Текст книги "The Last Victim"
Автор книги: Karen Robards
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
It was still being processed as a crime scene: technicians were busy everywhere Charlie looked. There was a lot of activity, a lot of noise, a lot to see and hear.
“We’re just going to take a look around,” Bartoli told the cop who admitted them, who clearly knew who Bartoli was. The cop was young, maybe late twenties. Military-cut dark hair, tall and thin in his dark blue uniform. “This is Dr. Stone. Dr. Stone, Officer Price.” Charlie nodded politely, but she didn’t say anything: she was too busy bracing herself for what lie ahead.
Price nodded. “Help yourself.”
“We think the perp came in through the garage,” Bartoli told Charlie as the cop moved away. “The side door has a cheap lock, and there’s some evidence that it may have been jimmied with a credit card.”
Busy looking around, Charlie merely nodded in reply.
They had entered through French doors that opened from the deck, directly into the kitchen, which was large and modern. Bartoli had indicated a white-painted door next to the refrigerator. The door stood ajar. Beyond it, Charlie saw at a glance, was the garage. Its light was on, and a red mini-van was parked inside. Some evidence that investigators had been at work in the garage was visible, but nothing drew her. Turning her head, she surveyed the downstairs. A dining area with a glass-topped table and four chairs adjoined the kitchen, and beyond that was a living room furnished with lots of white wicker. The floors were white tile, the walls soft blue, and the cushions on the wicker sported beach-y motifs. Nothing seemed out of place.
Nothing seemed wrong.
Charlie felt her stomach tighten.
Maybe there’s no one here. Maybe they’ve already crossed over.
“We should go upstairs first.” Bartoli was beside her, steering her toward the front of the house. Charlie saw the entrance hall, saw a flight of stairs leading up, and realized why the atmosphere down here felt relatively normal even as Bartoli spelled it out for her. “The victims were found in the bedrooms.”
Okay, then.
Taking a deep breath, Charlie allowed herself to be escorted to the stairs. Glancing into the front hall, she caught a glimpse of a technician dusting the doorjamb for fingerprints. As she walked up the stairs with Bartoli behind her, she could hear a TV playing somewhere on the second floor, and then as she neared the top it went silent. As they reached the upstairs landing a man of about fifty, with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a grim expression, walked out of what she presumed was one of the bedrooms. He moved with a slight limp, and had the burly, paunchy build of a former football player gone to seed. He was wearing civilian clothes—a navy sport coat and gray slacks—but no one would ever mistake him for anything but a cop.
“Bartoli,” he greeted them with a marked lack of enthusiasm. His eyes were impossible to read behind thick, black-framed glasses. “You back?”
“Haney,” Bartoli responded just as flatly. “This is Dr. Stone. Detective Lou Haney. Kill Devil Hills PD.”
“I’m in charge of the investigation,” Haney said. Then he shot Bartoli a look. “Or at least I was until the feds showed up.”
“We’re only here to help,” Bartoli replied.
Charlie would have offered Haney her hand, except her palm was damp with sweat. She nodded at Haney instead. He was looking her up and down, and from his expression he wasn’t real pleased with what he saw.
“This is your serial killer expert?” The look Haney shot Bartoli was scornful.
“That’s right, I am,” Charlie answered before Bartoli could reply. She was no stranger to having to defend her credentials. Her youth, looks, and gender tended to work against her being taken seriously, she knew. That’s why she was still letting Bartoli and the others address her as Dr. Stone instead of inviting them to call her Charlie. If she wanted them to give weight to what she had to say, she first had to have their respect.
“Hell’s bells,” Haney said.
“Good to meet you, too.” Charlie’s tone was cool.
“Anything new?” Bartoli asked. As Haney’s gaze shifted to him, Charlie glanced around. Her heart was picking up the pace, and she didn’t know if it was in dreadful anticipation or because at some deep, fundamental level she sensed a presence she would really rather not know about.
Haney shook his head. “We’re rerunning some tests. Guy had to leave something behind.”
“You’d think,” Bartoli replied as his hand moved to rest in the small of Charlie’s back, silently urging her forward.
But Charlie didn’t move, or at least not in the direction he obviously wanted her to take. She could once again hear the TV. Four doors opened off the spacious landing, and the sound was coming from the room on the far left. The one Haney had exited as she and Bartoli had reached the top of the stairs. Moving away from Bartoli’s would-be guiding hand, Charlie took a couple of tentative steps toward the sound.
Every sense she possessed seemed to quicken. She felt like a bird dog on alert.
“The master bedroom is over here. That’s where we probably want to start,” Bartoli said behind her, but Charlie barely registered the words.
“The TV …” Breaking off, she headed determinedly toward the room from which the sounds were emanating. Just inside the doorway, she paused. A glance showed her marine blue walls with a sailboat-themed wallpaper border at chair rail height. Glossy hardwood floors. A pair of twin beds with dark wood, ship’s wheel–style headboards, stripped of their mattresses. A matching dark wood chest with a small flat-screen TV on top of it. A tan corduroy armchair in a corner, facing the TV.
The TV was on. Some weird dragon-fantasy thing filled the screen.
A kid—the blond eleven-year-old from the autopsy photos—curled in the armchair, eyes fixed on the TV, a game controller clutched in both hands. Skinny and undersized, he was clad in soccer ball–dotted blue pajamas and had a determined expression on his face.
Charlie watched as he busily punched buttons on the controller.
“Damned TV keeps switching on by itself.” Haney’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with it.”
Even as Charlie gathered her wits enough to realize Bartoli was watching her closely, Haney brushed past her to walk over to the TV and turn it off, stabbing the button with a little more force than the action called for. The kid looked around then. His eyes widened as they fastened on something. Charlie didn’t think it was any of the three of them, or anything at all that was still real and present. His gaze seemed to fix just beyond her. For a second he simply stared. Then, face contorting in fear, he cast the controller aside, leaped to his feet, and fled toward a white-painted door in the wall. A closet, clearly. He grabbed the knob.…
Then disappeared. Gone, just like that. Not as much as a shimmer.
Charlie didn’t even have time to brace for the wave of nausea before it hit.
CHAPTER SIX
“Dr. Stone.” Bartoli’s hand curled around her upper arm. Charlie felt the warm strength of it against her chilled skin, glanced around to find his eyes on her face, and did her best to suck it up. So she’d seen a ghost, and now she wanted to hurl. Absent a convenient toilet and a little privacy, hurling wasn’t happening. And there didn’t seem to be a damned thing she could do about seeing ghosts. Sad as it was, it looked like that was her fricking fate.
What’s up? Bartoli’s eyes asked, but he didn’t say it. Maybe because Haney was watching them. Maybe because Bartoli knew what she would reply: Not a thing. After all, they’d had the equivalent of this conversation before.
“This was the boy’s room, right? Where was his body found?” Charlie strove to sound normal as she unobtrusively detached her arm from Bartoli’s hold. Her skin was cold and clammy; her pulse was jumping. As long as Bartoli was touching her, he was privy to proof positive that something in her world wasn’t all fine and dandy. It was always difficult, trying not to reveal what she saw. Which was one among a number of really excellent reasons she tried not to see anything everyone else didn’t see. Glancing around, she spotted the chalk outline between the beds on the hardwood floor, and had the answer to her question even before Haney moved to the foot of the nearest bed and pointed it out.
“Trevor was found right there,” Haney said.
Oh, God, I can’t think of the kid as Trevor.
There were bloodstains on the floor where Trev—the kid had died.
Charlie felt cold sweat breaking out around her hairline.
“We think he was asleep when the unsub attacked him,” Haney continued. “The amount of blood on the sheets leads us to believe he was stabbed in his bed, then either managed to get up before collapsing on the floor—or rolled or was pulled onto the floor, where he died.”
“Defensive wounds?” Bartoli asked.
Haney shook his head. “None. Two knife wounds to the chest. Either would have been fatal.”
“Where was the woman found?” Charlie asked as an excuse to turn away from the pathetically small outline on the floor, and was proud of how cool and steady her voice sounded. Inside, her stomach was roiling.
“Master bedroom,” Bartoli answered. “Husband, too.”
With Haney in the lead, they were all on their way out of the room when the TV came back on. A glance around told Charlie that the kid was once again ensconced in his chair, controller in hand, his thumbs as busy as the rest of him was still.
“Goddamn thing,” Haney muttered, abruptly changing directions to head for the TV. This time, after he turned it off, he yanked the cord out of the wall for good measure. “Driving me crazy,” he said shamefacedly as he turned to find both Charlie’s and Bartoli’s eyes on him.
Trev—the kid—continued to sit in the chair, his face a study in concentration as he worked the controller as avidly as if the game was still on. Which Charlie supposed it probably was, for him. The dimension he existed in was governed by an alternate reality that Charlie didn’t perfectly understand, but in it she was sure the video game still played. Certainly he worked the controller as if it did. He showed no evidence whatsoever of being aware that she, Bartoli, and Haney were in the room. Just like most people didn’t see ghosts, she had realized over the years that most ghosts didn’t see living people. Which had its good points and its bad.
“He’s just a little kid.” The words escaped her throat of their own volition. Impossible not to feel something for the murdered boy, no matter how hard she tried to remain detached. Damn it.
“We’re going to catch whoever did this,” Bartoli told her as Haney once again started moving toward the door.
“Fucking sick bastard.” Haney’s voice was hard with agreement.
Even as she and Bartoli followed Haney from the room, the kid got that terrified look on his face, jumped from the chair, and ran toward the closet again.
A loop was what she was seeing, Charlie realized. Trevor’s traumatized spirit was caught up in re-experiencing the last moments of his life over and over again.
A lump formed in Charlie’s throat. Goose bumps chased themselves over her skin.
Kid shouldn’t have died like that.
“The boy hid in the closet,” she said as she and the men crossed the landing toward another door. Haney was slightly in front, while Bartoli stayed beside her. “He was sitting in the chair playing a video game, heard or saw something that terrified him, jumped up and ran for the closet. Probably the killer found him in there. Either the boy tried to run for it when the door was opened, or the killer pulled him out. Either way, you should check for forensic evidence in the closet.”
Both men stopped walking to stare at her. The look Bartoli gave her was sharp with curiosity. Haney’s face creased into a frown.
“You got some basis for thinking that?” Haney inquired.
“It’s what I do,” Charlie replied. “Believe me, I’m not wrong.”
“I’d believe her,” Bartoli advised. “She’s the expert.”
“Yeah.” Despite the fact that his voice was heavy with skepticism, Haney turned away from them to walk to the top of the stairs. Cupping his hand around his mouth, he bellowed, “Baldwin!”
“Yeah, boss?” The reply from downstairs was faintly muffled.
“You and Rutledge get up here. Bring your stuff.”
Another answer floated up, followed a moment later by the thud of ascending footsteps. Charlie realized that a pair of hazmat-suit-wearing cops lugging bags of equipment were climbing the stairs to join them, that they were talking with Haney, that they were looking hard at her and talking some more before disappearing into the kid’s bedroom, but she was only peripherally aware of any of it.
That was because, through the master bedroom’s open doorway, Charlie was caught up in watching Julie Mead rise up from the far side of the stripped king-sized bed, then glide around it and float across the room toward her. Transfixed, Charlie saw that the woman was drenched in fresh blood. Whatever she was wearing—some sort of sleep shirt that ended just above her knees—was wet with it. Streaks of glistening scarlet matted her badly mussed, chin-length blond hair. Her throat was cut from ear to ear. It looked to have been freshly slashed, because blood still streamed from it, pouring down over her shoulders and chest, adding to the gore on her shirt. Her mouth worked. Her eyes were wide with horror—and then they fixed on Charlie.
She knows I can see her. An electric frisson of connection ran down Charlie’s spine. Her heart thumped. Her breath caught.
“You’ve got to help us,” the woman begged, flying toward her with her hands outstretched. “Please!”
Several things happened at once: Charlie felt another onslaught of nausea slam her. A terrible flashback to Diane Palmer’s murder all those years ago made her go weak at the knees. Even as she thought, They’re the same, a wave of freezing cold air blasted her as Julie Mead’s spirit reached her. The sheer force of emotion surrounding the spirit made Charlie take a couple of staggering steps backward.
She fetched up against Bartoli, who was standing behind her. His arm came around her waist.
“Are you all right?” Bartoli asked in her ear. Charlie heard him, felt the hard strength of his body, registered the steadying grip of his arm. She was able to do this because Julie Mead was no longer around to rivet her senses. As it had reached the threshold of the master bedroom, the specter had vanished into thin air.
Charlie found that she could breathe again.
“I’m going to be sick,” she said, because she was. There was no holding it in this time. She could see just a glimpse of the en suite bathroom off the master bedroom. “I’m sorry, excuse me, I have to—”
Breaking off because she really couldn’t say another word, she pulled free of Bartoli’s hold and darted into the master bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she locked it, then ran for the toilet.
She barely made it in time.
When she was finished, she flushed the toilet, rinsed her mouth, then walked on shaky legs back into the bedroom. She was sweaty and weak, and her head ached like someone was pounding on her skull with a hammer. What she wanted more than anything else in the whole wide world was to turn her back on the horror into which she had been plunged, whisk herself home to her safe little house in the mountains, and do her serial-killer-analyzing from a safe distance while pretending she knew no more about what happened after this life than … Bartoli, for example.
Oh, grow a pair. No one else here can do what you do.
Grimacing as she faced that inexorable truth, Charlie turned to the second reason she had locked herself in the bedroom. Chalk outlining a shape on the hardwood floor beside the bed showed where Julie Mead’s body had been found.
Knowing she didn’t have much time—Bartoli wouldn’t wait passively in the hall forever, and for all she knew, Haney and the others were now there, too, throwing a hissy fit because she’d locked them out—Charlie stood beside the outline and whispered, “Julie? Can you hear me? I’m here to help.”
Julie Mead materialized in front of her. The blood, the gore, the gaping wound in her throat were as real-looking and gruesome as if Charlie were seeing them in life. There was no trace of the meat-locker smell usually associated with a new kill, but the blood appeared so fresh that it almost seemed to steam in the chill of the air-conditioning. When the apparition reached out its hands in an attempt to clutch at her, it was all Charlie could do not to back away. The dead hands passed right through her flesh with a sensation that felt like a cold mist making contact with her skin. Even then, when every instinct she possessed shrieked at her to draw away, the anguish in the other woman’s eyes held her in place.
“My babies. Trevor. Bayley. Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it? Oh, please, you have to help me!”
Charlie steeled herself against the spirit’s energy. It was frantic and dark, filled with fear and horror at what had been done to her and hers. Charlie knew from experience that if she did not guard against it she would soon be overwhelmed with those emotions herself.
She kept her voice at a whisper, hoping it could not be heard beyond the door. “I’m going to do my best. You have to tell me who did this to you.”
Julie Mead wet her lips. “A man—it was dark—I couldn’t see. He—he hurt me. Cut me. I’m bleeding. Oh, God, I’m bleeding! Where’s Tom? Oh, where are my children?”
The anguish in her voice cut Charlie to the heart. Every instinct she possessed urged her to tell Julie Mead to look for the light and go into it, because once the woman did that her spirit’s suffering would be at an end. But as long as Bayley was missing, Julie Mead, in whatever form she now existed, was still needed here on earth.
“Julie,” Charlie whispered the woman’s name forcefully, hoping to keep her grounded in the present for long enough to provide what answers she could. “Where’s Bayley? Did you see what happened to Bayley?”
Julie Mead looked bewildered. “Bayley—Bayley’s asleep. Isn’t she?”
The bedroom doorknob rattled as someone tried to get in … or was warning that her time was almost up.
“Isn’t she?” Julie Mead’s voice went shrill. Her eyes began to dart around, and Charlie felt a change in her energy. “She came home. She went to bed. Bayley! Bayley!”
“Can you describe the man who attacked you?” Charlie tried her best to keep the spirit focused. Mindful of the possibility that she might be overheard, she kept her voice so low that it was scarcely louder than a breath even while trying to project calm insistence.
“I didn’t see him. I told you. He was strong. Tall. Oh, God, he has a knife!”
Her voice went shrill again on that last, and the abject fear in it told Charlie that Julie Mead was once again on the verge of getting caught up in reliving the nightmare of the attack.
“How old was he?”
“I told you I didn’t see him.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No. Nothing. I woke up—and he was stabbing Tom. Tom! Tom! My God, Tom’s dead!” The rising hysteria in Julie Mead’s voice made Charlie’s chest tighten. It seemed pretty clear from the widening of her eyes and flaring of her nostrils that the spirit was re-experiencing a sighting of her husband’s murdered body.
“What do you see? Anything about your attacker that might help us find him,” Charlie commanded urgently.
“I tore his glove—surgical glove. He wore surgical gloves. He has a heart—a red heart—on the back of his hand.” Julie Mead looked sharply around. “Oh, my God, no!” She vanished with a terrified shriek that made every tiny hair on Charlie’s body catapult upright.
Left alone with Julie Mead’s scream still ripping the air, which was made all the more terrible because no one else could hear it, Charlie had to take deep, steadying breaths to keep from screaming right along with her. Finally, when the last shivering note went silent, she was able to summon the fortitude to push the experience away, turn, and answer the now-determined knocking on the door.
Unlocking it, she pulled the door open to find herself practically nose to nose with Haney, whose fist was raised to pound again.
“What in the name of all that’s holy was that?” Haney verbally pounced before she could say anything, his fist lowering as he glared down at her. “You call that professional behavior? You just compromised a major crime scene.”
“I had to throw up. Would you rather I’d done it all over the floor? That would have compromised the crime scene.” Still battling the headache from hell, a chill that permeated her bones, and a pervasive, all-over feeling of utter bodily weakness, to say nothing of the wrenching sorrow for the victims that clawed at her heart, Charlie rallied to cover any suspicion that there was more to her bolt into the bedroom than that. She shot Haney a stick-it-where-the-sun-don’t-shine look to boot as she walked past him. Bartoli was right there, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for her. As soon as he saw her his arms dropped and he moved toward her. Something in his face as he looked at her told her that he wasn’t entirely satisfied with her version of what had gone down, but instead of piling on along with Haney, he shifted his eyes from her to clash with the cop’s.
“Back off, Haney. She didn’t compromise the crime scene any more than she would have done if we’d taken her in there.” Bartoli put himself between Charlie and the cop. Ordinarily Charlie didn’t need anyone springing to her defense, but at the moment she was feeling decidedly sub-par, so she appreciated any help she could get.
“She touched the knob. She touched the lock. She touched the goddamned toilet handle.” Haney practically bristled with indignation. “At a minimum.”
“So? If your people did their jobs, all those surfaces have been tested for fingerprints,” Bartoli countered. “I know our lab’s already working on the trace evidence that was recovered in there.”
“A killer of this type would wear gloves. Probably surgical gloves,” Charlie said, with Julie Mead’s words in mind. “I doubt you’ll find any fingerprints, although if the gloves were ripped it’s possible.”
Haney gave her a hard-eyed stare.
“Detective!” A shout-out from the kid’s room interrupted before he could say anything, making them all glance that way. “You want to come in here a minute?”
“Yeah,” Haney called back. With a dark look at Charlie and a glare for Bartoli, Haney growled, “She’s your expert. In the future, I suggest you keep her under control,” before heading that way.
“When they find forensic evidence in that closet, you can thank me,” Charlie called after him.
Haney replied with a dismissive wave of his hand before disappearing into the kid’s bedroom.
“Way to be tactful.” Bartoli gave her a faint, wry smile.
“I don’t think he likes me,” Charlie said, making an effort to lighten the atmosphere.
“I doubt I top his favorite person list, either. He’s one of those local cops who resent us being here. He thinks it’s his investigation, and we’re hijacking it. Happens sometimes. Plus, word is he suffers a lot of pain from his leg. Smashed it up pretty bad in a car accident years ago.” Bartoli slid a comprehensive look over her. “You sick or something? That’s the second time today that you’ve tossed your cookies. What’s up?”
She managed what she felt was a truly commendable casual shrug. “I’m thinking I might have a touch of food poisoning. Or the flu. Hard to say, really.”
“Yeah.” Bartoli’s eyes slid over her again. “You up to the girl’s bedroom?”
No was the honest answer. But it had to be done, so Charlie braced herself and nodded.
