The Last Echo: A Body Finder Novel

by Kimberly Derting

  He followed her gaze as he set the tray on the bedside table and sat on the bed beside her. He took in the details of his handiwork, trying not to smile, reminding himself that too much pride was an ugly trait. “Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” His gaze roamed over the thick black foam that covered the windows and walls, absorbing both sound and light. “I did it just for you. I wanted you to be comfortable.”

  The mattress shuddered violently, and he turned back to look at her, confused. She thrashed wildly, her body convulsing beside him, and he wondered if she was trying to get closer to him. They always did.

  But he was worried she might hurt herself, so he leaned down, his lips grazing her ear as he spoke. Her entire body went still, every muscle coiled as she waited on his words. “Be still now. There’s plenty of time for that later. Let’s get to know each other better first . . . take things slow.” He sat back, feeling more relaxed knowing that she was as eager as he was. “Besides, you don’t want to make sores,” he explained, his fingers gingerly brushing the ropes around her wrists. “Infections can get nasty if we’re not careful. And I don’t like infections.”

  He couldn’t stop himself and he reached for her fingertips, caressing each one in turn, inspecting the ridges and curves of her nails. “I brought lilac for you. It’s a pale shade of purple with just the faintest shimmer.” He picked up the bottle of nail polish from beside the bowl of soup and held it up so she could see. He wished he had something more to give her—a gift. He liked to give them gifts. But he’d lost hers and this was all he could offer. “It will be beautiful on you. Now, are you ready for some food?”

  She stared at him, her eyes still wide.

  He took her silence as consent; she didn’t understand the rules yet. “Good, but you need to know. . . .” The warning in his voice was clear. “If you scream, I leave. No food, no water, no . . . treats.” He set the polish down with a meaningful crack. “Understood?”

  Her brow creased into a frown. She understood.

  “Good,” he repeated, this time more cheerfully. He freed her mouth and turned to get her some water. They always wanted water first.

  That was when he heard her. Her raspy voice warbled behind him as her body went rigid with effort, screaming—or at least trying to. “Help!” she croaked, her parched voice trying to find purchase. “Someone! Please . . . help me . . .” Her last words drifted away on a sob, as she realized, belatedly, that her own voice had failed her.

  But he wasn’t concerned with her voice, or with her tears. She had failed him. She had screamed. He hated it when they screamed.

  He stood abruptly, reaching for the gag and jerking it back over her mouth. He was rough—too rough probably, and he’d have to apologize later. But for now, she deserved it. She’d hurt him.

  Tears burned in his eyes, stinging, but he blinked them away. He couldn’t let her think he was weak or fragile.

  “I warned you,” he admonished sharply. “Now you get nothing.”

  He kept his back to her as he gathered his things and hurried toward the door. He needed to get out of there, to be alone—away from her—so he could collect his thoughts and breathe again. So he could stop trying so hard not to cry.

  On his way out, he blew out the candle, leaving her alone. In the dark.

  Chapter 5

  VIOLET WAITED WHILE KRYSTAL SHOVED ASIDE magazines and wadded-up drive-through bags, clearing a space for her. Roxy’s white interior was some sort of leather, or more likely vinyl, and smelled musty in the way old cars did, like mildew and oil and damp carpet. And, of course, lingering with all of those smells Violet could also make out Krystal’s jasmine perfume.

  Business cards were strewn across the dashboard, each one identical to the next, and Violet reached for one. Big rainbow-colored print spelled out the words The Crystal Palace on shiny black cardstock, and beneath that, in smaller print, it read: “Psychic Readings, Spiritual Advice, Numerology, Tarot, Tea Leaves. By Appointment or Walk-in.”

  Krystal had handwritten her name—Krystal Devine—and her cell phone number on each of the cards in sparkly silver pen. Violet slipped one of the cards into her purse, grinning as she imagined Krystal waving her hands in front of a crystal ball, a jewel-encrusted turban perched on her head.

  When Krystal climbed into the driver’s seat, the car creaked and dropped at least half a foot on her side. Violet clutched the door handle to steady herself as she wondered if the ancient car was even street-legal. She pictured the steel body dragging across the road as it drove, sparks shooting up in its wake. Krystal didn’t seem to notice the dip, but then she reached down to the clunky console mounted on the floorboards between them and tapped the black plastic wastebasket that was sitting there. “If you feel sick, puke in there, will ya?”

  Violet scrunched her nose, suspiciously eyeballing her friend. “Why would I get sick?”

  Krystal started the noisy engine as she draped her arm over the back of the bench seat and turned to watch while she backed out of the parking space. Violet noted the sheer volume of rings on the hand closest to her, taking up space on every finger. “Bad shocks,” Krystal stated flatly as the car hit a tiny pothole and they were both pitched harrowingly close to the car’s ceiling, making it more than clear how useless the 1970s lap belts that strapped them in actually were.

  “Oh,” said Violet, everything seeming to make sense now. The car leveled out, and Krystal shoved the gear into drive as she pulled onto the main road, heading in the same direction Rafe had gone on his motorcycle. “Is that why Rafe didn’t want to ride with us?”

  Krystal snorted. “Nah. Rafe’s just kind of a lone wolf, if you know what I mean?”

  Violet was confused. “Not really. What do you mean?”

  “You know,” Krystal answered, pursing frosty blue lips that made her look practically corpselike. As she reached the entrance to the freeway, she frowned, glancing at both of the overhead signs, looking completely lost. “Wait! Which way was it again?”

  Violet looked down at the directions they’d printed from one of the computers at the Center. “You need to head north,” she explained. And then she turned back to the topic of Rafe. “No, I don’t know. You’ve known him longer than I have.”

  “That’s kinda the thing, I guess. No one really knows him. He doesn’t let anyone get close. Mostly, he keeps to himself. The only one who ever really tries with him is Gemma.”

  Violet understood that much, at least. She knew exactly what Krystal meant about Rafe keeping to himself. She’d felt that same thing whenever she was around him . . . that he would only let her get so close before he pushed her away again, putting up his defenses to keep her out. “So . . . she likes him? Gemma, I mean,” Violet ventured, hoping Krystal didn’t read more into the question than there was. It was normal to be curious about the people you worked with, wasn’t it?

  “Mmm . . .” Krystal frowned, reaching up to rub one of her necklaces absently. “I’m not sure anyone likes him. None of us really knows Rafe that well, I guess.”

  “So why does she try, then?”

  Krystal just shrugged. “I don’t know. Gemma’s had kind of a shitty life. I think she just wanted to fit in somewhere, to have friends. I think she thought Rafe would be . . . some sort of family to her.”

  “Family? I thought she wanted to date him.”

  Krystal’s booming laughter filled the car, and Violet half-expected to look up to find her twirling her handlebar mustache like some sort of evil cartoon villain. “God, no. Gemma’s not interested in hooking up with Rafe . . . any more than I am. And, trust me, Rafe’s definitely not my type, if you know what I mean.” She glanced at Violet, her eyes glinting wickedly.

  Violet didn’t know, but after being laughed at, she felt too stupid to ask. When she didn’t say anything, Krystal’s eyebrows inched all the way up until they looked like they were part of her hairline. “You do know what I mean, right?” Her eyes grew larger. “That he’s a dude? Not my type . . . ?
” She let the words drift off, ripe with meaning.

  Violet rolled her eyes. “Got it. You’re into girls. Why didn’t you just say so?”

  Krystal snorted again. “Because this was way more fun.” She flipped on the radio and dialed the tuner until she found a station without too much static. “Damn, you’re easy to mess with. This is definitely worth a B&E charge.”

  Violet wouldn’t even have needed to see Rafe’s motorcycle to know that he’d driven faster than they had, and probably ignored any traffic rules that were inconvenient. In her head, she pictured him zigzagging in and out of traffic, with no regard to speed limits or personal safety. His or anyone else’s. He was reckless. Jay was right.

  Still, she felt a bubble of relief swell up from her chest when she realized his bike was there. And in one piece.

  Krystal avoided the need to parallel park since there were no other cars around, and Violet shoved the massive door open while Rafe leaned against his motorcycle, a cocky smirk on his face. “I can’t believe that hunk of junk actually made it. I’m surprised it even starts in the mornings.”

  Krystal glared at Rafe. “This car’s seen more action than you can possibly imagine. She was at Woodstock, I’ll have you know.”

  A skeptical expression crossed Rafe’s face. “I sorta doubt that. I think Woodstock was before her time.”

  “You don’t know. Besides, that’s what the guy who sold her to me said.”

  “Yeah? Did he also tell you she was part of the moon landing? Sounds to me like you got taken.”

  Krystal’s face fell, and Violet moved to stand in front of her, so Krystal wouldn’t be able to see the derisive expression in Rafe’s eyes. She scrunched her nose and shook her head, trying silently to tell Krystal to ignore him.

  She thought about what Krystal had told her, that no one really liked Rafe. As she stood there, listening to his cynical tone, it wasn’t hard to figure out why. Violet didn’t know what she felt about him. She didn’t hate him, but she didn’t actually know if she liked him or not. More than anything, she felt grateful to him. And drawn to him. As if, in some strange way, the two of them shared a connection. And she supposed they did. But shouldn’t she feel that same connection, then, with the others on her team . . . since they all shared a secret?

  “Whatever.” Krystal sniffed, patting the hood of her ancient Impala. “Roxy’s a great car.”

  “Totally,” Violet assured her friend. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find anything useful in there.”

  They moved across the street to where Rafe strode confidently toward a row of unimpressive-looking houses . . . older homes in an older neighborhood, some well kept and others in desperate need of landscaping and repair.

  Violet stood still for a minute, trying to decide if any of them felt different from the rest. If there was something to indicate that the girl who’d been living in one of them had been murdered by a serial killer. But there was nothing special. Just ordinary houses on an ordinary street.

  Yet, without even glancing at the house numbers, Rafe knew exactly which one belonged to Antonia Cornett. “There,” he said, pointing out the small white house with a stucco exterior and drab brown trim.

  Violet tried to sense whether there was something out of place—anything only she might be aware of. Maybe the person responsible was nearby—a neighbor or a landlord. Didn’t they say that most victims were attacked by people they knew?

  She didn’t know if that was a real statistic or not, but after a moment of concentrating she realized that her ability wasn’t going to help her this time. She would have to depend on Rafe or Krystal.

  Approaching the house, Violet could see the crime-scene tape, hidden beneath the metal mesh of the screen door. It had been left as a warning, and even though it hadn’t been completely evident from the street, Violet couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the bright yellow strips sooner.

  She hesitated. She was about to break the law.

  Unlike her, Rafe didn’t stop. He ignored the warning and yanked the tape away so he could unlock the door.

  Violet stood at the top of the steps, glancing one last time over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching them, but the street was practically deserted.

  When she turned around again, she placed her hand against Rafe’s back, not sure if she was pushing him to hurry, or silently begging him to stop before it was too late. All the while, she pretended not to notice how warm he was beneath her fingertips.

  But the unsteady rhythm beating within her chest had nothing to do with Rafe. “Are you guys sure about this?” Violet worried, gnawing her lip.

  Rafe shrugged her hand away. “If you don’t want to go in, then you should wait in the car. If you stand out here someone might notice.” He sounded irritable as he dropped the key back into his pocket and reached for the handle. But when the tumbler clicked, he turned to grin at the two girls triumphantly. “I won’t be long,” he promised, slipping inside and leaving the door open behind him.

  Krystal had no qualms about following him, and she just shrugged at Violet before she trailed after Rafe, leaving Violet to make up her mind. Violet stood there, staring into the open doorway.

  She poked her head inside as she gripped the doorjamb, not yet willing to let her toes cross the threshold as she watched Krystal and Rafe stroll boldly into the living room.

  The interior of the house was small, and it was fascinating for Violet to watch Rafe, who looked as if he’d been there before, as if he knew what he was doing . . . what he was searching for. He stroked his hand across the back of the couch—a couch on which Antonia Cornett had sat, not so long ago. He stopped every so often, picking up items and examining them. But they weren’t the items most people would even look twice at.

  He didn’t sift through her mail or pick up photos and knickknacks she’d collected, the sentimental items. Instead, he chose random things: a jacket, his fingers brushing over the wool; a stack of magazines that he thumbed through absently; a laptop, powered down now, but he paused there, settling his palm over the keys.

  Krystal, on the other hand, dropped onto one of the chairs and closed her eyes, almost as if she were meditating. Violet studied her for a moment, envious of her urban fashion sense, the edginess of her bold clothing and makeup. But there was something else about Krystal, a prettiness that was almost lost beneath the indigo streaks—Krystal’s color of the week—that shot through her gleaming black hair. Her hair framed skin that was such a pale shade of olive that Violet wondered if only one of her parents was Asian. Her dark eyes were both exotic and expressive, and her full lips were almost always smiling.

  Even now, deep in concentration, they curved upward.

  Violet wondered if she was listening for something, waiting for the spirits to speak to her.

  Rafe moved deeper into the house, out of Violet’s sight, and Violet leaned farther through the doorway, not wanting to miss what was happening. There was no way she was going to wait outside while Rafe was in there discovering the girl’s secrets, maybe learning something that might help them find the killer.

  She took one tiny, insignificant step inside, and was surprised when she felt no different standing inside the doorway than she had when she’d been outside it. Except that now she was most certainly breaking the law.

  And there was a part of her, much larger than she cared to admit, that found it thrilling, as adrenaline coursed through her.

  She pulled the door closed behind her, deciding that she might as well not draw any added attention to what they were doing. She walked more quickly now, slipping silently past Krystal, not wanting to disturb her trance, or whatever it was. Following the path Rafe had, Violet let her fingers brush over the things he’d touched.

  When she’d read about psychometry, one of the articles had said that everything carries energy vibrations and that those who are sensitive to them are aware of those energies. Some of those people know how to interpret what they sense. Violet stopped at the lapt
op and settled her hand in the exact same place Rafe’s had been.

  She waited, but felt nothing. Just cold, still computer keys.

  “I wondered how long you’d last.” Violet jumped. “I was starting to think you were really planning to stand guard out there the whole time.”

  When she looked up, Rafe was grinning at her from behind a cutout in the wall separating the living room from the kitchen. He shoved his black hair to the side before he went back to digging through one of the drawers. Violet heard the tinny clattering of silverware.

  “I should’ve just called 9-1-1 and turned you in myself,” she retorted as she turned in a complete circle, taking in the house around her. “So?” she asked, pivoting back to face him. “Find anything?”

  Rafe shook his head. “Not yet. But I’m gonna check out the rest of the house. I don’t want to miss something important.”

  Violet moved absently toward his voice . . . toward him. There was enough light coming in from outside, through the curtained windows in the living room, that they didn’t need to turn the lights on. Better, since they didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that they were in here.

  She followed Rafe into the short hallway, leaving Krystal behind. He slowed as he approached a door, and Violet stepped closer, leaning forward until she was practically pressed against his back, as she tried to see past him to the room beyond.

  Inside was a bedroom. The bed was unmade—messy and rumpled—with pillows and blankets cascading haphazardly onto the floor. Clothes dangled from open dresser drawers. There was a framed black-and-white print of a sailor kissing a nurse hanging on the wall above the bed. It was a familiar poster, something Violet had seen in frame shops and print stores dozens of times before.

  Rafe didn’t stop.

  “Don’t you want to look in there?”

  “It’s not her room,” he told her, leaving Violet to wonder once more about his ability. How could he possibly know for sure?