A horse-drawn carriage appeared on the television. The camera’s angle changed to the passenger seat and focused on graveyards, trees shrouded with Spanish moss, and popular restaurants and pubs. Downtown Savannah’s clean, safe streets panned across the screen.
The camera zoomed in on the carriage driver, a young brunette in her mid-twenties, sharing juicy details of the murder and mayhem that once filled the city. Her hair hung loose in natural curls, and her green eyes twinkled.
Without warning, Vicki’s world skewed and froze, the back of her neck becoming blowtorch hot. Light from the television intensified, and she squinted. The air thickened, her chest constricted, and her pulse banged in her temples. The sounds from the television slowed to a low guttural growl, and a high-pitched, teakettle whistle accosted her eardrums. She covered her ears.
The pictures came. One by one they flashed, burning images into her mind’s eye. Red bricks. Red dot. Red X. A green, metal rectangle. A red, pointed capital D.
Like a stretched rubber band, the vision abruptly released. Reality snapped back into place. The sound of a balloon bursting ended the teakettle’s screech inside her head.
Pop!
A shiver coursed through Vicki, raising spiky bumps along her skin. Sometime within the next two weeks, the smiling twenty-something carriage driver’s life would change. For better or the absolute worst, she didn’t know.
She hugged herself, rubbing her arms to chase away not just the goose bumps but the bone-deep chill as well. She glanced at the screen. Audrey and Gary continued their well-timed banter and blossoming love affair. She’d never had a vision about anyone on television. This was the first, which meant somehow her curse had changed. Could she no longer enjoy the simple act of watching TV?
Usually, her visions were about people near enough she could witness their outcome. The commercial had been shot just a couple of states away. But what if the next vision was about someone on the opposite coast? Or the other side of the world? She bit her bottom lip, unsure what the difference meant or why the commercial had brought about the variance.
She shook her head, the truth hitting hard. Either way it didn’t matter. The brunette carriage driver’s life would change—whether Vicki witnessed it or not.
Chapter Four
Austin, Texas
The barkeep closed the walnut blinds, thwarting the searing afternoon Texas sun. Shadows deepened. Cheap interior lighting engulfed the bar in a superficial amber haze—not that anyone inside The Yellow Rose gave a crap. The patrons, there since before noon, had bigger problems than the less-than-idyllic atmosphere.
River had chosen beer as his liquid alleviator. It was cheap, took the edge off, and left his judgment semi-intact in the event his existence somehow degraded from a turd in a bucket to complete atomic implosion—which really wasn’t that big a step. He signaled Ronnie for another round.
The bar door opened, the miniature gold bell above tinkling with grating cheerfulness, announcing the arrival of a new patron. The sun beamed through, a laser attempting to burn every retina inside the murky establishment. Cupping his hand over his eyes, River fended off the assault.
“Mind if I sit down? The other booths are all full.”
River lowered his hand. A tall guy stood next to his table. Medium build, clean-cut, salt-and-pepper hair—the man could’ve been someone’s grandfather. But the dark suit and grim expression screamed company man.
“The IRS after me now?” Everything else had been flushed down the shitter. Why not have the government on his ass as well?
“I’m not with the Internal Revenue Service, Mr. Chastain.” The corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “But I would like to speak with you.”
“Knock yourself out.” So the suit knew his name. No big surprise. After the last month, pretty much everyone in Texas knew his name.
The suit folded himself into the booth then raised two fingers, alerting Ronnie. River took the moment to study the guy’s face. He’d seen him before, but his slightly impaired brain couldn’t pinpoint where or when.
Two frosty mugs arrived at the table, and the guy pressed a crisp twenty into the barkeep’s palm. “Keep it.”
Ronnie returned to the bar, brought out a towel, and wiped down the walnut counter. With each rhythmic swipe, the furrows in his brow eased, and his jaw relaxed. The generous tip almost produced a smile on the curmudgeon’s face.
“So.” River leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know me, but I don’t know you.”
“My name is Matthew.”
“Matthew what?”
“Just Matthew.”
River scrutinized the man. Usually, the omission of a name meant the guy talking wanted to keep his throat intact or his head bullet-hole free. The suit did seem like the informant type. On a shrug, River let the surname omission slide. For the moment.
Lifting his beer, River downed half the frosty contents and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What is it you want to talk about?”
“You.”
“Me? Well, I’m thirty-one, a Virgo, divorced, and newly unemployed. I like long walks on the beach, cuddling after sex. And, in case you’ve been living in a cave or something, I was recently exonerated as the Valentine Killer’s accomplice.” He set his mug on the table with a solid clack. “Oh yeah, almost forgot. Turns out the sick, murdering son of a bitch was my partner. Go figure.”
Matthew’s mouth pressed into a paper-thin line. Brows knitted tight, his unwavering gaze filled the silence.
“But you already knew all that.”
Matthew gave a slight nod. “I do my homework.”
River tilted his head and through narrowed eyes, reassessed the guy. “And just why would I be the topic of anyone’s homework?”
“You’re in the middle of something, Mr. Chastain.” Matthew’s fingers curled around his beer mug. “Your life is about to change in ways you can’t imagine.”
He snorted. “You’re a day late and a dollar short, Matt. My life has already changed in ways I never imagined.”
The suit’s mouth thinned again. “It’s bigger than that.”
“Bigger than tracking a monster who sliced young women to pieces and terrorized Austin for eighteen months? Bigger than losing my job as a detective because my partner turned out to be that monster?” River squeezed his eyes closed, willing the beer to dull the memories plaguing him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“What?” he barked, pinning the suit with a glare. “You didn’t mean to torture me further? Or piss me off by saying something so stupid? Or maybe you didn’t mean to come in here in your fancy clothes with your pockets full of folded twenty-dollar bills and say something that would make me question everything I ever said or did over the last eighteen months.”
“Again, I apologize.” He waved his hand in a calming gesture. “It’s too soon.”
River grunted.
“The message needed to be delivered.”
“Message?” He shook his head. “So, you’re just a lapdog. The guys upstairs can’t get their hands dirty?”
“Sorry to bother you.” The suit dug into his pocket, dropped a folded hundred on the table.
“And a well-paid lapdog at that.” Snatching up the bill, he shoved it toward the guy. “Keep your damned money. I don’t need your charity.”
“I delivered the message.” Matthew shrugged. “Go ahead. Drink yourself into oblivion. I apologize for making you question your instincts.”
“Instincts?” He sneered. “You’re just a delivery boy in a cheap suit. What would you know about instincts?”
The suit leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. River had stared guys down before, evil bastards capable of unspeakable acts, but Matthew’s gaze was like a scalpel slicing out chunks of his brain. He gulped his beer then slammed the empty mug on the table, breaking the stalemate.
“I know your instincts,” Matthew said with cool assurance. “The knot in your stomach aler
ted you to the beating Mikey Chalvez had planned for you on the playground in third grade. I know in the fifth grade you went to your mother and told her you thought Becky Smith’s dad was abusing her. You had absolutely no proof. Two weeks later, Becky left school. What your parents didn’t tell you was, you were right. Becky and her mother moved to Canada to live with her grandmother.”
River frowned. “What the—?”
“In eleventh grade, you confronted your best friend, Thomas White, about his plans for suicide. You took his car keys, drove him to your house, and the two of you talked all night. He confessed his girlfriend, Sheila, was pregnant, and he thought his life was over. What you didn’t know was he’d planned to drive his car into the reservoir that very night. But you stopped him. Gave him hope.” Matthew reached for his beer. “They’re still together, Thomas and Sheila. Two girls and one boy. Thomas went on to become a surgeon in Milwaukee. He’s saved countless lives.”
Tommy White? River hadn’t thought about him in years. The memory of that night, the intense need to talk to his best friend, rushed back. “Who the hell are you?”
“The messenger.” Matthew’s smile didn’t soften the seriousness in his eyes. “Your instincts about Betsy were on target as well, although you chose not to believe them. You knew she was leaving before she did.”
“Betsy?” He knows about my ex-wife?
“But don’t second guess yourself about Kent Lee Rowton.”
“Why not?” River leaned forward, placing his arms on the table. “If I knew those other things, even my wife leaving me, for God’s sake, why the hell didn’t I know about Kent?”
“Kent is…different. He was into things which allowed him to mask his true nature.”
“You mean occult stuff. Satanic worship or whatever the hell you call it. Yeah, I saw more examples of his work than I care to remember.” Anguish flared in his core at the horror his trusted partner had wrought. “But do you really expect me to believe just because he lit a few candles, drew some symbols, and spoke gibberish he became some kind of supernatural predator?”
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Mr. Chastain.”
“What are you trying to say?” River sliced the air with his hand. “You expect me to believe all the occult crap is real?”
Matthew rose from the booth. “As I stated, you’re in the middle of something. Though I suppose your instincts have already corroborated what I’ve said.”
“Bullshit.” River snorted. “You dug into my background, found some stuff you could string together, and make it sound like mystical mumbo jumbo.”
“Think what you will.” He turned and strode to the door.
River lifted his empty mug, saluted the guy’s retreating backside. “You do, however, get points for doing good, old-fashioned detective work. ’Cause the only thing that really counts is concrete evidence.”
Matthew stiffened, his hand on the doorknob. “It’s coming. Whether you want it to or not.”
The gold bell jingled, announcing his exit from The Yellow Rose. For a moment, the guy’s silhouette stood sharp against the Texas sun, then the heavy walnut door closed with a slight click, protecting the patrons who remained behind.
“Bullshit,” River muttered again and took a swig of his beer. What did the asshole know anyway? It was all a bunch of nonsense meant to distort the facts.
The truth was his partner had lied. And by sheer coincidence, the sick son of a bitch got himself bashed in the head by a boulder, ending his heinous year-and-half-reign of terror on the citizens of Austin, Texas.
River raised his hand to signal for another beer but instead slammed his fist on the table. Well, hell. He remembered where he’d seen Matthew. The guy had been at the press conference when Internal Affairs announced him clear of any complicity with the Valentine Killer’s string of murders. He’d stood behind the mass of reporters, watching the whole damn thing.
The guy was just trying to catch the coattails of a killer. He wanted to interact with someone who’d been near the Valentine Killer. It all made perfect sense. The man with no last name, the suit named Matthew, was a genuine nutcase.
Chapter Five
Tybee Island, Georgia
Vicki lugged her baggage up the last two steps and onto the second-floor landing. Thankful she’d chosen a suitcase with wheels, she pulled it down the hall to the bedroom her friend, Rebecca Carlson, had told her she could use for as long as she liked. She pushed open the door, towing the hulking roller bag behind her.
As an artist, her friend’s tastes favored bold colors, intricate artwork, and a collage of mismatched furniture. However, the room she’d directed Vicki to was different. Bright and simplistic in nature, it held a bed with complementary nightstand and lamp, a tall dresser, and a desk. But the most striking element lay opposite the bed. White eyelet curtains framed an immense picture window that revealed the Atlantic Ocean, lying beyond a wide ribbon of ivory sand.
“I see you like the view.”
Vicki turned to Becca, who stood in the doorway. “Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t?”
“Wait till sunset.” The corners of her wide mouth curled into a smile, and her dark-brown eyes glittered. “It’ll knock your socks off.”
“I bet.” She hefted her suitcase onto the bed, the weight bringing protests from the mattress.
“Good Lord, girl.” Becca giggled. “What did you bring?”
“Pretty much all my stuff.” Embarrassed, Vicki glanced up at her friend. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure.” She crossed the room and unzipped the case, her numerous bangle bracelets jingling. Flipping back the lid, she revealed a tangle of shoes and undergarments. “Well, if there’s a lingerie model audition, you’re all set.”
“Funny.” Vicki bumped her hip against Becca’s, moving her nosey friend away from the bed. She dug through the contents and separated them by tossing the undergarments into the dresser while dumping the array of shoes onto the walk-in closet floor. “And no, this isn’t all I brought, so get your mind out of the gutter. I still have two more suitcases, five boxes, and a cosmetics case out in the car.”
“Well, let’s get you moved in already.” Becca grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Removing the teal scarf from around her waist, she used it to pull her long, wavy black hair up into a ponytail. “Sunset is just a couple hours away. Don’t want to miss it.”
Vicki opened her mouth to agree, but, with sharp abruptness, her world tilted, and her friend’s last words sounded guttural and drawn out. Ice filled her veins. The distortions indicated another vision had triggered—involving her childhood friend.
The crisp room around her fell away, a high-pitched whistle piercing her ears while heat branded her neck. Symbols appeared. Letters A, S, and D. A matte-silver tube. Ice cubes. Broken glass. A strange pointed capital D.
The world righted. Pop!
“Are you okay?” Becca placed a warm, reassuring hand on Vicki’s arm, an anchor to reality.
“Yeah.” She paused at the alarm in Becca’s face then added, “Yes. I’m fine.”
“Did you…?”
Vicki widened her eyes. “What?”
“You know.” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “Did you have a vision or something?”
“A vision?” Vicki turned toward her suitcase, shuffling through the remaining items. How could she tell her best friend her life would change radically within two weeks or—Oh God—that she might not live to see spring? “No. I just got a little light-headed. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Oh.” The concern on Becca’s face melted into sunshine. “Well of course you’re tired, sweetie. I’ll get the rest of your stuff. You stay up here and unpack.”
“Really, I’m all right.” She smiled, pausing to give her friend’s arm a squeeze. “Let me get some water, and I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know.” Her eyebrows drew together.
“I’ll carry the light boxes if that’ll get you off my ba
ck.” She zipped up the suitcase and stored it in the closet to prove her claims. “Besides, if I don’t help, we’ll miss the sunset.”
“Fine. But just the light boxes.”
When her friend turned toward the door, guilt washed over Vicki. Crap. Why did I look into her eyes? Just because they were best friends didn’t mean she was immune. And just because it hadn’t happened during the many years they’d known each other didn’t mean it would never happen. Grief ripped at her heart, and tears burned her eyes as she tromped down the stairs to the kitchen. She leaned against the sable granite counter in the well-designed kitchen that exuded a distinctive Italian vibe. Becca grabbed a glass from the cabinet.
The symbols she’d seen recurred in her mind, and she focused on them instead of her pain. From experience, she knew each one was significant. But one stood prominent. The pointed D—the same symbol she’d seen in her vision of the brunette carriage driver from the Savannah promotional commercial.
She’d had visions with similar images but never in the same order. The pointed D had been identical and, in both cases, had been the last symbol. That alone must hold some sort of significance. But what? Were the two women going to meet and change each other’s lives somehow?
Vicki drank the cool water Becca gave her. She’d never experienced two visions with such a unique figure in both. It was weird. Unnerving. But mostly it was worrisome, because whatever happened, it involved her best friend.
“I did have a vision before I came here,” she blurted, the guilt of her secrets weighing on her.
Becca tensed. “About me?”
“No, no. Not about you.” She reached out and rubbed her friend’s shoulder. Half the truth. She would start there. “It was really strange, though.”
Becca tucked a loose ebony strand of hair behind her ear. “How?”
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