“The killer wore surgical gloves. More important, he has a red heart on the back of his hand. Maybe it’s a tattoo, I’m not sure.”
Bartoli had been walking beside her. He stopped. Charlie kept on going, head bent against the wind, arms folded, trudging on determinedly toward the pink house that thankfully was getting close now. It took him a few seconds to catch up with her again.
“You want to tell me how you know that?”
No, she really didn’t. “I just know. It’s accurate. Use it to find Bayley Evans.”
“You do some kind of fancy expert analysis back there that I missed?”
“Yep.”
“Want to explain your methodology?”
“Let’s just say that your investigation is benefiting from my years of experience, okay?”
Bartoli said nothing for a moment. He was frowning, and Charlie could feel speculation rolling off him in waves. She kept walking. The planks ended when they reached the driveway. It was packed with official-type vehicles, and the RV was brightly lit and still as busy as a beehive at noon. It was good to know that, even if she was about to bow out for the night, the search for Bayley Evans would be proceeding at full throttle.
Realizing she was just a tiny cog in a big machine was an enormous relief.
She was going to put Bayley Evans, and her family, and the other victims, out of her mind, at least for the next few hours. What she needed to do now was rest and get her brain back up to speed. Then she would turn all her formidable resources to helping the authorities find the bastard who had done this.
Please, God, let it be enough.
“A red heart on the back of the unsub’s hand. You’re sure enough about that for me to add it to the official description of the individual we’re looking for,” Bartoli said finally. From his tone, it wasn’t really a question.
“As of the night the Meads were killed, he had a red heart on the back of his hand.” Charlie looked back at Bartoli as they reached the steps that led up to a wide, screened-in back porch. “I’m absolutely positive about that. I’m not sure what it is, or if it was permanent. But it was there.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
“I do.” Charlie felt her throat tighten. She’d been battling the memory ever since Julie Mead had described the heart, but it kept thrusting itself into the forefront of her mind, and now there was no escape.
Once again she was seventeen years old, peeking around the basement door just in time to watch a killer cut Diane Palmer’s throat. For the space of a terrible heartbeat, she could picture the scene as clearly as if she were there.
Stumbling on the top step, Charlie nearly fell to her knees. Only Bartoli’s arm hooking her waist at the last minute saved her from a fall.
“Careful.” He hauled her upright.
“Thanks.” Thrusting the memory away, grateful for the steadying arm that remained around her waist as she regained her balance, she took a deep breath, then forced herself to take one more quick plunge into the past. “The Boardwalk Killer—the man I saw when I was seventeen—didn’t have a heart on his hand. There was nothing on the backs of his hands, nothing at all.”
“You sure?”
They were walking across the dark screened porch as they talked. When they reached the door, Bartoli’s arm dropped away. Charlie was surprised by how much she missed its warm support.
“Yes. Absolutely.” Trying not to shiver openly, Charlie cast a quick look around while Bartoli unlocked the door. The screened porch was darker even than the night, with inky shadows everywhere. The wind blowing off the ocean was picking up, making the fronds on the nearby palms flap with a sound like birds’ wings and carrying a strong smell of salt with it.
“He could have acquired it later.”
“Yes.”
At least Bartoli didn’t start delving into the whole how-sure-are-you-and-how-do-you-know-anyway school of questioning, and for that she was grateful. Something about the night itself was unsettling her, but she really didn’t want to start trying to analyze why that should be. She was too tired, too emotionally wrung out. She already knew, because Bartoli had told her on the flight down, that she would be sharing the house with him, Crane, and Kaminsky. She was less clear on how that was going to work, exactly, and at the moment she didn’t care. What she desperately needed was a couple of Tums (knowing she would probably be encountering nausea-inducing spirits, she had brought her own supply, but unfortunately the two she had taken prior to leaving her house back in Big Stone Gap had worn off by the time she encountered the dead kid in the chair), a hot shower, and bed, in that order.
Got to lie down before I fall down. Her mother used to say that a lot, when she came home drunk. Charlie couldn’t believe she was hearing the familiar slurry voice echoing in her head under these very different circumstances, even if the sentiment was apt.
“You want something to eat? Might make you feel better.” Bartoli pushed the door open, and gestured to her to go inside, which she did. “Unless my nose deceives me, they ordered pizza.”
Like the Meads’ rental, this beach house had its main rooms facing the ocean. Charlie walked into the kitchen and glanced around to discover a familiar cardboard box on the table: as Bartoli had predicted, there was pizza. With her stomach in the shape it was in, though, food was the last thing she wanted. Walking past it, trying not to breathe in the spicy aroma, she saw that the layout of this house was very similar to that of the Meads’. The main difference was that the tile floors were terra-cotta and the walls were sunshine yellow. Otherwise, kitchen, dining area, living room, entry hall, stairs: everything looked to be pretty much the same.
Charlie fought the impulse to turn and run away, screaming.
Someone was coming down the stairs from the second floor.
“I ordered pizza. Pepperoni. There’s plenty left.” The speaker was Kaminsky, who stopped a few steps from the bottom. Despite the hour, she was still fully dressed in her suit and heels. Her expression as she looked at Charlie was less than welcoming. “Or if you’d rather, there are some groceries in your refrigerator. Eggs, cheese, lunch meat, that kind of thing. For tonight, that’s the best you’re going to get.”
“I’m not hungry.” The mere thought of food made her stomach cramp warningly. To divert herself, Charlie latched onto something that puzzled her. “I have a refrigerator?”
“You’ve got the in-law suite. It’s basically a self-contained apartment. Fridge included.”
“If you’re ready to go up, Kaminsky will show you where it is,” Bartoli said.
Charlie was. More than ready. She nodded.
“Get anything?” Bartoli asked Kaminsky as Charlie started up the stairs.
“Twenty-seven men who fit the parameters living within a two-hundred-fifty-mile radius. I was working on narrowing it down when I had to stop to babysit.” Kaminsky’s gaze shifted to Charlie, who had almost reached her by that time. “No offense.”
At the moment, Charlie was too tired to take any. She shook her head. “None taken.”
“You’re not babysitting, you’re protecting a witness.” Bartoli’s voice was crisp. “There’s a strong possibility that Dr. Stone has seen our unsub, remember. If he knows that, and discovers she’s here helping us, there’s a chance he’ll come after her.”
That stopped Charlie in her tracks. Her heart lurched. There’s a happy thought to top off a perfect day. She was surprised it hadn’t occurred to her. Gripping the rail hard with one hand, she turned to look at Bartoli.
“The Boardwalk Killer knows I saw him, or at least he should,” she said. “He didn’t see me at the time, but it was all over the news. Killers of his type tend to like to follow the investigation through the media. If this is the same man, he probably has a scrapbook or some similar physical record filled with news clippings from the killings. The authorities tried to keep my identity secret at the time, but it leaked out. I’m quite sure information about me, including my picture, will be among his artifac
ts.”
Bartoli nodded. “If this unsub is the Boardwalk Killer, and that’s still an if, we’re hoping he doesn’t find out you’re here. We’re doing our best to keep the fact that you’re working with us confidential. Outside of the three of us, and my boss, nobody else knows who you are, and by that I mean about your association with the previous murders.”
“Even if he has a picture of you, it would be of a seventeen-year-old girl, not the illustrious Dr. Charlotte Stone, serial killer expert.” Kaminsky’s eyes ran over her mockingly. “I’m guessing there’s a pretty big difference. He probably wouldn’t even recognize you if he saw you.”
“It’s possible he’s kept track of me over the years,” Charlie pointed out, although it was something she had long since forbidden herself to dwell on. For years after the attack, she had harbored the secret fear that the next time she turned around there he would be, ready to murder her just like he had the Palmers. With the help of therapy and a lot of self-talk, she’d managed to tuck that fear away into a tiny corner of her mind, where it rarely bothered her. Now it was back, impossible to ignore.
I should have stayed away.
“We’ll keep you safe, don’t worry,” Bartoli said, making Charlie wonder what he’d seen in her face. His gaze shifted to Kaminsky, and he gave an upward jerk of his head, which Charlie translated as Go.
“Yeah, okay, I got this.” Sounding slightly more resigned to her fate, Kaminsky started walking back up the stairs, then glanced over her shoulder to tell Charlie, “I’ll be sleeping right across the hall from you, and Bartoli and Crane are crashing in bedrooms on the first floor. You can go to bed and sleep like a baby and not worry about a thing.”
“Good to know.” Charlie followed Kaminsky up the stairs.
“Eight a.m. good for you to get started on this again?” Bartoli called after them. Charlie knew he was speaking to her.
It wasn’t a lot of decompression time—but then, the situation was beyond dire. “Yes, that’s fine.”
“Come downstairs. One of us will be waiting.”
As she reached the top of the stairs, Charlie glanced down at him. “Okay.”
“You’re in here.” Kaminsky opened a door to the right of the landing as, from the corner of her eye, Charlie saw Bartoli head back out the door. Presumably he was not yet ready to call it a night.
Charlie caught herself wondering if the team that had searched for Holly had been as dedicated, then forced the thought from her mind.
“By the way, a two-hundred-fifty-mile radius is too large.” Charlie walked past Kaminsky into what, from her first glance around, appeared to be a decent-sized apartment that took up the entire left side of the second floor. “The killer should be living—or working—within a thirty-mile radius of the crime scene at the most. Say, a half hour’s drive. Since there are three separate crime scenes, that would apply to each of them. If anyone on your list is staying in RV parks or campgrounds within that circle, I’d start there.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Kaminsky’s voice was dry. Charlie once again got the impression that Kaminsky wasn’t a fan, but at the moment she was too tired to care. “If you need anything, I’m right across the hall.” She nodded toward an open door just across the landing. Charlie glimpsed a bedroom through it. “Give a shout.”
Charlie nodded. Then Kaminsky left, closing the door behind her. Locking the door, beyond thankful to finally be alone, Charlie glanced around her new living quarters. She was standing in a small sitting room furnished with a yellow chintz couch, a deep green recliner, and a bentwood rocker, plus the appropriate tables and lamps. A large flat-screen TV on a bamboo console took up a corner, and on the opposite side of the room a round, glass-topped table complete with four bentwood chairs composed an eating area. A half wall to the left of the eating area provided separation from a small but modern kitchen, complete with white-painted cabinets and stainless steel appliances, including the promised refrigerator and a gas range. Beige wall-to-wall carpet covered the floor. Three of the walls were celadon green, and the same chintz that was on the couch had been made into drapes that covered the entire fourth wall. Since that was the wall facing the ocean, Charlie presumed there was a spectacular view behind the yards of gaily-patterned floral pleats, but she was too exhausted to even think about checking it out.
Lit by the round white ceramic lamps on either side of the couch, the sitting area was warmly welcoming. Charlie turned her back on it and walked through the small hallway that bypassed the kitchen, to the bedroom. It held a queen-sized bed with a quilted spread made from that same yellow chintz, and a bamboo headboard, plus the usual nightstands and a bamboo dresser with a mirror over it. Her suitcase was on the floor beside the dresser. Swooping down on it, she extracted her toiletry kit, her white terry cloth robe, and the first nightgown that came to hand. The bottle of Tums was tucked in beside her running shoes. Opening it, she popped two chalky, mint-flavored tablets into her mouth, shook two extra-strength Excedrin out of another bottle, and then, chewing, tottered off toward the adjoining bathroom. Unpacking the rest of her stuff would have to wait for morning. She didn’t have the energy to do anything except shower and fall into bed.
The bathroom was solid white: white tile, white fixtures, white towels. It had both a tub and a separate, glass-walled shower. First she swallowed the Excedrin with a handful of water in hopes of easing the headache that wouldn’t quit. Then, stripping like she was being paid to get naked fast, Charlie twisted up her hair, pulled on a clear plastic shower cap, stepped into the shower, and turned on the tap. Hot water had never felt so good. Closing her eyes, Charlie let it sluice over her skin, warming her up, taking the worst of the tension out of her muscles. The soap was plain white Dove, but it smelled nice. By the time she turned the water off, she was feeling … not a hundred percent, but at least a hundred percent better.
At least she was until she stepped out of the shower, reached for the towel hanging nearby—and discovered a man standing just inside the closed bathroom doorway, watching her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Every tiny hair on Charlie’s body shot upright. Jumping backward, she screamed like a steam whistle.
“Jesus Christ, Doc, it’s me!”
If that was supposed to make Charlie feel better, it failed miserably. Even as her heel caught on the threshold of the shower and she smacked down hard on her butt on the tile floor, she recognized him: Garland.
Correction, Garland’s ghost. The orange prison jumpsuit was gone, replaced by a white tee, snug jeans, and cowboy boots, and his hair had morphed from its previous prison crop into a tawny mane that almost brushed his shoulders, but there was still no mistaking the just-about-hottest guy she had ever laid eyes on for anybody else.
Dead or alive.
His expression was almost comical. Clearly death hadn’t affected his hearing any: he was wincing from the earth-shattering blast that she’d loosed even as he loomed large as Bigfoot in the claustrophobic confines of the bathroom.
Sprawled in a semi-reclining position half in and half out of the shower, Charlie realized two things at once: she was naked, and he was eyeing her just like any live human male would eye her under the circumstances. She had a good body, slim and tight and long-legged, with breasts that might have been on the small side but were perky and well shaped, and a well-groomed strip of pubic hair in the usual place. His gaze didn’t skip an inch of her, and the carnal glint in his sky blue eyes as he looked sent a rush of alarmed adrenaline pumping through her veins.
“Smokin’ bod, Doc,” he drawled.
Bad enough that she was plagued by ghosts, but horny, homicidal ghosts? It was too much. Charlie saw red.
“Get out of my bathroom!” she snarled, outraged, and clapped the towel she’d managed to grab on the way down to her bosom. It covered her salient parts—barely—but still left way too much of her shiny wet skin exposed for her comfort.
“Hey, don’t—”
But whatever he’d been goin
g to say was interrupted by an urgent pounding on the apartment door.
“Dr. Stone? Dr. Stone, are you all right?” It was Kaminsky, and from her tone she’d be kicking down the door in another split second.
“I’m okay,” Charlie yelled, scrambling to her feet while keeping the towel clutched to her front and a ferocious glare fixed on Garland. “I slipped in the shower.”
“Dr. Stone? I need you to open the door. Now.”
“I’m coming,” Charlie shouted back, upping the volume just to make sure she was heard, while frowning fiercely at the menacing-looking apparition. He seemed way more solid than any ghost had a right to and he stood between her and the door. Any way she looked at it, he posed a ginormous problem. If she tried to get out, he might stop her. If she didn’t, she would have to explain to Kaminsky how it was she couldn’t leave her own bathroom. Even if she did manage to get past him, if she tried to hitch the grossly inadequate towel around herself, she didn’t see any way to avoid flashing him, and although he’d already seen it all she didn’t want him to see it again. On the other hand, if she tried getting past him the way she was, and succeeded, he was going to get a full and unobstructed view of her bare backside. In motion.
Not happening.
“Dr. Stone!”
“I’m coming!” Charlie shrieked. No way Kaminsky didn’t hear that. It was so loud it hurt her own eardrums.
“Who’s that?” Garland asked. To her fury, he was starting to look amused.
“Throw me my robe,” she hissed at him, because he was standing right beside it—it was hanging from the hook on the inside of the bathroom door. Glancing around, Garland obligingly reached for it—and his hand went right through the thick terry cloth without disturbing so much as a thread.
And that would be because he’s dead.
“Fuck,” he said, looking mildly surprised.
“Dr. Stone! I’m coming in!”
The Last Victim Page 8