A Breath Away (3 page)

* * *

H
E WAS WATCHING HER
, playing out his sick twisted game, dancing around the fact that he was going to kill her with platitudes in that singsongy voice that had grated on her nerves for hours. He enjoyed seeing the terror in her eyes.

And she was helpless to stop from showing it.

She did not want to die.

His olive skin looked pale beneath the harsh fluorescent light. Bluish veins bulged in his arms as he stalked around her. She struggled against the bindings holding her down, but the drugs he'd given her were slowly paralyzing her limbs.

“Your blood is rich and thick, and in some ways perfect,” he murmured. “But you aren't the one.”

His face loomed like some kind of distorted monster. “I'm sorry, sweetheart,” he said in a soothing voice. “I wanted you to be it. I really did.”

She moaned and tried to scream, fighting to escape. But a gag captured the sound, and her movements were stilted and slow, only token gestures of the will to survive.

He brushed a tendril of her wiry, tear-soaked hair from her face. “You let me down.”

She shook her head violently, silently pleading for him to spare her. But anger darkened his already poisonous-looking eyes.

“It's not my fault. Father needs you. But you can't help us. Don't you see that?” His voice grew edgier, his eyes like marbles cut from ice. “I'm doing it all for him. I shall pray for your soul, and the angels will carry you to heaven. We are all children under one blessed father.”

He ran a steady finger over the sharp end of a piece of bone he'd carved earlier. Then he slid the blade of a
pocketknife along the jagged edge, scraping and shaving off more brittle bone. The rhythmic sound crawled over her skin. He scraped and whittled, painstaking in his task. Perspiration rolled down her breastbone as he held the bone up to the light and tested its smoothness. Then he raised it to his lips and began to blow.

“The tune of the bone whistle,” he said softly. “The song that tells the story of sacrifice.
Pin peyeh obe,
my sweetness. Then you must die.”

A
MAN WAS DEAD
.
Was he a local or a tourist?

Grady flipped on the siren, tore from the Redbud Café and headed toward the ridge. Cutting across town, he took all the side streets because he didn't want any of the nosy townsfolk following. They might interfere with an investigation. If one was required.

He doubted it. The victim was probably some unlucky vacationer who'd wandered too close to the edge and lost his balance.

The Great Smoky Mountains rose in front of him as he veered from town onto Route 5. He sped past run-down chicken houses and deserted farmland, through the valley, then steered onto Three Forks Road to wind up the mountain. Sweat beaded his forehead and he cranked down the window of the squad car, cursing the stifling summer heat and his broken air conditioner. Thick pines and hardwoods dotted the horizon; blinding sunlight reflected off the steaming asphalt. The smell of manure and wet grass filled the air. He shoved his hand through his hair, his throat tightening as it always did when he passed Flatbelly Hollow, where his little sister's body had been found.

The Deer Crossing sign had been vandalized, he noticed, the stop sign from the side road leading to the
fishing camp turned the wrong way. The latest graduating class's graffiti defiled the rocky wall of the rising cliff. Moss flanked the embankment, icy water trickling down the rocks like a small waterfall. The air cooled as he navigated up the mountain, the curves so routine he could have driven them in his sleep. Shadows from the yellow pines cast a murky haze over the ground as he parked at Briar Ridge next to Logan's squad car. Paramedics stood on the ledge, organizing the lift procedure.

Logan stalked toward Grady, his sunglasses shading his eyes. “I've already photographed the body and surrounding area.”

“Good.” Although Grady would take more photos as backup. He peered over the jagged ridge to assess the situation. The man's body sprawled facedown on the ledge a few hundred feet below, his arms and legs twisted at awkward angles. Blood splattered the rocks around his head. He wore plain jeans and a ragged T-shirt, nothing outstanding to distinguish him from any other tourist or a local.

“How did you find him?”

“Hiker called in. He was taking pictures of the mountains and spotted him.”

“He still around?”

“Waiting in the car.” Logan cleared his throat. “Young kid. Poor guy's pretty shook up.”

“Did you question him already?”

“Yeah, said he didn't see any other cars around, hadn't spotted a soul until he came to the ledge and found the body.”

Grady nodded and gestured toward the dead man. “You recognized him?”

“No.” Logan shoved an evidence bag holding a piece
of paper toward Grady. “But I found this thumbtacked to that pine tree.”

Grady pulled on gloves, then removed the note and unfolded it. The handwriting was scrawled, almost illegible, but he slowly managed to decipher the words.

“Sorry. Killed her. Couldn't live with the guilt anymore.”

Killed who? Grady read further, his heart thundering in his chest at the name.

Darlene.

Unbelievable. His hands shook as he lowered the note to his side. His hopes for ending the mystery surrounding Darlene's death had finally come true. Full circle, as Laney Longhorse would say.

The dead man had confessed to killing his baby sister.

* * *

T
HE
S
PANISH MOSS
of a giant live oak shrouded Violet in its haven, painting fingery shadows that resembled bones along the sidewalk. Disoriented, she clutched the wrought-iron rail surrounding the tombstones. Her imagination must be overactive. Savannah thrived on ghost stories about soldiers who'd died and hadn't yet found peace. Ones who lingered between realms, tortured and lost, forever searching.

But she had never heard voices from the grave before.

Although this voice hadn't called to her from the grave, she realized. The woman had still been alive. Had the voice belonged to Amber Collins, the missing coed? Had Violet heard her cry for help just before she was murdered?

Had the evil gotten inside her again? Or had she en
visioned the images and voice because of the flyer? Because Darlene's murder was on her mind?

Violet glanced at the crumpled paper in her hands and felt paralyzed. People had been reported missing, even murdered in Charleston where she and her grandmother had lived before, but she'd never experienced visions of them.

Pin peyeh obe
—what did the expression mean? It sounded like a Native American phrase. But she didn't know any native words, so why would one come to her in her thoughts? And what kind of bone had the man held to his lips?

Her mind spinning, she staggered to her car. Darkness descended as more storm clouds rolled in from the east. According to the weatherman, Hurricane Helena might hit tomorrow. Violet felt as if it had hit today.

Hands trembling, she started the engine and turned onto the island road, wincing as she bounced over the old bridge. A pair of headlights appeared in her rearview mirror, steady but not too close. The car coasted nearer as she crossed the narrow bay bridge and veered onto the side street that led to her cottage.

She clenched the steering wheel tighter, certain he was following her.

* * *

G
RADY KNOTTED HIS HANDS
. Everything had come full circle. Back to the beginning, back to the people in town, the ones they'd trusted. Memories of that grueling search crashed back. The long, endless night before they'd found Darlene. This man consoling Grady's father when they'd finally discovered her small limp body.

Grady turned to the paramedics. “Make sure the au
topsy is thorough—tox screens, hair and fiber samples, the works.” He gathered the crime scene kit from the car, then snapped more pictures of the area and body, and videotaped the scene. The rescue team lowered a paramedic to the ledge to secure the corpse on a stretcher, prior to transporting him to the coroner's office.

“Why all the fuss over a suicide?” Logan's voice was gravelly as he ran a hand over his sweat-streaked brow.

Grady frowned as he knelt to study the landing. “The first rule of being a good cop—everything is suspicious.”

“Right. Sounds like the bastard deserved it. He killed a defenseless child.”

Grady cut his eyes toward his deputy, but he couldn't read the man's expression, not with those damn sunglasses he always wore. “What do you know about my sister's death?”

“Not much,” Logan said. “Just heard about it in town. I'd think you'd be glad he's dead.”

Grady glared at him. They had never talked about personal things before. In fact, once he'd asked Logan about his family, but the man had clammed up and stormed outside. And Grady had certainly never shared anything about his own life.

But Logan was right. He should be happy. Ecstatic. Ready to celebrate.

Yet a nagging feeling plucked at the back of his mind, warning him things weren't quite right. Was it something about the case file? The suicide note? The confession?

Darlene's innocent young face flashed in Grady's head. Her knobby knees, missing front teeth, the strawberry curls he used to tease her about. He pictured her
and that homely friend of hers tagging along behind him. Playing dress-up and skipping rope out by that old sweet gum tree. Darlene had always protected her friend. But who had protected her? No one.

Had he really found her killer? It almost seemed too easy….

Deep down he wanted it to be over. Closure meant he could move on with his life. Maybe his father could find his way out of the bottle, too.

Grady fisted and unfisted his hands, blood pounding in his veins. He'd wanted to find Darlene's killer alive so he could exact his own revenge. He hadn't realized how much he'd craved that confrontation, how the urge to make her murderer suffer the way his little sister had suffered had driven him through the years. How much the idea of that revenge had thrilled him.

Fighting for control, Grady scrutinized the ground for foot patterns.

The deputy squatted, then leaned his elbows on his knees. “Find anything?”

“Hard to tell,” Grady muttered. “Looks like someone might have moved the straw to cover a footprint or scuffle. Then again, the wind and rain last night could have readjusted the soil.” He shifted on the balls of his feet. “I want every inch combed. We'll send the note and any other evidence to the crime lab in Nashville to be analyzed. Did you find his car?”

“Yeah, run into the ditch over there.” Logan pointed to a thicket of trees. “Reeks of whiskey.”

Grady nodded, then gestured toward the surrounding bushes. “Look for loose or torn bits of clothing. Footprints. Anything to indicate the man might not have been alone. And I want the car impounded and pro
cessed.” He stood. “I don't want this confession leaked in town, either, not until I have a chance to investigate the case thoroughly.” Grady sighed. “For now, this is a suicide, but I'm leaving the case open.”

Logan nodded, then began combing the bushes while Grady headed toward the paramedics carrying the body to the ambulance. The man's face was bloody, his clothes smeared with dirt, his broken femur jutting through his ragged pants; it had been severed in two places. His jeans were still damp, indicating he'd probably been there since the night before, but the EMT would give them a better idea of the exact time of death. The fetid odor of lost body fluids hung in the air as Grady checked the corpse for indications of a struggle. A small contusion lacerated the back of his head. If the man had fallen face-first, how had he hit the back of his head? Unless he'd been struck before falling.

Grady frowned, disturbed by his own train of thought. Maybe he'd fallen, then rolled over.

The paramedics loaded the stretcher and the ambulance roared off. Grady had to call his father, tell him they'd found Darlene's killer.

No, he couldn't yet. Not until he was sure. Not until he'd checked out the man's death. Not until he'd notified the next of kin.

He stalked to the woods to search the area. As soon as he finished, he'd visit the coroner's office for a full report, then make that call. Even worse, he had to tell the surviving family that their loved one had taken his own life.

And that he had confessed to a murder.

* * *

V
IOLET CHECKED HER
rearview mirror. Yes, someone was following her. Was on her tail. She wound through
the side streets, reminding herself that she shouldn't lead a stranger to her house, then turned right on another side street. Nervous now, she wove through a nearby neighborhood, turned and headed back in the opposite direction. The sedan slowed, then swung into a drive. She sighed in relief. If whoever it was had been following her, he'd realized she was onto him.

Relaxing slightly, she headed back toward her cottage, then veered onto Palm Walkway. The inside of the cottage seemed dark as she parked and exited her car. Crickets chirped in the background. A bird cawed above.

Weary now, she climbed the small steps to the stoop, grateful to be home. When she stepped inside, the house was too quiet. “Grammy?”

Her grandmother was sitting in the wooden chair, pale and listless, the phone clutched in one hand.

“Grammy, what is it?”

Her grandmother's blank gaze showed no sign of response.

“Mrs. Baker…” A man's voice called over the line. “Mrs. Baker…are you still there?”

Violet pried the receiver from her grandmother's fingers and laid it on the counter. “Grammy.” Violet gently shook her. “What's wrong? Please talk to me.”

“No,” her grandmother rasped, in a voice so low Violet could barely discern it. “No, it's not true.”

“Mrs. Baker,” the man shouted from the phone, “are you all right?”

Her grandmother's face went ashen, and she was trembling. No, she wasn't all right.

Violet grabbed the handset. “This is Mrs. Baker's granddaughter, Violet. Who is this and what did you say to upset her?”

“Violet?” Shock tinged the man's deep voice.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Sheriff Monroe.” He hesitated, his voice husky. “Grady.”

“Grady?” Darlene's brother?

“I'm sorry…I had to give your grandmother some bad news.” His breath whistled out. “Violet, your father is dead.”