Текст книги "The Last Victim"

Автор книги: Karen Robards

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the end, there wasn’t anything to see. Just a small bedroom with a stripped double bed. Pale blue walls, white wicker headboard and chest. No bloodstains, no sign of a struggle. Clothes and other belongings already carted away by the FBI. Since the house was a vacation rental, Charlie wouldn’t have expected to find anything of Bayley Evans’ personality in the room, and she didn’t. What she also didn’t find was Bayley Evans’ spirit.

Which didn’t necessarily mean that the girl was still alive, although Charlie hoped it was the case. Charlie hadn’t seen Tom Mead’s spirit, either, and he was definitely dead. Some souls, no matter how violently they had died, crossed over peacefully without lingering. Although it was always possible that Tom Mead’s spirit was still earthbound and was just not attached to anything in the house. In her experience, spirits forcefully ripped from their bodies were unpredictable in what they attached to. She’d encountered one attached to a neighbor’s cat.

“Come on, let’s go,” Bartoli said as they emerged from the bedroom. His eyes slid over her, the expression in them making Charlie question what she looked like. If the way she felt was any indication, she was as white as Wonder bread, huge-eyed, and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. Chalk it up to meet-the-ghosts anxiety. Although, of course, he had no way of knowing that. “Time to wrap it up for the night.”

Charlie wasn’t sorry to precede him down the stairs. She’d had the day from hell several times over, and right now what she needed was to put as much distance between herself and the spirit world as she could.

There was just one problem with that.

“Bayley Evans is still out there.” Her voice was flat as she spoke over her shoulder to Bartoli, who followed her out the French doors. Letting herself think about what might be happening to the girl was the worst thing she could do, Charlie knew. If she did, she would devolve into a mass of quivering despair, which would do no one any good. As difficult as it was, she had to stay strong, had to stay focused, had to keep the horror at arm’s length. It was the only way she could do her job.

Anything else was counterproductive.

This time, when the brisk sea breeze hit her, she shivered like it was an arctic blast. She was glad for her jacket. Sliding it on as she walked across the deck and down the steps to the walkway below, she was still freezing as she buttoned it up and had to fold her arms over her chest in an effort to get warm. Everywhere she looked, the night was dark and forbidding. The beach was deserted, the sea oats blew almost double, the tide rolled in with a crash, and the weathered planks beneath her feet seemed to stretch out endlessly into the shadows. Even the stars seemed small and cold and distant.

She was, Charlie realized, still suffering from her reaction to the gruesome visions of Julie Mead and the heartbreaking ones of her son.

God, you’ve got the wrong woman here. I’m not tough enough for this.

Bartoli said, “We have teams of agents working twenty-four seven to find her. You’ve done everything you can for today. You are officially off the clock.”

Charlie sighed inwardly. She was so exhausted, so cold and queasy and headache-y, that her thought processes were affected. For the moment, coming up with a good lie to explain how she knew what she knew was probably beyond her, but still there was something that she had to tell him.

“The killer wore surgical gloves. More important, he has a red heart on the back of his hand. Maybe it’s a tattoo, I’m not sure.”

Bartoli had been walking beside her. He stopped. Charlie kept on going, head bent against the wind, arms folded, trudging on determinedly toward the pink house that thankfully was getting close now. It took him a few seconds to catch up with her again.

“You want to tell me how you know that?”

No, she really didn’t. “I just know. It’s accurate. Use it to find Bayley Evans.”

“You do some kind of fancy expert analysis back there that I missed?”

“Yep.”

“Want to explain your methodology?”

“Let’s just say that your investigation is benefiting from my years of experience, okay?”

Bartoli said nothing for a moment. He was frowning, and Charlie could feel speculation rolling off him in waves. She kept walking. The planks ended when they reached the driveway. It was packed with official-type vehicles, and the RV was brightly lit and still as busy as a beehive at noon. It was good to know that, even if she was about to bow out for the night, the search for Bayley Evans would be proceeding at full throttle.

Realizing she was just a tiny cog in a big machine was an enormous relief.

She was going to put Bayley Evans, and her family, and the other victims, out of her mind, at least for the next few hours. What she needed to do now was rest and get her brain back up to speed. Then she would turn all her formidable resources to helping the authorities find the bastard who had done this.

Please, God, let it be enough.

“A red heart on the back of the unsub’s hand. You’re sure enough about that for me to add it to the official description of the individual we’re looking for,” Bartoli said finally. From his tone, it wasn’t really a question.

“As of the night the Meads were killed, he had a red heart on the back of his hand.” Charlie looked back at Bartoli as they reached the steps that led up to a wide, screened-in back porch. “I’m absolutely positive about that. I’m not sure what it is, or if it was permanent. But it was there.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“I do.” Charlie felt her throat tighten. She’d been battling the memory ever since Julie Mead had described the heart, but it kept thrusting itself into the forefront of her mind, and now there was no escape.

Once again she was seventeen years old, peeking around the basement door just in time to watch a killer cut Diane Palmer’s throat. For the space of a terrible heartbeat, she could picture the scene as clearly as if she were there.

Stumbling on the top step, Charlie nearly fell to her knees. Only Bartoli’s arm hooking her waist at the last minute saved her from a fall.

“Careful.” He hauled her upright.

“Thanks.” Thrusting the memory away, grateful for the steadying arm that remained around her waist as she regained her balance, she took a deep breath, then forced herself to take one more quick plunge into the past. “The Boardwalk Killer—the man I saw when I was seventeen—didn’t have a heart on his hand. There was nothing on the backs of his hands, nothing at all.”

“You sure?”

They were walking across the dark screened porch as they talked. When they reached the door, Bartoli’s arm dropped away. Charlie was surprised by how much she missed its warm support.

“Yes. Absolutely.” Trying not to shiver openly, Charlie cast a quick look around while Bartoli unlocked the door. The screened porch was darker even than the night, with inky shadows everywhere. The wind blowing off the ocean was picking up, making the fronds on the nearby palms flap with a sound like birds’ wings and carrying a strong smell of salt with it.

“He could have acquired it later.”

“Yes.”

At least Bartoli didn’t start delving into the whole how-sure-are-you-and-how-do-you-know-anyway school of questioning, and for that she was grateful. Something about the night itself was unsettling her, but she really didn’t want to start trying to analyze why that should be. She was too tired, too emotionally wrung out. She already knew, because Bartoli had told her on the flight down, that she would be sharing the house with him, Crane, and Kaminsky. She was less clear on how that was going to work, exactly, and at the moment she didn’t care. What she desperately needed was a couple of Tums (knowing she would probably be encountering nausea-inducing spirits, she had brought her own supply, but unfortunately the two she had taken prior to leaving her house back in Big Stone Gap had worn off by the time she encountered the dead kid in the chair), a hot shower, and bed, in that order.

Got to lie down before I fall down. Her mother used to say that a lot, when she came home drunk. Charlie couldn’t believe she was hearing the familiar slurry voice echoing in her head under these very different circumstances, even if the sentiment was apt.

“You want something to eat? Might make you feel better.” Bartoli pushed the door open, and gestured to her to go inside, which she did. “Unless my nose deceives me, they ordered pizza.”

Like the Meads’ rental, this beach house had its main rooms facing the ocean. Charlie walked into the kitchen and glanced around to discover a familiar cardboard box on the table: as Bartoli had predicted, there was pizza. With her stomach in the shape it was in, though, food was the last thing she wanted. Walking past it, trying not to breathe in the spicy aroma, she saw that the layout of this house was very similar to that of the Meads’. The main difference was that the tile floors were terra-cotta and the walls were sunshine yellow. Otherwise, kitchen, dining area, living room, entry hall, stairs: everything looked to be pretty much the same.

Charlie fought the impulse to turn and run away, screaming.

Someone was coming down the stairs from the second floor.

“I ordered pizza. Pepperoni. There’s plenty left.” The speaker was Kaminsky, who stopped a few steps from the bottom. Despite the hour, she was still fully dressed in her suit and heels. Her expression as she looked at Charlie was less than welcoming. “Or if you’d rather, there are some groceries in your refrigerator. Eggs, cheese, lunch meat, that kind of thing. For tonight, that’s the best you’re going to get.”

“I’m not hungry.” The mere thought of food made her stomach cramp warningly. To divert herself, Charlie latched onto something that puzzled her. “I have a refrigerator?”

“You’ve got the in-law suite. It’s basically a self-contained apartment. Fridge included.”

“If you’re ready to go up, Kaminsky will show you where it is,” Bartoli said.

Charlie was. More than ready. She nodded.

“Get anything?” Bartoli asked Kaminsky as Charlie started up the stairs.

“Twenty-seven men who fit the parameters living within a two-hundred-fifty-mile radius. I was working on narrowing it down when I had to stop to babysit.” Kaminsky’s gaze shifted to Charlie, who had almost reached her by that time. “No offense.”

At the moment, Charlie was too tired to take any. She shook her head. “None taken.”

“You’re not babysitting, you’re protecting a witness.” Bartoli’s voice was crisp. “There’s a strong possibility that Dr. Stone has seen our unsub, remember. If he knows that, and discovers she’s here helping us, there’s a chance he’ll come after her.”

That stopped Charlie in her tracks. Her heart lurched. There’s a happy thought to top off a perfect day. She was surprised it hadn’t occurred to her. Gripping the rail hard with one hand, she turned to look at Bartoli.

“The Boardwalk Killer knows I saw him, or at least he should,” she said. “He didn’t see me at the time, but it was all over the news. Killers of his type tend to like to follow the investigation through the media. If this is the same man, he probably has a scrapbook or some similar physical record filled with news clippings from the killings. The authorities tried to keep my identity secret at the time, but it leaked out. I’m quite sure information about me, including my picture, will be among his artifacts.”

Bartoli nodded. “If this unsub is the Boardwalk Killer, and that’s still an if, we’re hoping he doesn’t find out you’re here. We’re doing our best to keep the fact that you’re working with us confidential. Outside of the three of us, and my boss, nobody else knows who you are, and by that I mean about your association with the previous murders.”

“Even if he has a picture of you, it would be of a seventeen-year-old girl, not the illustrious Dr. Charlotte Stone, serial killer expert.” Kaminsky’s eyes ran over her mockingly. “I’m guessing there’s a pretty big difference. He probably wouldn’t even recognize you if he saw you.”

“It’s possible he’s kept track of me over the years,” Charlie pointed out, although it was something she had long since forbidden herself to dwell on. For years after the attack, she had harbored the secret fear that the next time she turned around there he would be, ready to murder her just like he had the Palmers. With the help of therapy and a lot of self-talk, she’d managed to tuck that fear away into a tiny corner of her mind, where it rarely bothered her. Now it was back, impossible to ignore.

I should have stayed away.

“We’ll keep you safe, don’t worry,” Bartoli said, making Charlie wonder what he’d seen in her face. His gaze shifted to Kaminsky, and he gave an upward jerk of his head, which Charlie translated as Go.

“Yeah, okay, I got this.” Sounding slightly more resigned to her fate, Kaminsky started walking back up the stairs, then glanced over her shoulder to tell Charlie, “I’ll be sleeping right across the hall from you, and Bartoli and Crane are crashing in bedrooms on the first floor. You can go to bed and sleep like a baby and not worry about a thing.”

“Good to know.” Charlie followed Kaminsky up the stairs.

“Eight a.m. good for you to get started on this again?” Bartoli called after them. Charlie knew he was speaking to her.

It wasn’t a lot of decompression time—but then, the situation was beyond dire. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“Come downstairs. One of us will be waiting.”

As she reached the top of the stairs, Charlie glanced down at him. “Okay.”

“You’re in here.” Kaminsky opened a door to the right of the landing as, from the corner of her eye, Charlie saw Bartoli head back out the door. Presumably he was not yet ready to call it a night.

Charlie caught herself wondering if the team that had searched for Holly had been as dedicated, then forced the thought from her mind.

“By the way, a two-hundred-fifty-mile radius is too large.” Charlie walked past Kaminsky into what, from her first glance around, appeared to be a decent-sized apartment that took up the entire left side of the second floor. “The killer should be living—or working—within a thirty-mile radius of the crime scene at the most. Say, a half hour’s drive. Since there are three separate crime scenes, that would apply to each of them. If anyone on your list is staying in RV parks or campgrounds within that circle, I’d start there.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Kaminsky’s voice was dry. Charlie once again got the impression that Kaminsky wasn’t a fan, but at the moment she was too tired to care. “If you need anything, I’m right across the hall.” She nodded toward an open door just across the landing. Charlie glimpsed a bedroom through it. “Give a shout.”

Charlie nodded. Then Kaminsky left, closing the door behind her. Locking the door, beyond thankful to finally be alone, Charlie glanced around her new living quarters. She was standing in a small sitting room furnished with a yellow chintz couch, a deep green recliner, and a bentwood rocker, plus the appropriate tables and lamps. A large flat-screen TV on a bamboo console took up a corner, and on the opposite side of the room a round, glass-topped table complete with four bentwood chairs composed an eating area. A half wall to the left of the eating area provided separation from a small but modern kitchen, complete with white-painted cabinets and stainless steel appliances, including the promised refrigerator and a gas range. Beige wall-to-wall carpet covered the floor. Three of the walls were celadon green, and the same chintz that was on the couch had been made into drapes that covered the entire fourth wall. Since that was the wall facing the ocean, Charlie presumed there was a spectacular view behind the yards of gaily-patterned floral pleats, but she was too exhausted to even think about checking it out.

Lit by the round white ceramic lamps on either side of the couch, the sitting area was warmly welcoming. Charlie turned her back on it and walked through the small hallway that bypassed the kitchen, to the bedroom. It held a queen-sized bed with a quilted spread made from that same yellow chintz, and a bamboo headboard, plus the usual nightstands and a bamboo dresser with a mirror over it. Her suitcase was on the floor beside the dresser. Swooping down on it, she extracted her toiletry kit, her white terry cloth robe, and the first nightgown that came to hand. The bottle of Tums was tucked in beside her running shoes. Opening it, she popped two chalky, mint-flavored tablets into her mouth, shook two extra-strength Excedrin out of another bottle, and then, chewing, tottered off toward the adjoining bathroom. Unpacking the rest of her stuff would have to wait for morning. She didn’t have the energy to do anything except shower and fall into bed.

The bathroom was solid white: white tile, white fixtures, white towels. It had both a tub and a separate, glass-walled shower. First she swallowed the Excedrin with a handful of water in hopes of easing the headache that wouldn’t quit. Then, stripping like she was being paid to get naked fast, Charlie twisted up her hair, pulled on a clear plastic shower cap, stepped into the shower, and turned on the tap. Hot water had never felt so good. Closing her eyes, Charlie let it sluice over her skin, warming her up, taking the worst of the tension out of her muscles. The soap was plain white Dove, but it smelled nice. By the time she turned the water off, she was feeling … not a hundred percent, but at least a hundred percent better.

At least she was until she stepped out of the shower, reached for the towel hanging nearby—and discovered a man standing just inside the closed bathroom doorway, watching her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Every tiny hair on Charlie’s body shot upright. Jumping backward, she screamed like a steam whistle.

“Jesus Christ, Doc, it’s me!”

If that was supposed to make Charlie feel better, it failed miserably. Even as her heel caught on the threshold of the shower and she smacked down hard on her butt on the tile floor, she recognized him: Garland.

Correction, Garland’s ghost. The orange prison jumpsuit was gone, replaced by a white tee, snug jeans, and cowboy boots, and his hair had morphed from its previous prison crop into a tawny mane that almost brushed his shoulders, but there was still no mistaking the just-about-hottest guy she had ever laid eyes on for anybody else.

Dead or alive.

His expression was almost comical. Clearly death hadn’t affected his hearing any: he was wincing from the earth-shattering blast that she’d loosed even as he loomed large as Bigfoot in the claustrophobic confines of the bathroom.

Sprawled in a semi-reclining position half in and half out of the shower, Charlie realized two things at once: she was naked, and he was eyeing her just like any live human male would eye her under the circumstances. She had a good body, slim and tight and long-legged, with breasts that might have been on the small side but were perky and well shaped, and a well-groomed strip of pubic hair in the usual place. His gaze didn’t skip an inch of her, and the carnal glint in his sky blue eyes as he looked sent a rush of alarmed adrenaline pumping through her veins.

“Smokin’ bod, Doc,” he drawled.

Bad enough that she was plagued by ghosts, but horny, homicidal ghosts? It was too much. Charlie saw red.

“Get out of my bathroom!” she snarled, outraged, and clapped the towel she’d managed to grab on the way down to her bosom. It covered her salient parts—barely—but still left way too much of her shiny wet skin exposed for her comfort.

“Hey, don’t—”

But whatever he’d been going to say was interrupted by an urgent pounding on the apartment door.

“Dr. Stone? Dr. Stone, are you all right?” It was Kaminsky, and from her tone she’d be kicking down the door in another split second.

“I’m okay,” Charlie yelled, scrambling to her feet while keeping the towel clutched to her front and a ferocious glare fixed on Garland. “I slipped in the shower.”

“Dr. Stone? I need you to open the door. Now.”

“I’m coming,” Charlie shouted back, upping the volume just to make sure she was heard, while frowning fiercely at the menacing-looking apparition. He seemed way more solid than any ghost had a right to and he stood between her and the door. Any way she looked at it, he posed a ginormous problem. If she tried to get out, he might stop her. If she didn’t, she would have to explain to Kaminsky how it was she couldn’t leave her own bathroom. Even if she did manage to get past him, if she tried to hitch the grossly inadequate towel around herself, she didn’t see any way to avoid flashing him, and although he’d already seen it all she didn’t want him to see it again. On the other hand, if she tried getting past him the way she was, and succeeded, he was going to get a full and unobstructed view of her bare backside. In motion.

Not happening.

“Dr. Stone!”

“I’m coming!” Charlie shrieked. No way Kaminsky didn’t hear that. It was so loud it hurt her own eardrums.

“Who’s that?” Garland asked. To her fury, he was starting to look amused.

“Throw me my robe,” she hissed at him, because he was standing right beside it—it was hanging from the hook on the inside of the bathroom door. Glancing around, Garland obligingly reached for it—and his hand went right through the thick terry cloth without disturbing so much as a thread.

And that would be because he’s dead.

“Fuck,” he said, looking mildly surprised.

“Dr. Stone! I’m coming in!”

“I’m coming,” she yelled at Kaminsky. Then her voice dropped until it was scarcely louder than a breath, but her eyes killed as she skewered the apparition. “Get out of here. I mean it. Go.”

Expression fierce, she made shooing motions with her one free hand as she stomped purposefully toward him. It was pretty much the same technique she used to chase the neighbor’s chickens from her garden at home.

His brows arched, but somewhat to her surprise he retreated, backing right through the closed door. Then he was gone, or at least she couldn’t see him anymore. What she found herself glaring at instead was her robe hanging against a solid panel of white-painted wood. Charlie snatched her robe from the hook, managing to fumble into it without dropping the towel until the robe was on, just in case Garland was still somewhere he could see her. Then, still tying the belt around her waist, she jerked open the bathroom door. Keeping one wary eye out for Garland, who was thankfully nowhere in sight, she hurried toward the apartment door just as Kaminsky came bursting through it.

So much for kicking down the door. Charlie could see a key in the lock.

Spotting Charlie, Kaminsky stopped short just steps into the sitting room. Still fully dressed except for her heels—she was now in stocking feet—Kaminsky was flushed, breathless, her black hair ruffled, clearly on high alert. Charlie’s eyes widened as she spotted the gun the other woman was two-handing.

“Is somebody else in here?” Kaminsky’s voice was sharp. Her eyes ran swiftly over Charlie.

“Cute friend,” observed an appreciative male voice behind her. Charlie tensed even as she cast an automatic glance around: wherever Garland had disappeared to, he was now back. Arms crossed over his chest, leaning a broad shoulder against the hall wall, he looked as real and solid as Kaminsky. God, what had he been doing since he’d been killed? In the course of the last few hours, he’d even acquired a tan. “Think she actually knows how to use that gun?”

She’s FBI, Charlie almost snapped before remembering that for all intents and purposes he was not present and she and Kaminsky were alone.

“No, of course not,” she said to Kaminsky instead. The strain of not being able to reply to Garland gave her voice an edge.

“I thought you were being attacked. You’re telling me you screamed like that just for fun?” Kaminsky looked pissed. She cast a suspicious glance past Charlie in the direction, Charlie realized, in which she herself had just thrown that hostile look at Garland. “You trying out your own personal version of a test of the emergency broadcast system, Dr. Stone?”

Garland grinned. Charlie tried not to notice. “I slipped in the shower.”

“And screamed like that? Most people just say ouch.”

“It hurt.”

Kaminsky glanced past her again. “You mind if I look around?”

“Knock yourself out.” Okay, Charlie realized she sounded grumpy. But the strain of ignoring a six-foot-three-inch, muscle-bound, smirking ghost with possibly evil intent was making her nerves jump. “You think I’d lie about a thing like that?”

“I don’t know you well enough to know what you’d do.”

“What’s up with that chick?” Garland watched Kaminsky with interest as she walked swiftly through the apartment, gun held low in front of her, checking corners, closets, bathroom. Twice she walked right past Garland—who’d stepped inside the living room to give her clear passage—coming within inches of him both times without appearing to sense a thing. “She’s a cop, isn’t she? I can smell ’em a mile off. What, are you on some kind of house arrest now or something?” He shook his head. “Damn, Doc, what the hell did you do?”

Aside from a glare at him that she hoped said Shut up, Charlie ignored him.

“So you really made that much fuss just because you fell in the shower,” Kaminsky marveled as, search completed, she walked back into the sitting room, clearly much less wary than before. The look she gave Charlie as she tucked her gun back into the shoulder holster beneath her jacket brimmed with disgust. “If you scream like that when you fall down, what do you do when something scares the snot out of you?”

“I’d say scream louder, but I don’t think you could,” Garland said to Charlie, once again clearly enjoying himself. “That scream was righteous. Scared the hell out of me.”

Kaminsky stopped right in front of him. His lids went to half mast, and Charlie was willing to bet the farm that it was because he was giving Kaminsky a thorough once-over.

Part of Charlie wanted to shriek There’s a serial killer in the room with us, right now, right behind you, but she didn’t because she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Kaminsky couldn’t see him. Kaminsky wouldn’t believe her. Kaminsky would think she had bats in her belfry, and the word would spread.

Besides, even if Kaminsky did believe her, what could she do?

Nothing, that’s what. Couldn’t arrest him, couldn’t kill him.

With that, Charlie had a terrible epiphany: the only thing worse than a live serial killer was a dead serial killer.

Sad truth was, Garland was her problem, to deal with on her own.

“Sorry,” Charlie managed stiffly, while exercising extreme control in keeping her gaze focused on the other woman instead of blasting Garland with a dirty look as his eyes lifted to focus on Charlie again instead of—all right, she was guessing here, but the general direction seemed right—Kaminsky’s butt. “The scream kind of—popped out. Next time I fall, I’ll try to remember to say ‘Ouch,’ instead.”

“You do that.” Kaminsky headed for the door. Reaching it, she looked back at Charlie. “Why don’t you do us both a favor and just go to bed?”

She left before Charlie could reply.

“You sure put her panties in a twist,” Garland observed as Charlie went to close and lock the door. Her spine stiffened. Turning to face him, her back to the door, she forbore snapping, I put her panties in a twist? You’re the one who made me scream, in favor of a more controlled, “Why are you here?”

Remembering Kaminsky, she’d kept her voice to a whisper.

Garland shrugged. “Beats me.” He, on the other hand, spoke in a perfectly normal tone. Because he wasn’t concerned about being overheard. Because no one but her could hear him. Thinking about it, Charlie practically gnashed her teeth.

Why, God, why?

“That’s not an answer,” she growled.

“It’s the best one I’ve got. So what’s up with the cop? You had FBI agents show up for you at the Ridge right before I bit the big one. You in some kind of trouble?”

“She’s not a cop. She’s FBI. They came to the prison because they wanted my help.”

“With what?”

Charlie knew she should have foreseen the question. The truthful answer, to help them catch a serial killer, didn’t seem like the smartest thing in the world to admit under the circumstances. Not when the man—apparition, whatever—she was talking to was a serial killer—former serial killer?—himself. Now that the excitement of Kaminsky’s would-be rescue mission was over, she remembered that she should be afraid of him. That she was, in fact, afraid of him.

He’s a ghost. He can’t hurt me. Can he?

She eyed him warily. “A case.”

“What kind of case?”

“What do you care? It’s nothing to do with you. You’re dead, remember?” Charlie moved away from the door as she spoke, heading for the bedroom. Having been plagued by the random appearance of apparitions for many years now, she’d put some effort into learning how to manage her affliction. Most of the spirits she encountered were harmless; she had never yet known one to be able to inflict physical damage on the living, but yet, she cautioned herself, was the operative word there. Nevertheless, some were malevolent, giving off negative energy that could adversely affect their environment and the people around them. And some, with Garland being a case in point, were downright frightening, whether she actually thought they could hurt her or not. Still others were merely stuck here on the earthly plane. Over the years, she had done enough research, and discreetly consulted with enough mediums, psychics, and clairvoyants, to know how to deal with wayward phantoms when the need arose. Knowing even as she had agreed to accompany Bartoli and Crane that the likelihood she would encounter the disembodied spirits of the newly, violently deceased was high on this excursion, she had tucked what she called her Miracle-Go kit into her suitcase. That’s what she was heading for now, with, unfortunately, the very ghost she most wanted to send into eternity standing between her and her objective.