Last Whisper (3 page)

The blast came just as Brooke had bent down to squash a mosquito clinging tenaciously to her ankle. Glass rained on her head. Glass and big wet globs of something. She reached up and dabbed at one.

Why, it’s blood, Brooke thought calmly. Imagine that.

The second shot knocked Mia’s body back. From where she still crouched, Brooke could see Mia’s feet jerk above the car pedals. This isn’t happening, Brooke thought distantly. This just
can’t
be—

A third shot followed, slamming Mia down on top of her. Brooke’s head crashed on the console between the bucket seats. She remained conscious, but before she could get out a sound, Mia’s blood was pouring over her face, running into her hair, and dripping down the neck of her suit.

Brooke stayed crouched for what seemed an endless time, waiting for the fourth shot, that would finish her. But it didn’t come. And finally, unable to bear not knowing whether Mia was still alive, Brooke gently tried to lift Mia off her. Light tugging didn’t work, though. Finally, Brooke had to give the girl a hard shove that hurled her back against the door.

“I didn’t mean to push you so hard,” Brooke quavered, trying to loosen her leg and back muscles that seemed locked into place. “How bad are you hurt? Can you hear me?”

But now that Mia rested in an upright position, Brooke knew Mia could not hear her. Or see her. The beautiful,
laughing girl who had just gotten into the car five minutes ago was now nothing but a lifeless husk, her left shoulder blown off, blood pouring from a wound in her neck, and the left side of her face gone.
Gone
. Just like Mommy’s, Brooke thought as the world began to spin. Her face is gone just like Mommy’s.

Brooke climbed out of the car, carefully closing the door behind her, walked to a line of shrubbery about thirty feet away, bent down, and threw up. She dropped to her knees and again threw up, this time so hard that the spinning world went dark for a little while. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she awakened disoriented. She breathed deeply and touched her lips, which were moist with something the color of blood.

Absently, she wiped her hand across her mouth, tottered to her feet, and started back to the car as her mind began to clear a bit. My purse, my cell phone, she thought hazily. Then she stopped. She could
not
go near the car again. She tried to force her steps in that direction, but her body simply wouldn’t obey. Mia was in there. Poor, shattered Mia . . .

Brooke’s hands began to shake, and on legs that felt as substantial as water she managed to turn and began walking in the opposite direction. She knew she should do something more resourceful, but she couldn’t think of anything. No other houses sat anywhere near. She saw no one else, but that didn’t mean whoever had shot at the car wasn’t lurking close by. For a moment, she considered turning back and scuttling into the submarine house, but the keys to the house were in the carnage of her Buick. Besides, if someone really wanted to get in that house, they’d find a way. She decided she would probably be almost as vulnerable in there as she was outside.

Brooke’s body trembled. Her mind roiled, her thoughts a whirlpool of grotesque images. Only one clear phrase kept echoing in her head—Fitzgerald Lane. I need to get to Fitzgerald Lane.

And what was on Fitzgerald Lane? For a few moments, she couldn’t imagine why Fitzgerald Lane was important.
Then she pictured the lovely stone house and somehow knew that inside lay safety.

But how could she get there without taking a chance on being shot out here in the open? Brooke thought, I can’t. There’s no other way than to walk.

Suddenly, she saw the movement in the bushes to her left. Time seemed to slow and almost stop. She sensed danger so near she could hardly breathe. She closed her eyes and touched a heart-shaped locket given to her long ago by her mother. She didn’t pray. She just waited.

Then a car drove by, headlights on bright, garishly illuminating the street, the shrubbery, Brooke. She was too surprised to move. The car slowed and Brooke stood still and tall, staring at the rough-faced male driver who stared back, then stopped the car and rolled down the window. “Give you a ride there, little lady?” he called.

Brooke shook her head, but he didn’t drive on. He just stared at her, then finally said, “Awful lonely here in this car.” He showed her what he must have thought was an enticing grin, with long, crooked teeth. “It’s nice and cool in here.” He leaned over and began opening the passenger door. “Pretty lady like you don’t need to be wanderin’ around in the dark.” He pushed his door open wider. The interior lights of the car shone on her and his smile abruptly disappeared. “Hey, is that blood on you?” His lips parted in surprise. “How’d you get blood all over you?”

“Someone is trying to kill me,” Brooke said stonily. “Someone with a gun is following me.”

“What the hell?” The man gaped at her. “You’re . . . you must be crazy!” he blustered. Then he looked again at the blood splattered all over her. He slammed the door and roared off so fast he left tire tracks on the street. Should I have said that? Brooke wondered. Should I have gone with him? Then deep inside she knew she was safer on the street with someone possibly following her than she would have been with that man.

She ambled to the corner of Sutton Street and Fitzgerald
Lane and stood for a moment, her head pounding, her hair stiffening with Mia’s drying blood. Brooke felt alone and terrified, and she was certain death hovered near, just waiting for an opportunity to snatch her. Terrified but desperate, she closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and started down Fitzgerald Lane toward a stone house where she remembered that warmth and security had lain a long time ago.

With every step, Brooke’s head hurt more, and in the humid, almost starless night mosquitoes bit viciously at her face and hands. She realized she’d begun to stumble in her high heels when finally she saw the big white numbers on the dark wood:
7313
. She’d found the house on Fitzgerald Lane.

A few small landscape lights led up a curved sidewalk to the home made of wood and natural stones, the wood painted yellow and the shutters slate blue. Pink impatiens lined the sidewalk and the lights inside glowed bright and warm.

She stood outside for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone familiar passed the windows, but no one walked by them at all. Then she moved a bit closer to the house, abruptly afraid the people who’d once lived here had moved away.

Pain pierced her left temple and she reached up, feeling dried blood. For a moment she thought she was going to faint. She swayed just as the front door of the house opened. The form of a man stood in the doorway.

“Miss, can I help you?” Her throat had gone dry, her dizziness increased, and she couldn’t answer. The man flipped on the porch light and stepped outside, “Miss, are you all right?”

Brooke forced herself to swallow the little bit of saliva left in her mouth. “I need help,” she muttered. She came forward
reluctantly, shakily. When the man saw her clothes, his smile morphed into a look of shock. “My God, what happened to you?”

She managed one more word. “Accident . . .”

He peered at her in the light. “You were in an accident? What kind of accident? A car wreck?”

“No. Shooting.”

“Shooting?”

“Someone shot at me, but they killed Mia instead.” Violent trembling overtook her and she began to sob.

Someone came up behind the man. It was another man, much older, with thick gray hair. Brooke could see them muttering. She gained control of the sobbing, lowering it almost into silence, and heard the older man saying, “If she’s hurt, she needs to be brought in.”

The young man looked shocked. “Bring her in! That’s ludicrous! We don’t know anything about her. She’s covered in blood. I’m going to call the police.”

“Come inside, young lady,” the older man said.

“No!” The young one looked both furious and wary. “Dammit, Dad, do you know how dangerous it could be to let her in?”

The older man, however, kept smiling, ignoring the younger one’s angry reluctance. “We want to help you, don’t we, Vincent?”

“We’ll call nine-one-one, but she is
not
coming in this house!”

The older one suddenly turned on the other. “This is
my
house, Vincent. You do not give orders here, especially to your father!” He looked at her again, squinting. “We’ll call for an ambulance, miss, but you must come inside. You look like you’re going to collapse.”

Brooke moved toward the older man’s gravelly yet amiable voice. A familiar voice. When she reached the brighter light of the porch, the older man stepped in front of the younger one named Vincent and peered at her from beneath shaggy brows. He frowned and she bit her lower lip, suddenly fearful of his deep scrutiny. She was on the verge of backing
away from him, in spite of his kind voice. She didn’t really know him, except that something about him seemed familiar to her, but she stood still, too weak to walk. The man finally stood about two feet away from her, studying her closely, when surprise flashed in his slightly bloodshot blue eyes.

“Dear God,” and he exclaimed, “Vincent, I’m almost sure this is Cinnamon Girl!”

“Cinnamon Girl?” the younger one repeated blankly, but Brooke didn’t hear him. She’d finally collapsed from terror and exhaustion into the sweet nothingness of unconsciousness.

“Dad, who is this woman?”

“I told you. Cinnamon Girl.”

“That’s a nickname. What’s her
real
name?”

“It’s on the tip of my tongue. Damn, I hate this Alzheimer’s. I’m sundowning, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” the younger one said sternly, then more gently, “I don’t think you really know her, Dad. Maybe she looks like someone you once knew—”

“No! I’m telling you, this is Cinnamon Girl!”

“Okay. Don’t get upset. I’ll call Emergency Services. They’ll know what to do for her. I’ll go in and get a blanket to throw over her.”

“No. We’re taking her in the house.”

“Dad—”

“I do recall that there was trouble involving her. . . .”

“All the more reason for not letting her in the house.”

“The trouble was not of her making—it was something she got caught up in.”

“I’ll call for an ambulance and get a blanket. You can watch over her out here.”

“I said
no
,” the older man commanded. “If you don’t help
me carry this poor woman inside, Vincent, so help me I’ll shout and rave—”

The man called Vincent saw the older one’s face getting dangerously red as sweat popped out on his forehead, then began running down his face.

“Okay, Dad,” Vincent said in a softer voice. “I’ll help you carry her inside if you promise to calm down. Your heart—”

“I’m healthy as a horse! You get her legs and I’ll get her shoulders. Be gentle, Vincent, or I swear I’ll—”

“You told me.” The look on Vincent’s face changed from anger to worry. “I’ll be gentle. Just calm down. You know what the doctor said.”

“The doctor is a damned fool! I’m as strong as ever. Now pick up her legs, Vincent.”

“She’s so slender, I can carry her into the house myself. You open the screen door for me, all right?”

The older man gave Vincent a hard look, then grudgingly clambered to his feet and managed to steady himself. Vincent watched his father teeter to the house, then picked up Brooke Yeager in his strong, steady arms.

Brooke lay perfectly still. She’d awakened a couple of minutes ago but still pretended to be unconscious. She could tell she wasn’t outside on the lawn anymore. Maybe the two men had brought her into the house. What she lay on was comfortable—probably a couch—and something soft and warm covered her. A blanket. She was scared, but the men were treating her kindly and one of them seemed to know her. And she knew him. The half-formed memory hovered on the edge of clarity. He’d called her Cinnamon Girl; somehow she knew he’d known her mother; she remembered him and his wife giving her brownies and Kool-Aid and telling her everything would be all right. . . .

“Did you call that emergency number?” she heard the older man ask.

“Yeah, I called nine-one-one. An ambulance is on the way.”

Brooke opened her right eye slightly to see the older man
leaning over her, his forehead deeply creased, a troubled look in his blue eyes.

“Vincent, she’s awake!” Vincent? I don’t know a Vincent, Brooke thought. The older man leaned closer to her. “Honey, tell us your name. I’m sorry I can’t remember. I’ve got this disease that affects my memory, but you’re safe here. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Everything’s going to be all right
. She remembered the voice, the words, the protective expression in the eyes. “Detective Lockhart!” she burst out. “Sam Lockhart!”

The man looked shocked, then smiled. “That’s right. I’m a homicide detective—”

“It’s me, Detective. Brooke Yeager. My mother Anne was killed. Murdered by my stepfather. You were in charge of the case—” She couldn’t seem to stop babbling and tried to rise up on the couch. “Later, I came here. You talked to me. Please, I need you now. He’s out there. He killed Mia. . . .”

“Good God,” Sam Lockhart breathed. “Brooke. Yes. I remember now. I haven’t seen you for years. I lost touch. I’m sorry.”

“Dad,” the younger man said sharply, “she said someone’s out there. Someone tried to kill Mina?”

“Mia.”
She glared at him. “Who are you?”

“Vincent Lockhart, Detective Lockhart’s
son
. I thought you knew him,” he seemed to accuse.

“I do. He talked about you, but I forgot your name.” Although Sam tried to push her back down on the couch, she sat bolt upright. “Someone shot at Mia and me at that gray house on Sutton Street. He
killed
Mia!”

“Who killed Mia?” Vincent demanded.

“I don’t know, dammit! He had a shotgun or a rifle. I didn’t see him. And I’m tired of talking to you. Where’s your mother? Where’s Laura?”

Vincent looked at her unflinchingly for a moment. Finally, he said, “She died of cancer three years ago.”

“Died? She’s dead, too?”