Bone Island 01 - Ghost Shadow (14 page)

“What else makes you think it’s not a copycat?” Katie asked.

David enlarged the picture, showing her the face. “Petechia,” he said. “It’s a hemorrhage in the eyes…caused by strangling. Look, you can see the bruises on the neck. But there’s more-more like the crime-scene photos in Tanya’s file. See the slight bruises…not even bruises, really. But the blue-and-gray smudges on the nose…and there, on the chin.”

Katie narrowed her eyes. She saw the little marks.

“What do you think they are?” she asked him.

“I think they’re from some form of plastic. I think the killer is putting some kind of plastic bag over their heads. They don’t see him until the last minute. He comes from behind, puts the plastic over their heads. While they’re desperately gasping for breath already, he strangles them.”

“So they really don’t know who their killer is,” Katie murmured.

“He steals their breath away so quickly, they can’t even fight,” David said thoughtfully.

Katie looked away. She didn’t want to see her ghost, the woman who had been a stripper and a prostitute but strong and gutsy in her own way, dead in a tableau.

David left the memory stick in the computer and stood, looking at his watch. He frowned. “You don’t work tonight?”

“Not tonight, though Uncle Jamie said something about doing karaoke all week next week for Fantasy Fest,” Katie told him. “I’m looking forward to my days off here.”

He was a few feet away. He nodded, and she was hoping, without being overt, that he meant to keep her with him, spend their time together, from now until then.

But that wasn’t the case.

“I have to go,” he told her.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“The strip club.”

“I’ll go with you,” she said.

“No, it’s-it’s a strip club.”

She offered him a dry smile. “This is Key West, if you’ve forgotten. Men and women are more than welcome together.”

He shook his head. “Katie, trust me. This is something I really need to do alone.”

“David-Stella was discovered today. People in there…”

“They might be cruel to me? Treat me like a murderer?” he asked. He shook his head. “That’s why I made a point of staying on the street today. I’m old hat, and sadly, she was a prostitute, and half the people out there assume that it’s some kind of a copycat deal.”

He walked over to her, caught her shoulders and looked into her eyes. She stared back at him, her heart beating hard, and she wondered how she could possibly feel so strongly about him when just days ago she had barely known him.

“Katie, I need to speak with Morgana. You’re the one who told me about her, remember?”

She nodded. Great, she had told him about a stripper.

“Wait for me, please?” he asked huskily.

“Sure,” she told him.

He kissed her. On the mouth. But it was a quick kiss. A goodbye-for-now kiss.

But his hands lingered on her shoulders. “Katie, I…”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for believing me.”

“You can’t really thank me for that,” she told him. “It’s the way I feel, it’s…intuition. Whatever, it’s not something we really choose. We believe or we don’t.”

He smiled. The man had fabulous eyes. She felt tension ripping through her, and she wanted to hold on to him, beg him to stay with her.

He touched her cheek. “Still, thank you,” he said.

She didn’t grab him; she didn’t hold him, speak to him or try to stop him.

She nodded, and his lips brushed hers once again.

She walked him to the door. When he was outside, she locked the bolt.

She looked through the peephole and saw him walking down the street, toward Duval. When he disappeared, she turned and leaned against the door.

“Bartholomew?” she said.

There was no answer. Her ghost was off for the day and night, so it seemed.

She waited, listening. But there was nothing to be heard, and she felt as if she were truly alone.

With a sigh she headed into the kitchen, and turned on the small television on the counter. She switched around on the news stations, but although Stella had barely been dead for twenty-four hours, the nation had moved on. There had been a bus accident in New Hampshire, killing five, and Cleveland police believed that they had caught a spree killer who was shooting the elderly in the streets. Nanny Nice, a nurse who had killed handicapped children in a California hospital, was planning on a psychiatric defense.

Finally, the bizarre murder of a prostitute in Key West, Florida, came on the local news. Stella’s name wasn’t even mentioned at first.

But, as the story wound down, Katie felt as if a chill was settling over her. The tiny hairs at her nape seemed to be rising.

In the television screen she saw a reflection.

She turned, and Stella Martin was back, standing in her kitchen, watching the television screen. She looked at Katie, her features twisted in torment.

“Help me,” she whispered.

“Who did this to you?” Katie asked.

But Stella shook her head, tears forming in her eyes again.

She lifted her hand, beckoning to Katie.

“Come with me,” seemed to hover on the air.

The ghost of Stella Martin walked to Katie’s front door, and beckoned again.

I’m an idiot! Katie thought.

And yet she followed.

Strippers came in all sizes, shapes and varieties-even ages. Once, in college, David and a friend had done a piece on the strippers of north Florida. A lot of their other friends had ribbed them about the project, but it had earned them both superior marks for a photojournalism class.

A lot of young and very attractive women went into the work for the money. And the story was usually the same. It was good money with little effort. Prostitution and stripping were not the same, though the latter sometimes led to the first. One girl they had interviewed told them that drugs were readily available, so stripping sometimes led to drug or alcohol addiction. The addiction meant that more money needed to be earned, and stripping allowed a girl to find out who had money and who didn’t, and who would pay, what they would pay for and how much.

Some strippers remained, even when not addicted to drugs, alcohol or sex, because they liked the thrill of being sexy on a pole. To some, it was empowering.

Others did love sex.

Some just loved money.

When Morgana appeared on the floor, David at first felt sorry for her. The woman was not young, nor did she have a perfect body.

But she could move. He imagined, watching her, that as a young girl, she had wanted to be a dancer-a dancer, not a stripper. When she moved, there was something special about her.

Some of the customers in the establishment were talking and didn’t even notice her. Some of the clientele hooted and hollered.

She seemed oblivious to all of them.

And yet, when her music ended, she was back playing the game. David thought it was all by rote. There was a look of abject sadness in her eyes, even when she smiled. She was far away, even when she bent down to squeeze a bill between her breasts or accept an offering in the thong bikini she wore that was just strings.

When she walked from the stage, David rose to meet her, reaching out a hundred-dollar bill. She looked at him, and her eyes grew wider. Fear registered in them. He was afraid she was going to press the bill back into his hands and run.

“My friend Katie told me about you today,” he said quickly. “I’m so sorry. I just want to talk to you. I was hoping you could tell me more about Stella Martin.”

She hesitated. She stared at him. “The place downstairs has a quiet patio in back. But the bartender is a big, old bruiser, and he’s a good friend of mine,” she said.

He smiled. “I swear, I have no intention of hurting you,” he said gently.

“And don’t go getting the police on me!” she warned.

“No,” he said.

“Five minutes,” she told him.

She left, and as she did so, David turned to see that someone was leaving from the far back of the room.

Someone who had been sitting in the shadows, and was now just about hugging the wall and the darkness to hurry out.

Danny Zigler.

There she was. Katie O’Hara. She was leaving her house behind, as she had surely done thousands of times before.

Katie O’Hara. Such a pretty thing. Sweet kid. She always had been. No doormat, she could handle a drunk out of control, speak with a cool authority that seemed to demand attention and hold her own with the best of them. Actually, she might be called beautiful now. All the rough edges of the child and the teen were gone; she was a woman. She had a magical speaking voice, and as far as Katie-oke went, ah, she was great.

Katie O’Hara…

She was there, she was alone, she was vulnerable.

Tonight…

Ah, tonight…

Tonight was too soon.

Too soon; the death of the stripper had to be noted, puzzled and plastered all over the news. A stripper might be forgotten quickly. That was the way of the world. But Stella Martin, pathetic user that she had been, had now taken her place in importance. Now she was history; she was legend.

And, of course, that would be it with Katie, too.

For a moment, he frowned, regretting the fact that he had chosen such a whore to be his victim. Stella hadn’t really deserved to be remembered in any way.

Then again, Tanya Barnard hadn’t been pristine, either.

Katie…well, Katie was a good girl. She deserved the best. She truly deserved to be legend.

Something very, very special would have to be done for her. Nothing quick, nothing spur-of-the-moment. It must be thought out carefully.

Fantasy Fest was coming…

Ah, yes. Something truly magnificent could be done with Fantasy Fest.

On a Monday night, the streets were quiet. Comparatively.

There were still people out and about. The bars were open on Duval, and scattered venues around the city. It was an odd Monday-still Monday, but a Monday with the city beginning to fill. Many people planned vacations around Fantasy Fest, and some had already trickled in. More would arrive on Friday night, when the city went into high gear.

Katie wondered if there would be an air of nervousness, or if tourists would simply need the diversion for their own lives.

Usually, people could rationalize away something wrong, heinous or even evil.

I’m not a prostitute. I can’t be affected.

I am always with my friends…husband…lover…

I will be safe.

Of course it was true.

The ghost walked ahead of Katie.

She thought that the ghost of Stella Martin was going to turn down the block before Duval, but she didn’t. She seemed to hesitate, as if thinking out her move. She looked at Katie, and then she moved on to Duval.

Katie followed. There was no reason for her to be afraid. Duval was as familiar to her as her own front walk.

Rick’s was open, as was the Irish bar across the street, and both seemed to be busy. Up ahead, more bars were still issuing the sounds of music out to the road and all those who still prowled the town. They passed the smallest bar, and a few old friends were hanging around; they waved to Katie. She waved back and hurried on.

They were near one of the inns on Duval Street that many people might pass on a daily basis-and barely notice. They were wonderful places for the city. Small, on top of storefronts, they often had the kind of rooms where spring-breakers might find an affordable stay. Her brother had rented one with a group of friends once. “Katie, there’s one bed. There’s a bed under the bed, and when you open the closet, there’s a mattress standing up! It’s just great. Of course, you have a ton of folks and one bathroom, but it means that kids can afford to come!”

The ghost stopped. She stared at Katie, frowned, looked worried, then sighed.

And walked around back.

Katie hesitated, then followed her.

A narrow alley led to the back of the building and stairs that allowed guests at the place to depart through the rear of the establishment. Another alley ran between the shops, bars and restaurants on the main street and the shops, bars, restaurants, B and Bs and homes that were on the other side.

Katie could hear all the sounds from the street. The laughter. The music. The cars and small motorcycles going by. She could hear the light toot of a horn.

Laughter again.

The ghost looked anxiously about and ran along the back alley, then stood in the midst of bushes and the dripping branches of a large sea grape tree.

Katie walked over to her. The ghost seemed very afraid; she looked around constantly.

She opened her mouth. She couldn’t really make sound. She wasn’t anywhere near as comfortable in her death as Bartholomew had come to be. Katie could barely hear her.

I was here, it’s all I remember, but the plastic, the darkness and the fact that I couldn’t breathe. Then the hands, I can’t forget the hands around my neck.

A car backfired away on the streets; the ghost of Stella Martin actually seemed to jump.

Get to the light, get to the light and the people, it’s the darkness…he knows the streets. He was following me… I didn’t realize…

“Stella,” Katie said aloud, “was it Danny? Danny Zigler?”

Stella frowned. I…no. I don’t know. I don’t know! But go…please. It’s dark. Go now, and help me, please help me. Go, and don’t get yourself killed, or how the hell will you help me?

The ghost was finding her personality. Brash in life, she would be so in death.

Katie turned.

She knew the city so well. Knew the streets, the legends, even where trees grew and bushes were thick, where foliage had been cut back, where locals gathered, and where they did not.

She knew her city.

But she felt as if she was being watched.

As if she had been followed.

And while just a block away the city was alive and bursting with music and colorful revelers, those who had come from near and from far, she felt alone.

But she knew it; she had been seen.

She had been seen talking to thin air, right at the place where Stella had been killed.

Something seemed to creep along her nape. Something more frightening than she had ever experienced. Not of another world, but of this world.

She sensed evil. Living, breathing evil.

He was hidden, watching. Her senses seemed acutely attuned, and it was as if she could hear him standing still, and yet causing a slight rustling. Watching her. Stalking her. Waiting, his breath coming fast, his hands clenched at his sides. Strong hands, the kind that could quickly cause suffocation, and then squeeze the life from the living.

The ghost was agitated, too.

She began to fade.

“Run!” she said.

And Katie did.

Cleaned up, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, her face scrubbed, her hair in a ponytail, Stella’s friend Morgana Willams seemed like a woman in her late thirties-in fact, she looked like the girl next door.

“I know who you are,” she told David wearily.

He had offered to buy her a drink. She hadn’t wanted alcohol; just a cup of coffee. It was still readily available.

They sat at a little open-air table in the far back of the establishment, within sight of many who were escaping the music and yet still partying. Some looked as if they were already preparing for hellacious hangovers the next day.

Some had been moderate, and were watching out for their friends.

“I didn’t kill your friend,” he said.

She smiled, a dampness about her eyes. “I believe you. Of course, I wasn’t here ten years ago. I came down from the farmlands of Indiana. I didn’t want a boring life, you know. I’m not sure I exactly planned on this life, but…hey. Maybe I’ll find Mr. Right somewhere.”

“You never know,” he told her.

“The police already questioned me,” she told him.

“Well, it makes sense,” he told her.

“They questioned everyone in the club. One of the guys is your relative, isn’t he? A cop named Liam Beckett.”

“He’s my cousin.”

“Yeah, you can tell.”

“He’s a good guy,” David told her.

She nodded. “He was real respectful. He didn’t treat us like we were all whores-or the underbelly of society.”

David smiled. “Well, you are gainfully employed. And, by the way, I thought you might have been a dancer-as in musicals-at some time. Were you?”

Her face lit up. She was almost pretty. “You could tell that? Really?”

He nodded.

“I started off in the Big Apple-New York City,” she said. “I even worked Off Broadway. But then I met Joe, and Joe introduced me to…a few friends who weren’t friends at all. Cocaine and heroin, and before I knew it… Never mind. You’re not here to listen to my story, are you?”

“You can dance,” he assured her simply.

She sipped her coffee. “I can’t tell you anything I haven’t already told the cops. Stella did have a thing with Danny Zigler-on again, off again. And she had some regulars, but she didn’t even tell me about them. She said that she was sworn to silence, ’cause big muckety-mucks never wanted anyone to know that they hung around with folks like us. I told her that the muckety-mucks were ashamed that they needed help to get it up, you know what I mean? But-you think that Danny might have killed her? Danny always seems like a nice guy. He’s not ambitious, but…lots of guys down here aren’t exactly balls of fire, you know what I mean?”

“So you can’t name anyone else she might have had a regular relationship with?”

Morgana sniffed. “You got a cigarette?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “No, but I’ll get you one.”

The bar itself was still open. The fellow running it seemed to be Eastern European, possibly Russian. When David asked for a pack of cigarettes, the fellow’s accent confirmed his thought. Russian or Ukrainian.

The bartender didn’t know him, and he accepted the money for the cigarettes with no comment on his past or the day’s events.

David brought the cigarettes to Morgana. She lit up and inhaled greedily, looking at David. “Yeah, yeah, they’re going to kill me one day. But they keep me off the hard stuff.”

“I’m not a judge, I promise,” David told her.

She managed a laugh. “No, no you’re not, are you. All right, what else can I tell you? Whoever local she was seeing who was in the higher echelon or whatever, I don’t know. She did care about Danny, and they did see each other.”

“Thank you for helping me, for telling me that. What I need to know now is what happened that night. When did you last see Stella?” David asked.

Morgana inhaled deeply and was silent for a few seconds. When she spoke at last, it was thoughtfully. “We worked that night, but she took off early. No, no, wait, that wasn’t right. She took a break and went down the street. Then she came running back in. I tried to ask her what was going on-but she wouldn’t tell me.” Morgana hesitated a minute. She grimaced weakly and shrugged. “She-she could be a bit of a pickpocket, but she told me she figured she was actually helping the youth of America. If she stole their money and their cards, they couldn’t get plastered and kill themselves on their way back up the island.”

David smiled. “I guess there’s some logic to that.”

Morgana’s smile deepened, and then faded.

“She really wasn’t a bad person,” she said. “She just-well, you know. She just didn’t get the real opportunities in life. Both her folks are dead, at least that’s what she told people. Whatever, she went from foster home to foster home and I guess she kind of learned how to survive. You understand?”