Tony, perfectly composed. She’d been fishing around in her disorganized mess of a purse for her keys, and found them just as they reached her car. She pulled them out with a triumphant jingle.
“Anyway, when you snapped back at Dudley like that, you weren’t cute,” said Michael. “You were damned hot. That’s what he ought to be telling you.”
Charlie didn’t acknowledge that by so much as a flicker of an eyelash.
What she said as she stopped beside her blue Camry was, “Here’s my car,” and clicked the button on the key ring that unlocked the doors.
“I hate to put pressure on you after what you’ve just been through.” Tony gave her an apologetic look. “But the plane’s scheduled to take off at seven. Crane’s meeting us at the airport. That is, if you’re coming with me.”
“Hell, no, she’s not.” Squaring around to face him, Michael radiated aggression in a way that should have made the other man step back a pace. Except that, of course, Tony couldn’t see him.
“I am coming with you.” Charlie’s lips firmed as Michael’s eyes shot to her face. She’d made her decision in the last couple of seconds, after sifting through the options about a thousand times and finally coming to the conclusion that going with Tony to Kaminsky’s aid was something she had to do. She knew Michael was going to (to put it politely) disagree with her decision, and their upcoming discussion wasn’t going to be pretty, but there wasn’t any other choice she could make. “I just need to stop by my house to pack a bag.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What the hell was that?” Michael’s tone was deceptively mild. Charlie only knew how really, truly ticked off he was from the tightness around his mouth and eyes. He hadn’t said a word from the moment she’d told Tony that she was going to Las Vegas with him until now, when she and Michael were driving out of the prison after having been waved through the last checkpoint by a sunglasses-wearing guard with a shotgun riding on his shoulder. She was behind the wheel, seatbelted in, physically feeling a whole lot better since the Tums she’d dug out of her purse as soon as she’d gotten in the car had kicked in. Michael had watched her crunching the (multiple) tablets in broody silence. She’d expected a caustic remark about it, but nothing. Since then, the tension in the air had risen with every swish of the wheels on pavement, until by the time he finally spoke she was so on edge that she was sitting bolt upright in the driver’s seat and scowling at the beat-up red pickup in front of them. Michael slouched in the bucket seat beside her, his tall, broad-shouldered frame looking too big for the compact car. Those black eyes glinted dangerously as they fixed on her: a sideways glance at his face was enough to persuade her that she’d do better to focus her attention on the road if she wanted to keep her own cool. He looked like a fight waiting to happen, and she wasn’t about to play into that. Couples quarreled, but she and her resident ghost were emphatically not a couple. After his You’re crazy in love with me crack, she wanted to underline that fact to herself as well as to him. Tony was somewhere behind them, in the car he’d driven to the prison. They’d arranged to meet at her house, and he would drive her from there to Lonesome Pine Airport, where the team’s private plane waited.
“Kaminsky needs me. Her sister’s missing. I can’t leave her in the lurch.” That was the short answer, simple and quick and true. By leaving it at that, Charlie felt that she was taking the high road.
“Oh, yes you can.”
“I’m not going to.”
“I thought we decided that you were gonna tell Dudley no.”
“You may have decided that. I didn’t.” In the interests of not escalating the “discussion,” instead of focusing the glare she felt coming on on its rightful target, she frowned out the window at the gang of orange-jumpsuit-wearing inmates mowing the grass around the outside of the prison under the supervision of a quartet of armed guards. The single road that curled down the mountain had quite a bit of traffic on it at the moment as the prison disgorged its visitors and the guards changed shifts: the Ridge’s version of rush hour. She was still behind the red pickup, and would be until they reached town. The thought that the hunter might be circling in the sky overhead like an invisible version of the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz sent a prickle of unease over her skin. The need to get as far away from the prison as fast as possible had her nerves jumping. Speeding away from the epicenter of danger wasn’t going to happen, however. She was stuck going thirty-five miles an hour, and unless a whole line of traffic got blasted out of her way, nothing was going to change. Her hands tightened on the wheel. She did not curse, not even under her breath.
“That’s a load of crap.” Michael’s fingers tightened around the edge of the console between the seats. Slanting sunlight bathed his powerful forearm in golden light: the muscles of his upper arm looked hard and sleek below the sleeve of his T-shirt. His arm, she was glad to see, had none of the grayish tinge that she found so worrying when she looked at his face. Not that she was going to let him see her worrying about him again anytime soon. “This Vegas trip is a cluster-fuck waiting to happen, and you know it as well as I do. When we get home, you need to tell Dudley that you changed your mind and can’t go.”
“No,” Charlie said, flicking Michael a cool but by no means nasty sideways look. Come to think of it, she liked that word no a whole lot. It was short and sweet, and got the job done.
His lips compressed. “You were hearing those creepy voices of yours back there, weren’t you? In the hall right before that psycho freak charged you?”
It was clear from his expression that he already knew the answer.
“So what if I was?” she countered.
“In sports, injured players lay out until they’re healed. Consider yourself an injured player, and sit this one out.”
“This isn’t sports, and I’m not injured. And Kaminsky needs me.”
“You’re hearing fucking voices in your head, and they’re causing you to spaz out. If that isn’t injured, I don’t know what is. To say nothing of the fact that a damned murderous lunatic bit you today, and you’re chowing down on Tums by the handful because being attacked by his ghost made you want to puke.”
He knew way too much about her. “So what am I supposed to do, lock myself in my house until I’m all better?”
“Yes.” His answer was uncompromising.
“No.” So was hers.
“Damn it, we’re not going to Vegas.”
“I’m surprised you’re not chomping at the bit to go to Las Vegas. They have casinos there, remember? Bright lights, big city! Lots of things to do. Aren’t you the one who likes going to bars, hanging out with strippers and hookers, and all that?”
“Being dead kind of takes the fun out of that stuff. Particularly the hookers.”
“Oh, ha, ha.”
“Look, babe: do us both a favor and forget Vegas.”
“You know what? You’re a big boy. You can stay home if you want.”
“Funny. Especially when we both know you won’t leave me.”
“Watch me.”
“You trying to convince yourself or me?”
“I don’t have to convince you. All I have to do is get on that plane.”
“What happens next time you hear the voices and spaz out around somebody who wants to hurt you—like, say, I don’t know, a serial killer?”
“I’ll deal with it,” she snapped. “Anyway, the voices are bound to go away at some point.”
“Let’s just hope it’s not after you’re dead.”
“Hey, Casper, anybody ever tell you that you have a tendency to be controlling?” Charlie gave up entirely on the failing attempt at keeping her cool and glared at him. “It’s a little alarming—or at least it would be if I felt I had to listen to you. Luckily, I d
on’t. I do what I want.”
“So I’m controlling, huh? You going all shrinky on me now, Doc?”
“I’m pretty sure shrinky’s not a word.”
“You should know. You’re the one with all them fancy degrees.” The smile he gave her was tigerish. “Shame they don’t come with common sense.”
“Are you really going to talk to me about common sense?” She let loose a derisive laugh. “If you’d had the common sense to keep your pants zipped once in a while, you probably wouldn’t have been arrested for being a serial killer, and you wouldn’t have ended up on death row.”
“Yeah, well, if you’d had the common sense to stay away from serial killers, you wouldn’t have been messing with a guy on death row the day I got killed, and you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation now.” The tiniest pause. “Anyway, what’s it to you whether or not I keep—kept—my pants zipped?”
“Not a thing in the world, believe me.”
“Don’t worry, babe: you got nothing to be jealous of. I’m all yours.”
Charlie practically sputtered. “Like that’s a good thing?” By the skin of her teeth she managed to swallow the angry addendum you man-whore before it left her lips and then did her best to dial the whole thing back by taking a deep breath before continuing. “I’m not going to argue with you. I’ve decided to go to Las Vegas and help Kaminsky find her sister. You can come or not. End of story.”
“You wish.” His tone made it quite clear that as far as he was concerned the conversation was by no means over. “I thought we decided that serial killers are dangerous. Because, see, a couple of them have tried real hard to kill you already and one actually succeeded. Remember that? Remember dying? I was there: you didn’t like it.”
She actually didn’t remember very much about it. And what little she did remember she tried not to: an explosion of emotions all wrapped up in darkness.
“That was one time.”
He hooted. “Well, golly gee, you got me there! The thing is, though, one time’s all most of us get. I vote you cut your losses, and thank your lucky stars you got another chance.”
Maybe he had a point, but there was a bigger picture. As the Camry chugged around one more S-curve in a long series of them, she deliberately let her gaze linger on the spectacular reds and golds of the autumn foliage out the window as mountain after tree-covered mountain fell away into the distance. The beauty of the Blue Ridge at this time of the year was incomparable. Just looking at it soothed her.
“You know, you should be eager to go,” she pointed out reasonably. “I want to help Kaminsky save her sister and bring a monster to justice if I can. I also want to get you as far away from that hunter as it’s possible to get. That’s the part you should keep in mind.”
His brows snapped together. “Fuck that. You’re not putting yourself at risk for me.”
“Let’s see: earlier today I threw a horseshoe at a ten-foot-tall scary monster. I think that means I already did.” Her gaze flicked over him. “By the way, I haven’t heard a thank you yet.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They pulled up in front of the traffic light at the base of the mountain. The small mining town of Big Stone Gap sparkled in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. It was a Tuesday, near suppertime. Most folks were either at home or heading there, which meant there were more cars on the roads in town, too. Glancing in her rearview mirror, Charlie saw no sign of Tony in the cars lined up behind her. But he was back there somewhere, and he knew his way to her house. He’d be there soon enough: Tony was as reliable as the sunset. And that, she told herself, was one more very positive attribute to add to his side of the scale.
Not that she was comparing him with anybody or anything.
“Besides,” Michael said as she pulled through the intersection and accelerated. “How do we know the hunter won’t show up in Vegas? Or anywhere?”
That got her attention. She could feel a fresh burst of agitation bubbling through her veins. “Why would it? It’s never come after you before.”
“Maybe I just now got on its radar. Maybe it only just now figured out I escaped Spookville.”
“Oh, God.” Luckily, the way home was imprinted in her brain, because she drove there, past the drugstore and the grocery and the little church on the corner where Michael was buried, without even being aware of any of it while she tried to get her mind around the implications of that. “I don’t think it will. I don’t think it can. Hunters are not rampaging around this plane on a regular basis, or I would have known about them long before I got mixed up with you,” was the conclusion she finally came to. “That one coming through today was an anomaly. It had to be.”
“Calling something a big word don’t make it true.” She could feel his eyes on her profile. “We don’t know shit about what a hunter can do. I’m thinking this one might have killed that scumbag who bit you.”
“Spivey?” Charlie’s breath caught.
He shrugged. “Something killed him. He was just fine when he was grabbing you. And if you could see him after he died, then he suffered a violent death.”
She’d registered the violent death thing, too, about the time she’d seen Spivey’s shade rushing at her, and had pushed it into her mental file labeled stuff to think about later. “You’re right, he had to have died violently, but I don’t think the hunter did it. It didn’t kill me. I never felt like it could. When it flung me away—it felt more like I hit its energy field or something than it actually attacked me.”
“Babe, you’re not its natural prey. In fact, you’re probably about as far from its natural prey as it’s possible to get.”
“So what do you think is its natural prey?”
“Evil. I think it can smell evil like a bloodhound tracking a scent.”
Which, given his history with hunters, meant that he considered himself part of what he called their natural prey: in a word, evil.
“You’re not evil.” She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, especially with such conviction. Because she had, she scowled at him.
He smiled at her, a slow-dawning smile that did embarrassing things to places she refused to think about. “You know what? I think that’s just about the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. When I wasn’t driving you out of your mind in bed, that is.”
“You are such a jackass,” she snapped, knowing that her face was pinkening from the unwelcome (blistering hot) memories that conjured up, which, infuriatingly, only made his smile widen. To change the subject, she said, “If we stay here, I have to go to work. At the prison. Tomorrow. Because, you know, I have bills to pay if I want to have a house to live in and food and all that. And in my opinion going back to the prison is just too dangerous right now. If the hunter’s lurking around anywhere, that’s where it will be.” She glanced at him, remembered the adage about flies and honey, and in the interests of not having to put up with having him in a pissy mood all the way to Las Vegas, decided to try it. Also, although she hadn’t liked the direction the conversation had subsequently taken, her assertion that she didn’t think he was evil had definitely improved his mood. Conclusion: buttering him up worked.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” she said, and had to quell the urge to bat her eyelashes at him.
“I appreciate the thought, buttercup, but in case you missed it, something already did: I’m dead.” His voice was dry.
She looked impatient. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do. And just for the record, you’re not sweet-talking me into going to Vegas.”
She bristled. “I wasn’t trying to sweet-talk you.”
“No? Well, then, if what you’re trying to do in some typical roundabout chick way is tell me you’re crazy in love with me, that’s a whole different conversation.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting. Go ahead.”
“I am not trying to tell you—” She broke off. So much for honey: this particular aggravating fly d
eserved to be whacked over the head. “You know damned well that’s not what I meant.”
He smiled. After the first unwary glance made her heart skip a beat, she refused to look, choosing to concentrate on getting them where they were going instead.
Having reached the two-story white clapboard farmhouse on the neat little street that was her home, she pulled the car into the detached garage and parked. She and Michael got out at the same time and headed inside, through the back gate because that way was closer. A pair of the neighbor’s prize hens was in her backyard, rooting around among the sunflowers. She looked for Pumpkin, her other neighbor’s orange tabby, which spent much of his time stalking the hens, but didn’t see him. Which was just as well: she didn’t have time to deal with animal wars at the moment.
They went in through the kitchen.
“You know, you don’t have to go in to work tomorrow. You could take some vacation days, like you should’ve in the first place. Or call in sick,” Michael said as he trailed her into the front hall. Because the day was heading on toward twilight, the house was shadowy inside, but she didn’t bother to turn on any lights as she headed for her second-floor bedroom, where she meant to pack a bag as quickly as she could, and thus hopefully be ready to go before Tony even arrived. “We could still find a beach, and you could still rock that bikini. The one that you’re so repressed, and such a damned workaholic, you don’t even own.”
She narrowed her eyes at him over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs. “I am not repressed”—well, maybe she was, a little—“and I am not a workaholic”—maybe she was a little bit of that, too, not that it was a bad thing—“and we’ve been over this.”
He was right behind her. “So let’s go over it one more time. Why the hell would you even think of putting yourself in danger again, especially when you’re not operating at one hundred percent capacity?”
“Because I’m an expert at what I do. And because Kaminsky needs my expertise enough to have asked for it,” Charlie growled as she reached the landing and marched into her bedroom. “Anyway, I can stay out of the field and concentrate on profiling and analysis and be perfectly safe.” It was a large room, serene, with white walls and a dark hardwood floor and two long windows that looked out over her backyard and the wooded mountain rising into the clouds beyond it. Between the windows was an ornate fireplace with a painting of a waterfall above it. Her big brass bed with its spotless white covers took pride of place in the center of the room: just looking at it made her body quicken. Which reaction was both ridiculous and infuriating: she’d owned that bed for months now, and she’d had steamy, mind-blowing sex in it precisely once. And yes, that sex had been with Michael, when she’d found herself on the same side of the life/death divide as he was one stormy night not long after he’d walked into her life. Probably the sex had been a mistake—no, it definitely had been a mistake—but she couldn’t regret it. Just like she couldn’t regret repeating the error in a hotel room in Charlotte right before she’d wound up in the hospital. Truth was, the sex had been phenomenal. The problem was the source.
Her Last Whisper Page 9