A Breath Away

by Rita Herron

  Violet hung up the phone, stunned. Why had her father lied to her?

  Reeling with questions, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the telephone trilled. She stared at it dumb-founded for a minute, then finally answered it. Maybe it was Grady with some answers. “Hello?”

  “Get out of town and stop snooping around,” a low voice whispered. “Or you’re going to end up just like the others.”

  Violet’s fingers tightened around the handset. “Who are you? What are you talking about?”

  The phone went dead in her hands, the dial tone roaring in her ears.

  * * *

  SWEAT DRIBBLED DOWN Grady’s back as he drove toward his old homestead. Hell, yeah, he’d ask his father about the bone. That piece of bone might connect his sister’s murderer to the serial killer stalking the South today.

  He searched his memory banks for his father’s reaction the night Darlene had disappeared—had he given any indication he might know who’d kidnapped her? The details were so foggy….

  Only thirteen at the time, Grady had been battling guilt over not coming home to watch her. And then his father had turned to him with accusing eyes, placing the blame on his shoulders. Search parties had been organized. The town had been in an uproar. And the calls from Baker had started, suggesting places for them to search.

  Had Jed Baker led them on a wild-goose chase? Had Walt suspected Baker all these years, or did he know something else he wasn’t telling?

  Struggling with unanswered questions, Grady opened the car door and jogged up the porch steps, knocked, then let himself inside. The house was dark, quiet, the emptiness swelling like a vise, closing around him. Echoes of Darlene’s childlike voice drifted from the walls, an image of her racing down the steps materializing like a ghost. He hated this house, the memories. The ache of wanting his father to be proud of him. The fear that his dad would abandon him just as his mother had.

  “Dad?”

  There was no answer, so Grady walked down the hall, knowing somehow he’d find his father in the same place he had the last time he’d visited. His workshop.

  Seconds later, the familiar sound of a knife scraping wood seared his consciousness. Had his father ever whittled a whistle out of bone?

  For God’s sake, what was wrong with him? His father had not killed his little sister. And he certainly wasn’t a serial killer.

  “Dad?”

  The knife paused, his father glanced up, then back down. He was carving another lamb. The sight of the carving gnawed at Grady. Weren’t lambs some kind of religious symbol? The sacrificial lamb…

  “What do you want?” Walt asked.

  “The truth about what was going on with you and Baker.”

  His father’s hand shook slightly, but he resumed his carving. “What truth?”

  “You two had a secret. I heard you arguing the night before he died. What were you afraid of?”

  His dad shrugged, his cotton shirt wrinkling at the shoulders. Grady noticed suddenly that his father had lost weight. He appeared almost gaunt, his clothes hanging off of him. “You know why I hated him.”

  “Because you thought he steered you wrong in finding Darlene?”

  He nodded.

  “There’s more.”

  His father’s hand hesitated again, then he lifted his eyes. They looked like flat pieces of glass. Devoid of any emotion except bitterness.

  “I spoke to the M.E., Dad. Baker didn’t commit suicide…he was murdered.”

  A flash of panic filled his father’s face before it slipped back into impassivity. “And you think I care?”

  Anger churned Grady’s stomach. “Tell me you didn’t kill him, Dad.”

  A small smirk twisted Walt’s lips. “Get out, Grady.”

  “Not until you answer me.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” he said coldly. “But I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

  Relief tried to break through Grady’s worry. “You argued with him the night he died.”

  “I argued with him every time I saw him.”

  “But that night there was something different,” Grady insisted. “Baker was scared and so were you. Had you figured out who really killed Darlene?”

  “You said Baker left a confession?”

  “But I don’t think he did it, and neither does Violet,” Grady said in a low voice.

  “Is that what this is about? You’ve taken that crazy, white trash girl’s side.” His father stood now, his craggy features strained. “Or are you in her pants?”

  Grady balled his hands into fists. He’d never wanted to hit his father so badly in his life. “I’m not on anyone’s side,” he said. “But I’m trying to get to the truth, and I think you’re hiding something. You don’t believe Baker killed Darlene, either.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  Grady glared at him. “What the hell kind of answer is that? I thought you wanted to see Darlene’s killer pay.”

  “I do.” His father sighed, sounding defeated. Once again, he resumed his carving. “I did.”

  “Then tell me about the piece of bone you found in Darlene’s hand.”

  His father’s head jerked up. “What?”

  “Tate told me Darlene was holding a piece of bone when you found her. Do you have it?”

  His father blinked as if he was trying to remember. Or think of a lie.

  “For God’s sake, Dad, if you do, why wasn’t it filed as evidence? It might be a vital clue.”

  “It was nothing,” his father said. “Just some bone sliver she picked up trying to fight her way out of that well.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Grady sighed. “Besides, I thought Darlene was already dead when the killer put her in the well.”

  His father paused, rubbed at his forehead with the back of his arm. “We didn’t know, not for sure.”

  Emotions froze Grady’s throat. He imagined Darlene lying in the well. Frightened. Alone. Hurting. Was that what Violet had seen?

  “Just tell me what you did with the bone.”

  “I threw it away. I couldn’t stand to think about—” His father choked, then reached for his bourbon. “Drop this, Grady. Let it go before someone else dies.”

  Grady locked his fists tighter. Had his father just threatened him or had he meant his comment as a warning?

  * * *

  AFTER THAT PHONE CALL, Violet couldn’t stay at the house alone. Her nerves on edge, she drove back to town. If she didn’t learn anything here, tomorrow after her father’s funeral she’d visit the mental hospital.

  When she arrived at the diner, the sun had faded, as if it, too, had drawn its last breath. A crotchety-looking old man she heard someone call Bart occupied the same bar stool he had the last time she’d been there. Two elderly women were laughing over thick pieces of apple pie, and another half-dozen people she didn’t recognize filled the booths.

  She claimed the only vacant one, wondering where the pretty young waitress she’d seen before was. Joseph Longhorse was talking to a man in khaki slacks and a navy shirt, although she couldn’t see his face.

  Reverend Wheeler and his son walked in and took the table across from her. A knot of anxiety pinched her belly. Another man in an expensive black suit joined them—Reverend Billy Lee Bilkins. She’d seen him preach on TV but didn’t care for his overly dramatic hellfire and damnation sermons. And she’d heard he took half of each offering to feed his own ostentatious lifestyle.

  Laney strode toward her with a wave, and Violet relaxed. “What can I do for you today, dear?”

  Violet ordered a bowl of homemade vegetable soup. “Laney, I have to ask you something.”

  The woman’s pensive eyes narrowed. “You’re still troubled by your gift?”

  “Yes, and I found something unusual in my father’s house.” She inhaled deeply, then explained about the bills for the mental hospital. “Did you know my mother?”

  The older woman shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Violet glanced around th
e diner. “Who in town did know her?”

  “Doc Farmer. He was a young man then, just starting his practice.”

  Laney nodded. She should have thought of him right off. “He also might know my mother’s medical history.”

  A TV blared from the bar, and Violet’s gaze flew to the reporter on the screen. “Yes, folks, it appears we have a serial killer in the South. So far, this man has murdered two women, the first victim a coed in Savannah, the second, a young woman in Nashville. FBI profiler Special Agent Amelia Adams states that the killer is a male in his twenties with a strong religious upbringing. It’s also possible he has Native American roots. If you have any information that might help find this killer, please call your local police.”

  Violet shivered. Loud voices broke out, and she and Laney both turned to see the Barley boys in a heated argument with Joseph. The other man angled his head slightly, and Violet saw his face.

  A cold chill slid up her spine.

  It was Donald Irving, the man who’d practically stalked her in Charleston. Had he followed her here?

  “My boy.” Laney tsked. “He has such a temper.”

  “Those Barleys have always had it in for him,” Violet said.

  The heaviest of the men—Chuck, if Violet remembered correctly—turned and bellowed, “Did you hear the earlier news report, folks? A serial killer is on the loose, and the police suspect he’s an Indian.” He pointed toward Donald. “And this here’s Bernie Morris, a reporter from the Charleston paper. He thinks the killer might be here in Crow’s Landing.”

  Several of the townspeople gasped. The two white-haired women huddled together in the corner. Violet stared at Donald Irving in shock. He was a reporter? And his name wasn’t Donald, but Bernie?

  He’d lied to her. Or was he lying now?

  “Hell, we always knew he was trouble,” Chuck’s brother, Leroy, yelled. “Now he’s killing women.”

  “Maybe we ought to take care of him ourselves,” Chuck shouted.

  They jumped on Joseph with thrashing fists, grunting obscenities. Laney stepped forward to break up the fight, but Violet held her back, afraid the men would hurt her. Bart Stancil scooted off his stool to get out of the way. The white-haired women squealed and ran toward the door. Two teenagers gawked as if they were enjoying the show.

  Reverend Billy Lee Bilkins jumped up and raised his hands. “Lord God, please come down and bless these people. There’s evil in this town, take the devil out of here.”

  “Joseph!” Laney shouted.

  “I called the sheriff,” a lady in a pink suit said.

  Deputy Logan and Grady strode in, grabbed the Barley boys and hauled them off of Joseph.

  “Stop it!” Grady yelled.

  Chuck swung around, trying to escape. “But he might be that serial killer!”

  Grady dragged the man toward the door and shoved him through it. “Get out before I arrest you. And don’t come back until you’ve cooled down.”

  Logan booted the brother out the door. Laney hurried to Joseph to make sure he was all right. She knelt and helped him stand, then pressed the napkin to his bloody mouth. He sank into a bar stool while Laney rushed to get ice.

  Violet hovered nearby, and Joseph caught her hand. “I am all right.” His hawklike eyes bore into hers, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw hunger flare. He closed his fingers around hers. “I am glad you’re back, Violet.”

  Grady cleared his throat. “What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing,” Violet said, then realized he was talking about Joseph. “The Barley boys are idiots. They jumped Joseph.”

  “Longhorse?”

  Joseph glared at Grady. “I don’t need your help, Sheriff.” He squeezed Violet’s hand. “Come on, let us go somewhere and talk.”

  Violet hesitated, but Grady reached out and took her arm. “Not now. I need to talk to Violet.”

  Violet’s gaze darted back and forth between the men, noting the tension.

  Did Grady have new information about her father’s death? About Darlene’s or the other women’s murder? If so, she had to know.

  “We have to discuss my father’s burial,” she said softly.

  Joseph’s eyes dropped downward, his mouth tightening. “All right, I’ll see you later. We are not finished, Violet.” He released her hand and stalked from the diner, leaving Violet to wonder what he’d meant. And what he really wanted.

  * * *

  GRADY HAD NEVER HAD a possessive streak over a woman before, but for some reason seeing Joseph Longhorse’s hand on Violet had triggered a monster inside him. He’d wanted to finish the beating the Barley brothers had started.

  But he had no good reason.

  He and Violet were not involved. For God’s sake, she thought she had psychic visions, and he had his hands full trying to sort out these murders.

  “What did you need?” Violet asked.

  He latched on to her arm. “Let’s sit down.”

  She gestured toward her booth, her adrenaline waning. “Do you have a lead about my father’s murder or Darlene’s?”

  He braced his hands on the table. “Darlene was holding a piece of bone in her hand when she was found.”

  Violet gasped, her eyes glazing over for a second. Then she’d been right about the sound. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” Grady said, “Not yet. But I will.” He cleared his throat, started to reach for her hand, then seemed to think better of it and paused. “Violet, if you are somehow connected to this killer, you have to be careful. You might be in danger.”

  She chewed her lip. “I received a threatening call earlier.”

  “From whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll get a trace put on your phone.” He clenched his fists, then cleared his throat and glanced toward the door where Laney’s son had exited. “Stay away from Joseph Longhorse.”

  Her gaze met his, surprise registering. “You can’t suspect Joseph of killing Darlene or my father?”

  “I don’t know what to think yet, but we can’t discount the fact that there’s a maniac out there killing women. Longhorse not only has a temper, he has some kind of grudge against me and my father, too.” His voice dropped lower, his fear for Violet unleashing something primitive inside him. “And he fits the profile of this serial killer.”

  “But—”

  “Just promise me you’ll be careful, Violet, and that you won’t let down your guard around him.”

  “All right,” she whispered hesitantly. “But keep an open mind. Except for the Native American part, there are other people in town who fit the profile.”

  He nodded. “I’m aware of that. Believe me, I’m checking them out, as well.”

  She bit down on her lower lip. He itched to reach up and wipe away the indentation of her teeth on the soft flesh. To draw her into his arms, kiss her and reassure her that everything would be all right. To make Joseph Longhorse realize that Violet was not a woman to be had.

  Except maybe by Grady.

  Jesus, where had those thoughts come from?

  Logan cleared his throat. “Sheriff?”

  Grady glanced up and met Logan’s questioning look, then saw the deputy’s eyes shift to Violet. “What is it?”

  Logan gestured behind him to a corner booth. “There’s a reporter here from the Charleston paper. He says he wants to talk to you,” Logan said. “I’ll check around outside. Make sure the troublemakers are gone.”

  Grady nodded. “I wonder what this reporter’s doing in Crow’s Landing.”

  “I think he’s here because of me,” Violet said.

  “What do you mean?” Had she told someone else about her visions?

  Violet released a shaky breath. “I met him in Charleston. He wouldn’t leave me alone. I’m afraid he followed me here.”

  “He was stalking you?”

  “I thought so,” Violet said. “But maybe he was just being a pest and wanted a story. He lied and told me his name wa
s Donald Irving, not Bernie Morris. Or maybe he’s lying now.”

  Those protective instincts surfaced again along with Grady’s suspicious nature. What kind of story had this reporter expected to get from Violet? And why had he lied about his name?

  Even without his deceit, a stranger showing up when a serial killer was on the loose was good enough reason to doubt the man and his motives. “Then I’ll go find out who the hell he really is and what he wants.”

  * * *

  THE CLOCK WAS TICKING. Time to take another.

  Violet Baker.

  No, she was way down on the list. Although the prospect of being so close to the one who’d known his original conquest exhilarated him. But he had to go in order.

  Order meant everything.

  He left the town square, smiling as he thought of the commotion at the diner. The tension in the town was high. Tempers were flaring.

  The scent of fear was upon them.

  He meticulously gathered his supplies, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Maybe this one would serve his father.

  Kerry Cantrell.

  A sense of desperation mingled with worry. But if she was perfect, what would happen? Would they make him stop?

  The other names on his list flashed into his mind. Seven more. His mouth salivated. He couldn’t stop.

  He wanted to draw the blood from each of them. Watch the life flow from their pretty pale necks and place them on the altar for his father.

  Then he would be the only one left. The Cherokee word rolled off his tongue. “Suye’ta”—the chosen one.

  And they would sing him into glory. Just as it should have been.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  GRADY STARED AT Bernie Morris’s proffered hand, sizing him up. Morris had longish brown hair, a patrician nose, expensive clothes and an uppity air about him. Some women might find his face attractive. But Morris’s frame seemed wiry to Grady, his green eyes suspicious. Grady immediately disliked the weasel and didn’t trust him.

  He also noticed several scars on the man’s arms that looked questionable. An accident, maybe? Something seemed suspicious about the nicks and cuts, as if they might have been self-inflicted. He’d guess a suicide attempt. But slicers usually chose the wrist area and made a longer gash instead of small puncture wounds up and down their forearms. Unless these had been tentative attempts, and he’d been working up his nerve to kill himself. He looked like a coward.