“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.
CHAPTER NINE
Fortunately, Garland had no clue what she had in store for him.
“I remember, all right,” he said. “Piss poor job you did saving my life, by the way.”
“You bled out. There was nothing I could do.”
He still stood inches away from the entrance to the hallway. If she wanted to get to the bedroom and her suitcase, she had to walk right by him. If he’d been alive, she wouldn’t have done it in a million years: it would have offered him way too good an opportunity to grab her. But in his current state he couldn’t grab anyone—she didn’t think. Remembering his failed attempt with her robe partly steadied her frazzled nerves. Keeping careful watch out of the corner of her eye for any sudden moves he might make, she marched past him with what she considered commendable aplomb, even managing not to speed it up when he turned and followed her.
“About that. You sure there’s no way you could, like, hook me up to life support or something and bring me back?”
The skin between her shoulder blades prickled, and she guessed it was because his eyes were boring into her back. Then the sensation disappeared. Either he’d quit looking, or, more likely, was staring at a body part that was lower down—like her butt.
Charlie’s brows snapped together.
“I’m sure. There’s no way. Sorry to break it to you, but even aside from the injury you sustained, your body is by now past being able to support life.”
“What does that mean?”
Sometimes, Charlie thought, you just had to spell things out. “You ever hear of decomposition?”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.” There was a certain grim satisfaction in her tone. “You’re going to have to move on, because your life as you knew it is over.”
“Fuck,” Garland said. “That SOB Nash. I hope he rots in the hole.”
Nash, Charlie remembered, was the name of the inmate who had killed him. Allegedly.
“I’m sure he will.”
“Nah, they’ll probably give him a medal. I was a real pain in the ass.”
“Yes,” Charlie agreed before she could stop herself. “You were.”
“I never did one bad thing to you, Doc. You can’t say I did.”
Garland stopped in the bedroom doorway to watch as Charlie grabbed her suitcase and heaved it up onto the bed. In the process she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the dresser. Appalled at what met her gaze, she took instant stock: barefoot, clad only in her white terry robe, she was still damp from the shower. Scrubbed free of every last trace of makeup, her face looked tired and pale. To add insult to injury, the shower cap was still on her head.
Verdict: not hot.
In quick, instinctive reaction, she pulled the shower cap off. Her hair spilled down to her shoulders, its rich chestnut color and heat-and-moisture-induced waves immediately upping her sexy quotient by, she saw with relief, a considerable degree. She was just lifting a hand to brush some wayward strands off her forehead when she met Garland’s eyes in the mirror.
The carnal glint was back. His eyes were very blue now, and his mouth had taken on a sensual curve. He was watching her with what she could only describe as lust. Charlie’s breath suspended. Her pulse quickened. Answering heat flamed through her veins. Then she caught herself. The guy was gorgeous, no doubt about it. Even with everything she knew about him, including the absolutely-should-have-been-chemistry-killing twin facts that he was a psychopath and dead, the sad truth was that she had snatched off her shower cap because she had been concerned with how she looked to him.
That’s some serious sick, girl.
She would have plopped the shower cap back on her head again if doing so wouldn’t have been absolutely ridiculous. Also, a total giveaway.
Not only would letting him know she found him attractive be embarrassing, it might also be dangerous.
She didn’t know exactly what it took to trigger his urge to kill, but she did know she didn’t want to find out.
Whether he still possessed the capacity to follow through or not.
“You lied about what you saw in the inkblots,” she accused to distract him, and dug down deep in her suitcase, feeling around beneath her underwear and workout gear and running shoes, hunting for the only weapons she had.
“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. You’re the expert. You figure it out.” He glanced around. “Where the hell are we anyway? Is this your place?”
“This is an apartment in a beach house just outside of Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina.”
“So how did we get here?”
“I flew. In an airplane. I have no idea how you got here.” Having located what she needed, she scooped the items up in one hand, then with the other picked up and dropped the bottle of Tums on the floor.
“Oops,” she said as it hit. Okay, that had sounded fake even to her. Well, nothing she could do about it, and he didn’t appear to notice. Crouching to pick up the bottle, she used the cover provided by the bed to slip the items she needed into her robe pockets without Garland seeing what she was doing. Then she grabbed the bottle of Tums and straightened to her full height again. Ostentatiously she opened the bottle and shook two tablets into her palm. So far seeing him hadn’t made her feel sick to her stomach—too much commotion surrounding the visitation, probably—but there was no point in taking any chances. Besides, she needed an excuse to go to the kitchen.
“What’s that?”
“Medicine. If you’ll get out of my way, I’m going to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water to wash it down.” The tablets were actually chewable, but she was absolutely willing to lie about needing water to take them if it got her into the kitchen.
“Why do you need medicine?”
“Ghosts make me nauseous.” Closing her fist around the Tums, she walked determinedly toward him as she spoke. She had no way of knowing for sure, but she was gambling on the supposition that the best way to manage a predator like Garland hadn’t changed just because he was no longer alive. Rule one, show no fear.
“Are you telling me I make you want to puke?” He grinned as he moved out of her path, and with a silent sigh of relief Charlie made it past him. “You probably want to work on getting over that.”
“What I want to work on is not seeing ghosts,” she flung over her shoulder. “Present company not excepted.”
He was following her again. This time, though, it was what she had hoped for. Even if the mere thought of how he was likely to react to what she was about to do kinda/sorta scared her to death.
“Believe me, it’s better to see one than be one,” he said.
“Funny.”
“You see all ghosts? Or am I special?”
“I can see the spirits of people who’ve suffered recent, violent deaths. Sometimes.”
“I got to say, you’re a woman of unexpected talents, Doc. Who woulda thought the Ridge’s uptight, no-nonsense, my-way-or-the-highway shrink was some kind of closet psychic?” His tone turned reflective. “Or that you looked that good naked, for that matter.”
“You know what, Garland? I’d drop that line of conversation right now if I were you.”
Charlie walked into the kitchen. The stove, sink, and refrigerator were all lined up against the back wall. Popping the Tums in her mouth, she chewed as she opened a cabinet, pulled out a glass, and turned on the tap.
“You don’t like being told you look hot in your birthday suit, Doc? Now, me, I woul
d’ve thought you’d have been pissed if I hadn’t noticed.”
Filling the glass partway up with water, she took a sip, swallowing like she needed it to at least kill the taste. What she wanted was to keep him off guard until she got everything in place. All she needed now was an open flame and a little resolution, and the thing was done.
“Then you would have thought wrong,” she replied with bite, setting the glass down.
“Come on, Doc, tell the truth. You like having a killer bod. You like me thinking you have a killer bod.”
He had been staring hard at the running water, Charlie saw as she shut off the tap and turned around. As his focus switched back to her, she felt the full impact of his presence. Close enough that she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to, he stood just inside the opening between the kitchen and sitting room, blocking the only way out. With his chiseled face and sculpted body, he oozed sex appeal—and, since she knew what he was, menace. He looked intimidatingly tall and powerful and as solid as the wall. If he were alive, he could have grabbed her in a heartbeat and almost certainly overpowered her despite any resistance she might put up.
He wasn’t, but anxiety still quickened her pulse and set her stomach a-flutter.
“For your information, popping up on unsuspecting women when they’re in the bathroom is just creepy,” she threw at him. Gathering her courage, thankful for the heavy terry and capacious pockets of her robe that allowed for the concealment of something so substantial, she pulled out the thick white candle and set it down on the counter beside the glass. It stood sturdily upright, its wick pristine.
“You think I came looking for you deliberately? Get over yourself, Doc. Your bathroom just happened to be where I came out.” He squinted at the candle.
“Came out from where?” She turned on the stove. The hiss of gas made what she was doing impossible to overlook. Not that the sound actually mattered, because he was watching her closely anyway.
“Hell if I know. That other place. And if you think I’m going back in there, you’re crazy.” He folded his arms over his chest as his gathering frown solidified. “What are you doing?”
The Last Victim Page 9
