Текст книги "The Last Victim"
Автор книги: Karen Robards
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
CHAPTER TEN
By eight p.m. the following day, Charlie was so tired she was drooping in her chair. Her armless, ergonomic, rolling and swiveling chair that was pulled up in front of the white plastic desk on which rested a state-of-the-art computer with a huge, merciless monitor displaying image after image of what seemed to be every male in every crowd scene that had ever gathered in connection with the murders, or who had ever paused to gape at or had even passed by one of the crime scenes, present and past. She had spent the last few hours in what she had come to think of as the War Room at Central Command (the bedroom office in the RV) poring over every bit of photo footage from newspapers, television, surveillance cameras, cell phones, previous investigation archives—all the evidence of record that had captured pictures of those who had turned up to watch the proceedings at the sites where the murders had occurred, or, later, the primary targets’—the girls’—bodies had been found.
All of which had been triggered by her own observation, to Bartoli that morning, that the killer would almost certainly return to the scene of the crime. “We should be watching the watchers,” was what she’d said.
So she’d gotten to watch them until she was about ready to fall out of her chair. By now the smell of coffee and old food and stale air that permeated the small space made her feel like she couldn’t breathe. Her head ached unmercifully. She was seeing purple spots in front of her eyes from staring for too long at the computer screen. Her back hurt. Her butt hurt.
The brilliant sunlight outside the one small window she could see beckoned. She longed to decompress by going for a run.
But because Bayley Evans was still out there somewhere, hopefully still alive, still with a chance, Charlie was, like the others, prepared to keep doing what she was doing for as long as it took.
“How’s it coming?” Bartoli walked into the room, a welcome interruption. Blinking in an attempt to get her eyes focusing normally again, Charlie pushed back from the desk to peer up at him. He looked tired, with lines around his eyes and mouth that Charlie hadn’t noticed before, and an intriguing suggestion of five o’clock shadow darkening his chin. His black hair had developed an unruly wave, his tie was slightly askew, and his mouth was tight. Entering behind him, Crane was sweaty and rosy-cheeked and suffering from a bad case of dandelion hair. He had lost his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves in deference to the heat. Bartoli, on the other hand, still wore all parts of his charcoal suit and looked surprisingly cool despite it. They brought with them the smell of fresh sea air—something Charlie hadn’t had a whiff of since Bartoli had ushered her into the RV shortly before eleven a.m. that morning, having first taken her on a quick tour of the two other current crime scenes, during which, thankfully, she had encountered no earthbound spirits, the dead having presumably passed on. She and Kaminsky, who’d been with her since Bartoli had dropped her off at the RV and at that moment sat at the adjoining desk feeding her computer images, had even eaten lunch—McDonald’s, which a sheriff’s deputy had gone out to get at around one—at the tiny table in the kitchen area.
“We’ve got nothing,” Kaminsky said flatly before Charlie could reply. Kaminsky’s tone had an edge to it. She seemed to take personally Charlie’s failure to recognize the Boardwalk Killer among the crowds.
“The man I saw that night at the Palmers’ isn’t in any of the photos I’ve seen.” Addressing her response to Bartoli, Charlie kept a grip on her patience with an effort. Kaminsky’s attitude was really starting to wear on her nerves. Reminding herself that she was operating on maybe four hours of unrestful sleep and was not perhaps at her most calm and centered was the only thing that kept her from snapping Kaminsky’s head off as the agent sent photo after photo to her monitor, saying, “Really? You don’t recognize anyone?” every time she replaced an image with another one.
“Assuming you even remember what he looks like,” Kaminsky said now, casting her a dark look.
“I remember what he looks like.” Charlie’s reply was tart. “But after fifteen years, he’ll have changed. For one thing, if it’s the same guy, he’ll be—wait for it—fifteen years older.”
“Our age-enhancing software is pretty good. That picture up on the right-hand corner of your screen”—the age-enhanced image of the sketch made from Charlie’s description of the Boardwalk Killer that night at the Palmers’ was a tiny constant on the monitor—“is pretty much who you’re looking for. That’s why it’s there.”
“There’s no way to be sure how accurate that is,” Charlie retorted. “He might be balder. He might be fatter. He might be wearing a hat. Who knows? And it might not even be the same guy. It might be a copycat.”
“Which would make this whole thing pretty useless,” Kaminsky summed up.
This whole thing meant you, Charlie knew.
“We got a possible lead on the heart,” Bartoli intervened before Charlie could respond. Probably a good thing, because her annoyance level at Kaminsky was rising dangerously. “The Sanderling holds a barbecue and dance every Friday night during the summer.”
“The Meads were killed and Bayley Evans went missing on Wednesday,” Kaminsky pointed out.
Bartoli held up a hand. “Let me finish.” He was clearly a patient man, certainly far more patient than Charlie was at this point. Charlie decided that she liked that. In fact, she liked just about everything she’d seen of Tony Bartoli, from his dark good looks to his apparent willingness to work until he dropped to find the missing girl alive.
“When someone pays admission, the staff at the Sanderling stamps the back of the customer’s hand with a red heart and the date,” Bartoli continued. “We’ve been talking to Bayley Evans’ friends, and a group of them went to the Sanderling this past Friday night, the last Friday night before the whole thing went down. The group included Bayley Evans.”
“Which, since Dr. Stone thinks the unsub has a red heart on the back of his hand, means there’s a strong possibility he was there as well,” Crane added on a note of barely suppressed excitement.
“Is Dr. Stone ever going to clue us in on the technique she used to come up with the theory that the unsub has a red heart on the back of his hand? Because I still don’t get how she could possibly know that,” Kaminsky objected, darting another less-than-fond look at Charlie.
“That’s the whole point of bringing in an expert,” Bartoli answered before Charlie could. “To tell us things we don’t know. A lead’s a lead, and this seems like a solid one. That’s all that interests me.”
As rebukes went, it was mild, but Kaminsky definitely got the point. Her eyes darkened. Her mouth thinned and firmed.
“Today’s Friday,” Crane stated the obvious, and Charlie wondered if he meant to deflect attention from Kaminsky’s chagrin. “There’s going to be another dance tonight.”
“So we’re going to check it out?” Kaminsky stood up abruptly, her relief apparent. “Suits me.”
Charlie knew how she felt: at this point, just about anything that would get them away from the computer and out of the tin can (RV) was a welcome development. And a dance—Charlie had a sudden flashback to Holly wearing sausage curls and puffy pink prom dress. The nightmare Holly who had come to her in the hospital all those years ago. The killer could have forced her to dress up as if she were going to a dance.…
Charlie’s pulse picked up the pace.
“Yup.” Bartoli looked at Charlie with the slightest of smiles. “You up to going on a field trip, Dr. Stone?”
“Absolutely.” Far be it for her to look a gift horse in the mouth, but … “There’s just one problem: even if the killer did come into contact with Bayley Evans at this place, he has her now. It’s unlikely he’s killed her yet, so he has no reason to go trolling for another victim. He shouldn’t be there. He has no reason to be there.”
“Unless he works there,” Crane pointed out. “Or has some other reason to hang around the place.”
“He won’t stay with the victim all the time.” Charlie mulled the possibilities over as she spoke. The image of Holly in that garish prom dress stayed stuck in her head. Of course, it wasn’t anything she could share. “He’ll try to go about his normal daily routine as much as possible to avoid attracting attention. So if he works at this place, you’re right: he should be there.”
“Then let’s go.” Not even trying to disguise her eagerness, Kaminsky pulled her jacket off the back of the chair and headed for the door. She wore another of her form-fitting skirt suits. This one was navy blue, with a white short-sleeved blouse bisected by her shoulder holster. Watching Crane watch Kaminsky walk past, registering his expression, Charlie wondered once again what was between them, because clearly something was. But it wasn’t any of her business—and in any case, she really didn’t care, Charlie concluded, standing up at last, glad for the opportunity to stretch.
“Think we could grab something to eat while we’re there?” Kaminsky threw the question back over her shoulder. “I’m starving, and fast food is getting old.”
“No reason why we can’t,” Bartoli agreed, as he waited for Charlie to precede him then followed her out into the semi-organized chaos that was the rest of Central Command. “As long as we eat fast.”
The RV’s main living area had been retrofitted as one large office. In it, phones rang, computers hummed, a couple of administrative assistants manned phone lines and keyboards, and various law enforcement types went about their business. Over in a corner a pair of guys in suits—local FBI agents Sy Taylor and Frank Goldberg; Charlie had been introduced to them earlier—were using a large black marker to X through gridded areas on a map.
“They’re marking off search areas,” Bartoli told her, seeing where her gaze lingered. “The local cops are conducting a physical search for the girl or anything that turns up that might lead us to her. Thousands of volunteers are out there combing every square inch of every neighborhood and marsh and woodland in the vicinity.”
Charlie nodded. Once again, she found it comforting to realize just how huge the effort to save Bayley Evans was.
“Any leads?” Bartoli asked Taylor as the agent glanced around at them.
“So far, nothing worth mentioning, but it only takes one time to get lucky.” Taylor’s bulldog eyes were almost lost in the pale folds of his drooping eyelids. Shiny, bald, and bulky in the way of weight lifters, looking to be in his late forties, he was, so Kaminsky had told her earlier, a career agent with over twenty years in the local office. Goldberg, some ten years his junior, was tall and thin, with slicked-back dark brown hair and handsome, aquiline features.
“It’s like she vanished into thin air.” Goldberg sounded frustrated. “Where the hell does he take them?”
“That’s what we’ve got about four days to figure out.” Bartoli’s grim reply reminded everyone that the clock was ticking. Taylor made a tired huffing sound as he and Goldberg turned as one back to the grid.
Kaminsky pulled open the RV’s door. The slice of brilliant blue ocean and sugar white beach Charlie could see through it glittered in the sun. Waves rushed toward shore with a muted roar that blocked out the sounds coming from inside the RV. Wet and heavy, the air smelled of the sea. The sky was starting to show the striated shades of lavender that heralded the approach of night, but near the horizon it was still dotted with fluffy clouds as white as the froth that curled in on the surf.
“Just one thing, Kaminsky: before we get there, you need to lose the shoulder holster. And the attitude. If our unsub is there, we don’t want him to make us as feds the minute we walk in,” Bartoli said.
“You want me to go in unarmed?” Kaminsky sounded mildly outraged. She and Crane were already standing on the asphalt driveway as Charlie, eyes narrowed against the sudden brightness of the golden evening sunlight, started down the rickety metal steps of the RV. Even at this relatively late hour, the heat and humidity were intense enough to make her feel like she was stepping into a steam bath. Her sapphire shirt was sleeveless, thin silk. Nevertheless, it was too much, and immediately felt like it was clinging to her skin. With it she wore slim black slacks and low-heeled pumps, professional attire that, since she had left her jacket behind in her rooms that morning, she’d expected to be comfortably cool in. Now, walking into the wall of humidity, she felt way overdressed for the heat, and for the beach town in general. Bringing up the rear, Bartoli closed the door behind them. Glancing back at him as she stepped down onto the pavement, Charlie registered his suit jacket and long-sleeved shirt and tie and quit feeling sorry for herself. Clearly a better person than she was in that regard, Bartoli hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“It’s a dance, not a gunfight,” Bartoli told Kaminsky dryly as he rattled down the steps. “I think you’ll be fine.”
“You’ll have Bartoli and me for backup if you need it,” Crane added. “We’re armed.”
“Oh, wow, I feel better now,” Kaminsky retorted as Bartoli reached the ground. “Not.”
“Think of this as an undercover operation.” Bartoli started walking, and the rest of them followed toward the end of the RV. “We’re tourists out for a social evening. If the unsub even begins to suspect we’re there looking for him, he’ll disappear like that.”
He snapped his fingers.
“Special Agent Bartoli? Do you have any comment on the progress of the investigation? Or any information at all that you would care to share with our viewers?” A reporter with a microphone jumped in front of them, seemingly out of nowhere, catching them by surprise as they emerged from the alley formed by the RV and the house. Blond and willowy, she was accompanied by a camera crew that instantly zeroed in on the four of them as the reporter thrust her microphone toward Bartoli for a reply.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Taking in the reporter’s gauzy orange sundress, Charlie felt a stab of envy: in something like that, she would at least stand a chance of beating the heat.
Before Bartoli could answer the woman’s question, a shout went up from somewhere to Charlie’s right. Glancing in that direction, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the blinding sunlight, Charlie saw to her dismay that a whole pack of media types was rushing toward them. Apparently the “secret” location of their imported team was no longer a secret.
“Special Agent Bartoli! Any leads on Bayley Evans?”
“Do you think she’s still alive?”
“What’s being done to find the victim?”
“Is this the Boardwalk Killer again?”
Reporters yelled questions as the news crews mobbed the four of them. Mobile klieg lights which were brighter than the brilliantly setting sun blinded Charlie to the point where she had to look down at the heat-softened asphalt underfoot. A shuffling wall of legs and feet surrounded her, backing away incrementally from the four of them as the cameramen jostled for position.
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” Bartoli responded tersely, his hand closing on Charlie’s upper arm, pulling her along with him as he forced his way through the horde by, as far as Charlie could tell, sheer force of personality.
“Have there been any ransom demands?”
“Were the other girls tortured?”
“How were the victims killed?”
The shouted questions came so fast and furiously that it would have been difficult to reply even if Bartoli had wanted to, which he clearly didn’t. Stone-faced, he plowed through the crowd with Charlie in tow and Kaminsky and Crane right behind them. Half blinded by the lights and wary of the cameras anyway, Charlie kept her head down and kept going.
The black SUV in which she and Bartoli and Crane had driven from the airport was parked just a few yards behind the RV. Unlocking it with a click, Bartoli pulled open the front passenger door and thrust Charlie inside. Even as she registered the suffocating heat in the interior of the vehicle, Bartoli slammed the door on her. Fortunately the windows were tinted. Charlie was fairly certain that the flashes aimed at the SUV could not penetrate them. Still, she ducked her head.
“Are our citizens safe in their homes?”
“Can you at least tell us if you’ve identified any suspects?”
As the vehicle’s other doors were jerked open almost in unison the media’s shouted questions peppered Charlie’s ears like hail.
“Should we expect more murders?”
“What is it that the victims have in common?”
A moment later the other three were inside and the SUV was once again closed up tight, doors locked against the onslaught. To Charlie the scene felt surreal, as though the four of them were barricaded inside the sweltering vehicle against a mob. Bartoli, who was driving, looked over his shoulder as he backed the SUV away, slowly and carefully so as not to hit an importunate reporter. The cameras kept filming even as the vehicle broke free of the crowd at last. Still reversing toward the street, the SUV picked up speed.
“Damn.” Bartoli flicked a glance at Charlie. “What are the chances they’re not going to run your picture all over the eleven p.m. news?”
She grimaced. “Maybe they’ll think I’m just another agent.”
“We knew they were going to find out who she is sooner or later.” In the backseat with Crane, Kaminsky rolled down her window to let in air despite the running, shouting, filming camera crews that were doing their best to keep up. It was so hot and airless in the vehicle that Charlie didn’t blame her. Besides, the cameras were by that time too far away to capture much, and she was in the front seat, which made the chances of them getting a good shot of her even more remote. The sounds of all the commotion going on outside coupled with the whoosh of air coming through vents as Bartoli cranked the air-conditioning made it necessary for him to raise his voice as he replied.
“I was hoping it would take a while.” Bartoli whipped the SUV out onto the road, shifted into drive, and steered around the news vans that were partially blocking the way. Flipping down the passenger visor, Charlie watched through the inset makeup mirror as the news crews broke ranks and raced for their vans to follow. “I was hoping they would focus on the local search headquarters in town and leave us alone.”
“Think we’ll be lucky enough that they’ll just identify Dr. Stone as a noted serial killer expert we’ve brought in and leave it at that?”
“No.” Bartoli’s face registered no emotion. “So far, we haven’t caught a single break in this entire investigation. No reason to think we’ll catch one now.”
“You think they’re going to publicly identify me as the sole survivor of the original Boardwalk Killer murders?” Charlie’s heart started pumping hard at the prospect. The nightmares that had haunted her for years seemed suddenly way closer to reality than she could bear to think about: ice-cold terror filled her veins as the scene at the Palmers’ popped into her brain. If the killer knew she was here, knew that there was a high probability she could identify him, what would he do?
Come after me, was her immediate, visceral response. Her second thought was, I should have stayed away.
Panic made her chest feel tight.
I need to get out of here. I need to hide.
Then she thought of Bayley Evans, and managed to get a grip. She needs me.
“I’d say there’s a good chance.” Bartoli’s tone was grim.
“You think maybe we should contact the press, explain the situation, ask them not to out her?” The last one to do so, Crane hastily fastened his seat belt with a click as, reaching the closest intersection, Bartoli jetted through it just as the light was changing, drawing an indignant honk from another motorist. The purpose, Charlie figured, was to lose any remaining reporters. The near miss inches from their rear bumper as the emptying-the-beach traffic resumed its stampede toward town made Charlie’s lips purse. Then, looking in the mirror in time to catch the news vans screeching to a stop on the other side of the intersection, she silently gave Bartoli kudos for his maneuver.
“Tell me you’re not actually naïve enough to think that would do any good.” Kaminsky shot Crane a derisive look.
“I think that if they find out who Dr. Stone is, whether because we tell them or through some other means, it’s way too good a story to hope they’ll keep it quiet,” Bartoli intervened. “If the news breaks, we’ll just have to step up our protection efforts. For one thing, Kaminsky, you may need to move into Dr. Stone’s suite with her.”
“I don’t think that would be necessary,” Charlie objected hastily, appalled at the prospect.
“I’m right across the hall,” Kaminsky protested at almost the same time, sounding equally appalled. Breaking off, the two of them exchanged measuring glances in the makeup mirror.
“I feel perfectly safe with Agent Kaminsky across the hall,” Charlie said. “In order to function optimally, I need sufficient rest, and I don’t sleep well unless I have a certain amount of privacy.”
“Anyway, the walls are thin as paper. I can hear everything that goes on in there, believe me,” Kaminsky put in. Once again the two women exchanged measuring looks. Charlie was left wondering what, exactly, Kaminsky had heard. Not Garland; that would be impossible. But maybe her part of their conversation? Well, if it came up, she would just have to claim that she’d been on the phone.
“We’ll see how it goes.” Bartoli didn’t sound convinced.
Kaminsky rolled up the window finally, as they headed south down N.C. 12, also known as Beach Road, toward Nags Head. To the left, the view was simply spectacular: sand dunes, rolling ocean, purpling sky. To the right, colorful, tightly bunched beach communities thinned into funky little clusters of houses dotted with convenience stores, gas stations, and the occasional strip mall. Toilets, showers, bathhouses, and picnic shelters lined the seventy miles of beaches. The archipelago they were traveling through narrowed the farther south they went, until it was no more than a long, curving finger of bridge-connected land, and soon they could see both Albemarle Sound on the right and the Atlantic Ocean on the left. Either the news vans weren’t allowed to leave the area immediately around Kill Devil Hills or Bartoli had successfully lost them, because they weren’t being followed anymore. After about twenty minutes, Charlie felt confident enough of that to relax.
“Did anybody interview those two persons of interest I found? The ones living in RVs in local campgrounds? Martin Blumenthal and D. L. Jones, who were in a mental hospital and a prison, respectively, for the last fifteen years?” Kaminsky asked.
“I did,” Crane said. “Neither is the right age. Plus, Jones is black, and both have alibis.”
“I knew that was too easy,” Kaminsky responded gloomily.
“Here we are.” Bartoli pulled off into a lushly green enclave marked with a discreet sign announcing their destination: the Sanderling. It was, Charlie had learned from various bits of conversation on the way, one of North Carolina’s finest resorts. Charlie flipped up the visor in order to get a better look at it. A line of cars preceded them, making their progress necessarily slow. The long drive through acres of manicured lawns was shaded by twin rows of giant oaks bearded with lashings of silvery Spanish moss. Masses of brilliantly colored flowers lay in lavish beds backed by gray stone walls. A golf course complete with players teeing off and carts zooming around the paths was visible in the distance. Charlie’s eyes widened as they rounded a bend and what looked to be an eighteenth-century plantation house came within view. Arriving cars pulled beneath a canopied porte cochere, where red-jacketed valets ushered the occupants out before parking their vehicles. A steady stream of well-dressed patrons trooped up the wide steps to the wraparound verandah and from there to the front door.
“Hope you brought your wallet, boss.” Kaminsky’s tone made it clear that she was getting the same sense of this-place-is-way-expensive that Charlie was. Glancing back, Charlie saw Kaminsky was using the tinted window as a makeshift mirror to smooth her hair.
“Crane’s paying.” Bartoli didn’t crack a smile as he flicked a glance at Crane in the rearview mirror, but Charlie could still see his eyes: they twinkled.
“I’m not the one with the Bureau’s Amex,” Crane replied. “Or the expense account.”
“Eat light,” Bartoli ordered, sounding as if he was only partly joking. “I don’t know if you heard, but Uncle Sam’s cracking down on expense accounts these days.”
“Guess I can forget about ordering that bottle of Dom Perignon, then.” Kaminsky’s tone was dry.
“I thought you couldn’t drink alcohol,” Crane said. “What with being a Scientologist and all.”
“You thought wrong,” Kaminsky retorted even as Charlie, upon hearing the other woman’s religious affiliation, experienced an “ah-hah” moment. She was kind of fuzzy on the details, but she was pretty sure Scientologists didn’t believe in psychiatry, which explained a fair amount about Kaminsky’s attitude toward her. “Anyway, just because I was raised as a Scientologist doesn’t make me a Scientologist now. I’m nonpracticing.”
“I don’t think you can do that,” Crane said, as the SUV reached the head of the line at last and pulled to a stop beneath the scarlet canopy.
“You don’t know anything about it,” Kaminsky answered caustically. “And you’re never going to.”
Then the driver’s door and Charlie’s were opened simultaneously by a pair of solicitous valets. As Charlie slid out, she spotted an old man following the couple ahead of them up the stairs. Her eyes widened. Since the man was semi-transparent and being ignored by everyone else, Charlie felt safe in assuming that he was an apparition. She sighed inwardly. Seeing a dead man was par for the course for her, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. Her stomach gave an uneasy rumble, but at least it was only a rumble: the connection was too slight to bring on full-blown nausea. As she joined Bartoli, she couldn’t help but eye the old man carefully. There wasn’t a mark on him that she could see, but obviously he had died in some violent fashion several days previously (recent deaths usually bore signs of the manner of it, and spirits rarely stayed earthbound for longer than a week). Either he was attached to the building itself, or to one or both of the couple walking up the stairs ahead of him. They were middle-aged, attractive, absolutely ordinary-looking in every respect: the chance that they were murderers or that he was a murder victim was remote, Charlie decided. Probably the old man had been killed in an accident or … who knew. In any case, this particular ghost had his back turned to her, had no idea she could see him, was in no apparent distress and did not seem to require her help. He was, therefore, no concern of hers, and the last thing she wanted was to make him her concern with so many witnesses, including the three FBI agents accompanying her, on hand. So she studiously ignored the apparition as he entered the building in the couple’s wake, and looked the other way as they, their otherworldly third wheel in tow, were ushered through to what, from its dark-paneled coziness and the sounds of clinking glasses emanating from it, seemed to be a bar. By the time she again tuned in to her group’s conversation, the four of them had arrived at the hostess’ table and their SUV was heading for the parking lot.
A few minutes later Bartoli had paid for their admission and they all sported half-dollar-sized red hearts with the day’s date stamped on the back of their hands.
Just as Julie Mead had described it, Charlie thought, looking down at hers, but of course she couldn’t say that.
“I still don’t see how you could know the perp had a heart stamped on the back of his hand,” Kaminsky muttered in her direction as a tuxedoed waiter led them through a side door, across the verandah, and down into a patio area. There, dozens of glass-topped tables were set up in concentric rings centered on small circular flower gardens that were interspersed at regular intervals along the trio of descending brick terraces. They overlooked an emerald green expanse of marsh grass and, beyond that, the dark blue water of Albemarle Sound. A slight breeze blew in off the water, and that, coupled with the encroaching twilight, lifted the humidity and mitigated the heat to the point where it had become pleasant rather than enervating. The smell of slowly roasting meat hung in the air, courtesy of a couple of black iron roasters smoking away near a long line of buffet tables. In a gazebo near a wooden dance floor that had been laid down atop a swimming pool, a live band was tuning up.
“What can I tell you? I’m good like that,” Charlie answered back. As the hostess seated them at one of the upper tables, waiters roamed the terraces lighting small votive candles in glass jars in the center of the tables. Charlie was just accepting her menu from their waiter when the tall bronze ibis sculpture in the center of the circular garden in front of them started shooting water from its beak.
“It’s a fountain,” she remarked in delight as the others looked at it, too.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than, on the other side of the garden, Garland materialized.
