Victoria's Destiny

by L. J. Garland

  “What’d she look like?” Becca asked around a huge bite of Danish. “Was she pretty?”

  “Sure.” Vicki dragged her focus back to her friend. “Long brown wavy hair, except it was kinda ashy in color.”

  “Ashy like hot chocolate or ashy like pecan shells?” She brushed a napkin over her mouth, her eyes intent on Vicki.

  “Pecan shells.” Vicki took a generous bite of toast. The thin layer of butter mixed with the crispy bread, and she sighed, relishing the taste. Who cared if it was healthy? It was delicious. “Oh, and she had these amazing green eyes. The kind that flashed with her inner energy.”

  “An old soul,” Becca surmised.

  She took another bite. Old soul or not, the girl’s life is going to change for better or worse within the next twelve days. Hopefully, it would be something wonderful like marriage or a new job, but something about the symbols she’d seen compelled her instincts to lean toward the opposite.

  “Excuse me.”

  She looked at the counter where the guy who’d ordered two large coffees stood, waiting for his order. He flashed a smile that sent ripples of heat all the way to her toes. His bright-blue stare brushed first over Becca then settled on Vicki, inducing her cheeks to warm. Goodness, he’s handsome.

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” He left the counter and sauntered to their booth. “But it sounded like you just described someone I know.”

  “Really?” Disappointment withered the momentary thrill of his attention. He was probably the brunette’s boyfriend. Or, if her vision turned out to be something good, the guy was her soon-to-be fiancé.

  “Yes. She drove a carriage around town. You might have known her. Penny Newhouse?”

  She lowered her gaze from his alluring, expectant eyes to his mouth. Eye contact could lead to visions, and no way did she want to mess up his life. “No. Sorry.”

  “Oh, come on, Vicki.” Becca picked up her glass of milk, and her myriad bracelets clinked together. “You were just telling me about a brunette carriage driver you’d seen on television.”

  She rammed her foot into her friend’s shin, making her jump. Becca had told her numerous times how she envied Vicki’s gift, but her friend didn’t understand the heartache and personal repercussions that came with it.

  “Really?” The guy’s attention never wavered.

  “Yes,” Becca said over the rim of her glass.

  Vicki sent a warning glare, but knew it wouldn’t stop her. The dark-haired artist was a romantic and believed the visions would ultimately bring forth a valiant knight. Vicki, however, believed her knight would end up beneath a bus.

  Her friend arched a pencil-thin eyebrow. “Did your friend have green eyes?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did.” He liberated a chair from a nearby table and seated himself at the end of their booth. “Mind?”

  “Knock yourself out.” Becca gave him a saucy smile.

  He held his hand out to Vicki. “I’m River Chastain. And you are?”

  “Victoria Spiere.” She slipped her fingers against his palm, the warmth of his touch sending tingles up her arm. “And my overly verbose friend is Rebecca Carlson.”

  “Nice to meet you both.”

  The waitress approached, setting two large cups in front of him. “Here’s your order, hon. Sure I can’t get you anything else?” She gave him a meaningful stare.

  “Thanks, but I’m good.”

  “I just bet you are,” she mumbled and sashayed toward the counter.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. Becca pushed the sugar packets and creamer in his direction, bringing his attention back to the table.

  He turned his focus to preparing the coffees. His large hands looked strong, his long fingers deftly pouring various condiments into the cups. “So, you did know Penny?”

  “No.” She dared to allow her gaze to trail up his arm and over his muscular shoulder to focus on his ear. She nibbled her toast. “I saw her on television.”

  “What my friend isn’t telling you, Mr. Chastain,” Becca piped up, “is that she had a vision about her.”

  “A vision?” His brows drew together.

  “Yes. Vicki is a psychic of sorts, though she’d never admit it.” A smile flitted over her lips, and she slipped a forkful of Danish into her mouth.

  “A psychic.” His expression cleared except for the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth.

  Vicki’s appetite abated.

  “Yes,” her friend continued, undaunted. “What were the signs you saw for her? Bricks, an X with a dot above it, a green metal rectangle, and some kind of weird letter.”

  “A weird letter?”

  His apprehensive tone compelled Vicki to risk a quick glance at his face. Beneath lowered eyebrows, his narrowed eyes showed renewed interest—but it wasn’t the kind of interest she wanted. “What did it look like exactly?”

  “Some kind of pointy D or something. She could draw it for you.” Becca sipped her milk.

  “Good idea.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a pen. When he held it out to her, his hand jerked as though an unexpected chill shot up his spine.

  She grabbed a fresh napkin from the dispenser at the end of the table then made a quick sketch of the pointed D seared in her memory. She’d seen it twice, once for the brunette and once for her best friend. She bit her lower lip. Is this the beginning of Becca’s fate? Maybe he’s the one who’ll make her happy. She pushed the napkin toward him, turning it so it aligned properly.

  The guy stared at what she’d drawn for a moment then, touching a corner of the napkin with his forefinger, pulled it closer. When he looked up, she couldn’t stop herself from meeting his gaze.

  A mixture of emotions filled his face, but anxiety was the most prominent. “You need to come with me.”

  Chapter Ten

  River eyed the pretty blonde’s face. Well, hell. Seems Ms. Spiere thinks I have a screw loose. He couldn’t blame her. They’d just met minutes ago. He showed her his badge, and the panic flaring in her gray eyes dissipated.

  “You’re a cop.” Laughing, Ms. Carlson swung her dark-brown gaze toward him, eyeing him. Her intense scrutiny made it clear she didn’t trust him. She arched an eyebrow. “I should’ve guessed from the way you swaggered over to our table and made yourself at home that you were a cop.”

  “I’m a detective.”

  Reattaching his shield to his belt, he returned her stare. Her wavy black hair and olive complexion completed the exotic package, earning his conclusion she was one of those artsy types. Probably into macramé or papier-mâché. She was easy enough on the eyes but did little for his libido.

  When she looked away, he leaned back in his chair, giving them all a little more breathing space. He, for one, needed the room after the bombshell Blondie just dropped on him. He shifted his attention to Ms. Spiere. How had she known about the pointed D from the Valentine Killer’s crime scenes? The Austin Police Department had been careful not to let the piece of information get to the media, making it easier to discredit false claimants and copycats. “I’m working on a case, and you just said something the general public doesn’t know.”

  “Detective.”

  He watched her lips form the word, her voice as soothing as warm summer rain. All that soft blonde hair, each strand a different shade of pale gold, haloing her face. Those flashing gray eyes, never quite meeting his. Finding himself leaning toward her again, he pulled back then busied himself with snapping the lids onto the cups. Did he add enough sugar to Dauscher’s? He dumped one more in for good measure then attached the top.

  He lifted his gaze to her face. Yeah, she was the type that got his blood going. “You just listed a lot of details about a crime scene the public isn’t aware of yet.” He rose to his feet. “A murder took place two blocks from here.”

  “Someone was killed two blocks from here?” The dark-haired female peered out the window. “I don’t see any flashing lights.”

  “It’s behind the theater.”
He angled to Ms. Spiere. “You need to come with me. Tell me what else you see.”

  Ms. Carlson turned from the window. “Her gift doesn’t work like that.”

  “It’s okay.” Ms. Spiere’s words came out soft, almost a sigh. Dropping money on the table for her breakfast, she glanced up at him as she slid out of the booth. “Let’s go.”

  The blonde’s demeanor had changed. At first, she’d been open, smiling. When he’d mentioned the crime scene, she’d agreed to go with him willingly enough, but her body language told a different story. She’d become reserved, and her shoulders slumped as though he’d just sentenced her to execution.

  He studied her angelic face while she leaned to retrieve her purse. Either she’d been in an abusive relationship at some point, or she was hiding something.

  Exiting the booth, Ms. Carlson glared at River. “If you’re hauling Vicki off to look at a crime scene, I’m going, too. I want to be there when you start grilling her.” She snatched the money her friend had left and marched to the counter.

  River frowned. “I’m not going to—”

  “Don’t forget your coffee.” The blonde gestured toward the table then gave him a soulful smile. “Forgive her for being oversensitive. Her fiancé all but dumped her at the altar. She’s normally quite rational.”

  “Sure.” He retrieved the cups, unable to keep from checking out how her jeans outlined the curve of her bottom. Damn. To get ahold of something so sweet? His gaze drifted lower. Not to mention her thighs. Hell, she could probably wrap those legs around me twice.

  He straightened, gritting his teeth to conceal the guilt and lust warring within him. She was gorgeous, no doubt, but he’d requested her presence at a crime scene. He still needed to interview her, learn how she’d gained confidential information—’cause there sure as hell was no such thing as psychics. Which meant either she was a few cards shy of a full deck or she knew something.

  He turned toward the door just as her dark-haired friend joined them. The artsy girl’s panties remained in a wad, although she said nothing. River appreciated the silence while the trio traversed the two blocks of damp sidewalk to the alley behind the theater.

  Dauscher met them at the police tape, which he lifted after they’d snaked their way through the crowd.

  “Pretty good, Chastain.” His partner smirked. “Send you out for coffee, and you come back with two hotties.”

  River shoved one of the cups into the man’s hands. “They’re potential witnesses.”

  “Right.”

  Dauscher grabbed a couple sets of booties from the attending officer and handed them to the girls. River took a pair of gloves, stuffed them into his pocked then offloaded his coffee on his partner in order to put on a fresh set of booties. The officer took down Ms. Spiere’s and Ms. Carlson’s names and personal info, and, after the girls had donned their shoe covers, River ushered them toward the dumpster.

  Dauscher, matching his pace, returned River’s cup of joe to him. “I’ve got the area set for canvassing. The owner of the theater was nice enough to lend us the facilities to interview witnesses, so the gawkers have been rounded up and are waiting inside.”

  River nodded. Theodore Dauscher was nothing if not organized.

  With a smile, the big guy pivoted on his heel. “So, what were you two lovely ladies doing out so early this morning?”

  “Becca’s an artist,” Ms. Spiere offered, and River fought not to nod with the confirmation of his earlier assessment. “I was helping her deliver some artwork at the gallery.”

  Dauscher nodded and made a note.

  She stared at the bloodstain on the ground, and her blonde hair fell forward, obscuring her face. River wanted to reach out to pull the silky curtain back but resisted. A professed psychic was too unconventional for his concrete world. He needed to focus on the job and learn how she knew about the pointed D.

  “So, this is where she…?”

  “Yes.” From his peripheral, he noticed Ms. Carlson move back a few steps.

  Dauscher met his gaze for a beat then herded the dark-haired artist toward the theater’s rear entrance. Notepad in hand, he remained ready to transcribe her answers to his questions.

  “So, tell me what you saw.” River kept his voice low, his cadence even while he spoke to the blonde. He wanted her calm and trusting. “Your friend mentioned bricks?”

  “Yes.” Her attention shifted from the dark stain on the ground to the wall. “These look like what I saw.”

  “And an X with a dot above it?” He knew exactly where to find those things. The knot in his gut tightened, seeming to warn him again the murder was too similar to the Valentine Killer case. Too similar to what his partner in Austin had done to eight women. Except Kent was dead. He’d seen the body himself.

  “I….” Her brows drew together, and she rubbed her arms. “It’s not here. It’s with her. What he did…to her.”

  River’s jaw clenched. How did she know that? “What about the green rectangle?”

  She pointed toward the battered dumpster.

  Well, hell. There it is. A click echoed in his mind, a block falling into place, leading him to his next question. “Were you anywhere near this alley earlier this morning? Maybe you and your friend found the body first.”

  “Absolutely not.” Fire leaped into her smoky-gray eyes. “Becca and I were at the gallery. You can check.”

  He turned toward the wall, so he wouldn’t stare at her. The knot in his gut twisted while a flood of heated desire pulsed through his body. The opposing sensations produced a core-deep chill. River shivered. “We will check.”

  “I’m sure.” Her quiet, clipped words possessed both anger and disgust. “I’m psychic, Detective Chastain. Whether I want to be or not. I’d get rid of it this very second if I could. But the fact remains I had a vision about that carriage driver, and I have no idea how the brief snips I happened to see can help you with any of this.” Vicki stared at where the body had laid on the ground. “She’s dead. I’d change it if I could. But I can’t.”

  “I’m not asking you to change anything.” He stepped toward her, wanted to touch her arm but resisted. “Just tell me everything you know and how you know it.”

  “I’ve told you how I know.” Her mouth drew into a thin line. “I’m a freaking psychic. I had a vision.”

  “I need the truth,” he said, frustration creeping into his words.

  “I am telling you the truth. Have you found the last symbol I saw, that pointed D?”

  He grimaced. “No.”

  She jabbed a finger toward the closest dumpster. “Then move that.”

  He looked where she pointed. CID had emptied the containers, searching for evidence. They would have flashed a light beneath it, behind it. But the thing was heavy. Had they moved it?

  “Dauscher,” River called down the alley and waved him over. The big guy trotted toward them, the artist just steps behind. “They already dusted this bin for prints, right?

  “Yep.”

  Even though CID had already processed the trash bin, River didn’t want to contaminate any evidence that might be on the side facing the building. After setting his coffee well out of the way, he snapped on a pair of gloves. “Help me move this thing, then.”

  He shoved his weight into it, his partner grunting with effort behind him, but they just scraped the massive container over the ground a couple of inches. With the aid of two officers also covered in protective gear, they moved the metal bin. Flashlights converged on the wall.

  Oh, fuck me. The pointed D. In the center of a pentagram with a circle around it. Drawn in blood. The exact symbol the Valentine Killer had used.

  The ground beneath his feet tilted. He fought to breathe, the knot in his gut snaking up, twisting around his lungs.

  This can’t be happening. The Valentine Killer was dead. He’d seen his lifeless body lying on the floor inside the cave.

  “Well, damn,” Dauscher drawled. He moved closer to the wall. “Won’t know ti
ll after forensics checks it, but it looks like blood.”

  “Penny’s,” River mumbled. His head spun. This just wasn’t possible. It had to be a copycat. Had to be. But how had the bastard gotten the details so accurate?

  “Definitely satanic.” Dauscher scribbled a note on his pad. “Probably a cult.”

  Ms. Carlson hugged herself, her bracelets jangling. “Why do you say that?”

  “One guy couldn’t have done this.” He gestured at the dumpster. “It took four of us to move it. He would’ve needed help.”

  “That’s the symbol I saw.” Ms. Spiere rubbed her arms and glanced at her friend. Her drawn face accentuated the haunted expression in her eyes.

  River didn’t know whether he wanted to shake her until she told him the truth about what she knew or gather her into his arms, promising he would keep her safe. The intense conflict of emotions roiling inside him made his stomach queasy and his head throb. How could any of this be real?

  “We need to document everything.” Dauscher stepped away from the wall. “Take photos.”

  “I’ll get the camera,” River said in a rush. Without waiting for a response, he strode down the alley toward the car. He needed some distance to clear his head.

  He set his coffee on the car roof then opened the passenger-side door. Placing one arm on top of the car and gripping the top of the doorframe with his other hand, River let his head bob forward. He stood in the center of a damned nightmare. What the hell was happening?

  He shook his head. He must remain calm and focused if he ever hoped to figure out who the sick bastard was playing games with him. He breathed deeply, drawing in the cool morning air.

  The scene needed to be photographed. Every scrap of evidence required documentation, so he could review it later. This time, he would stop the murders in less than eighteen months.

  With the dome light illuminating the interior of the car, River slid into the passenger seat. He popped open the glove compartment to retrieve the high-resolution digital camera. But as he leaned forward, something caught his attention.