A Breath Away (13 page)

Shit, he needed a damn woman like her distracting him. She was a do-gooder who believed in all that behavioral crap. And she was married at that. But she messed with his libido, made him want to forget his own personal problems and the ugliness of the case and crawl between the sheets with her. Not that she was interested, or that he would encroach on another man's territory, even if the couple was having problems…

Besides, he had his own dark secrets, reasons he couldn't get involved, reasons a relationship would never work.

“Agent Adams, do you have anything to add?”

She crossed her legs, and every man in the room eyeballed her. “Have we discovered anything missing from the victims yet, something the killer might be taking as his treasure?”

“Nothing with the Collins woman,” one of the Savannah officers stated.

“Not on the second vic, either,” the detective said. “She was wearing a hunk of an engagement ring, but he didn't even bother to take it.”

“Keep looking,” Nick said. “These guys almost always keep some kind of trophy.”

“Have you worked up a profile yet?” the chief asked.

“I'll need more time to do a complete one,” Agent Adams said, “but my preliminary analysis suggests our guy's in his mid-twenties, maybe early thirties, proba
bly Caucasian, although the Native American phrase indicates he might have an ethnic background. Either that or he's obsessed with Native American rituals. He's also a religious fanatic or one of his parents was. It's possible he might have studied religion, as well.” She indicated the picture of the bone found beside the victim. “This whistle looks like it was carved from a crow's bone. If my memory proves correct, historically the bone whistle was used in religious ceremonies. Native men were practically tortured—”

“The sun dance,” Norton said. “I thought those ceremonies were banned years ago.”

Adams shrugged. “You think our killer adheres to the rules?”

He shook his head, his stomach churning. The dance had been so violent that it had been eliminated, although some natives had continued to practice behind closed doors. If this guy belonged to some cult practicing that ritual, they had a real sicko on their hands.

“Anything else, Adams?”

She shrugged. “Just that he's a hunter. We may not know how or why he's choosing his victims, but he has a purpose. He's methodical, maybe psychotic or obsessive-compulsive. He could be on meds, but he's not taking them. And he derives great pleasure from the hunt.”

Norton smiled, his natural competitiveness kicking in. “Then let's turn things around. We'll let him become the hunted.”

* * *

A
AH
,
THE THRILL
of the hunt…

Joseph Longhorse believed in the rituals of his forefathers. He had completed the necessary hunt,
made the sacrifices required, then entered the sweat house he had built years ago. Even though he'd scrubbed his hands, he could still smell the blood on his skin.

When he was a boy, he had been given the special privilege of being admitted to the
asi
on occasion to tend the fire. There he had listened to the stories and learned of the secret rites of his people. Following tradition, he built the fire, then placed a flat rock in front of it—and near it, a pile of pine knots. When the fire burned down to a bed of coals, he lit two of the pine knots and laid them on the others in a crosswise pattern. They blazed a light that shone bright in the darkness. He fed it until daybreak.

Weak but rejuvenated, he left the camp at dawn and walked through the mountains, inhaling the fresh air and scents of nature that aroused his primal being. As he made his way back down to his mother's home, he gathered herbs and berries to add to the growing mounds she used in her special teas and medicines.

In spite of the prejudices still harbored by some toward his people, knowing his mother had her own rituals and passed her stories down to the children in town cemented his closeness to his roots. A man could never forget from where he came.

His path had been chosen for him before his birth. Joseph did not intend to stray from it. No matter what it cost him.

He thought of Violet Baker's return to town and wondered, though…how would the people in town react to her now? Had their prejudices against her died, or were they still as alive as the ones that festered toward him?

Her father's confession would make it even more dif
ficult for her in Crow's Landing. Some people forgave easily. Others never did.

She would need a friend.

Maybe his path had taken a detour…a fork in the road that he had not foreseen.

Yes, Violet needed a friend. They had connected long ago as children. She did not see him as the shunned one as some did. She saw him as an equal. He would go to her now. Offer his friendship, his shoulder.

He inhaled deeply. The hunt had revived him, temporarily satisfied his need for blood and vengeance. It had restored his calm.

Until the hunt called him again…

* * *

H
OW COULD
V
IOLET
have known about the native phrase? Grady wondered. Was there a piece of bone left beside each victim?

Grady's cell phone rang and he answered it, grateful for the reprieve. He was getting way too caught up in Violet Baker. “Sheriff Monroe.”

“Sheriff, it's Logan. First off, the writing sample matches Baker's confession. Second, the M.E. phoned…the autopsy report on Baker is ready.”

Grady grimaced, hating to have to tell Violet. “Is he going to fax it to the office?” Grady asked.

“Yes, but he wants to see you in person.”

Had he found something suspicious? “Okay, I'll swing by his office now.” He hung up and turned back to Violet, deciding to wait until after he'd spoken with the M.E. before divulging that the confession was real.

“I have to go. The coroner completed your father's autopsy. He'll probably release him, so you can start planning his funeral if you want.”

Her face paled. “All right, but I want to see the autopsy report.”

“Violet—”

“I have a right to know exactly how he died,” she said, her voice stronger. “Please don't deny me this, Grady.”

In spite of his own reservations, her soft plea got to him. He gestured toward her robe.

“Then go get dressed. I want to talk to him as soon as possible.”

She nodded and rushed to her bedroom. He tried not to imagine her peeling off that robe, but an image of her creamy pale skin glowing in the early morning light came to him unbidden, anyway. Her hair was such an unusual russet color. What color would her nipples be? Coral? Darker?

Dammit. He banished the image, poured himself more coffee and paced across the room. Sweat trickled down his cheeks, the heat ignited by Violet adding to the temperature. Outside it was already close to ninety.

He hoped the coroner had discovered something that would corroborate Baker's suicide note and confirm he was Darlene's killer. Yet Grady couldn't help wondering how Violet would react if he did confirm her father was a murderer. Would she be able to cope with the knowledge that her dad had killed Darlene, especially when Violet seemed to be struggling with guilt over these other women's deaths?

And what about those women? He wasn't a shrink, but he refused to rule out the possibility that Violet had created these visions out of guilt over their deaths and Darlene's murder….

* * *

V
IOLET STARED OUT
the window as they drove to the coroner's office, the silence between her and Grady a staunch reminder that they were both hoping for different outcomes to the autopsy report. An image of her father's face had been frozen in her mind since he had thrust her into the old station wagon and sent her away.

Seeing him again, now in death, would be a harsh reality that she wasn't ready to face. When he'd been alive, she'd held on to hope that one day they might be a family again, that one day he'd love her and forgive her for bringing this so-called evil into their lives.

But now…

Grady parked in front of the office, killed the engine, then slanted his gaze toward her. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I have to,” she said, attempting a brave voice.

Looking resigned, he nodded and climbed out. She didn't wait for him to come around, but opened the door and pushed herself up from the car, willing her legs to be steady. A few minutes later, they were seated in an outer office.

“Miss Baker?” Dr. Robert Claven, the medical examiner, seemed startled to see her.

“Yes.” She shook his hand, aware that the tension had just cranked up another notch, adding to the cloying heat in the already stifling quarters.

He offered her a tight smile, then turned to Grady. “You want to come back to the morgue?”

Grady nodded.

Violet started to follow.

“Miss Baker, maybe you should stay here,” the doctor said. “At least for now.”

“But—”

“Let me talk to him first,” Grady said. “Then if you want to see your father, we'll arrange it.”

“I want to know what's in the report,” Violet said.

Grady and Claven exchanged concerned looks, then Grady nodded. “I'll share it with you after we go over it,” Grady said.

“You'll tell me the truth?”

“Yes.” His voice dropped. “You haven't seen your dad in years, though, Violet. You don't need to see him like this, not on the morgue table.”

The image that passed before her eyes was gruesome. “All right.” She sank into one of the hard chairs in the outer office. She just prayed Grady told her the truth, not the abridged version. And if she sensed he hadn't, she'd force herself to read the report.

She'd just have to brace herself for whatever it held.

* * *

“O
KAY
, D
OC
, what's going on?” Grady approached Baker's body with trepidation. The acrid smells of death assaulted him, amplified by the chemicals Claven had used in the autopsy and the stench of removed body parts. Harsh lights accentuated the older man's ghostly face and the bluish tint to his skin.

It was better Violet hadn't seen this. It nearly turned Grady's stomach every time he went through it.

“Tox screenings proved Baker was inebriated.”

“That's no surprise.” After all, Grady had seen him drinking earlier that evening, when he'd been arguing with his own father.

“And you were right. The contusion on the back of his head didn't come from the fall off the cliff.”

“How can you tell?”

“The angle of the wound and the position of the body on the ledge.” He shifted the corpse, pointed to the knot on Baker's head. “This was caused by some kind of blunt trauma to the head, an object maybe.”

“Like a rock?”

Claven shrugged. “Or maybe an ashtray or a household object. The blow to the head was what killed him, not the fall.” Claven crossed his arms. “In fact, he didn't die up on Briar Ridge. He was moved there afterward.”

Grady's stomach knotted. “What are you saying?”

Claven frowned and tugged the sheet lower to reveal bruises on Baker's chest. Maybe defensive wounds. “The bottom line—in my opinion, Baker didn't commit suicide, Sheriff. He was murdered.”

T
HE MINUTE
V
IOLET SAW GRADY
emerge from the morgue, she sensed something was wrong. He avoided her gaze, speaking in hushed tones to the coroner. She rose, determined to get some answers, no matter what they were.

“Grady?”

He gestured for her to wait, then shook the doctor's hand. “Thanks, Dr. Claven.”

“I'll have your father moved to the funeral home, Miss Baker. Then you can see him.”

She nodded and waited for Grady to join her. Claven fled back to his office, and Grady approached her.

“What happened?” she asked.

He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “First, the confession note was in your father's handwriting.”

Violet staggered back. “But Claven's report says that your father didn't commit suicide.”

“What? I don't understand.”

“He died of blunt trauma to the head.”

She gasped. “You mean someone forced him to write the note, then murdered him?”

Grady nodded, his expression dark. “It appears that way. Claven thinks he was moved to Briar Ridge after his death.”

“Then someone pushed him over the ridge to make it look like he committed suicide.” Violet pressed a shaky hand to her mouth. “But why would someone kill my father?”

“I don't know,” Grady said. “But I intend to find out.”

He started toward the door, but Violet grabbed his arm, heat flooding through her at the touch. “You know what this means? If the suicide note was a phony, then the confession might have been, too.”

Grady's anguished expression indicated he'd already considered the possibility. He didn't like it, but he had thought of it. “And if he didn't kill her,” Violet said, “that means the real murderer is still out there.”

She remembered the eerie sound of the bone whistle following the women's murders, the same sound she'd heard years ago when Darlene had lost her life.

Could the killer possibly be the same man? And even if he was, did he have anything to do with her father's death?

* * *

G
RADY NEEDED AIR
. He didn't like Violet's assumption, but he couldn't dismiss it. Darlene's killer could still be out there.

Damn. A week ago, Crow's Landing had seemed like a safe, sleepy little town. The only hint of violence had been the lingering memories of his sister's brutal murder twenty years ago. But now he had another crime to solve. He didn't like the number of suspects that instantly came to mind in Jed Baker's murder.

His father topped the list.

Darlene's killer was also a possibility, although Grady couldn't fathom why he'd kill Baker. Unless
Baker had known something he wasn't telling. Yet why wait twenty years to off him?

Maybe Baker knew who the serial killer was. Maybe it was someone in town….

His father and Baker's fight returned to nag Grady. They'd both been worried about secrets being revealed. Had someone shut Baker up so he wouldn't spill them?

If so, who? What the hell had his father been involved in?

Maybe Walt and Jed had somehow figured out who'd killed Darlene, but why wouldn't they have told the police?

There were too many unanswered questions.

And only one way to find out—confront his dad again.

Grady stalked outside. Violet followed, not speaking until they'd settled into the car. He started the engine and headed back toward her house. He'd go by the station next, and afterward, talk to his old man.

“Tell me everything you remember about Darlene's disappearance,” he said.

Violet pressed a finger to her temple, fatigue lining her features. He'd forgotten about her car accident.

“Are you all right?” he added.

“Yes.” She dropped her hand to her lap and wrapped a fold of her skirt in her fingers. “It was my birthday,” she said in a small voice. “I was so excited because I'd gotten this new stuffed bear.”

She paused. His insides twisted again as he imagined that little girl. Violet had had so few possessions she would have been ecstatic over a present.

“All I could think of was that I wanted Darlene to see it. I…I wanted her to come over.” Her voice trailed off
with a quiver. “I didn't think about her safety, though. I was so selfish.”

He grimaced at the catch in her voice, and slid his hand over hers. “You were just a child, Violet. You don't have to explain that or blame yourself. If it was anyone's fault, it was mine.”

“No, Grady.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I was supposed to come home and watch her that day. But I stopped to goof off with the boys.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You were just a kid, too, Grady. You didn't know.”

But I was responsible.
He shook inside, unable to discuss it. “What else happened?”

Violet sighed, emotions rattling out. “When she didn't get to the house, I called again, but there was no answer. I kept calling and calling….”

“He must have kidnapped her in the field between your place and ours. He might have even followed her when she left our house.” Grady's mind ticked back to his original suspects. Dwayne Dobbins had worked for his father, tending his lawn. Even if Dobbins's mother had known, she'd cover up for him. And Ross Wheeler had been a young man then. If the allegations against him were true, Ross could have abducted her.

Violet shuddered. “She was so scared. I could feel it.”

He swallowed, then steered the car down Pine Needle Drive. “Do you think it was someone Darlene knew?”

Violet closed her eyes as if trying to see the images again. “I…I don't know.”

“When did you connect with Darlene?”

“We always seemed to sense things about each other. When she was sad or mad, I knew it. And when I was upset with Dad, she'd just automatically call. I can't explain it. But it was nothing like that night,” she said softly.

“You didn't realize when she was first abducted?”

She shook her head. “I don't know why, but I wish I had.” She released a shaky breath. “Maybe we could have reached her in time.”

Did he really want to pursue this line of questioning? Having two unsolved murders was taxing enough, but dealing with Violet and her so-called visions… “What else do you remember?”

“I heard her crying. She kept whispering for me to help her, that some man had her.” Violet clenched his hand in a death grip. “She was so cold, Grady. It was dark and I could hear water dripping…it was raining. But I didn't know where to look.”

Yes, it had been raining that night. He'd watched the droplets splatter the car windshield as he and his father had driven the streets in town, searching for Darlene. The rain had reminded him of big fat teardrops, the ones stuck in his throat. He'd been so scared himself, had felt sick to his stomach because he should have been home to watch his little sister. But he'd tried not to show his emotions. His father hated it when he did. Had even backhanded him once for crying.

His mouth was dry. “Did you hear the voice of the man who kidnapped her?”

“No. I just heard Darlene crying. She wanted her mommy.” Violet paused, brushed at a tear that rolled down her cheek. “But she knew her mother was gone. And she was trying not to cry. He slapped her when she did.”

A muscle ticked in Grady's jaw. “Did you see his face at all?”

“No.”

“And he didn't say anything?”

She shook her head. “No…but I heard a sound. At first I thought it was a harmonica.”

“He was playing an instrument?”

“No, I think he was blowing through a whistle.”

His gaze shot to hers. “What?”

Her eyes widened, looked frightened. “I'm almost sure it was the same sound that I heard after that woman died. It was so eerie,” she whispered, “it sounded like breath against bone. Maybe some kind of whistle made from bone.”

Grady tensed. Dear God, it couldn't be. Was it possible the serial killer who had just struck in Savannah and Nashville was the same man who'd killed his sister?

But the latest victims were women, not children. Why would the killer have changed his M.O.? No, it had to be a copycat, someone who knew about Darlene's murder and wanted to throw off the cops.

But what if it was the same man? Why had he waited so long between murders? Where had he been for the past twenty years?

* * *

W
HEN
G
RADY PULLED INTO
Violet's driveway, the ugly graffiti mocked her, reminding her of the way the kids had taunted her as a child. Her car was there, too. It had a dented front fender, but at least she would have transportation without having to rely on Grady. She had been doing too much of that already today.

Grady angled his head toward her as he parked. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded. “What are you going to do now?”

“Go to the station and check out some lab reports I'd requested.”

“You think my father might be innocent?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug.

“You knew him better than I did, Grady. You saw him around town. Did he have any enemies?”

He hesitated, averted his gaze and stared at his hands, which he'd wrapped around the steering wheel. “He kept to himself,” he said quietly. “But he'd been drinking a lot the last few years.”

“Didn't he have
any
friends?”

Grady shrugged. “I didn't keep tabs on him, Violet.”

She reached for the door handle, wondering why he was being so evasive. Or was he just angry because his tidy case against her father was no longer neat?

She clutched his arm, not quite ready to be alone again. “You'll let me know what you find out?”

He slowly turned to search her face, the memories of Darlene a lifeline between them. Their eyes connected. Emotions, heat, the need for comfort rippled between them. And there was more, that simmering, burning chemistry that drew her to him like a moth to a flame. But if she gave in to this need, she might never let him go.

“I'll let you know,” he said gruffly.

“Thanks.” She climbed out and walked up the path to her father's old house, contemplating what she would do with it when she returned to Savannah. The mere thought brought a small surge of relief, but also a pang of sadness. She would never see Grady again. Never
have a chance to experience the hunger that she saw in his eyes.

More lonely than ever, she opened the door and went inside. Knowing her father hadn't killed himself would offer a small measure of comfort to her grandmother. But Violet couldn't relay the news that he'd been murdered without upsetting her, too.

She'd hold off a little longer. Until Grady had found out who had killed him.

This afternoon, she had to plan a funeral. Maybe someone at the funeral home would know something more about her dad.

* * *

G
RADY ENTERED THE STATION
a few minutes later. The blinds were closed, and his deputy was sitting in the shadows.

Logan glanced up from the telephone, then ended the conversation. “Yeah, I'll make sure someone's there for extra security.”

“What was that all about?”

“TV crew's going to be here to tape the tent revival tonight, that televangelist Billy Lee Bilkins.” He frowned. “They're worried folks may be so excited they'll get out of hand.”

“That guy puts on a show, all right. I imagine he'll draw a crowd.”

“He's a damn lunatic, if you ask me,” Logan said. “Those televangelists just con people out of money.”

Grady agreed halfheartedly, although the deputy seemed a little adamant, even moodier than usual.

“What did the M.E. say about Baker?” Logan asked.

Grady dropped the file in front of him. “Baker didn't kill himself. He was murdered. Most likely at home,
then he was dumped at Briar Ridge to make it look like a suicide.”

“You're kidding!”

“I wish to hell I was.”

Logan skimmed the contents. Seconds later, he cocked his head. “Do you have any idea who the perp is?”

“Not yet.” The only person he could think of was his old man. And Grady wasn't ready to share that information.

Logan stood. “You could ask his daughter. Isn't she supposed to be psychic or something?”

Grady didn't know what to believe anymore. “She claims she doesn't know anything about her father.”

“But she had some weird connection to your sister?”

“That's what she says.” And dammit, after today, he was beginning to think it might be possible.

The phone rang, and Logan snagged it. Angling away from Grady, he lowered his voice. Seconds later, he stalked to the back room, looking sullen. What was eating at him? Grady had half a mind to follow and ask him, but the work on his desk took priority over Logan's foul temper.

He turned his attention to the Fed Ex folder—the lab reports he'd requested. He'd had the coroner take hand prints from Baker so they could compare them to the marks found on Darlene's neck. It was a long shot but it might prove something. He opened the envelope and removed the contents, then read the report. Baker's hands were all wrong. Granted, it had been twenty years, but the man's size hadn't changed much.

Which meant he hadn't killed Darlene.

Back to square one.

Logan stormed back in, took his seat and shredded a pencil in the sharpener. Remembering Violet's comment about the bone whistle, Grady searched the file on Darlene's murder but saw no mention of a piece of bone beside her body. There also had been no note, which, so far, was a trademark for this new serial killer. And Darlene had been found at the bottom of a well, not on the steps of a church.

But still, Violet seemed so sure about that bone whistle. Perhaps the rescue team had missed something. Maybe there had been a piece of bone but they hadn't recognized it as anything significant. After all, the incompetent Tate had been in charge of the case. Or it could still be there.