“Sounds like Dudley’s about to start kissing your hand again,” Michael said sardonically. “If he does, pardon me while I throw up.” Aggravation was a pretty good antidote to fear, Charlie discovered. She barely managed not to glare at the phantom menace. Instead she told Tony, “We haven’t caught him yet.”
It was only as she finished speaking that she discovered she’d primly clasped her hands in her lap.
The good news was, they’d found their killer: Robert Thomas Dobson, Jr., Bob the waiter from the hotel buffet. The bad news was, he wasn’t home.
There was ample incriminating evidence in the house, such as a tangle of jewelry (trophies, Charlie identified them as) that included a necklace identical to one in the picture of a victim, various implements of restraint and torture, and a prescription bottle full of Ambian.
The most damning thing they found was the body of his mother, stored in a basement freezer. Whether she’d been murdered or died of natural causes was impossible to determine, but it appeared that she’d been in there for some time. The neighbors said they thought she’d moved to Florida. Her latest Social Security check, unopened, lay in a pile of mail on the kitchen table.
“Where is Giselle?” Lena practically quivered with tension as she, Tony, and Charlie came together again in the small, perfectly ordinary-looking living room after having been all through the house and outbuildings.
Tony’s eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep, were the only giveaway to the direness of the situation. His voice was as deliberate as always, and his lack of emotion was calming. “There’s a BOLO out for Dobson and his car. The neighborhood is being staked out, so if he comes home we’ll get him. We’ve got a list of his friends, known associates, and the places he frequents. We’ll find him.”
“If he hasn’t killed Giselle—and Tam—already, he’ll do it just as soon as he finds out that we’ve identified him.” Lena cast a haunted look out the front window of the modest split level. It was after six, and the setting sun threw the shadow of the house over the small front yard with its sun-crisped grass. “All it’s going to take is for CNN or somebody to find out that we’re here at his house, and it’s game over.”
It was probably game over anyway, was Charlie’s worst fear. The logical place for Bob Dobson to be at that moment was his kill site. She thought of Tam, and her insides twisted. Tam might be a formidable psychic, but she was as human as anyone else. She could be frightened, and hurt, and killed just like Giselle, just like the other victims. Just like Holly, all those years ago.
Charlie took a steadying breath.
Please let us figure this out in time.
“You okay, babe?” Her expression must have changed, because Michael was looking at her with concern. The funny thing was, she’d been looking at him with concern all day, monitoring his ongoing flickering. That synchronicity struck her as funny, and she smiled.
“Goddamn it.” Michael’s swearing struck her as funny, too, and her smile widened. “You’re getting punch drunk. You need food, and you need rest.”
“We need to find the kill site.” Charlie’s reply was acerbic. She was talking to Michael, but as soon as she said it she realized what she had done and shifted her gaze to Lena.
Who visibly winced.
“His mother owned three other properties in addition to this one.” Buzz came up to them in time to hear that last. “I’ve got the addresses. They’re all in the grid.” He looked at Tony. “I texted them to you.”
Like Lena, he was giving off desperate vibes. Charlie supposed she was, too. Tony—and Michael—were the only ones who were not, but they all knew the truth: with every minute that passed, the chances grew slimmer that Tam and Giselle were alive.
“Let’s go check these places out.” Tony was looking at his phone. “Crane, you and Kaminsky take the two to the west. They’re fairly close together. Charlie and I will take the other one.”
The place they were looking for was in a rural area, its nearest neighbor maybe a quarter of a mile away, hidden from the narrow blacktop road by an overgrown tangle of trees and brush. A battered black mailbox with its lid hanging down was planted at the end of a gravel driveway. Nothing could be seen of the building at the end of the driveway until the Lexus had crunched its way up past the rim of scrub trees only to be confronted by a rusty red farm gate attached to a sagging, tumbledown wire fence that at least once upon a time appeared to have enclosed the property. The gate was secured with a chain and a padlock, blocking the car’s access. Beyond the gate, a graveled yard or parking area surrounded a trio of long, low, concrete structures with corrugated metal roofs. The gray paint was peeling, the roofs were rusty, and dusty bushes and stunted trees crowded between the buildings in untamed profusion. The whole impression was of some kind of commercial enterprise that had been abandoned long since.
Tony braked, surveying the buildings as he slid the car into park. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, his jaw was dark with stubble, and his tie was crooked. All in all, he looked almost as tired as Charlie felt.
Tonight they were going to have to sleep, all of them, or they would be useless. But how could they, if Giselle and Tam were still out there?
The thought brought anguish with it.
“Looks like I’m climbing the fence,” Tony said with resignation. He glanced at her, said, “Stay put until I see what’s up,” and got out of the car.
“This place is isolated as hell.” From being stretched out comfortably in the backseat, Michael sat up, frowning as he looked out the windows. He, on the other hand, looked as fresh as an undead daisy, which was the advantage of needing neither food nor sleep. “Want to have another one of those conversations about why you need to find a new line of work?” he asked.
“Not unless you want to tell me why you ended up in Spookville,” Charlie retorted, keeping an uneasy eye on Tony’s progress. “Because I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t think that what I’ve heard you confess to so far is enough to send you there.”
“Think about it all you want to,” Michael said. “I’m done talking about my past.”
She was not, but this wasn’t the moment to have the conversation they were absolutely going to have. “You’ve almost stopped flickering. Tam’s grounding spell must’ve been strong.”
Pain combined with pride in her friend’s abilities to stab her to the heart.
“What happened to her is not your fault,” Michael said quietly. That he could read her mind so well should not have been a surprise, she knew.
“Isn’t it?” She gave a wobbly little laugh. “She wouldn’t have come to Las Vegas if it wasn’t for me.”
“You wouldn’t have asked her to come if it wasn’t for me, so if you’ve got to blame somebody, I’m your huckleberry.”
Charlie turned sideways in her seat to see Michael better—he was scanning their surroundings with an intent expression while they spoke—and as she did she spotted a large sign propped against the fence to the left of the gate. From its position, she got the impression that at some time in the past it might have been attached to the gate.
Faded and peeling, what had once been fancy scrolled letters hand-painted on wood said Shelbourne Kennels. The name was encased in a delicate pink and beige illustration of a clamshell.
Charlie’s eyes widened and her pulse accelerated as she looked at it. What had been a niggle of uneasiness about their surroundings increased a hundredfold.
“Michael. Look over there by the gate.”
He followed her gaze and saw the sign. His expression told her that he instantly realized the significance. “Shit. Better warn Dudley.”
Charlie was already scrambling out of the car. The baking heat hit her like a wall even though, where she stood, where the car was parked, there was shade from the tangle of trees that shielded the buildings from the sight of the road. Dust and the smell of car exhaust hung in the air. Having climbed over it, Tony was just swinging to the ground on the other side of the gate.
Urgently, she called, “Tony! Look at the sign!” and pointed. Michael, who’d gotten out, too, growled, “Tell him to get his ass back over here or you’re leaving without him,” as Tony turned to look at the sign, one hand shielding his eyes.
A silver Ford Escape crunched up the driveway behind them.
Charlie’s pulse jumped. She turned toward it so fast that she could feel the breeze of her ponytail whipping around. Tony turned to look, too, she saw, while Michael moved in front of her, planting himself between her and whoever was in the car.
Bob Dobson’s vehicles do not include a Ford Escape. That was the semi-reassuring thought that ran through her head as the window rolled down even before the car stopped. A man’s hand emerged from the window to wave at them.
“Agent Bartoli! Dr. Stone! I’ve got a tip for you!”
The voice didn’t ring any bells, but the tone and message were reassuring. The sound of a car door opening told her what was happening because Michael’s broad back was blocking her view. Muttering, “You know you can’t actually stop anything from getting to me, right?” then she stepped out from behind him.
It took her a second to recognize the stocky man with the light brown brush cut and cherubic face as Andrew Hagan, the Conquistador’s head of security. He strode toward them, still dressed for work in a navy blazer and khaki slacks. She was standing right in his path but it wasn’t her he was focused on. He was heading toward Tony, talking as he came.
“Those missing women you’re looking for? I think I might know where—”
At his words her heart sped up with excitement, but then just as Hagan reached her, pain sliced through her head. At the suddenness of it she staggered back to lean against the warm, curved side of the car. Her hands went instinctively to her temples, and she watched him walk on by through a shimmering haze that allowed no sound to penetrate. Michael said something to her, too, but she couldn’t make out the words.
What she heard instead was, “I’m in a kennel. An abandoned kennel. It’s the waiter—” The words were cut off abruptly by a bloodcurdling scream.
It was Tam’s voice. In her head.
Charlie was still bent almost double with pain, but there was no mistaking what she’d heard. Tam’s voice, she realized with a thrill of horror, was attached to Hagan. Does that mean Tam’s dead? But there was no time for speculation about that or anything else. Battling through the wooziness, the disorientation, the blinding headache that made her want to drop to her knees, Charlie pulled herself together enough to scream a warning.
“Tony, look out! He’s got Tam!”
Through the befuddling haze that still clouded her vision, she saw Tony grabbing for his gun—
Two shots exploded. Charlie’s heart leaped into her throat. She screamed, jumped—and watched thunderstruck as two bright red blossoms of blood appeared on the front of Tony’s shirt.
Hagan shot Tony.
She was still processing the thought as Tony dropped like a stone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“No!” Charlie screamed, and instinctively started toward where Tony lay crumpled on the ground.
“Charlie, get in the car!” Michael leaped in front of her, effectively blocking her path before she’d gone more than a couple of steps, even though she knew, knew, she could run through him.
“I’m a doctor, I—”
“Go,” he yelled, right in her face. He grabbed at her, but he was as ephemeral as sunlight and couldn’t connect. The electric charge of his touch was urgent, familiar.
Charlie’s eyes widened as Hagan pivoted toward her. The golden rays of the dying sun glinted off the pistol, big and ugly and black, in his hand. Beyond Hagan, Tony lay unmoving …
Michael charged Hagan with a roar.
Charlie had an instant of crystal clarity: if she ran toward Tony, she would be dead in seconds. If she ran into the trees, she would be dead almost as fast. They were too sparse and thin to offer any real cover.
She turned and dove inside the car door she had left open, grabbing for the gearshift even as she hit leather, yanking it into reverse at the same time as she scrambled over the console, righted herself, and slammed her foot onto the accelerator. Her heart thumped. Her pulse raced. Her mouth was sour with fear—
Boom!
The windshield shattered, peppering her with BB-like balls of glass. Charlie screamed like a banshee and crushed the pedal to the floor as the car shot backward, bouncing over the uneven ground, dislodging a flock of blackbirds that flew skyward in a great cloud.
Tam—a flock of birds—Tony …
Her heart convulsed with pain, but she couldn’t think about any of it now. Her entire focus had to be on surviving. Scrubby tangles of bushes and trees flashed past. Yanking the wheel, she barely managed to avoid smashing into the Escape. The open passenger door hit the edge of the Escape’s front fender with a crash and was torn off as the Lexus blasted through. On the other side, the copse of trees scraped terrifyingly close. The screeching sound of bark on metal filled the air as she yanked the car back onto the driveway. Dust and leaves flew up around it like a whirlwind. Stomping the gas for all she was worth, she was half turned in the seat, looking out the rear windshield and steering like a NASCAR driver as the car careened toward the road.
Boom!
The rear window exploded just as something stung the top of her shoulder. It was only as she felt the hot slide of blood against her skin that she realized she’d been shot. Horror washed over her in an icy wave. Adrenaline pumped through her veins.
Oh God oh God please God.
“Duck!” Michael was in the car with her, roaring, throwing himself protectively in front of her as she screamed, and drove, and—
She didn’t even feel it when the next bullet hit her in the head.
The pain in her head was unreal. It was debilitating. She was dizzy-sick with it. Her head felt like it was made of concrete. It was so heavy that it drooped forward to loll against her chest like a top-heavy flower after a hard rain.
Her arms were stretched taut above her head. They ached almost unbearably.
The top of her shoulder burned and stung.
She was upright, hanging from her wrists, her toes just brushing the floor.
Her arms hurt so because they were bearing her weight.
A lightning vision of Carmela Lynch hanging by her handcuffed wrists from a black metal grid set into a ceiling popped into her head.
That was her now.
The horror of it made her eyes snap open. Her heart started to pound. She sucked in a shuddering breath.
“Stay quiet,” Michael warned. “Don’t move.”
His voice was the most welcome thing she had ever heard. She turned her head, just a little, to find him standing there beside her, looking at her with a combination of fury and frustration that she knew had to do with his inability to help her. His face was hard and tight. His blue eyes blazed. Then he stepped out of view, walking around her to, she thought, check out her restraints. She found herself staring miserably down at a poured concrete floor. It came in and out of focus, but she could see well enough to tell that where she was, the concrete had been built up into a rectangular platform that was maybe eighteen inches higher than the rest of the floor: a stage. Away from the center part, which was directly beneath her, the sides sloped slightly down toward a shallow gulley surrounding the platform, punctuated by a metal drain. There were brown stains on it and in the gulley that she thought were dried blood. Remembering how Carmela and Alicia and Kim and the others had died, Charlie shuddered. The place was an abattoir, and she was the next in line for slaughter.
Her stomach knotted in reaction.
“Babe, I know you’re hurt. I know you’re scared. But you’re moving around too much. Try to stay still.” Michael was beside her again. His voice was calm, reassuring. But the diamond-bright glitter in his eyes and the hard set of his jaw told her that calm was the last thing he was feeling. She wet her lips as
she looked at him. His eyes went murderous. But his voice soothed: “Close your eyes. Imagine we’re on a beach somewhere, taking that vacation we should have taken. You think of that, and I’ll try to come up with a way to get you out of here.”
He moved away from her again.
Charlie willed herself to stay limp, to let her weight drag on her arms. Closing her eyes was beyond her, but she let her lids droop to veil them. She found herself looking at the floor again: somewhere she’d lost her shoes. The tips of her pink-manicured toes barely pressed against the concrete. She was fully dressed otherwise. Her pants were coated with dust, and ugly dark splotches stained her blouse. Dark red drops spattering on the floor around her feet flummoxed her for a moment. Then she realized that the drops were blood—her blood—and that she was bleeding.
I got shot.
Panic surged through her like a jolt of electricity at the thought. Its one positive purpose was that it burned away the fog obscuring her brain.
Lena and Buzz know where we are. They’ll come.
The question—the one she really didn’t want to think about—was, would they come in time?
“I’ll be right back, babe.” She knew Michael: as calm as he was deliberately keeping his voice, the raging fear for her that lay beneath his words was intensifying. That he was so afraid underlined for her more graphically than anything else could have done how dire her situation was. “Keep playing like you’re unconscious.”
Don’t leave me.
But she didn’t dare say it out loud, and keeping him beside her wouldn’t have helped a thing anyway. So she got a grip, kept her mouth shut, and let him go.
“You goddamned psychopath, what’d you have to go and kidnap the redhead for? That’s what put them onto you!” The voice—it was close, too close—made her insides quiver. It belonged to Hagan, Charlie was almost sure. She didn’t dare lift her head and look. Staying quiet and still was requiring more and more of her energy. She was sick, in pain, afraid. Her wrists and shoulder joints hurt so badly that it was all she could do not to push her toes harder against the floor to try to take some of the weight off them, to relieve some of the pressure, but she was afraid that doing so might draw attention.
Her Last Whisper: A Novel Page 33