by Kay Hooper
Was she simply disturbed by being in this house again after so many years? Was that what disrupted her sleep on this quiet, peaceful night? Or was her sleeping mind somehow aware of him? Could she sense him?
Hear him?
He felt a moment of uneasiness, even fear, but then the possibilities occurred to him, and they were too fascinating and seductive to ignore.
He focused his concentration and gathered enough energy to whisper her name, watching intently to gauge her reaction. He was almost certain there was a reaction, that another frown flitted across her face and there was a break in the evenness of her breathing.
Ah.
How receptive would she be?
How far could he go?
After considering briefly, he whispered again, this time telling Nell to turn over in bed. He repeated the command, soft but insistent, willing her to obey. There was another catch in her breathing, another brief frown, and then she turned over.
A very minor success, he thought, but a good indication of control. A good beginning. Another tool he could no doubt find a use for. Yes, definitely.
He was going to have to think about this. Practice a bit more until his control over her improved.
Smiling, he left Nell to her disturbed dreams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FRIDAY, MARCH 24
Ethan Cole closed the file folder and scowled across his desk at the small group assembled uncomfortably in several straight-backed visitor’s chairs. “So what’re you telling me?”
Justin Byers glanced at the other two CID detectives—strictly speaking, only the three of them made up the entire Criminal Investigation Division for the Lacombe Parish sheriff’s department, though the uniformed deputies helped out when necessary—and realized glumly that he was still expected to be spokesman. Whether he liked it or not.
“We’re telling you that we don’t have much more this week than we had last week,” he replied matter-of-factly. “We know all four of the victims received a phone call the night before they were killed, the calls placed from different pay phones around town. So far, we haven’t been able to find any witnesses who noticed anyone placing the calls. Other than that, there’s nothing new to report.”
If anything, the sheriff’s scowl deepened. “Any of George Caldwell’s secrets come to light yet?”
Lying without a blink, Justin said, “Not so far.”
“Shit. I hate waiting for that.”
The lone female detective, Kelly Rankin, offered, “Like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Unnerving.” She shook her head and absently pushed a wayward strand of pale hair off her face.
Ethan half nodded in agreement. “I’ll say. Look, do we have any idea at all whether this bastard is finished with his little rampage?”
Justin said, “There’s just no way to know that. Maybe he had only four names on his hit list, or maybe he’s got a dozen. So far, we haven’t found the common denominator—not a single person with any kind of a grudge that we can connect to all four men.”
Kelly spoke up again, saying, “Granted, we haven’t yet sifted through the victims’ secret lives thoroughly enough to find everything there is to find; these guys kept their secret sins very well hidden. And those sins are all so ... varied. I mean, we’ve got pornography, gambling, embezzlement—and God only knows what Caldwell’s secret will be.”
“All different,” Ethan mused.
She nodded, her blue eyes intent. “Yeah. So maybe we’re wasting time combing through the secrets looking for a common denominator, one enemy they all made.”
Justin said, “Maybe the secrets are the common denominator.”
The third CID detective, Matthew Thorton, agreed with a nod. He looked tired, which wasn’t really surprising, his gray eyes bloodshot and graying dark hair somewhat rumpled. “That really is the only thing we’re sure of so far—that at least the first three victims led some kind of a secret life. So maybe what we’ve got here is a killer whose only goal is to expose secrets. Maybe none of them did anything to him personally. Maybe he just plain doesn’t like people pretending to be something they aren’t.”
“Which, if true, is not going to make our jobs any easier,” Justin finished with a sigh. “Forget even trying to figure out who the next victim might be. And if this guy doesn’t have a tangible connection to the victims, if there’s no trail there for us to find, then we’ve got about zero chance of catching him, unless he makes a mistake.”
The sheriff eyed him somewhat grimly. “That’s a pretty defeatist attitude.”
“Realistic. Serial killers with no connection to their victims get caught when they fuck up. Period.” Catching himself belatedly, he added in a much more diffident tone, “At least everything I’ve read on the subject says so.”
After a long moment, Ethan leaned his chair back until it creaked, and shook his head. “I’m still not convinced we’ve only got one killer here. For one thing, we’ve got four distinctly different causes of death: poison, drowning, electrocution, and gunshot. How often does a single killer vary his methods over that wide a range?”
“Not often,” Justin admitted. “But it happens. Especially if one of his goals is to throw off the police.”
“Maybe. But unless you people can uncover George Caldwell’s secret life—assuming he had one—or discover some other connection to the first three victims, then I’m inclined to consider his murder as a single crime separate from the other three.”
That surprised Justin somewhat. If Ethan Cole was indeed one of Caldwell’s blackmail victims, would he be prodding his investigators to look for a motive specific only to that murder? Or was he convinced such a motive would both implicate someone else and surface before anyone could find evidence of Caldwell’s secret vice?
Or was Justin totally wrong about the sheriff, seeing reluctance or interference in an investigation when none was actually there?
Kelly said, “He got a phone call from a pay phone just like the others the night before he was killed, that’s certain.” It wasn’t quite an objection, merely a very careful reminder.
“People get calls from pay phones. It happens.”
Justin exchanged glances with the other two, then said, “Well, we’re bound to find the truth if we dig deep enough. In any case, there is one thing that sets Caldwell’s murder apart from the others. He’s the only one of the four who we can be reasonably sure saw his killer.”
Obviously musing aloud, Kelly said, “I wonder if that means something. If the Caldwell murder is part of the series, then why was he killed so . . . directly? Face-to-face, I mean.”
Justin said, “We’re assuming that Luke Ferrier was either rendered unconscious by some drug while he was driving, and so accidentally drove into the water, or else was rendered unconscious beforehand, put into his car, and the car pointed at that bayou, right? That he probably had no opportunity to see his killer.”
Kelly frowned at him. “Well, I’m assuming. There was no sign of a struggle, nothing to indicate that Ferrier put up any kind of a fight. So it only makes sense that either it was suicide or else he was out cold and couldn’t struggle. And since he’d clearly been making plans to leave Silence, I’m not buying the suicide theory.”
Justin nodded. “Okay. But if we assume the killer was there with Ferrier even if he wasn’t seen, that he put the man in his car and pointed it at the bayou, then the only murder of the four that really sticks out in terms of how it was executed is the first one—the murder of Peter Lynch.”
“The killer didn’t see him die,” Ethan realized. “If, that is, the poison was mixed in with his vitamins at some earlier point so there was no telling when he’d get to those particular pills.”
“Not that we’re certain it was.” Justin sighed. “We’re not certain of a hell of a lot.”
Kelly shook her head. “Is anybody else getting the feeling this guy is just playing with us?”
“I’ve got that feeling,” Matt said, dispirited.
“A direct challenge to us?” Justin considered, then shrugged. “Maybe. But it feels to me like he’s got his game plan all laid out and means to stick to it, no matter what we do. Like each murder is designed as part of the victim’s punishment. Peter Lynch, the health nut, is poisoned; Luke Ferrier, so proud of his college swimming trophies, is drowned; Randal Patterson, famous for his personal vanity, is electrocuted in his tub; and George Caldwell, who did community ads and school presentations on gun safety and owned an extensive collection of firearms, is shot in the head.”
Kelly blinked at him. “Jesus, you’re right. I never thought about it that way, but . . . it all fits.”
Ethan was also eyeing him, and very thoughtfully.
As offhandedly as possible, Justin said, “It may fit, but it’s just another theory and it doesn’t help us a damned bit as far as I can see. We’re still no closer to being able to either I.D. this guy or predict his next move or his next victim.”
“But you think he’s not done,” Ethan said.
“I think it would be a mistake for us to assume that. Because even if his personal hit list had only four names on it, the truth is, he’s getting away with murder—so far, at least. And whatever his reasons were for starting all this, success can only encourage him. If he’s bent on punishing the wicked, the fact that we haven’t been able to stop him is bound to encourage him to keep right on doing it. He might even decide he’s been chosen by God to do just that. And we all know that if you look for wickedness, even in a nice little town like Silence, you’re bound to find it.”
“Shit,” Ethan said. He sighed. “Okay, people— whether Caldwell’s murder is part of the rest or not is something we need to know, and pronto. Find out.”
Carefully neutral, Justin said, “It might be a good idea to talk to his widow. I know the timing’s lousy, but—”
The sheriff swore again, but under his breath. “Do it. Talk to anybody you need to talk to, but find the truth.”
“No matter what that is?” Justin asked.
“No matter what.”
“You see what I mean?” Shelby indicated the photo she’d just placed on the butcher-block table in Nell’s kitchen. “I got a couple of other shots of you, but this was the only one where something I couldn’t explain showed up. Definitely what I’d call weird.”
Nell bent over the picture, frowning. The word she would have picked to describe it was unsettling. To see herself walking down the courthouse steps, completely unaware of the shadow looming over her ... She felt a little chill crawl slowly up her spine. The sense she’d had of being watched was beginning to feel like a lot more than nerves at being back home again.
She said, “And there’s nothing you can find to account for it? It isn’t just a shadow of something, some object, outside the frame, or a problem with the lens, or—”
Shelby shook her head, bright-eyed. “Nope. I’ve considered every possibility that might account for it, and none of them fits. That shadow was not visible to the naked eye—only the eye of the camera. And it is definitely there. So unless you believe in ghosts ... Do you, by the way?”
Nell smiled slightly without looking up. “As a matter of fact, I do. But according to everything I’ve heard on the subject, it’s rare to find photographic evidence of a ghost outside in the open. Not unheard of, mind you, but rare.”
“The scale’s wrong too,” Shelby said. “I mean, if we’re talking the ghost of your average human being. My estimate is that the shadow is about seven feet tall. Or long. Whatever.”
Nell traced that threatening shape with a finger, then sat back with a sigh, trying not to make it obvious that the slow chill was leaving icy tracks up and down her spine as if it meant to stay awhile. “And it’s on the negative too?”
“Yeah.” Shelby sipped her coffee, watching the other woman with those bright, speculative eyes. “This happened to be the only shot I took of you yesterday, so I have no way of knowing if the shadow was . . . following you around. Like Max was.”
“Max I can handle,” Nell said lightly.
“Can you?”
“You don’t think so?”
Slowly now, Shelby said, “I think you and Max have a lot of history between you. And probably quite a few unanswered questions. But, Nell, what can be excused, even forgiven, of a seventeen-year-old girl isn’t so easy to overlook in a woman pushing thirty. And Max isn’t twenty-two anymore, forced by a very young girlfriend and her ... unusual family to keep his distance and maybe not ask too many questions.”
More briskly, Shelby added, “Of course, there were things he had to ask when you ran off. And since you weren’t around for him to ask ... From what I heard, he confronted your father that night. Did you know?”
“No.” Nell refused to ask for more information about that, and a part of her hoped Shelby wouldn’t offer it. But that was hardly Shelby’s style.
“Max has never been one to complain publicly or tell his business to other people, we both know that. So everything I heard was second- or thirdhand. But my own father told my mother that Adam Gallagher bragged about how he’d kicked Max Tanner down his front steps. Literally.”
Nell winced.
Watching her, Shelby said, “My own feeling is that Max wouldn’t have fought back, not against your father, not if he couldn’t be sure what had made you run away like that. He might have a hell of a temper, but Max doesn’t strike out blindly. Maybe he even thought it was his fault, that he’d done something to drive you away. I know your father always claimed he didn’t know why you’d run and blamed Max for it.”
“It wasn’t Max.”
“No. I never thought it was. But some did, Nell. There were lots of theories, everything from date rape or an unplanned pregnancy to the idea that you found yourself caught between two domineering men and couldn’t take it anymore.”
Rather than answer the implied question of what had actually happened, Nell merely said, “It sounds like Max has . . . every right to be bitter.”
“Yeah. But there he is.” Shelby tapped the photograph with a finger, smiling faintly. “Couple of days after you’re back in town, he’s following you, maybe even watching over you. I guess he’s the forgiving sort.”
Again, Nell didn’t answer the implied question of why Max might believe she could be in any kind of danger. “I guess he is. Or maybe he just wants a few answers.”
“Maybe. And maybe you can handle him—at least this time around. But I’d be careful if I were you, Nell. Like I said, he isn’t twenty-two anymore. And whatever he was twelve years ago, I don’t think he’s a man to be left behind now.”
“He never was,” Nell murmured. “Some things stay with you no matter how far you run.” Before Shelby could pounce on that, she added in a stronger voice, “So maybe this ... shadow ... is following me, or maybe I just happened to pass by it yesterday. An old courthouse like this one is at least as likely as any other old building to house ghosts, I’d say.”
“And the jail used to be in the basement,” Shelby reminded her, accepting the change of subject without a blink. “I seem to recall at least one old story about an unjustly accused man committing suicide there. Aren’t wrongful deaths supposed to be more likely to—inspire? create?—spirits?”
Nell dredged through the bits of knowledge and information her mind had absorbed in recent years. “Wrongful deaths. Sudden or violent deaths. Or people with some kind of unfinished work they desperately want to complete. At least, I think those are the most likely candidates to stay and make their presence felt rather than move on.”
Shelby pursed her lips thoughtfully. “So this is just a ghost hanging around the courthouse, is that what we’re saying?”
“Could be.”
“Mmm. And are ghosts like that prone to loom over passersby in a threatening manner?”
“I’m not an expert, Shelby.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You don’t have a crystal ball?”
&
nbsp; “I’m afraid not.”
“No tarot cards?”
Beginning to smile, Nell answered, “Sorry.”
“Well,” Shelby said in mock disgust, “of all the disappointments. And here I was expecting wild and mystical things of our returning witch.”
“Yeah, Max told me that was the general attitude.”
Shelby grinned at her. “Don’t tell me you thought this town might have changed. Oh, no. Still narrow-minded and frightened of anything perceived to be too different, that’s Silence. Or most of Silence, anyway.”
“I’m surprised you choose to stay here,” Nell offered.
“Are you? It’s not so surprising, really. I’m perceived to be different—but not too different to present a threat. I like it here, all things considered.” She cocked her head to one side like an inquisitive bird. “What about you? Any yearnings to stay put now that you’re back home?”
“I’ve thought about it once or twice.” Nell shrugged. “But I don’t much like knowing I frighten people. Even ignorant people, afraid I’ll put a curse on them or something.”
“But you are psychic,” Shelby said matter-of-factly.
In the same tone, Nell said, “Lots of people are psychic.”
“I’m not.”
Nell laughed under her breath. “Has it occurred to you that this shadow being visible might have had nothing to do with me and everything to do with you?”
Shelby frowned briefly, then shook her head. “No, because if that were so, I’d have seen something like it show up in my pictures long before now.”
“Maybe. But psychic ability isn’t always obvious from childhood, you know. Sometimes it . . . appears . . . fully blown in adulthood.”
“Really?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Appears out of nowhere?”
Nell hesitated, then said, “Well, there’s usually a trigger. A shock or some other kind of trauma.”
“I haven’t had anything like that,” Shelby said, more disappointment than relief evident in her voice. “I’ve had a pretty boring and uneventful life, on the whole. And since this hasn’t happened before, I think we can safely assume this shadow appeared on the picture because you were in it, not because I took it.”