Whisper of Evil tbscus-5

by Кей Хупер

  Whisper of Evil

  ( The Bishop Special Crimes Unit Series - 5 )

  Кей Хупер

  Someone is stalking the little town of Silence. Three victims have fallen to a killer's savage vengeance. Each of the dead men was a successful and respected member of the community — yet each also harbored a dark secret discovered only after his murder.

  Were their deaths the ultimate punishment for those secrets? Or something even more sinister? Nell Gallagher has come home to Silence more than a decade after leaving one dark night with her own painful secrets. Forced now by family duty to return, she has also come home to settle with the past.

  But past and present tangle in a murderer's vicious attacks, and to find the answers she needs, Nell must call on the psychic skills that drove her away years before. She must risk her own life and sanity, and regain the trust of the man she left behind so long ago. For the killer she seeks is seeking her, watching her every move, preying upon her every vulnerability — and already so close she'll never see death coming . . .

  This one is for Mama

  PROLOGUE

  MAY…12 YEARS AGO

  She didn't know which was worse, the nausea or the terror. One threatened to choke her, while the other was a cold ache deeper than her bones.

  There was so much blood.

  How could one body hold so much blood?

  She looked down and saw a ribbon of scarlet reaching slowly across the wooden floor for the toe of her pretty shoe. The floor was old and out of level, just enough. Just enough. That was the logical reason, of course, the mind's understanding that the blood wasn't actually reaching out for her, it was just flowing along the line of least resistance, downhill, and she happened to be in the path.

  Her mind knew that.

  But terror pushed aside logic and all understanding. The blood was a crimson finger curling toward her, searching for her, slow, accusing. It wanted to touch her, wanted to… mark her.

  I did it. I did this.

  The words echoed in her head as she stared at the accusing finger of blood. It was almost hypnotic, watching the blood inch toward her, waiting for it to touch her. It was almost preferable to looking at what else was in the room.

  She moved before the blood reached her, stepping to one side in a slow, jerky motion. Escaping. And made herself look up, look at the room. Look at it.

  The room itself was a shambles. Overturned furniture with ripped fabric and scattered cushions, ancient newspapers and musty-smelling magazines tossed about, the few rag rugs on the floor bunched up or draped absurdly across an upended table. And everywhere, crimson smears darkening and turning rusty as they dried.

  There was a red, desperate handprint on the wall near where the phone was supposed to be, though that instrument had been ripped from the wall and now lay in an impotent tangle near the fireplace. The pale curtains on the front window also bore a bloody handprint, and the rod had been pulled loose at one side, obviously from the futile attempt to signal for help or even to escape.

  There had been no help, no escape.

  No escape.

  Death hadn't come quickly. There were so many stab wounds, most of them shallow. Painful, but not fatal — at least not immediately. The once-white shirt was almost completely red, glistening here and there where the blood was still wet, darkened to a rusty crimson where it had begun to dry. And the garment was ripped and torn, like the pants, both riddled with those knife slashes of fury.

  Rage. So much rage.

  She heard a whimpering sound, and for an instant the hairs on the back of her neck rose in the terrifying idea that the dead could make pitiful noises like that. But then she realized the sound came from her own throat, from deep inside where there was no language, only primitive horror.

  My fault. My fault. I did it.

  That's what her mind kept saying, over and over, dully, like a litany, while from the depths of her soul that wordless whimper quavered like some creature lost and in pain.

  She looked around almost blindly, trying not to see the blood, the rage, and the hate, and a glint of something metallic abruptly caught her eye. She focused on that. Silver. A silver chain with a heart-shaped locket lying near the body, just inches from bloodstained fingers.

  It took her several long seconds to recognize and understand what she was seeing. Silver chain. Locket.

  Silver chain.

  Locket.

  "No," she whispered.

  Numbly, she looked down again and saw the finger of blood turn suddenly, curl toward her with determination, and before she could move, it touched the pale toe of her party shoe. The thin material soaked up the blood quickly, the scarlet stain spreading, wrapping her shrinking flesh.

  My fault. My fault.

  I did it.

  She moaned and lifted shaking hands to cover her face, unable to watch an instant longer. Waiting for the blood to cover her foot and then begin to inch up her bare leg, defying gravity in its determination to swallow her.

  She waited for that cold, wet sensation. But it never came. The silence closed over her, thick and curiously muffled, the way a snowy morning sounded when the earth was insulated by inches of the white stuff. She realized she was listening intently, waiting for… something.

  It was worse, not seeing. Her imagination saw more than the blood reaching out for her, saw a bloody hand, an accusing face streaked with scarlet lifting toward her, suffering eyes filled with condemnation —

  She gasped and jerked her hands away from her face.

  There was no body.

  No blood.

  No violently disturbed room.

  She stared around at a room that looked as it always did: spare and a little shabby, the floral fabrics on the couch and at the windows faded by time and the sun, the rag rugs a cheerful attempt to bring in color and hide the bad places on the old wooden floor.

  She looked down to find her party shoe pristine, not marked by blood or even dirt, because shed been so careful, so determined to look her best tonight. To be perfect.

  Very slowly, she backed out of the house. She gave the undisturbed room another long look, then pulled the door closed with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking. She stood on the porch, staring at the door, and slowly the whimper deep in her throat bubbled into a laugh.

  Once it started, she couldn't stop it. Like something with a life of its own, it flowed out of her, the sound of it high, so high she was sure it would fall to the hard wooden porch and break into a million pieces any second. She clapped her hand over her mouth and still the laughter bubbled out, until her throat hurt, until the sound of it frightened her almost more than the inexplicable scene she had witnessed.

  Until, finally, it died away.

  Her hand fell limply to her side, and she heard herself murmur hoarsely, "God help me."

  MARCH…PRESENT DAY

  It was late when George Caldwell got to bed, mostly because he'd been surfing the Internet looking for the best travel deals. He was planning a trip to Hawaii.

  He was always planning something. He loved lists, loved managing details, loved making plans. Sometimes the event itself was less fun than planning it. Well, most of the time, if he was honest about it. But not this time. This was going to be the trip of a lifetime, that was the plan.

  When the phone rang, he answered it from the depths of what had been a pleasant dream. "Yeah, what?"

  "You'll pay."

  Caldwell fumbled for the lamp on his nightstand and blinked when the light came on and nearly blinded him. It was a moment before he could focus on the clock well enough to see that it was two o'clock. In the morning.

  He pushed the covers aside and sat up. "Who is this?" he demanded indignantly.
>
  "You'll pay."

  It was a low voice, a whisper really, without identifying characteristics; he couldn't even tell if he was speaking to a man or a woman.

  "What are you talking about? Pay for what? Who the hell is this?"

  "You'll pay," the caller breathed a final time, then hung up softly.

  Caldwell held the receiver away from his ear and stared at it for a moment, then slowly hung up the phone.

  Pay? Pay for what, for Christ's sake?

  He wanted to laugh. Tried to. Just some stupid kid, probably, or a crank caller old enough to know better. Instead of asking if his refrigerator was running, it was just a different idiotic question, that was all it was.

  That was all.

  Still, Caldwell wasted a minute wondering who he'd pissed off lately. Nobody sprang immediately to mind, and he shrugged as he got back into bed and turned off the lamp.

  Just some stupid kid, that's all.

  That's all it was.

  He put it out of his mind and eventually went back to sleep, dreaming once again about Hawaii, about tropical beaches and white sands and clear blue water.

  George Caldwell had plans.

  He hadn't planned on dying.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TUESDAY, MARCH

  Whoever had dubbed the town Silence must have gotten a laugh out of it, Nell thought as she closed the door of her Jeep and stood on the curb beside the vehicle. For a relatively small town, it was not what anyone would have called peaceful even on an average day; on this mild weekday in late March, at least three school groups appeared to be trying to raise money for something or other with loud and cheerful car washes in two small parking lots and a bake sale going on in the grassy town square. And there were plenty of willing customers for the kids, even with building clouds promising a storm later on.

  Nell hunched her shoulders and slid her cold hands into the pockets of her jacket. Her restless gaze warily scanned the area, studying the occasional face even as she listened to snatches of conversation as people walked past her. Calm faces, innocuous talk. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  It didn't look or sound like a town in trouble.

  Nell glanced through the window of her Jeep at the newspaper folded on the passenger seat; there hadn't been much in yesterday's local daily to indicate trouble. Not much, but definitely hints, especially for anyone who knew how to read between the lines.

  Not far from where she stood was a newspaper vendor selling today's edition, and she could easily make out the headline announcing the town council's decision to acquire property on which to build a new middle school. There was, as far as she could see, no mention on the front page of anything of greater importance than that.

  Nell walked over to buy herself a paper and returned to stand beside her Jeep as she quickly scanned the three thin sections. She found it where she expected to find it, among the obituaries.

  GEORGE THOMAS CALDWELL,

  UNEXPECTEDLY, AT HOME.

  There was more, of course. A long list of accomplishments for the relatively young man, local and state honors, business accolades. He had been very successful, George Caldwell, and unusually well-liked for a man in his position.

  But it was the unexpectedly Nell couldn't get past. Someone's idea of a joke in very poor taste? Or was the sheriff's department refusing to confirm media speculation of only a day or so ago about the violent cause of George Caldwell's death?

  Unexpected. Oh, yeah. Murder usually was.

  "Jesus. Nell."

  She refolded the newspaper methodically and tucked it under her arm as she turned to face him. It was easy to keep her expression unrevealing, her voice steady. She'd had a lot of practice — and this was one meeting she had been ready for.

  "Hello, Max."

  Standing no more than an arm's length away, Max Tanner looked at her, she decided, rather the way he'd look at something distasteful he discovered on the bottom of his shoe. Hardly surprising, she supposed.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was just uneven enough to make it obvious he couldn't sound as impersonal and indifferent as he wanted to.

  "I could say I was just passing through."

  "You could. What's the truth?"

  Nell shrugged, keeping the gesture casual. "I imagine you can guess. The will's finally through probate, so there's a lot I have to do. Go through things, clear out the house, arrange to sell it. If that's what I end up doing, of course."

  "You mean you're not sure?"

  "About selling out?" Nell allowed her mouth to curve in a wry smile. "I've had a few doubts."

  "Banish them," he said tightly. "You don't belong here, Nell. You never did."

  She pretended that didn't hurt. "Well, we agree on that much. Still, people change, especially in — what? — a dozen years? Maybe I could learn to belong."

  He laughed shortly. "Yeah? Why would you want to? What could there possibly be in this pissant little town to interest you?"

  Nell had learned patience in those dozen years, and caution. So all she said in response to that harsh question was a mild "Maybe nothing. We'll see."

  Max drew a breath and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, gazing off toward the center of town as if the bake sale going on there fascinated him.

  While he was deciding what to say next, Nell studied him. He hadn't changed much, she thought. Older, of course. Physically more powerful now in his mid-thirties; he probably still ran, still practiced the martial arts that had been a lifelong interest. In addition, of course, to the daily physical labors of a cattle rancher. Whatever he was doing, it was certainly keeping him in excellent shape.

  His lean face was a bit more lived-in than it had been, but just as with so many really good-looking men, the almost-too-pretty features of youth were maturing with age into genuine and striking male beauty — beauty that was hardly spoiled at all by the thin, grim line of his mouth. The passage of the years had barely marked that face in any negative way. There might have been a few threads of silver in the dark hair at his temples, and she didn't remember the laugh lines at the corners of his heavy-lidded brown eyes...

  Bedroom eyes. He'd been known for them all through school, for bedroom eyes and a hot temper, both gifts from a Creole grandmother. Maturity had done nothing to dampen the smoldering heat lurking in those dark eyes; she wondered if it had taught him to control the temper.

  It had certainly taught her to control hers.

  "You've got a hell of a nerve, I'll say that for you," he said finally, that intense gaze returning to her face.

  "Because I came back? You must have known I would. With Hailey gone, there was no one else to… take care of things."

  "You didn't come back for the funeral."

  "No." She offered no explanation, no defense.

  His mouth tightened even more. "Most people around here said you wouldn't."

  "What did you say?" She asked because she had to.

  "I was a fool. I said you would."

  "Sorry to disappoint you."

  Max shook his head once, an almost violent negation, and his voice was hard. "You can't disappoint me, Nell. I lost ten bucks on a bet, that's all."

  Nell didn't know what she would have said to that, but she was saved from replying when an astonished female voice exclaimed her name.

  "Nell Gallagher? My God, is that you?"

  Nell half turned and managed a faint smile for the stunning redhead hurrying toward her. "It's me, Shelby."

  Shelby Theriot shook her head and repeated, "My God," as she joined them beside Nell's car. For a moment, it seemed she would throw her arms around Nell in an exuberant hug, but in the end she just grinned. "I thought you'd probably show up here eventually, what with the house and everything to take care of, but I guess I figured it'd be later, maybe summer or something, though I don't know why. Hey, Max."

  "Hey, Shelby." He stood there with his hands in his pockets, expressionless now, dark eyes flicking back and fort
h between the two women.

  Nell kept her own gaze on Shelby's glowing face. "I thought about waiting until fall or until storm season was mostly past," she said easily, "but it worked out that I had some time now before beginning a new job, so I came on down."

  "Down from where?" Shelby demanded. "Last we heard, you were out west somewhere."

  "Heard from Hailey?"

  "Yeah. She said you were — well, I think the word she used was entangled, with some guy in Los Angeles. Or maybe it was Las Vegas. Anyway, out west somewhere. And that you were taking college courses at night. At least, I think that's what she said."

  Rather than commenting on the information, Nell merely said, "I live in D.C. now."

  "Did you ever get married? Hailey said you came close once or twice."

  "No. I never married."

  Shelby grimaced. "Me either. Matter of fact, half our graduating class seems to be single these days, even though most of us have hit thirty. Depressing, isn't it?"

  "Maybe some of us are better off alone," Nell offered, keeping her tone light.

  "I think there's something in the water," Shelby said darkly. "Honest, Nell, this is getting to be a weird place. Have you heard about the murders?"

  Nell lifted an eyebrow. "Murders?"

  "Yeah. Four so far, if you count George Caldwell — remember him, Nell? 'Course, the sheriff hasn't been eager to put this latest death on the list with the others, but —"

  Max cut her off to say, "We've had killings here before, Shelby, just like any other town."

  "Not like these," Shelby insisted. "People around here get themselves killed, the reason why is generally pretty obvious, just like who the killer is. No locked-room mysteries or other baffling whodunits, not in Silence. But these deaths? All fine, upstanding men of the town with reputations the next best thing to lily-white, then they're murdered and all their nasty secrets come spilling out like a dam broke wide open."

  "Secrets?" Nell asked curiously.

  "I'll say. Adultery, embezzlement, gambling, pornography — you name it, we've had it. It's been a regular Peyton Place around here. We haven't heard anything about poor George's secrets so far, but it's early days yet. The other three, their secrets became public knowledge within a couple of weeks of their deaths. So I'm afraid it's just a matter of time until we find out more about George than we ever wanted to know."