The Last Time I Saw Her (29 page)

“Talking to spirits makes me sick sometimes,” she said. “I'm fine.”

Pulling away from Michael, she went home. Neither man said anything, but there was a tension in the air between them that was palpable. Then, as she stepped through her kitchen door, she glanced back to find that they were talking, a brief exchange that was too low-voiced for her to overhear. Her inner alarm went off, but as they followed her inside, neither man's face revealed a thing.

It was a good half an hour before she was able to get Michael alone and ask him what he and Tony had been talking about. By unspoken consensus, they were all staying together as they waited for a call back from Major Hintz about the results of the search his people were currently conducting of the ledges and ravines near where Charlie had been rescued. The others were gathered in the living room. Michael had gone back into the kitchen for a refill on coffee. Charlie followed.

“What did you say to Tony outside?” Charlie asked him quietly. In the act of taking a sip from the coffee he'd just poured himself, Michael paused and looked at her over the cup.

“What you should be asking is, What did he say to me?” Michael responded. “And the answer is: He told me that if I did anything to hurt you, he'd kill me.”

Charlie's eyes widened. Knowing the personalities involved, that didn't sound like a promising start to a conversation. “What did you say?”

Michael swallowed some coffee, then lowered the cup. “I took it that he meant physically hurt you, and I said he didn't have anything to worry about. Then we came inside.”

Charlie blinked at him. The whole idea of the two of them talking about her in that way didn't sit well with her. First, how sexist was that? Second, how liable to go wrong was that? But before she could say anything else, the muffled sound of a phone ringing, followed by Tony's voice responding with a terse “Bartoli,” sent them both striding toward the living room.

As soon as she entered the room, Charlie could tell from the expression on Tony's face that it was good news.

He was smiling as he listened to whoever—Charlie assumed it was Hintz—was on the other end of the phone.

“They found her,” Tony said as he disconnected. He'd been sitting on the far end of the couch when Charlie had left the room, but he was now standing near the door, having apparently moved to take the call. Charlie and Michael, who were just inside the door, stood closest to him, but everyone had turned to him, focused on what he had to say. “She was on a narrow ledge about twenty feet below the road. She's been shot, she's unconscious, and she's lost a lot of blood. But she's alive, and they think she's going to make it.”

“Thank God!” Tam breathed, and the rest of them chimed in with happy exclamations and a ton of questions.

Relief and joy rushed through Charlie in a warm tide. She hadn't realized how terrified she'd been for Bree until now, when something inside her finally relaxed and let go. Listening to the excited conversation welling up around her, she leaned against the wall.

“Tired?” Michael asked. He was standing beside her, his voice pitched so only she could hear. Charlie nodded. He continued, “I don't want Dudley or the others to get the idea that I'm spending the night with you, so I'm getting ready to leave. I'm going to walk around for a little while. After they're gone I'll be back. I already took the key off the hook, so you don't have to worry about letting me in.”

Charlie looked up at him. There was no question in either of their minds about whether she wanted him to stay the night: they both just accepted that she did, and he would.

She nodded. Then a terrifying thought hit her, and she frowned, catching his arm. “You won't do something like disappear?”

He shook his head. “I'll be back.”

Moving away from her, he said to the room in general, “I'm out of here. Good night, all.”

Tam and Charlie were the only ones who echoed his good night. The others kind of looked at him and nodded.

Charlie sighed inwardly. She and Tam were going to have a serious discussion later about whether there was any possible way of keeping Michael in Hughes's body, as awful as she knew it was of her to want to do that. If there was a way, if Tam was able to do it, then she was going to have a talk with Tony, and Lena and Buzz, too, about their attitude toward Michael. But not before then, because if Tam wasn't able to do it, then she wasn't going to have to worry about what her FBI pals thought, because Michael would be once again in spirit form and they wouldn't be able to see him.

Tony, Lena, and Buzz left shortly after Michael. Lena and Buzz were subdued but polite to each other, and Tony didn't have much to say beyond “I'll be by in the morning.” As this was definitely not the moment to discuss anything personal, Charlie nodded, and they left. As soon as they were gone, Charlie turned around to speak to Tam. Her friend was already halfway up the stairs.

“I'm going to bed,” Tam said over her shoulder. “Good night.”

Charlie let her go. She knew Tam knew that the conversation was coming, and knew also that Tam was deliberately avoiding it for as long as she could, but she was tired and wrung out and Tam was, too. Tomorrow would be soon enough for the talk they were going to have. For now, Charlie's head hurt, her stomach wasn't entirely over its encounter with Abell, and her joy over Bree was tempered by her knowledge that unless Tam could fix things, Michael would soon be losing the use of Hughes's body. What she really needed was a hot bath and a solid eight hours of sleep. Plus a handful of Tums. And a couple of Advil.

Everything except the sleep she could do something about. But as long as Michael was in possession of Hughes's body, well, she had other uses for her time.

She went upstairs, ate the Tums, took the Advil, brushed her teeth, pinned her hair up, and turned on the bath. Her tub was of the big, old-fashioned claw-foot variety. She'd had it restored, and she loved it both because she simply liked looking at it and because it was big and deep and she could stretch out in it and soak.

That's what she was doing when she heard her bedroom door open and close again. Leaning her head back against the rolled lip of the tub, Charlie smiled and waited.

Michael walked into the bathroom. He took one look at her languidly lathering her arms with rose-scented soap and flames ignited in the depths of his eyes. Then he started to unbutton his shirt.

Charlie's heart began to pound.

“Did you have a nice walk?” she asked, spreading the lather across her shoulders.

“Yep.” He took off his shirt, hung it on the hook inside the door, then took off his pants and did the same thing. Luxuriating in the hot water, Charlie looked at broad shoulders and honed abs and powerful legs, watched sinews flex and muscles ripple as he stripped off the rest of his clothes, and went all marshmallowy inside. When he stepped into the tub with her, she looked up the whole long length of him, saw how absolutely enormous he was with wanting her, and her body began to throb and burn.

“You're going to smell like roses,” she warned, sliding over to make room.

“I can live with that,” he said as he settled in beside her. Then he kissed her and pulled her on top of him, and the blazing sexual hunger that was always there between them raged to life, reducing her to a shivery supplicant in his hands and turning the air around them to steam.

Later, a long time later although exactly what time it was Charlie couldn't be sure, she opened heavy-lidded eyes on a room that wasn't quite pitch black but close enough, and discovered that she was alone in bed. She was still trying to focus enough to get a read on the numbers on the clock when she heard something over by the dresser, got a sense of movement near the bed.

Struggling up on one elbow, blinking groggily, she said, “Michael?”

A rush of movement, a jarring bounce as something heavy hit the bed, and a fiery pain as a sharp object sliced through the top of her shoulder were her answer. Her heart leaped into her throat. Adrenaline spiked through her.

I've been stabbed.

Even as the horrified realization burst into her brain, a heavy hand clawed at her neck.

Screaming, Charlie flung herself out of bed.

“Help! Michael! Tam!” Charlie screamed as every tiny hair on her body shot upright. She landed on the floor, hard, and scrambled on hands and knees to get away from whoever was bouncing across the bed after her. She was sure it was a man; she couldn't see him, but he felt big. He blundered into the nightstand, knocking it over and sending it skidding. The ginger-jar lamp shattered. Tiny pieces of crockery flew everywhere. Horror turned her blood to ice. Her pulse pounded in her ears. A billion thoughts raced through her mind in a split second: What was happening? Who was he? What did he want? Abell—it felt like Abell, but it couldn't be. Abell was dead and this man was alive. She could hear the harsh pant of his breathing, see and feel the solid mass of his body as he came crashing after her in the dark.

Dear God, he wants to kill me.

Panic surged through her veins in a galvanizing tide. Even as she glanced back fearfully the intruder lunged toward her, a denser presence in a sea of black, and then from just a few feet away he launched himself at her. On her hands and knees near the far wall, she dived out of the way, rolling in the nick of time, shrieking like a steam whistle as he just missed her. He landed beside her with a heavy slithering thud, his knife—he had a knife with a long, thin blade—slamming into the dark wood just inches from her face. She could see the knife sticking into the floor, see it quivering with the force of the thrust, see him grab it by the handle and yank it out.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she cried, bolting for the door. He hurled himself after her and caught the tail end of the short loose nightgown she'd pulled on before falling asleep. With a shot of pure terror she felt the jerk of his hand as it fisted in her hem, and a terrified glance over her shoulder found the massive dark bulk of him looming up right behind her. Yanking her back toward him, he raised the hand holding the knife high. The blade slashed down again. She caught the glint of the blade, sensed the muscular force behind his falling arm, heard the rush of the movement. Throwing herself forward at the last second, heart jackhammering, she screamed like her life depended on it, which it did, and felt the blade slash through the thin silk at the back of her gown.

I can't get away. He's raising the knife again—this time it's going to slice through my skin…

Fear burning like acid in her mouth, she whipped around, grabbed a handful of the fragile silk, and jerked herself free.

Please God please God please God help…

Her bedroom door opened with a rattle of the knob and a soft rush of air. Charlie had about half a heartbeat to think
saved,
and then she recognized the shadowy figure in the doorway as Tam. Tam, who was no fighter. Tam, who couldn't help her. Tam, who if this madman got hold of her, would die, too.

“Run!” Charlie screeched as the man behind her roared and grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. Screaming “Charlie!” Tam hit the light switch instead.

Even as the near-blinding brightness from the overhead fixture flooded the room, the knife was already in motion. The blade flashed bright silver as it slashed toward Charlie's throat. Tam screamed “Charlie!” again as Charlie shrieked, dodged—and, amidst the debris of the tipped-over nightstand and the broken lamp and the various knickknacks scattered across the floor, spotted a gun.

Black and deadly-looking, it lay on its side near the closet. As she'd never owned a gun in her life, she knew where it had to have come from: it was the gun Michael had taken off Fleenor and left in the drawer of her nightstand.

Wrenching herself free of the tightening grip on her shoulder, shrieking with every bit of lung power she had left as she dodged the slashing knife one more time, Charlie threw herself on the floor, skidded across the slick wood, grabbed the gun, and rolled, coming up on her knees to point the thing at the intruder.

“Freeze!” she shrieked, in instant, instinctive imitation of every takedown she'd ever heard come out of the mouths of Tony and Lena and Buzz. Never mind that she was wearing a filmy, now torn and wildly askew pink silk-and-lace slip that barely reached to mid-thigh, or that her hair was tumbling in wild disarray around her face and there was a whole lot of bare skin on display. She sounded as deadly earnest in that moment as any cop ever had, and, miracle of miracles, the intruder froze. The gun was cold and heavy and her hands trembled as she gripped it, pointing it squarely at the midsection of the tall, burly, florid-faced man she was pretty sure she'd never seen before in her life, like she actually knew what she was doing. He stood there, breathing heavily, the knife gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes riveted on her face.

“Don't move,” she warned, not daring to look away from him as her finger curled around the trigger. God, could she really shoot him? And didn't guns have some kind of safety feature where you had to deactivate something before you could actually pull the trigger? She didn't dare look at the thing to try to find out. “Tam, call the police!”

“I am.” Voice shrill, Tam brandished her cell phone.

But even as Tam spoke into the phone Charlie could hear heavy footsteps bounding up the stairs. With a muttered “Thank God,” Tam was already stepping into the room out of the way of whoever was coming. Afraid to take her eyes off the intruder, Charlie caught just a glimpse of a tall athletic form bursting through her bedroom doorway.

“What the—” Michael's words were bitten off as he took in the situation at a glance. Then he was beside her, breathless from his sprint up the stairs as he took the gun from her, holding it on the man with a deadly assurance no one could mistake.

Looking as if he was thinking about bolting for it, the intruder stared at Michael.

“Give me a reason,” Michael said to the man in a tone that sent a chill down Charlie's spine, then glanced down at her in obvious concern.

“The police are on the way.” High heels clicking, Tam flew across the room to Charlie's side. “I called Tony, too.”

Charlie nodded in acknowledgment. As Tam hunkered down beside her Charlie registered peripherally that, instead of being dressed for bed, Tam was wearing plum-colored slacks with a purple wool jacket like she'd been out somewhere. The fresh scent of the outdoors clung to her. Charlie frowned, but tucked Tam's attire away as a matter to question later.

“Drop the knife.” Michael's voice was still murderous. No surprise, the knife hit the floor. If the intruder had had any real intention to try to escape, he'd clearly given it up. “Kick it over here to me.”

The man did. Without taking his eyes or the gun off the man, Michael bent and picked up the knife. Suddenly, the danger that had filled the room went away.

“Breathe wrong and you're dead,” Michael said to the intruder, and then to Charlie, “You're bleeding. How badly are you hurt?”

“She's cut across the top of her shoulder. It doesn't look like it's very deep,” said Tam. Charlie supposed the adrenaline spike she'd experienced had kept her from feeling anything before. Now she could feel the sting of the cut and the warm ooze of blood against her skin. She looked around at her shoulder. A long cut across the top of it was bleeding pretty freely, but as Tam had said the wound didn't look deep.

Didn't matter. She felt light-headed anyway, probably because as she'd looked at the wound she'd been hit with the realization that, if she hadn't awakened right when she did, she could easily have been killed.

Stabbed to death in her bed.

“I'm all right,” she told them as Tam got to her feet and hurried toward the bathroom. Moving was beyond Charlie for the moment. The best she could do was try to regulate her breathing. Shaking her hair to one side to keep it away from the wound, she asked, “Who is he?”

“You mean he's not one of yours?” Michael's tone was only mildly edgy. Charlie shook her head, started to say
No.
Then she stopped. She'd thought she didn't know her attacker. But she had this sudden, niggling sense that she'd seen him before. Tam came back with a towel and Charlie's robe, distracting her. Draping the robe around Charlie while leaving her injured shoulder bare, Tam sank to the floor beside her, then folded the towel and pressed it to the wound, applying steady pressure. Charlie winced even as she murmured “Thanks.”

“What's your name?” Michael asked the man. Charlie's attention refocused on the intruder, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot uneasily. His eyes were fixed on Michael and the gun. He was wetting his lips and breathing heavily. She could see his chest heaving beneath the long-sleeved black tee he wore with black sweatpants. A kind of wary confusion came into his eyes at Michael's question. He didn't answer.

Charlie stared at him. Michael was staring at him, too. Mid- to late thirties. Buzzed reddish blond hair. Broad face, meaty nose, thin lips. Light blue eyes. A big guy, at least six-two, husky. Not bad looking.

I was almost stabbed to death in my bed.
That thought ran through Charlie's mind a second time, then stayed with her. She'd come across that scenario, that MO, before.

She looked at the knife in Michael's hand. Long, thin blade, with a leather-wrapped handle. Wickedly sharp.

She had files in her office with an ME's sketch of a missing murder weapon that looked almost exactly like it: Michael's files.

Her heart started to speed up just as Michael said with a trace of surprise, “You're Detective Dan Foster with the Mariposa Police Department.”

Even as Charlie had her own flash of recognition—she'd seen a video of this guy interviewing a handcuffed Michael inside the Mariposa police station right before Michael was charged with Candace Hartnell's murder—the truth hit her like a brick.

She knew,
knew,
who he had to be.

The Southern Slasher.

Her hands curled into fists. Her insides twisted.

“I'm with the Baltimore PD now,” Foster said, frowning at Michael. “You know that. You're my damned lawyer.”

Of course, Foster thought Michael was Hughes. And Hughes was Foster's
lawyer
? Hughes was a criminal defense lawyer; the case that had brought him to Big Stone Gap involved his client killing his girlfriend in the style of the Southern Slasher. Foster had to be the boyfriend suspected of murder. The true scope of his evil unfolded in Charlie's mind like a game of connect-the-dots.

Foster was a serial killer. The actions and motivations of serial killers almost always followed a pattern, and were actually highly predictable to someone who knew what to look for. To someone like her.

Fixing him with wintry eyes, Charlie said, “Your girlfriend was breaking up with you, wasn't she, Detective Foster? She rejected you, and you lost control and killed her because rejection is your trigger. Then you panicked, knowing you would immediately be the prime suspect because in any murder like that the boyfriend or husband always is.”

Foster's eyes widened. Looking at her as if she'd suddenly morphed into a spitting cobra, he said in a hoarse, startled voice, “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Charlie's eyes never left his. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that she was right. All the clues, all the little anomalies, added up to this man. This was her area of expertise, and she pulled on everything she knew to work out exactly what he'd done, and how, and why. Identifying psychopaths like Foster and figuring out what made them tick was what she did. She did it now, and all the pieces started falling into place.

She said, “I do know what I'm talking about. For one thing, I'm talking about this knife right here. The same knife you always use. You used it to slash your girlfriend to death, just like you used it to slash all your other victims to death. Monsters like you tend to be consistent in their methods of killing people, and you've used the same knife for every murder you've committed, haven't you? Do you think that knife can't be connected to all your previous murders? I'm betting it can.”

“You're crazy.” He looked at Michael and Tam as if seeking their support. “She's crazy.”

Tam shook her head. Michael glanced down at Charlie, then looked back at Foster, his expression increasingly grim.

Charlie continued, “You killed your girlfriend because she rejected you, and then you panicked because you knew it was going to come back on you. You looked around for a scapegoat because the one you had already used, the one you had already framed, who had already been arrested and convicted of your previous crimes, was dead. Killed in prison.” Charlie felt Michael stiffen beside her, as exactly who he was looking at dawned on him at last. Charlie went on, “Fortunately, he had a twin brother. Exactly when you ran across Mr. Hughes I'm not sure—probably when you joined the Baltimore PD—but run across him you did. You couldn't have missed his resemblance to Michael Garland, so you did a little detecting—that's what you do, after all, isn't it, Detective?—and discovered that Michael Garland and Rick Hughes were indeed identical twins.”

Charlie could feel that she had Michael's fascinated attention even though his eyes stayed fixed on Foster. She could feel the emotions seething through him: disbelief, hope, a rising anger. But it was Foster's reaction that interested her most. His already florid face turned tomato red, and his eyes—his light blue eyes, which, along with his size and fair coloring would match Michael's general description, Charlie realized—were bulging out of his head.