by Rita Herron
The rocking chair creaked as Laney leaned forward. “You’ve had other visions?”
Violet stood and paced across the wooden floor. A collection of bones drew her eye, causing a chill to slither up her spine. She’d seen Joseph carve an animal bone when she was small….
“I had a vision of a woman dying in Savannah,” she whispered, quelling the image. Joseph was her friend, not a killer. “Her name was Amber Collins. And then tonight, I had another one of a different woman.” Violet described the visions and her frustration over not seeing enough details to identify the killer or where he held his victims. “What does the expression pin peyeh obe mean?”
“Look to the mountain.’” Laney slowly waved her arm in an arc as if she were pointing over the horizon.
“Look as if you’re standing on top—there one can see things in a broader perspective, perhaps that of generations to come.”
“The bigger picture.” Violet pressed a finger to her temple, a throbbing pain taking root as she contemplated the message. “I still don’t understand why the killer used it.”
“He said this to the woman?”
Violet nodded.
“You believe he is Native American?”
“I have no idea. But he’s going to kill her tonight,” she finished in an agonized whisper. “Unless I do something to stop him.”
* * *
HIS PULSE ACCELERATED as he studied her blood, regret and excitement warring against one another. She wasn’t the one.
His father would be disappointed.
But he would offer her up, anyway.
He raised the needle, tapped the tip, then stalked toward her. A slow smile curved his lips. She was so beautiful. Young. Supple. Primed for life.
But imperfection tainted her blood.
And his father deserved perfection. He had to have it. Nothing else would do.
She cried out. A weak, pathetic screech of a sound that rippled up his spine. He approached slowly, murmuring soothing words in the native language. The white of her eyes widened into big moon-shaped globes. The irises glistened with tears, offering him a clear reflection of himself.
The one who should have been.
“No…please,” she whimpered. “Please, don’t do this. Whatever you want—if it’s money, whatever…”
“No money,” he said softly. “Just your blood, my dear. But it isn’t right.”
He slowly injected the solution into her veins, watching as panic captured her in its clutches.
“Pin peyeh obe,” he whispered. “I am the blood taker, and now you must die….”
* * *
VIOLET LIFTED ONE HAND from the steering wheel and tried to drag in air, but she was suffocating. Her limbs felt heavy. Panic paralyzed her.
Dear God, he was doing it—killing another woman. She felt the pressure of his fingers tightening around her throat. The mind-numbing fear. The realization that her life was slipping through his fingers.
“No, God, why…” She had to fight it, make it home. She could see her father’s house in the distance.
The fingers squeezed harder. She coughed. Couldn’t breathe. Lost control of the car. Tires squealed. Then she was sliding. Skidding on the asphalt. She tried to right the vehicle. It bounced over a pothole and hit the ditch. Then she slammed into the guardrail and screeched to a stop. She jerked forward. The seat belt slammed her back against the seat.
She gasped, but her windpipe closed. Darkness replaced the streetlight’s glow. Sucked her into its clutches. Unable to fight any longer, she dropped her head forward against the steering wheel. Then she fell into unconsciousness.
Just as she did, the reedy sound of the bone whistle echoed in the darkness….
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TOMORROW GRADY WOULD talk to Doc Farmer himself, maybe even his wife. Supposedly his father had been at a town meeting when Darlene had been kidnapped years ago. Maybe if Grady reviewed the circumstances and events of that day, he’d get a clue as to what had really happened. And surely the M.E. would have the report on Jed Baker by then. His specific time of death would be helpful, too.
Then Grady would find out if Baker had had any friends twenty years ago that might attest to his character.
His police radio went staticky, then cleared. “Sheriff, it’s Logan. There’s been an accident on Pine Needle Drive. That Baker woman ran her car into a ditch.”
Grady’s gut tightened. “Is she all right?”
“I don’t know. She looks like she might have hit her head, but she’s semiconscious. I’ve called the paramedics.”
“I’ll be right there.” Grady spun his squad car around and made the turn to the Baker place, scanning the streets as he always did for anything amiss. His hands gripped the steering wheeler tighter at the sight of the profanity spray painted on the driveway and mailbox. Broken eggshells and tomatoes littered the front porch, and a window had been shattered. Had Violet been home during the vandalism? Could whoever it was have caused her accident?
He spotted lights from Logan’s car ahead and sped up, his pulse accelerating at the thought of someone in town hurting Violet. Seconds later, he jumped from his car and ran to the ditch.
“She’s coming to,” Logan said.
Grady pushed past his deputy and leaned inside the car. Her head had lolled forward, and she was leaning against the steering wheel, her arms draped across it. His heart pounded faster. “Violet?” He gently brushed her hair back, checking for head injuries. Already a knot was forming on her forehead, a small gash trickling blood down her cheek. He removed a handkerchief, pressed it to the cut, then stroked her back. “Violet, can you hear me? Are you all right?”
She moaned and shifted slightly, her arms slipping down to her sides. Finally she raised her head and looked up at him. Shock glazed her eyes, and something else—fear? Sorrow?
“What happened?” He rubbed her back again, his breathing erratic as he waited. “Are you okay?”
Tears spilled from her eyes. “It’s too late,” she whispered. “She’s already dead.”
He stared at her, not comprehending for a moment. Was she was talking about his sister? “Who, Violet? Darlene?”
She shook her head, her bottom lip quivering. “The other w-woman. He strangled her just like he did Amber Collins.”
* * *
WHILE GRADY CALMED Violet, Logan stared into the darkness, a puzzled expression on his face. Grady understood the feeling; he had no idea what to make of Violet’s assertion.
A siren roared closer, and the paramedics wheeled up, then jumped from the ambulance. “What do we have?”
“Head injury,” Logan said.
Grady stepped aside to let the EMT check Violet.
What had just happened? If Violet had been psychic, why hadn’t she been able to save his sister? Had Darlene’s death traumatized Violet in such a way she’d lost touch with reality, as rumors suggested? She’d seemed coherent the first night she’d arrived, had even seemed defensive and confrontational.
“Ma’am, let us take care of that cut.” The EMT blotted the blood with a gauze pad. Finally he and his partner helped her from the car toward the back of the ambulance and treated the wound. Grady watched them check her for more serious injuries, then try to coax her into going to the hospital.
“I’m fine.” Violet looked up at Grady. “I don’t need to go to the hospital.”
He leaned forward. “At least let me call the new doctor in town.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Grady massaged her neck. “You hit your head pretty hard.”
She nodded, her skin ghostly white. Then she reached for him, her slender fingers gripping his arm. “Please, just take me home. If I’m not feeling well tomorrow, I’ll get rechecked.”
He chewed his cheek, remembering the graffiti and ugly slurs painted on her father’s driveway. Something about the way she was holding on to him, almost pleading, as if she trusted him to believe her, twisted at his gut. He d
idn’t want to want her. But he did. “Someone vandalized your house.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I was there when it happened.”
Anger bolted through him. “Did they hurt you? Did someone cause you to have this accident?”
She shook her head. “It was the vision. I felt him choking me….”
Grady grimaced. Why was she talking such nonsense? Was she trying to distract him from her father’s death? “Maybe you need help, Violet.”
She pushed away and stood. “I’m not crazy, Grady. I don’t need a shrink—I need to go home.”
The paramedics glanced at Grady. “We can’t take her in if she refuses treatment.”
Logan hooked his thumbs in his belt. “You want me to drive her home, watch her for a while?”
The thought of his deputy alone with Violet set Grady’s teeth on edge, although he didn’t know why. Maybe because she held a part of his past, maybe even the answers to the truth about what had happened to his sister.
Or maybe because he was attracted to her. Although God’s knows, he wasn’t going anywhere with it. She was practically his little sister.
Except his feelings toward her weren’t brotherly at all.
Violet backed away, her look of distress cementing his decision.
“No,” he said. “Follow us, take a few paint samples, and see if we can figure out who vandalized her place.”
“It was just a bunch of kids,” Violet said.
Logan nodded. “Probably be hard to trace, but maybe a neighbor saw something.” He glanced at Violet. “What kind of car were they driving?”
“It was too dark to tell.” She shrugged. “But I’m sure they didn’t mean any harm.”
Grady frowned. Maybe. Sometimes teenagers got off on vandalism, but he didn’t like the timing or implications of their act, especially knowing his own father had warned Violet out of town earlier in the day.
What if someone had put them up to their nasty tricks? Or what if someone came back and crossed the line from defacing her property to a more personal attack?
Violet could be in danger.
* * *
VIOLET SWAYED, hating the dizziness and exhaustion draining her. But she couldn’t seem to gather her strength. Grady caught her, steadying her. Heat mingled with embarrassment, reddening her cheeks. Still, it felt so good to be near Grady. So safe.
“I don’t want to leave my car,” she said, righting herself. “I’ll need it tomorrow.”
Grady’s gaze met hers as if he’d felt the connection between them. He glanced at the dented front end. “I’ll have it towed and repaired.”
“Thanks. If it’s drivable, just have it taken to my father’s,” Violet said. “I don’t want to be without it. I can have body work done later.”
“I’ll call it in,” Logan offered.
Grady nodded and urged Violet toward his car. “I’ll see you at the Baker house.”
Violet allowed Grady to help her, although he obviously didn’t believe the story about her vision.
Not that she blamed him. She didn’t understand it, either. She’d never known anyone else who had psychic abilities. It wasn’t like this gift ran in her family.
But what she’d seen had been very real. And once again, she’d been too late to save the woman.
Why had God given her this sight if she couldn’t help stop the terrible things she saw? And why connect with these particular women?
It was almost as if she was connected to the killer himself.
* * *
MAVIS DOBBINS HAD NEARLY worried herself sick. She twisted the dishrag into knots, squeezing cleaner on the surface of her battered counters and scrubbing them for the hundredth time. When she got nervous, she cleaned. Ridding her house of germs would make the other dirty things go away. She only wished she could erase the ugly slate of nasty deeds from her life like she did the dust and grime at her fingertips.
It was okay, though. As long as Dwayne hadn’t done gone and made some mess that she couldn’t clean up.
A pesky fly buzzed in front of her sweaty face, then lit on her arm. Her stomach pitched. She’d heard that flies regurgitated wherever they landed. Sickened by the thought of their guts on her skin, she snatched the flyswatter, lifted it and flattened the insect with one swing. Its innards splattered, seeping onto the stained counter surface she’d just scoured.
Blast it, she had to clean it all over again.
She poured another round of cleanser on her brush and began to scrub. The sound of a motor rumbled outside, and her heart jumped to her throat. Dwayne.
Thank the good Lord he was home.
She couldn’t relax, though, until he walked inside the house and she saw his face. Just by the set of his eyes, she’d know if the boy had been up to no good.
She switched off the overhead light, throwing the room into shadows. Footsteps shuffled outside. Then three stomps. Right, left, right again. The screen door screeched open, then the wooden one.
Dwayne’s head was ducked, and he was mumbling something in a singsongy voice that sent her nerves skittering again. She gripped the scrub brush and folded her arms, waiting.
His head slowly came up. That devilish smile was on his lips. Trouble.
“Where have you been, boy?”
He shrugged. “Out.”
“I asked you where.”
He rolled his shoulders. “I’m grown now, Mama. You don’t have to check up on me.”
She flicked him with the flyswatter. “I asked you a question. Don’t give me no disrespect.”
He pursed his lips in a pout. “The mountains. You know I like to walk at night.”
Yes, he did. He sometimes got lost in the sounds of the night. But sometimes…no, she wouldn’t think that.
“Let me see your hands.”
“Uh-uh.” He shoved them behind him and backed up, ready to run.
“Listen, here, Dwayne, I’ve sold my soul to keep you out of trouble. And here you go running off to God knows where, skipping your medicine. Then hiding from me.” She yanked his hands up to examine them. Dirt and bits of leaves were lodged beneath his fingernails. The smell of damp earth clung to his hair and clothes. But another smell, something almost rancid, permeated his clothing. And…drops of blood dotted his hands and stained his fingernails. Had he been at his old habits again?
She jerked her head up. “Do you want to be locked up again at night? Or maybe you want me to send you away?”
“No, Mama, please…” His voice broke again, that of a child. His knees sagged, too, and he clung to her like a kid, lost and afraid. “I’ll do anything, just don’t shut me away.”
Just like always, that puppy-dog look got to her. “Then scrub those hands, take your pill and go to bed. If you skip your medication again, I’ll lock you in.”
He nodded, dropping his shoulders forward. Back to being obedient. She handed him the scrub brush, then pushed him toward the sink and turned on the hot water.
A few minutes later, when his hands were red and nearly raw, but clean, she made him sit down, then handed him a glass of water. “Take your medicine now like a good boy.”
“Yes, Mama.” He placed the pill in his mouth.
“Now, go get undressed. Hand me your clothes before you get in the bath, so I can take care of them.”
“Wash them good, Mama. Make them smell good.”
Yes, she had her obedient little boy back now. “I will,” she promised. Although she’d burn them instead, just in case he had been up to no good.
He hugged her and loped into the bathroom. Seconds later, he squeezed the door open just enough to toss out the stench-filled garments. She carried them outside to the old metal garbage bin where she burned her trash. A bad feeling settled over her as she lit the rags and watched her son’s clothes go up in flames.
He wasn’t getting any better. In fact, even with his medication, his spells seemed to be getting worse. His obsessive-compulsive tendencies had come back. His mood swings we
re more frequent.
She was really afraid now.
Afraid that one day he just might be the death of her….
* * *
SPECIAL AGENT NICK NORTON had a bad feeling. The minute he received the call from the locals in Nashville, he suspected they had a serial killer on the loose. Trouble was, the murderer hadn’t started in Tennessee, but in Georgia. And from the description, the second victim looked nothing like the first.
“M.O. is the same as the Collins girl who died in Savannah, Georgia,” Detective Clarence Hendricks said.
Norton took one look at the victim lying on the church steps and nodded. “It appears that way, but we’ll have to see what forensics tells us.”
“Judging from the ligature marks, I’d speculate she died of strangulation,” the M.E. said. “No signs of sexual abuse, but I’ll perform tests to make certain.”
Norton nodded again, studying the way the woman had been positioned. Her clothes had been removed, and she was wrapped in a sheet. A note, identical to the one left with Amber Collins, was found beside her saying, “Pin Peyeh obe, for the father.”
“We’ll get our profiler on this,” Nick said. “The note indicates our killer is some kind of religious fanatic.”
Detective Hendrix grimaced as the crime lab finished taking pictures. “Don’t serial killers usually pick a certain type of victim? All blondes or all brunettes?”
“Usually. The relationship, whatever it is, normally has something to do with a person from their past—often their mother, especially if she’s an abuser. Sometimes the victim represents a former lover or wife who abandoned the perp.” He cracked his knuckles, a habit that helped him think and relieve stress. “We’ll have to dig deeper to find the connection between these two women. That is, if we are in fact dealing with a serial killer.”
“A serial killer?” Bernie Morris, a reporter from the Nashville Nighttime News trotted up, microphone in hand. Norton glared at him and swept his hand for the locals to keep the man and his camera crew back. “Come on, Detectives,” Morris screeched, “if we’re dealing with a serial killer, the public has a right to know.”
