“You can’t hurt me, Mr. Abell,” Charlie said. “But I can hurt you. You see the candle? It’s creating a vortex that you can’t escape. In a minute or so you’ll be swept up by it and it’ll take you to hell and then you’ll burn forever. But I can stop it. If you tell me where Bree is, I will stop it. All I have to do is put this glass over the flame and it goes out and you’re safe. You can go to hell in your own time.”
“Fuck you,” he flung at her. But he was moving toward the candle, pulled inexorably, although he was obviously struggling with all his might against the force of it. Suddenly his face twisted with fear. His voice went shrill. “Where the hell are those screams coming from?”
“They’re coming from hell, Mr. Abell. Where you’re going in just a minute or so unless you tell me where Bree is.” Charlie picked up the glass, her eyes never leaving his face. She could see the whites of his eyes now as he fought to resist the pull. “I can stop it. All I have to do is drop the glass over the candle.”
“Oh, God, that hurts. Make it stop hurting.” He screamed suddenly, as if afflicted by sudden, acute pain, and Charlie tensed even though she’d known what to expect. He was windmilling, on his tiptoes, barely keeping his balance, as the vacuum created by the portal sucked at him. “I shot the bitch, okay? She shimmied out a window and took off running and I shot her. She fell over a cliff. Now make it stop.”
He was teetering, swaying like an autumn leaf in a high wind, barely hanging on. Charlie held the glass directly over the candle. The flame was almost horizontal now as the suction pulled it, too. Abell’s eyes fastened on her hand holding the glass.
“Please,” he begged.
“Where did Bree go out the window, Mr. Abell?”
“How the hell should I know? It was right after you and Dirty jumped off the bus.” He screamed again and started moving forward, step by increasingly rapid step, clearly being pulled against his will despite his frantic efforts to save himself. “I told you what you wanted to know. Now put out that candle.”
Charlie set the glass down on the table, leaving the candle burning beside it. “Go to hell, Mr. Abell,” she said.
“You fu—” His words cut off as he was abruptly yanked off his feet and hurtled toward the candle. Shrieking, he vanished from sight.
Charlie didn’t even realize that her hands were shaking until she picked up the glass and dropped it over the candle, extinguishing the flame.
Then she took a deep breath—
“Did you really just send Abell to hell?” Tony asked in a fascinated tone a minute or so later. They were on their way out the back door, with Charlie’s supplies safely restored to the tote she carried over her arm. She’d told him what Abell had said about what had happened to Bree, and he was already punching in a number on his phone.
“I have no idea where I sent him,” Charlie answered truthfully. “But hell’s definitely where he deserved to go.”
Then, as Tony moved away to talk into the phone, Charlie walked quickly in the opposite direction, sank to her knees, and vomited in the grass.
Michael crouched beside her. “Damn it—”
“I’m all right,” Charlie told him, taking a deep breath and willing the shakes to go away. After a moment she let him help her to her feet. “That was just—intense.”
“No more fucking serial killers,” Michael said fiercely. His arm was around her, and she was grateful for his solid warmth as she leaned against him. “Promise me.”
Before Charlie could reply, Tony walked up to them.
“Everything all right?” he asked. His eyes were on Michael. He had that guy jut to his jaw again. Charlie could feel a hardening of Michael’s muscles in response.
“Talking to spirits makes me sick sometimes,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Pulling away from Michael, she went home. Neither man said anything, but there was a tension in the air between them that was palpable. Then, as she stepped through her kitchen door, she glanced back to find that they were talking, a brief exchange that was too low-voiced for her to overhear. Her inner alarm went off, but as they followed her inside, neither man’s face revealed a thing.
—
It was a good half an hour before she was able to get Michael alone and ask him what he and Tony had been talking about. By unspoken consensus, they were all staying together as they waited for a call back from Major Hintz about the results of the search his people were currently conducting of the ledges and ravines near where Charlie had been rescued. The others were gathered in the living room. Michael had gone back into the kitchen for a refill on coffee. Charlie followed.
“What did you say to Tony outside?” Charlie asked him quietly. In the act of taking a sip from the coffee he’d just poured himself, Michael paused and looked at her over the cup.
“What you should be asking is, What did he say to me?” Michael responded. “And the answer is: He told me that if I did anything to hurt you, he’d kill me.”
Charlie’s eyes widened. Knowing the personalities involved, that didn’t sound like a promising start to a conversation. “What did you say?”
Michael swallowed some coffee, then lowered the cup. “I took it that he meant physically hurt you, and I said he didn’t have anything to worry about. Then we came inside.”
Charlie blinked at him. The whole idea of the two of them talking about her in that way didn’t sit well with her. First, how sexist was that? Second, how liable to go wrong was that? But before she could say anything else, the muffled sound of a phone ringing, followed by Tony’s voice responding with a terse “Bartoli,” sent them both striding toward the living room.
As soon as she entered the room, Charlie could tell from the expression on Tony’s face that it was good news.
He was smiling as he listened to whoever—Charlie assumed it was Hintz—was on the other end of the phone.
“They found her,” Tony said as he disconnected. He’d been sitting on the far end of the couch when Charlie had left the room, but he was now standing near the door, having apparently moved to take the call. Charlie and Michael, who were just inside the door, stood closest to him, but everyone had turned to him, focused on what he had to say. “She was on a narrow ledge about twenty feet below the road. She’s been shot, she’s unconscious, and she’s lost a lot of blood. But she’s alive, and they think she’s going to make it.”
“Thank God!” Tam breathed, and the rest of them chimed in with happy exclamations and a ton of questions.
Relief and joy rushed through Charlie in a warm tide. She hadn’t realized how terrified she’d been for Bree until now, when something inside her finally relaxed and let go. Listening to the excited conversation welling up around her, she leaned against the wall.
“Tired?” Michael asked. He was standing beside her, his voice pitched so only she could hear. Charlie nodded. He continued, “I don’t want Dudley or the others to get the idea that I’m spending the night with you, so I’m getting ready to leave. I’m going to walk around for a little while. After they’re gone I’ll be back. I already took the key off the hook, so you don’t have to worry about letting me in.”
Charlie looked up at him. There was no question in either of their minds about whether she wanted him to stay the night: they both just accepted that she did, and he would.
She nodded. Then a terrifying thought hit her, and she frowned, catching his arm. “You won’t do something like disappear?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be back.”
Moving away from her, he said to the room in general, “I’m out of here. Good night, all.”
Tam and Charlie were the only ones who echoed his good night. The others kind of looked at him and nodded.
Charlie sighed inwardly. She and Tam were going to have a serious discussion later about whether there was any possible way of keeping Michael in Hughes’s body, as awful as she knew it was of her to want to do that. If there was a way, if Tam was able to do it, then she was going to have a talk with Tony
, and Lena and Buzz, too, about their attitude toward Michael. But not before then, because if Tam wasn’t able to do it, then she wasn’t going to have to worry about what her FBI pals thought, because Michael would be once again in spirit form and they wouldn’t be able to see him.
Tony, Lena, and Buzz left shortly after Michael. Lena and Buzz were subdued but polite to each other, and Tony didn’t have much to say beyond “I’ll be by in the morning.” As this was definitely not the moment to discuss anything personal, Charlie nodded, and they left. As soon as they were gone, Charlie turned around to speak to Tam. Her friend was already halfway up the stairs.
“I’m going to bed,” Tam said over her shoulder. “Good night.”
Charlie let her go. She knew Tam knew that the conversation was coming, and knew also that Tam was deliberately avoiding it for as long as she could, but she was tired and wrung out and Tam was, too. Tomorrow would be soon enough for the talk they were going to have. For now, Charlie’s head hurt, her stomach wasn’t entirely over its encounter with Abell, and her joy over Bree was tempered by her knowledge that unless Tam could fix things, Michael would soon be losing the use of Hughes’s body. What she really needed was a hot bath and a solid eight hours of sleep. Plus a handful of Tums. And a couple of Advil.
Everything except the sleep she could do something about. But as long as Michael was in possession of Hughes’s body, well, she had other uses for her time.
She went upstairs, ate the Tums, took the Advil, brushed her teeth, pinned her hair up, and turned on the bath. Her tub was of the big, old-fashioned claw-foot variety. She’d had it restored, and she loved it both because she simply liked looking at it and because it was big and deep and she could stretch out in it and soak.
That’s what she was doing when she heard her bedroom door open and close again. Leaning her head back against the rolled lip of the tub, Charlie smiled and waited.
Michael walked into the bathroom. He took one look at her languidly lathering her arms with rose-scented soap and flames ignited in the depths of his eyes. Then he started to unbutton his shirt.
Charlie’s heart began to pound.
“Did you have a nice walk?” she asked, spreading the lather across her shoulders.
“Yep.” He took off his shirt, hung it on the hook inside the door, then took off his pants and did the same thing. Luxuriating in the hot water, Charlie looked at broad shoulders and honed abs and powerful legs, watched sinews flex and muscles ripple as he stripped off the rest of his clothes, and went all marshmallowy inside. When he stepped into the tub with her, she looked up the whole long length of him, saw how absolutely enormous he was with wanting her, and her body began to throb and burn.
“You’re going to smell like roses,” she warned, sliding over to make room.
“I can live with that,” he said as he settled in beside her. Then he kissed her and pulled her on top of him, and the blazing sexual hunger that was always there between them raged to life, reducing her to a shivery supplicant in his hands and turning the air around them to steam.
—
Later, a long time later although exactly what time it was Charlie couldn’t be sure, she opened heavy-lidded eyes on a room that wasn’t quite pitch black but close enough, and discovered that she was alone in bed. She was still trying to focus enough to get a read on the numbers on the clock when she heard something over by the dresser, got a sense of movement near the bed.
Struggling up on one elbow, blinking groggily, she said, “Michael?”
A rush of movement, a jarring bounce as something heavy hit the bed, and a fiery pain as a sharp object sliced through the top of her shoulder were her answer. Her heart leaped into her throat. Adrenaline spiked through her.
I’ve been stabbed.
Even as the horrified realization burst into her brain, a heavy hand clawed at her neck.
Screaming, Charlie flung herself out of bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Help! Michael! Tam!” Charlie screamed as every tiny hair on her body shot upright. She landed on the floor, hard, and scrambled on hands and knees to get away from whoever was bouncing across the bed after her. She was sure it was a man; she couldn’t see him, but he felt big. He blundered into the nightstand, knocking it over and sending it skidding. The ginger-jar lamp shattered. Tiny pieces of crockery flew everywhere. Horror turned her blood to ice. Her pulse pounded in her ears. A billion thoughts raced through her mind in a split second: What was happening? Who was he? What did he want? Abell—it felt like Abell, but it couldn’t be. Abell was dead and this man was alive. She could hear the harsh pant of his breathing, see and feel the solid mass of his body as he came crashing after her in the dark.
Dear God, he wants to kill me.
Panic surged through her veins in a galvanizing tide. Even as she glanced back fearfully the intruder lunged toward her, a denser presence in a sea of black, and then from just a few feet away he launched himself at her. On her hands and knees near the far wall, she dived out of the way, rolling in the nick of time, shrieking like a steam whistle as he just missed her. He landed beside her with a heavy slithering thud, his knife—he had a knife with a long, thin blade—slamming into the dark wood just inches from her face. She could see the knife sticking into the floor, see it quivering with the force of the thrust, see him grab it by the handle and yank it out.
“Who are you? What do you want?” she cried, bolting for the door. He hurled himself after her and caught the tail end of the short loose nightgown she’d pulled on before falling asleep. With a shot of pure terror she felt the jerk of his hand as it fisted in her hem, and a terrified glance over her shoulder found the massive dark bulk of him looming up right behind her. Yanking her back toward him, he raised the hand holding the knife high. The blade slashed down again. She caught the glint of the blade, sensed the muscular force behind his falling arm, heard the rush of the movement. Throwing herself forward at the last second, heart jackhammering, she screamed like her life depended on it, which it did, and felt the blade slash through the thin silk at the back of her gown.
I can’t get away. He’s raising the knife again—this time it’s going to slice through my skin…
Fear burning like acid in her mouth, she whipped around, grabbed a handful of the fragile silk, and jerked herself free.
Please God please God please God help…
Her bedroom door opened with a rattle of the knob and a soft rush of air. Charlie had about half a heartbeat to think saved, and then she recognized the shadowy figure in the doorway as Tam. Tam, who was no fighter. Tam, who couldn’t help her. Tam, who if this madman got hold of her, would die, too.
“Run!” Charlie screeched as the man behind her roared and grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. Screaming “Charlie!” Tam hit the light switch instead.
Even as the near-blinding brightness from the overhead fixture flooded the room, the knife was already in motion. The blade flashed bright silver as it slashed toward Charlie’s throat. Tam screamed “Charlie!” again as Charlie shrieked, dodged—and, amidst the debris of the tipped-over nightstand and the broken lamp and the various knickknacks scattered across the floor, spotted a gun.
Black and deadly-looking, it lay on its side near the closet. As she’d never owned a gun in her life, she knew where it had to have come from: it was the gun Michael had taken off Fleenor and left in the drawer of her nightstand.
Wrenching herself free of the tightening grip on her shoulder, shrieking with every bit of lung power she had left as she dodged the slashing knife one more time, Charlie threw herself on the floor, skidded across the slick wood, grabbed the gun, and rolled, coming up on her knees to point the thing at the intruder.
“Freeze!” she shrieked, in instant, instinctive imitation of every takedown she’d ever heard come out of the mouths of Tony and Lena and Buzz. Never mind that she was wearing a filmy, now torn and wildly askew pink silk-and-lace slip that barely reached to mid-thigh, or that her hair w
as tumbling in wild disarray around her face and there was a whole lot of bare skin on display. She sounded as deadly earnest in that moment as any cop ever had, and, miracle of miracles, the intruder froze. The gun was cold and heavy and her hands trembled as she gripped it, pointing it squarely at the midsection of the tall, burly, florid-faced man she was pretty sure she’d never seen before in her life, like she actually knew what she was doing. He stood there, breathing heavily, the knife gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes riveted on her face.
“Don’t move,” she warned, not daring to look away from him as her finger curled around the trigger. God, could she really shoot him? And didn’t guns have some kind of safety feature where you had to deactivate something before you could actually pull the trigger? She didn’t dare look at the thing to try to find out. “Tam, call the police!”
“I am.” Voice shrill, Tam brandished her cell phone.
But even as Tam spoke into the phone Charlie could hear heavy footsteps bounding up the stairs. With a muttered “Thank God,” Tam was already stepping into the room out of the way of whoever was coming. Afraid to take her eyes off the intruder, Charlie caught just a glimpse of a tall athletic form bursting through her bedroom doorway.
“What the—” Michael’s words were bitten off as he took in the situation at a glance. Then he was beside her, breathless from his sprint up the stairs as he took the gun from her, holding it on the man with a deadly assurance no one could mistake.
Looking as if he was thinking about bolting for it, the intruder stared at Michael.
“Give me a reason,” Michael said to the man in a tone that sent a chill down Charlie’s spine, then glanced down at her in obvious concern.
The Last Time I Saw Her Page 29