Steadying herself, she walked to the grave, bent, and lay the flowers at the foot of the small white cross.
When she straightened, he was looking at her instead of the raw mound.
“Crying for me, Doc?”
That was the first time she realized tears were running down her face.
What could she say? There was no denying it. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to.
“Yes.” Defiantly dashing at the wetness with her fingers, she met his gaze. His eyes were very blue, very intent on her face. There was nothing she could do to stop the gushing tears, or the quivering of her lips. It was ridiculous to feel so shattered. She knew it, and felt shattered anyway. She had known he was dead, had seen him die, and was staring right at his hale-and-hearty-looking ghost.
But she couldn’t help it. The grave seemed so lonely. So forlorn.
Unloved.
She sniffled. Then her breath caught on a sob. Finally she did the only thing she could, and gave up. Sinking to her knees because her perfidious legs would no longer support her, she covered her face with her hands and cried.
“I’m right here, you know.” He was crouching beside her now. Charlie would have turned into his arms except, oh, wait, that wasn’t an option. “There you go with that soft heart of yours again. I’m not worth a single one of your tears.”
That was almost certainly true, and it didn’t make an iota of difference.
She lifted her head to glare at him. His face was close, bent toward hers. His eyes were dark with concern.
“You think I don’t know that?” she asked him fiercely, then despite her best efforts sobbed again, felt more tears gushing, and dropped her face to her hands.
“You’re breaking my heart here.” His voice was low and rough. “Darlin’, please don’t cry.”
Charlie fought for control, but couldn’t seem to stem the tears even when she heard, rather than saw, Kaminsky slap-slapping through the grass toward her.
She looked up, met Garland’s eyes, registered the pain for her in them, then glanced around just to verify that the person coming up on them was indeed Kaminsky. When she looked back, Garland was gone.
“What the hell?” Kaminsky stopped beside her, looking from her to the grave. “This somebody you know?”
“Yes, of course.” Charlie made a mighty effort. Her pride was at stake. She sucked in air, wiped her cheeks with her fingers, and forced herself to stand up.
“You’re a mess,” Kaminsky said with more honesty than tact as she stared into Charlie’s face. “Somebody close?”
“Just somebody I knew.” Moving with an effort, Charlie deliberately turned away from the grave and started walking toward the car. Weeping like a fool did no one any good, Garland least of all. Kaminsky fell in beside her. “It was a shock, is all.”
Kaminsky responded, but Charlie was never sure what she said. They got back in the car, and drove away. By the time they reached the airport and took off for Kill Devil Hills, it was raining. It was raining when they landed, too, big fat drops of water exploding all over them as they ran for the waiting car, but they made it back to the beach house before the worst of the storm broke.
And in all that time, the only thing Charlie could really focus on was trying not to think about that lonely grave turning to mud in the rain.
Central Command was still surrounded with cars and buzzing with activity, although it was after nine p.m. and rain was pouring down. As tired as Charlie was, as much as she wanted to call it a night, she knew there was too much at stake and no time to waste. If there was one sure thing, it was that unless he was stopped, the killer would strike again, soon. So she forced herself to get a grip, and walked into the RV with Kaminsky, both of them shaking off water droplets and shivering as the air-conditioning hit them, to find that the place was hopping. Tony and Crane were in the War Room, with Crane sitting in Kaminsky’s chair and Tony standing behind him. They were both focused on whatever was being displayed on the computer monitor. Charlie vaguely remembered Kaminsky calling Tony from the car to tell him they were back, and now as they entered both men looked at them without surprise.
“Any problems?” Tony asked, peering closely at Charlie as she stopped beside him. She had washed her face on the plane, and renewed her makeup, and in general made sure no trace of her tears remained visible. But still, to judge from the way Tony was looking at her, and then, questioningly, at Kaminsky, something about her expression must still be a little off.
Okay, so maybe I don’t have such a good poker face, Charlie thought wryly, shaking her head at Tony while waiting with resignation for Kaminsky to rat her out.
But Kaminsky didn’t say anything. Hoping to ward off any revelations, Charlie stepped into the breach.
“I’m almost positive there’s something in this bag that’s important to the investigation,” Charlie said. Having with Kaminsky’s help wrapped it in several layers of garbage bags earlier to protect it from the rain, Charlie handed the swaddled shopping bag to Tony. “I don’t know what it is, though.”
“We’re thinking maybe microscopic blood splatter on the clothes,” Kaminsky added. The look she flicked Charlie, combined with the fact that she had passed up the chance to tattle to Tony, made Charlie feel that Kaminsky was going to keep quiet about her meltdown in the cemetery. It was a woman-to-woman thing, a solidarity that was unexpected. Charlie recognized and appreciated it for what it was, and acknowledged it with a barely perceptible nod of thanks at Kaminsky. “Maybe it’s something from the unsub. Maybe he cut himself. Or … who knows? Probably everything in there ought to be gone over with a fine-tooth comb in the lab.”
Tony agreed, and disappeared with the bag. Kaminsky looked at Crane.
“So, did I miss anything?”
“Lots of stuff. You wearing flip-flops?” He frowned as he stared at Kaminsky’s feet. They looked small, pale, and a little plump in Charlie’s too-large flip-flops. Kaminsky had a nice pedicure, though.
“I broke a heel. These belong to Dr. Stone.”
Charlie sighed. She’d had a long day, she’d disgraced herself by crying like a little girl, she was damp and hungry and heartsick on so many levels she couldn’t even bring herself to try to count them all, and she was, at least for the moment, tired of being Dr. Stone.
“You know, you guys can call me Charlie.”
Kaminsky shot her a look. Forget solidarity. The attitude was back. “No, we can’t.”
Frowning, Charlie reflected attitude right back at her. “Why not?”
“ ’Cause then you’ll call me Lena, and him Buzz, and since you and Bartoli already have the Tony and Charlie thing going on, we’ll all be just too tight for words, and it will be unprofessional.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking for a while that the way you call me Crane and I call you Kaminsky is idiotic,” Crane said before Charlie could reply. “I’ve known you since you had braces. Lena.”
“And I’ve known you since you first started chasing after my sister, Crane. Which is at least one really good reason why neither one of us wants to go there.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. I—”
Crane broke off as Tony walked back into the room.
“Taylor’s running that bag over to the lab. If there’s anything useful in it, they’ll find it.” Tony must have felt a charge in the atmosphere, because he looked from Crane to Kaminsky to Charlie with a frown. “Something up?”
“No,” Kaminsky said. “Crane was just getting ready to show us something on the computer.”
Crane’s face darkened, but he swung around to face the monitor. “This.” He tapped it.
Tony shot Charlie a look. She shrugged, and then as Kaminsky leaned forward to look at the screen and ask, “What is it?” Charlie focused on it as well.
“All three primary victims attended a dance or a concert where there was dancing within a week of their deaths, just as Charlie predicted.” Crane’s shot across Kaminsky’s bow did not go unnoticed by Tony, w
ho looked at Charlie with raised brows. Behind the others’ backs, she shook her head at him: Don’t ask. “This is all the video footage we’ve been able to obtain from those dances. Right now I’m cross-checking to see who turns up in all three places.”
“You get any hits, Crane?” Kaminsky was dead tired, Charlie knew, but the way she said his name had real bite.
“So far, we’ve got seventeen males who were at all three dances.” Crane tapped a button and the screen filled with rows of tiny faces that looked like they had been culled from driver’s licenses. “Two of the band members, eight members of the security staff—who work for a company called Frigate Protection Services—three members of the audience, the lighting guy, the sound guy, a waiter, and a bartender. We’re running checks on all of them as we speak, but we’re concentrating especially on the security staff.”
“Why?” Kaminsky asked.
“Show them,” Tony directed. Crane did something with the mouse that caused the faces to disappear from the computer and a picture of a black, short-sleeved uniform to appear on the screen instead.
“Zoom in,” Tony said. Crane did, until the uniform’s breast pocket filled the screen.
Charlie caught her breath.
Embroidered on it in bright yellow thread was a logo: a bird in flight above the company name.
“It’s a frigate bird,” Tony said with satisfaction. “I don’t know for sure yet, but I’d say there’s a good possibility that the logo is on other items of clothing, too, like maybe a watch cap.”
“Oh, my God.” That was the best news Charlie had had for a while. “Did you try matching the men against the physical description and other parameters?”
“Working on it,” Crane said.
“We’re going to get him.” Tony’s smile was grim. “Hopefully before he can hurt anybody else.”
“Have you had a chance to cross-check these guys against the video that was shot at Jockey’s Ridge?” Charlie felt a shot of excitement. She knew the killer had been there, as surely as she knew anything.
“I’ve been over all the Jockey’s Ridge video, and I’ve run it through the facial recognition software,” Crane said. “None of them turn up.”
Charlie gave a quick frown. “Let me see.”
Tony intervened. “Tomorrow. I’m pulling the plug on you and Kaminsky for tonight.”
“What about me?” Crane groaned.
“Not you. You’re not done with the license plate checks.”
Kaminsky straightened and looked first at Tony, then at Charlie, to whom her subsequent remark was addressed. “Doesn’t sending the women off to bed while the men stay and work strike you as being just a little bit sexist?”
“A little bit,” Charlie agreed.
“Fine.” Tony threw up his hands. “You two want to stick around and help Crane? Have at it.”
The license plate checks turned up nothing that even smacked of being a smoking gun, and by the time they were finished with them, it was nearly eleven. Charlie, for one, was drooping with fatigue. The rain had turned into a full-blown thunderstorm as she, Kaminsky, and Crane—Tony had headed off to confer with Haney about something—dashed for the house, garbage bags held over their heads. Damp and exhausted, Charlie left Kaminsky and Crane to bicker in private as soon as they were inside, eager to get upstairs, shower, and fall into bed. But as she reached the door to her rooms, she hesitated, then acknowledged the truth: she had butterflies in her stomach.
Why? Because after her display in the graveyard, she was nervous as all get out at the prospect of coming face-to-face with Garland again.
But he wasn’t in the apartment. That was both a relief and a worry. She didn’t have to see him right away, which gave her time to further build up her defenses; but on the other hand, the thought that he might already have been sucked away into eternity without either of them having so much as the chance to say good-bye was a prospect that, to her consternation, filled her with dismay.
You’re worried you won’t have the chance to say good-bye to Garland? This isn’t good.
As she showered and then deliberately pulled on what was probably her least sexy sleepwear—silky pink pajama pants and a matching camisole, which at least covered her legs—in anticipation of Garland’s showing up eventually, Charlie reluctantly did what she absolutely hated to do: she turned all her years of education and training inward and psychoanalyzed herself.
Because she had Daddy issues as a result of having the opposite-gender parent absent for almost her entire life, and because she had trust issues as a result of having an alcoholic and totally unreliable primary parental figure, she somewhere deep inside believed herself unworthy of being loved. Therefore, she chose to enter into relationships that were programmed from their outset to fail. She sabotaged them herself, subconsciously but consistently, by choosing a male partner who for some reason or another was incapable of forming a stable and lasting partnership bond.
Doing a quick mental review of every halfway-serious romantic relationship she had ever had, Charlie saw that her analysis was right on the money: she set herself up for failure every time by choosing to fall for an unavailable male.
And here she was, doing it again in spades: on the one hand there was Tony, who seemed to be ideal boyfriend/lover/husband material; while on the other, there was Garland, who, for so many reasons she wasn’t even going to take the time to mentally list them, was anything but.
So which one was she desperately attracted to?
Garland, naturally.
Why? Because he was the ultimate unavailable male.
Diagnosis: You are one screwed-up chick.
Diagnosis of the diagnosis: Very professional.
Thoroughly out of patience with herself, Charlie got into bed, turned off the light, closed her eyes, lay there in the dark, and waited for exhaustion to kick in. She found herself listening for the TV. Opening her eyes in annoyance, she searched the shadows for the faintest shimmer that might indicate a ghostly presence. Shutting them again, she tossed, she turned, she cursed under her breath.
Then she got up.
Where is he?
She walked through the apartment, turning on lights as she went, and much as she hated herself for doing it, even tried very softly calling his name.
Nothing.
Remembering what he had said about being yanked back to her by the sound of running water, she tried calling his name while turning on the kitchen faucet.
Nothing.
Finally she tried calling not Garland, but Michael, while turning on the kitchen faucet.
Still nothing.
You are nuts.
She stomped back to bed. But even as she threw herself on the mattress and started to yank the covers over her head, a terrible thought had her sitting bolt upright again.
What if he’s here, but I can’t see him any longer?
Holly’s spirit had visited her, but she hadn’t been able to see it. She only had been able to see Holly in her dreams.
The spirits she saw were the recently violently departed.
Garland’s death wasn’t all that recent. He was getting close to the time when the Great Beyond tended to claim its own. He was getting close to the time when she probably wasn’t going to be able to see him anymore.
Her heart lurched. Her stomach twisted into a knot. Her palms went damp.
Charlie hated to even try to put a name to the emotion she was experiencing, but finally she did: panic.
Panic at the thought that, even if she had managed to bind him to the earth, even if he avoided being swept away into Spookville, soon she might never see Garland again.
She was shaken at how deep was her sense of loss.
How could I have let this happen? she asked herself, appalled.
Charlie got out of bed, roamed the apartment, ate some ice cream, watched some TV, and finally, when there was still no sign of him, got out her laptop and called up his file.
Need a reminder of why you sh
ouldn’t be falling for this guy?
It was all there, exactly as she remembered: unmarried, no known children, next of kin Jasmine Lipsitz, no relationship specified; eight years as a marine, honorable discharge, military record otherwise inaccessible; in civilian life, work as a mechanic, owned his own garage at the time of his arrest; an adult criminal record that consisted of a public intoxication charge, an assault and battery that was the result of a bar brawl, and seven hideous murders of young women.
Their pictures were part of the file.
Charlie couldn’t do more than glance at them. The faces sickened her. They made her go cold all over, made her shiver. She had to turn off her laptop.
How can I feel anything except loathing for their murderer?
You really think I’d do something like that to a woman? Charlie could almost hear Garland saying it. She could picture the revulsion in his face as he had looked down at Bayley Evans’ mutilated body.
He was a charismatic psychopath whose charm was his stock in trade. He was convincing, compelling, and calculating. A stone-cold killer. A monster who lured women to their deaths with his good looks.
Or else he was not.
The evidence of his guilt was overwhelming. It was all there in his file, ranging from the circumstantial to that absolute clincher, DNA. She would have to be the biggest fool on the planet to disregard it all.
I’ve done a lot of bad things, Doc. But I didn’t do that.
What was he going to do, admit it? Charlie demanded of herself with asperity. Of course he would deny everything. That’s what psychopaths do.
The thing was, she just couldn’t picture him killing those women.
But the sad truth was, that was probably because she didn’t want to.
Because she liked him. No, get real: because she burned for him.
If she never saw him again, she would be sorry for the rest of her life.
Where is he?
There was no answer to that. There was no answer to anything where he was concerned.
Eventually, Charlie fell asleep on the couch.
She was dreaming that she was fleeing desperately through a terrifying purple fog, when she saw Holly in that awful pink prom dress running ahead of her.
The Last Victim Page 29