by Anne Frasier
“Audrey will want to come back to Savannah for the funeral,” she said. “But I want you to make sure she stays in Seattle, do you understand?”
He did.
“And Thomas? I’m not going to fight for custody.”
He made a small sound of protest, or maybe a sound of concern.
“You were right,” she told him. “As long as I’m in Homicide, Audrey’s in danger. She can’t be here. She simply can’t.”
“I’m sorry, Elise. I’m sorry this is happening.”
“I’m glad she has you and Vivian. You’re a good father. Vivian is a good stepmother. Audrey is lucky.”
A long pause, then Thomas said words she really didn’t want to hear right now. Words of concern. “Are you okay?”
She pressed fingers to her lips. “No.” Her voice cracked on the single word.
“I can come to Savannah. I can catch a plane tomorrow.”
Thomas was good in a crisis. He would take control. He would do things like make sure she ate and slept. “No. Don’t.”
“Okay.” He understood that he could do nothing for John.
“But thanks. Can I talk to Audrey now?”
A minute later Audrey was saying hello. Elise told her daughter about Mara and told her about John. Audrey began crying, and, as Elise expected, said she was coming back for the funeral.
“No.” Elise’s voice was firm. “You can’t come home. If you try, I’ll stick you right back on a plane. You need to stay in Seattle.”
“I know you’re worried about me, but you’re there now. I’ll be safe.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll never be safe around me.”
“So you don’t want me to come home? Ever?”
“Not while I’m a homicide detective.”
The silence on the other end of the line was a building of pressure. Elise braced herself for the explosion. When it came, a torrent of words poured into her ear, all cruel, all truthful. “You’re always talking about how Grandpa left you. Well, you’re just as bad. You’re doing the same thing!”
“Don’t say that. I’m looking out for you.” Elise realized those were the same words Sweet had spoken to her not that long ago.
“I have to go,” Audrey said.
“Don’t hang up.”
Elise heard a familiar click, followed by a dial tone. Her daughter’s favorite form of good-bye.
CHAPTER 18
In the second-floor hallway of Strata Luna’s pink mansion in the Victorian District of Savannah, Jackson Sweet paused long enough to risk a glance at the Gullah woman barreling down on him, her eyes flashing. They’d just spent two hours watching news reports about the morgue fire. At first, when they’d heard one person was dead, another severely injured, they’d feared the casualties might be Elise and David. Sweet’s calls to both had gone straight to voice mail, and his fears had grown until he got through to Avery, who told him they were okay. The dead victim had been Mara, John Casper’s wife. And Strata Luna was now channeling her earlier fear into rage, and that rage was directed at Jackson Sweet.
He had to get out of there before the storm hit full force.
He spun on his heel and ducked into her bedroom, where he began digging through his canvas backpack, hoping to make a hasty exit through the underground tunnels.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” she said.
“I’ve gotta go.” He kept his back to her, knowing if he turned around, she’d be standing there, hands on hips.
“Why’d you move out of Elise’s? Why’d you tell me to lie when she called? Why are you slinking around, coming and going through the tunnels? Why you been hanging around here for days on end? I know you’re hiding. And if you ain’t gonna share with me, then I’m done with you. I’m not a girl anymore, Jackson, and your howling under my front porch don’t do what it used to.”
He heard her pacing, heard the rustle of her black dress.
“And even though I love you,” she said, “that love is poison in my veins. It makes me stupid and weak, and I’m not stupid or weak. So to see you gone—it would hurt, but you damn well better understand that I’d just as soon see you gone as have you around here keeping secrets from me and dragging me into your lies. I won’t put up with that. No, sir. Not anymore.”
He zipped his backpack. Tested the weight, turned around.
Goddamn, she was formidable. She’d always been formidable, even when young, but now she was a force. She’d come into her full power or whatever a person might choose to call it. He understood why mere humans scurried away when confronted by her presence out there in the world. It wasn’t just the rumors of what she could do and spells she could cast; it was her person, tall, intimidating, threatening.
He loved her.
Yes, it was the pathetic truth. Jackson Sweet, brought down by a raging Gullah woman. Maybe it was the cancer, maybe it was knowing it could return and his life might end sooner than later, maybe it was regret, because he sure as hell had a lot of that, but lately he’d come to realize how much Strata Luna meant to him.
He hefted the backpack straps over his shoulders. “I’m hiding to protect people.” And then it hit him that she’d said she loved him. She’d never said that before. Neither of them had said it. Of course she’d also said love was poison.
True.
“Who you protecting?” she asked. “Let me guess. Jackson Sweet?”
“Elise, among others.”
She snorted. “When you gonna learn Elise doesn’t need protecting? At least not the kind of protecting you give her. Which isn’t protecting at all, but running away.” Could she look more disgusted with him? “When you gonna learn running away never solved anything? Or protected anybody? That’s just some fool excuse. You try to make yourself look all noble and stoic, but sometimes I think you ain’t nuthin’ but a coward.”
“You say much more and I might have to slap some sense into you.”
“You ever hit me, or Elise, or Audrey, and you’ll never see another sunrise.”
What did she want from him? He was here. He’d come back. Nothing he did was right.
“Mara is dead,” she said. “John Casper might be dying. Is the man who did this the man you’re hiding from?”
“Maybe.”
“And did hiding here protect Mara?”
He didn’t answer.
“Step up. Be a man.”
“Don’t make me mad. You don’t want to see that.” He’d always been a man. More man than most. “You know I’m a man. And you know I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Really?” She lifted her chin and gave him a sideways look, then delivered the next words one at a time. “Everybody’s afraid of somethin’.”
He thought a moment, searched his brain, shook his head. “Not me.”
“How about relationships? How ’bout love? You might not be afraid of monsters and murderers and evil. I don’t even think you’re afraid of dying. But you know what I think puts fear in the heart of Jackson Sweet?” She didn’t wait for him to reply. She expected no reply. “Relationships. With me. With your own daughter.”
“I’ve tried with Elise. It’s never going to work between us. She’s made that clear more than once.”
“What about me? What about us?”
He let the backpack slip from his shoulders. It hit the floor with a thud. Then he grabbed her by both arms and pushed her backward, shoving her down on the bed. “Don’t ever say I’m not a man.” He fumbled with his jeans while she stared up at him, angry and defiant, but waiting for him. Once he’d freed himself, he lifted her skirt, not surprised to find she wasn’t wearing underwear. In one thrust, he was deep inside her. “I’m here right now. I’m with you right now. Isn’t that enough?”
“Are you here?” She stared at him with those dark, liquid eyes of hers. “Are you really?”
They made rough love—like two cats in heat, as she always said. But he didn’t know if she’d ever want it tender. He wouldn’t know what tender w
ith Strata Luna would look or feel like.
Twenty minutes later he got up from her bed and reached for his clothes.
“Where you goin’?”
He tugged on his boots, bent to tie the laces. “None of your damn business, woman.”
She laughed. The witch laughed. A deep, throaty sound that made him want to kick off his pants and plunge into her all over again. Instead he stood and watched her in silence as he fastened his belt. She was naked, lying on her back, making no movement to cover herself.
Her physical beauty always took him a little by surprise, covered as she usually was from chin to toe with her black dresses. Right now she looked like an oil painting, and he felt a little jealous of all the other men who’d made love to her over the years. And the ones who’d shared her bed more recently. Maybe even that very day.
“Stick close to home,” he said. “And don’t go anywhere alone.” Not really a warning she needed, since he couldn’t recall a time she’d ever ventured beyond her security gates without a driver.
“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not a dog to do your bidding.”
“You did my bidding a moment ago.”
She smiled slyly with her red lips and shook her head. “Honey, you did mine. You should know by now I never do anything I don’t want to do.”
She was in danger. Everybody he cared about was in danger. Didn’t she understand? Their relationship had become fodder for local gossip. One of the reasons he hadn’t left town was out of concern for her.
The moment he’d heard about the discovery of the Novak boy’s body, Sweet had suspected Remy even though the killer was supposed to be dead. The very public attack at the exhumation, along with the subsequent discovery of the wrong body in the right casket, and Sweet’s suspicions were confirmed. Remy was alive. And if Remy was alive, then he was coming for Sweet. Or worse and probably more in line with Remy’s need for thorough and satisfying revenge: he was coming for the people Sweet cared about. But Remy might be less eager to put on a show if he thought Sweet was no longer in Savannah. And Sweet would do a better job protecting the people he cared about if nobody knew he was still in town.
“I mean it, Marie.” He was the only person who called her by her given name. “Stick close to home or Black Tupelo. I can reach both through the tunnels.”
“Does that mean you’re coming back?”
“I’ll be around.”
Not what she wanted to hear. She picked up a ceramic figurine and heaved it at his head. He ducked and laughed. The statue hit the wall and shattered.
CHAPTER 19
Elise and David spent the rest of the day at the crime scene. They talked to the fire marshal, brought in specialists to catalog both the files and external drives that would then be taken to digital forensics, sifted through what was left of evidence, met with team leaders, delegated tasks in the hope that no crucial piece of evidence would be missed. Electricians were on site, and people in hazmat suits were suctioning up water. With the coolers down, the bodies awaiting autopsy and burial had been readied for transfer to the hospital morgue.
This time John Doe got a police escort just in case somebody tried to hijack the coroner van. Strict orders accompanied the body. Since there was no coroner on-site, the evidence label was signed and sealed by Elise, and just in case anybody downtown got in a hurry to free up more cooler space, David affixed a sticky note: Do not process or bury. He signed his name.
Throughout the day Elise checked her phone, hoping and fearing for any news from the hospital. At one point she called only to be told there had been no change in John’s condition. The only thing to do was stay busy and focused.
The site was still a crime scene. After the crew dispersed and went home for the night, officers remained on guard. It might have been a cliché, but criminals often returned, so law enforcement would keep their eyes open for anybody suspicious, while also deterring the morbidly curious.
Elise and David wrapped up the day with another few hours at the police department, where they accessed the morgue database. As they’d both feared, John hadn’t had time to upload photos, X-rays, or notes. They called it a night and headed for the parking lot. It was late, after eleven, but neither would get much sleep. Elise didn’t like the thought of returning to an empty house where she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about the last conversation she’d had with Mara.
“My phone’s working again.” David held it up, lit screen facing her. “So you’ll be able to reach me. I’m going to stop by the hospital on the way home.”
“Let me know if there’s any change.”
He nodded, and they split up and moved toward their cars, their bodies casting long shadows. Once home, Elise lay down on the couch, gun within reach, fully dressed in case she got a call about John and needed to rush to the hospital. The couch and living room also put her in close proximity to front and back doors in case anyone decided to visit in the middle of the night, but so far she’d seen no indication that the person who’d left the cremains on her porch had returned.
She was conditioned to grab sleep where and when she could. Tonight that sleep was strange, filtered by the events of the day. At some point Elise woke up, unsure what had brought her to the surface but sensing it had been a sound not delivered by her dreams. Unmoving, holding her breath, she listened—and heard the alarm system begin its countdown.
Someone was in the house.
She heard the gentle click of the back door as it closed, followed by the soft scuff of a footfall against the wooden floor.
In the dark, her hand closed over her gun. She might not be exceptionally strong, but she was fast. Surprise had always been her best defense. In one motion, she erupted from the couch and pinned the intruder to the wall, her forearm pressed to a throat, Glock to a temple.
“That’s the second time you’ve pulled a gun on me.” The voice belonged to her father. He followed up with a critique. “Good reflexes. Glad you’re being vigilant.”
She lowered the weapon, released her hold, and stepped back. “You should have said something.” She noted that she was cool and calm, her heart not even pounding. Not a natural reaction, but after the events of the day . . .
“You didn’t give me a chance.” In the white plastic box on the wall near the door, he entered the alarm code. The chiming stopped, and they both moved deeper into the living room, Sweet turning on a lamp.
Elise dropped down on the couch. “It’s late. What are you doing here? Not to mention I was told you were no longer in town.”
“I decided to stick around, but I’m keeping a low profile. I heard what happened and wanted to check on you.” He settled himself in an overstuffed floral chair, booted foot to knee. “I’m sorry about Mara. And John Casper.” He sounded like he meant it. He probably did.
She looked away, carefully placing her gun on the end table, refusing to let him see the pain in her eyes. “Maybe if you’d given us a little more information, what happened at the morgue could have been avoided.”
With hardly enough time to process her words, his eyes flared. “Don’t put that on me.”
She couldn’t argue with him right now. Elbows on her knees, she leaned forward and rested her forehead against the heels of her hands. “Shut off the light.”
He ignored her. “I want to help. I’m ready to help, ready to tell you everything.”
She uncovered her face and waited.
What he told her wasn’t that much of a surprise. Things he’d alluded to earlier, recently, and months ago. About how he’d framed Remy to get him convicted.
“I couldn’t catch him,” Sweet said. “He was too good, too clever, too cunning. The evidence I had was circumstantial, no matter how damning. You have to remember we didn’t have the resources you have today. I tried everything. Brought him in for questioning, but couldn’t break him. Arrested him, but couldn’t hold him. And I knew he was committing murder, that he had an insatiable appetite for children, and his crimes were escalatin
g.”
“Why didn’t you just kill him?” Not that she approved of his taking the law into his own hands, but he’d once bragged about doing just that. Taking out people who needed to be taken out. Remy seemed a deserving subject. “You said you’ve killed people. It seems a child killer would have been about the most justification you could find in that book you live by.”
“I should have. You don’t know how much I regret not killing him, but people were watching me, suspecting my less-than-orthodox methods of justice. I was afraid I’d get caught, go to prison. Another murder came along at the right time, and I framed him.”
“And the real killer got away.” She didn’t try to hide her disgust.
“He wasn’t someone who preyed on innocent children. Sometimes you have to make choices that aren’t easy.”
“There are tough choices; then there are whatever rules you live by. Totally different things.”
“Can we not argue about my code of ethics? That’s not why I’m here.”
She gave him a look that said, Continue. I’ll listen.
“You pretty much know the rest. Remy was charged with first-degree murder and given the death sentence.”
“And ‘died’ before it could be carried out.”
“Right.” He settled deeper into the story, heavy on the reminiscing. “The Remy I knew was extremely manipulative. He could talk people into things. It wouldn’t have been that hard for him to find the followers he needed to carry out an escape. He’s probably still puppeteering.”
“I agree.”
“When I heard about Zane Novak, I was already wondering about Remy,” Sweet said. “And then I saw the bodies in the house, and I knew Remy was alive and had used the same place to stash the Novak kid. I figured he saw something about me on the news or the Internet and followed me here.”
“To kill you?”
“That would have been too easy for him, too straightforward. I think he’s looking for more satisfaction than a direct kill. That would be humane. He needs to get me back, make me suffer.”
“Are you talking about getting to you through Audrey? Or Strata Luna?”