The Last Victim

by Karen Robards

  “Not a thing. What’s that?” He quit wiggling his fingers to watch as she began to sprinkle the sea salt in a thin line around the perimeter of the room. Its purpose was to create a barrier that a spirit could not cross. Charlie had first meant to use it to barricade herself in the bedroom so she could snatch a few hours of much-needed sleep without worrying that Garland might come in. Then it had occurred to her: if she could ward him out of the bedroom, she could probably use the same technique to ward him into the living room. If he couldn’t pass through the barrier she put down, he wouldn’t be going anywhere—not into the room where she lay sleeping, and not back to Spookville. It was the psychic equivalent of locking him in a jail cell.

  “Sea salt,” Charlie said. The coarse white crystals were all but disappearing into the carpet, but she didn’t suppose it really mattered. The key was to not leave any openings.

  “Sea salt.” He sounded a little wary. “How do I know you’re not going to use that to get me sucked into Spookville again?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I guess you’re going to have to trust me.”

  “Usually when people say things like You’re going to have to trust me, you can pretty much kiss your ass good-bye. Just saying.”

  Charlie paused with her hand in the canister to pucker up and make kissy sounds at him.

  “Funny.” He watched her moodily. “How is that supposed to work, exactly?”

  “It creates a barrier. You can’t get past it. In theory.” She reached the couch. “You want to get up for a minute? I need to sprinkle this behind the couch.”

  “In theory? You got a hell of a bedside manner, Doc.” He stood up, reached automatically for the couch arm to pull the heavy piece of furniture out for her, and had his hands go right through it.

  “Great. You’re useless.” She pulled the couch away from the wall herself and dribbled sea salt behind it. “I told you I’ve never done this before. If it works, it works.” When she glanced at him, she saw that his expression had changed. “What?”

  “I think I got this thing figured out.” He had his hand up and was turning it over thoughtfully, looking at it. “When I walked into the ocean, I could feel the water just like when I was alive. It was warm, and I got wet all the way up to my waist, which is how far in I walked before I started swimming. A little bit after that, I started feeling different. I told you, like I didn’t have any weight. And now that I think about it, I couldn’t really feel the water anymore. That’s about the time I noticed my clothes were gone. In here, when I turned your laptop on, I could feel the keyboard when I touched it. The other times when I tried to touch things, I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t feel that couch just now, and my hands passed right through it.” He dropped his hand and looked at her. “I think somehow, every now and again, I’m able to turn solid for a little bit. And when I do, something gets thrown out of whack. Then some part of me—my clothes, my hand, probably whatever took the brunt of what I was doing—dissolves or disperses or gets swallowed up by Spookville or something. In reaction.”

  Charlie finished salting behind the couch and shoved it back into place, then moved on around the room.

  “It’s possible,” she said. “I know some spirits are able to manifest physically occasionally. Somehow their atoms kind of come together and they’re tangible for very brief periods. I suspect strong emotion triggers it, and that’s what’s behind a lot of ghost sightings.”

  “That’s why Sweet Cheeks was able to see me in the hall. And I paid for it by going invisible for a few minutes right after.”

  Charlie quit laying down salt to narrow her eyes at him. “You know, just for your information, calling Agent Kaminsky names like ‘Sweet Cheeks’ and ‘Sugar Buns’ is disrespectful and demeaning.”

  His eyes brightened, then twinkled. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t have to worry, Doc. Your ass blows hers away. Want to know what I used to call you? Hot—”

  “No,” Charlie snapped, glaring as she interrupted him before he could finish. “I don’t want to know. You’re treading on dangerous ground here,” she warned.

  He held up his hands. His grin was full-blown now. “No offense meant. It’s just that I’m bad with names,” he said, and she snorted.

  “I guess that makes us even, then, because I’m bad at keeping spirits away from divine retribution.” Charlie put the lid back on the salt canister with a snap.

  “Aw, come on, it was a joke.” His mouth sobered, but his eyes still twinkled. “Finish up with the salt.”

  “No more with the demeaning nicknames,” Charlie said, and he nodded solemnly. She eyed him—if penitent was the expression he was going for, he was failing miserably—then took the lid off the salt, and resumed sprinkling.

  “You think there’s any way I could learn to—what did you call it? manifest physically?—on purpose?” he asked after a moment.

  Charlie shrugged. “How would I know?”

  “Jesus Christ, Doc, you’re supposed to be the expert here.”

  “When I see an apparition, it’s usually for ten to fifteen minutes, tops. I’ve never been saddled with one on a full-time basis before. It’s a whole new experience.” She finished with the salt by creating a line across the doorway that led into the bedroom, then put the lid back on the canister again. “There you go. You’re now locked in for the night. Enjoy yourself. I’m going to bed.”

  Even as she said it, she realized how tired she was. The adrenaline rush associated with discovering a naked Garland in her apartment had probably masked it until now.

  “Wait a minute. Explain to me what you just did.”

  “I sealed you into this room. You—including your clothes and all your body parts, hopefully—can’t get out. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can come up with something better. For tonight, that’s the best I can do.” She headed for her bedroom.

  “Doc. Wait. Come back.”

  He sounded like it was urgent. Charlie stopped, cast her eyes heavenward, then turned and retraced her steps, frowning at him from just beyond the line of salt. “What?”

  “I was serious about what I said earlier. If there’s a serial killer at work in the area who knows you can identify him, you need to be getting on out of here. Like, first thing tomorrow. He’ll be coming for you, I can almost guarantee it.”

  Fatigue was starting to take its toll. Her shoulders drooped, the small canister of sea salt felt like it weighed a ton, and her emotions were closer to the surface than usual. Fear had started creeping through her veins from the moment she had seen herself on TV. Now it flowed freely, ice cold and thick as oil. Despite trying as hard as she could, it was all she could do to keep the terrible memories of that night at the Palmers’ at bay. Given her history, it was unreal that she was standing here feeling sorry for Garland, liking Garland. A visceral reaction to her own gullibility made her snap: “And you’re so sure of that because …? Oh, that’s right, you’d know all about serial killers, wouldn’t you?”

  He looked at her without speaking for the space of maybe a couple of heartbeats. “I’m gonna say this one more time, Doc, and you can believe me or not: I’ve done a lot of bad things. But I didn’t do that.”

  The stupid thing was, for a moment there she trembled on the brink of maybe, kinda, sorta, halfway believing him. Then her thoughts snapped back over a combined police/FBI investigation, a trial and conviction, a textbook list of markers, a forensic file as thick as a dictionary. What was she going to believe, the preponderance of all those things, or a man who even before he died she had concluded was a psychopath, albeit a handsome, charismatic one?

  The answer was clear.

  “Nice try, but no cigar,” she said, and as his eyes darkened she turned to once again head to the bedroom.

  “Doc.” His voice stopped her before she’d taken much more than a single step. She pivoted to face him.

  “What?” she responded tartly. She was on guard now, armored against any type of persuasion he might try to use:
Hopelessly Naïve R-Not-Us.

  “Could you at least turn on the TV?” As she stared at him, he gave her a wry smile. “I don’t sleep anymore, you know.”

  Why not? It was a small thing. Walking back to the coffee table, she picked up the remote and turned the TV on for him, volume down low.

  “ESPN,” he requested.

  She found the channel.

  “Thanks,” he said, as without a word she put the remote on the coffee table, and clicking off the light as she passed the switch, went to the bedroom.

  “Hey, Doc,” he called after her.

  She stopped. “What now?” she growled, without even turning around.

  “Like I said, way too softhearted.”

  Charlie stiffened. Then, to the sound of his low laughter behind her, she stalked into the bedroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Alone in the bedroom, Charlie could still hear the TV. It was infuriating to realize that she found the barely audible sounds of whatever game was on comforting. It was even more infuriating to realize that she found the knowledge that Garland was right there in the next room comforting.

  You know your life has serious problems when having a serial killer ghost nearby makes you feel safe.

  Charlie reflected sourly on the sorry state of her life as she tucked the canister of sea salt safely away in her suitcase.

  Then, dropping her robe, shivering a little because the shortie nightgown and matching panties she wore beneath were thin nylon and lace and left a lot of skin available to be chilled by the air-conditioning, she scrambled into bed, clicked off the bedside lamp, and yanked the covers practically all the way over her head.

  Within minutes she was asleep.

  Sometime after that, Holly came to her.

  Not Holly’s ghost, because Holly’s ghost had crossed over and didn’t appear to her anymore. This was a dream, and with the small part of her brain that was still cognizant enough to recognize such things, Charlie knew it was a dream, even as she found herself caught up in it. It featured Holly as she had looked on the day her family had died, the day she had been kidnapped, Holly of the sweet smile and beach-girl tan and long blond hair.

  “I love dancing, don’t you?” Holly called over her shoulder to Charlie. Charlie realized that they were both dancing, each swaying around on a dance floor in a man’s arms—close enough so that she could see Holly, hear Holly. And she realized that it was her present-day, thirty-two-year-old self interacting with seventeen-year-old Holly, and it didn’t seem weird to either of them.

  In the dream, Charlie answered, “Yes.” She saw that they were on the Sanderling’s dance floor, saw the glittering night sky and flaming tiki torches and other couples crowding close around them, and knew that it was a replay of the evening she had just spent, only with Holly added to the mix. That was fine, there was nothing wrong with that, and Charlie smiled as she watched Holly being happy, Holly enjoying herself, Holly young and carefree and alive—until she noticed what Holly was wearing. It was the poufy pink prom dress that Charlie had only ever seen on Holly’s ghost. Something struck her as being important about that, and she frowned, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. Watching Holly, struggling to clear away the foggy-mindedness of the dream for long enough to make the connection, Charlie remembered Bayley Evans. The girl had gone to a dance less than a week before she had been kidnapped. Had Holly gone to a dance in the days before she was kidnapped? Charlie didn’t know. If so, Charlie hadn’t been invited along, although as she had been a newcomer to the school and not a member of the popular crowd, like Holly was, that wouldn’t be surprising.

  Frowning in her dream, she glanced back at Holly, only to discover that her friend was being whirled off the floor. Beautiful even in that garish dress, Holly was throwing her head back to laugh up at her partner as he danced her away into the darkness. Frantic suddenly, Charlie tried to call her back, tried to see the face of the man Holly was dancing with, tried to do something to stop what she knew was going to happen next—but there was nothing she could do.

  “Holly!” she cried, craning her neck in an attempt to keep the other girl in sight. Her heart pounded, her pulse raced, every muscle in her body strained to go after her friend—but she just couldn’t break away. Helpless, consumed with the need to see into the darkness where Holly had disappeared, she struggled to free herself from the arms holding her even as she cried out again: “Holly!”

  But it was so dark beyond the dance floor that she could no longer see Holly.

  As she struggled more violently to break free, knowing even as she did it that she was caught up in the terrible futility that was part and parcel of the dream state, the arm around her waist suddenly hardened and tightened, and she was whirled around then caught up abruptly against her partner. The man she was dancing with was an abstract dream figure no more. He was solid and there as he pulled her hard against him. She could feel the unyielding strength of his body, the steely muscularity of the arm around her waist, the warmth and size of his hand gripping hers, with a vividness that had been missing before.

  “You’re okay. I’ve got you now. It was only a bad dream.”

  Even through her terror for Holly and desperation to stop what she knew she couldn’t stop and the mind-clouding effect of the dream, Charlie would have recognized that distinctive voice in her ear anywhere in the universe. She looked up sharply, and met Garland’s sky blue eyes. His tawny head was bent over hers. His beautifully cut mouth was hard with concern. His broad shoulders blocked much of her view. It was Garland she was dancing with now, Garland whose hand held hers, Garland whose arm was tight around her waist, Garland whose rock-solid body she was pressed against.

  And she realized that, in her dream, she was foolishly, ridiculously, but undeniably glad to see him.

  Something of what she was feeling must have shown in her eyes, because his expression changed. His eyes narrowed on her face. Some of the tautness around his cheekbones relaxed.

  “Now, ain’t this a kick in the head,” he drawled, and gave her what she could only describe as a wolfish smile.

  Whatever he meant by that, at the moment she had bigger fish to fry than him.

  “My friend—Holly,” she told him in despair, neck twisting as she tried one more time to look into the darkness beyond the dance floor to where Holly had disappeared. “I need to go after her. I need to stop her.”

  “You were having a nightmare.” Despite her attempts to get away, Garland held her fast. “I’ve got you safe now. Whatever you saw before wasn’t real.”

  Charlie searched the darkness at the edge of the dance floor for a moment longer. It was impenetrable, dredged up from what seemed to be a thousand mental images of the darkest night ever. As she stared into the unnaturally stygian depths she realized that Garland was right: Holly as she had just seen her had been no more than a memory invading her sleep. Holly didn’t need her; Charlie could let her go. As she accepted the truth of that, she almost imperceptibly felt herself start to relax. Idiotic to think of Garland as someone she could depend on, but for now, just for now, she apparently did. Her body softened, and in the process molded itself instinctively to Garland’s wide-shouldered, lean-hipped frame. The instant reaction of her nipples to contact with his hard chest sent a flutter of pleasure scooting along her nerve endings. The pressure of his lower body against hers made her blood begin to heat. Then she realized that she could actually feel him, feel the solid wall of his chest against her breasts with every breath she drew, feel the brush of his jeans against her bare legs with every movement of his powerful thighs, feel the unmistakable maleness of him pressing hard against her abdomen. Feel him just as surely and acutely as if he were a living, breathing man.

  Holding her in his arms.

  Her body responded with a throbbing awareness that made her catch her breath.

  Then the rest of what Garland had said registered.

  She looked sharply back up at him. “Are you saying th
at this is real?”

  He smiled at her, not wolfish any longer, but a slow, intimate smile that dazzled her a little. God, he’s handsome.

  “What do you think?”

  “It can’t be.”

  The square angle of his jaw was right above her eye level. He was clean-shaven, his skin firm and tan. His head was bent over hers. Her eyes wandered the flat planes of his cheeks, the high curves of his cheekbones, the thick, dark brown eyebrows, the elegantly carved nose. His glinted down at her, impossible to read. But there was something in their depths that told her he was every bit as aware of her as she was of him.

  That he could feel her, too.

  Her heart was beating too fast still, but not because of Holly now.

  “There you go, then,” he replied, and swung her around in a movement of the dance. Refusing to be distracted by an action she guessed was deliberately designed to do exactly that, she narrowed her eyes at him with quick suspicion.

  “I’m dreaming this, right?”

  He sighed. His hand gripped hers more firmly. She could feel the thickness of his palm, the slight roughness of his fingertips. She could feel the texture of his soft cotton T-shirt and the tensile flexing of his shoulder beneath it. She could feel how big and muscular he was, how absolutely, unmistakably male, and whether it was a dream or not her pulse went all tremulous and her stomach began to quiver.

  Real. This feels real. He feels real.

  “Jesus, Doc, relax for once. Go with the flow. Just dance with me,” he said, which wasn’t really an answer at all. But she didn’t argue, because she didn’t feel like arguing anymore, and because she discovered that she liked being in his arms, in a major way, and because this had to be a dream, which meant she could relax and enjoy it because none of it mattered. Now that she thought about it she knew for sure it was a dream, as they were still on the dance floor at the Sanderling, dancing politely while the band played. The same couples as before were dancing all around them, and the same spectators crowded the edge—and while Garland was wearing his jeans and boots and T-shirt, she was out on the dance floor, in the midst of everything, in her flimsy shortie nightgown and bare feet, which wasn’t even remotely possible.