A Breath Away (15 page)

“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.

* * *

G
RADY 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 was 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.”

* * *

T
HE 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.

G
RADY 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.

“Sheriff Monroe, Bernie Morris.”

Grady frowned and refused his handshake. “I heard your name was Donald Irving.”

Morris glanced toward Violet, and every cell in Grady's body sprang to alert. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm an investigative reporter.”

“And why would that bring you to Crow's Land
ing?” His gaze latched on to Morris's. He took some pride in seeing the man squirm.

“I'm following the serial killer story.”

“The serial killer didn't strike here.”

“Not yet.”

Grady froze. “What does that mean?”

Morris shrugged. “Nashville's not that far away. He might be hiding here now, choosing his next victim.”

“That's true.” Grady altered his voice to a menacing pitch and gave the man a pointed stare. “Gives us reason to be suspicious of any newcomers.”

Morris's eye twitched at his insinuation. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Grady crossed his arms. “You're the stranger in town. Why shouldn't we suspect you?”

Morris's eyes bulged. “Because I write about crimes. I don't commit them.”

Grady's patience snapped. “Or maybe you commit murder, then write about it to glorify yourself and get attention.”

Morris coughed, his face turning ruddy. “That's ridiculous.”

“Listen, buddy,” Grady said, “if you have information about those murders, you need to turn it over to me.”

“When I have proof, I will. In fact, I suspect Violet Baker knows something about them.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She was in Savannah when the first woman died. She was also here twenty years ago when your sister was murdered.”

Grady twisted Morris by the tie. “What do you know about my sister's death?”

Morris's eyes shifted sideways. “That Violet Baker isn't who she says she is.” His gaze flickered with accusations. “In fact, I doubt even she knows the truth. And if my guess is right, neither did your sister.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“You're the detective, you figure it out.” Morris jerked away and strode toward the door. Grady stared at his back, his mind spinning.

* * *

V
IOLET'S FINGERS WORRIED
the Best Friends necklace. Whether or not the reporter's name was Morris or Irving, she still didn't like him. Seconds later, the images in the room blurred. A slow numbness crept over her. The lights in the diner became fuzzy. Her head swam.

She lowered her head into her hands and closed her eyes in an attempt to regain her equilibrium. The air was trapped in her lungs.

It was happening again.

The noise in the diner bounced off the walls, magnified by the shrill cry in her head.

“Help me. Please help me….”

A wave of nausea washed over Violet. She stood and stumbled forward. She had to get air. Go outside. Try to connect with this woman so she could save her.

And she couldn't do it with half the town watching her.

Perspiration beaded her forehead. The room swayed and pitched, growing fuzzier. Someone spoke, called out her name. But she rushed on. The lights swirled in a kaleidoscope of colors, faded into black.

She dragged in a huge gulping breath and felt her way toward her car. She barely managed to unlock the door before she collapsed inside.

“Help me, please help me.”

She closed her eyes and tried to make a connection. “Tell me where you are, who you are, so I can find you.”

“He's going to kill me.” A sob wrenched the air. “I don't want to die.”

Gripping her stomach to suppress the nausea, Violet gave in to the images. Maybe if she could connect with the woman more, see the killer through the frightened woman's eyes, she could save her.

Or maybe she could connect with the killer….

A wall of blackness engulfed her, a haze of fear and panic surrounding her. He stretched his hands out in front of him. They were long. Thin. Covered in surgical gloves. He reached for the needle. Raised the tip. Tapped the hypodermic. Then he removed a small vial and placed it in a rack filled with test tubes.

“Gi'ga-tsuha'li,”
he murmured. “I am the blood taker. It is time.”

The woman screamed again. Violet watched in horror as the needle pricked her arm. Unable to stop him, she stared hollow eyed as the blood slowly seeped from her veins into the test tube. She was fading, nearly incoherent now. She glanced at the row of vials. Other ones filled with blood.

He was adding hers to the collection.

What did he want with her blood? She tried to speak. To ask him. But her windpipe closed. Speech was impossible.

He hovered above her. Soon his hands would close around her neck, choking.

And it would all be over….

Violet tried desperately to pull herself from the grisly image before the sound of the bone whistle added to the terror.

* * *

G
RADY STORMED OUT
of the café, Morris's words dogging him. What had he meant? That Violet didn't know who she was and neither did his sister? Violet was Jed Baker's daughter. Darlene was his father's child. And Teresa's.

A gloomy darkness cast shadows around the town, the low hum of evening traffic a backdrop to tension clogging the sultry summer air. He scanned the parking lot until he spotted Violet's car.

His chest clenched when he saw her sprawled across the front seat. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back as if she'd passed out. Panic seized him as he yanked open the door.

“Violet?” He pressed a hand to her neck, breathing in relief when he found a pulse.

He gently stroked her hair back from her forehead. “Violet, are you okay?”

She stirred slightly, reaching for him to help her sit. He eased one hand beneath the back of her head, the other around her waist. She swayed, blinking as if to focus.

“What happened?” he asked gruffly.

She clung to his hand, steadying herself. “I saw the killer. He has another woman.”

Grady quickly glanced around the parking lot, searching the shadows. “Was he here? Did he attack you?”

She shook her head, her tangled hair swaying around her. “No, but he…he's going to kill her. I can feel it.”

Grady scrubbed a hand over his face.

She angled toward him, her eyes imploring. She was trembling uncontrollably. “He takes a vial of their blood…it's his souvenir.”

Grady studied her face, searching for a clue to the truth. She appeared to totally believe what she was saying.

And if she was telling the truth, really seeing visions of the murders, maybe she could help him find the killer.

* * *

“D
O YOU SEE WHERE
he has her?”

She shook her head. “No…it was like I was looking through the woman's eyes. She doesn't know where they are. But she saw his hands. He had on gloves, and he was taking her blood.” Violet's voice broke. “Then he was carving that bone whistle.”

Grady's expression turned somber. “I'll drive you home.”

She nodded. She didn't think she could drive, anyway.

He gently eased her over to the passenger side and slid in beside her. Grateful for his nearness, she closed her eyes, rested her head against the seat and let the sound of the engine lull her into relaxing. But images of the vials of blood returned to haunt her. Why would a killer draw his victim's blood? Was it just some kind of strange perversion?

And he'd been putting the vials in some kind of order…as if that was significant. She wondered if there had been names on the vials. Maybe if he labeled his next victim's test tube in advance, she could read the name, warn the woman.

A few minutes later, Grady parked at her father's house and came around to her side. She fumbled for her purse and found her key, holding on to the door as she pulled herself from the car. Grady slid an arm around her waist and helped her stand. She started to argue, but he took her hand and led her up the sidewalk and steps.

The scent of cleaning chemicals assaulted her as they went inside.

“Are you all right?” Grady asked.

She shook her head. “No, how can I be all right?” Her voice cracked. “Why can I see these things if I'm not able to stop them?”

“It's not your fault, Violet.” His husky tone surprised her. Added to her guilt.

“You don't understand. I feel so helpless. It's like I'm standing there watching but not doing anything to prevent the murder.”

He reached for her. Rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “You should rest.”

She swung around, shaking her head, her emotions raging. “I don't want to see these things. I didn't ask for this… I don't want it.”

He pulled her into his arms, cradling her against the hard wall of his chest, and rocked her back and forth. Violet resisted, but he soothed her with a whisper. Finally, she relaxed against him, clung to him, savored his strong arms.

“It's terrible,” Violet murmured, struggling for some tangible detail that might help catch the killer. “I can hear them, just like I heard Darlene, then I…I can't do anything. I…have to watch them die.”

“We'll figure it out,” Grady promised. “But it's not your fault, just like Darlene's death wasn't.”

A sob built in her throat, then bubbled over.

He stiffened, seemed to pull away slightly. Then a second later, his arms tightened back around her. “Tell me what happened between you and your father.”

Her throat clogged. She'd never confided in anyone about that night. She wasn't sure she could now.

Grady pressed a kiss to her temple, then another into her hair.

Violet inhaled his masculine scent, clung to the steel band of muscles in his arms, felt herself come alive as his chest heaved with breath beneath her own. He murmured sweet assurances to her, stroking the hair from her damp cheeks, drying her eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

The mood shifted. Changed subtly. Heat radiated from his touch, his breath became a fiery whisper—part comfort, part need, part desire.

“Violet?”

“I can't talk about it,” she murmured. Then she looked up into his face, saw the questions lingering in his gaze. Hunger flared in his deep brown eyes.

Life was so short, Violet realized. One woman might die tonight. Another one might tomorrow.

She could be next.

Life and death were only a breath away.

As soon as the thought came to her, she knew it was true. She might be one of the killer's victims. Maybe that was the reason for this connection.

She didn't want to go through life running anymore. Afraid of her shadow. Afraid of letting a man get close enough to touch her. She didn't want to die without experiencing love.

Grady could erase the unbearable fear, if only for a little while.

As if he understood her silent reply, he bent down and claimed her mouth with his own, setting her on fire.

* * *

F
LAMES OF DESIRE LICKED
at Grady, surging through his loins. Violet needed him tonight. He needed her….

Yet he still paused. She held the key to extinguishing that fire with a simple no, but she didn't speak. Instead, she parted her lips in a slow seduction and invited him inside. It had been dark for so long in his life. He had been alone. Struggling with the same guilt that ate at Violet.

He tasted honey and sweetness and spice all mingled together, an innocence blended with erotic desire. It swept over him in waves, splintering his resistance. Her throaty groan stroked the hot coals of hunger to life.

The past few days faded, the years of anguish and isolation, the emptiness. She threaded her fingers in his hair, and he wove his hand through her long tresses. His other hand explored the soft nape of her neck, then slid lower to pull her against him. She felt delicate and small, fragile like glass, yet malleable in his hands, as if his touch made her bend to his desires. He thrust his tongue deeply, sipping at her lips and stroking her back until her breasts swelled against his chest. Her nipples felt like pinpoints of pleasure as they brushed against him. He trailed kisses lower, tasting the softness of her throat, the hint of her body wash in the curve of her breasts, the sultry essence that belonged only to Violet.

He had never wanted a woman the way he wanted her.

But she was Violet…his little sister's friend.

Reality intervened, but his hunger didn't wane. Instead, he realized that their pasts had drawn them together in the darkness, just as the heat rippling between them had given him light.

His hand brushed her breast, and his body surged with the ache to fill her. He lowered her to the sofa, slid down beside her, cradling her in the V of his spread
thighs, and began to caress her through the soft cotton blouse.

“Grady…”

Her sultry response was all he needed. He reached for the buttons of her shirt, flicked the first one open, dropped a kiss onto the bare skin exposed by his invasion. But a trilling sound cut into the moment. He flicked another button, ignoring the sound. He was too close to having Violet. To assuaging the ache.