The Last Victim (11 page)

“It’s possible he’s kept track of me over the years,” Charlie pointed out, although it was something she had long since forbidden herself to dwell on. For years after the attack, she had harbored the secret fear that the next time she turned around there he would be, ready to murder her just like he had the Palmers. With the help of therapy and a lot of self-talk, she’d managed to tuck that fear away into a tiny corner of her mind, where it rarely bothered her. Now it was back, impossible to ignore.

I should have stayed away
.

“We’ll keep you safe, don’t worry,” Bartoli said, making Charlie wonder what he’d seen in her face. His gaze shifted to Kaminsky, and he gave an upward jerk of his head, which Charlie translated as
Go
.

“Yeah, okay, I got this.” Sounding slightly more resigned to her fate, Kaminsky started walking back up the stairs, then glanced over her shoulder to tell Charlie, “I’ll be sleeping right across the hall from you, and Bartoli and Crane are crashing in bedrooms on the first floor. You can go to bed and sleep like a baby and not worry about a thing.”

“Good to know.” Charlie followed Kaminsky up the stairs.

“Eight a.m. good for you to get started on this again?” Bartoli called after them. Charlie knew he was speaking to her.

It wasn’t a lot of decompression time—but then, the situation was beyond dire. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“Come downstairs. One of us will be waiting.”

As she reached the top of the stairs, Charlie glanced down at him. “Okay.”

“You’re in here.” Kaminsky opened a door to the right of the landing as, from the corner of her eye, Charlie saw Bartoli head back out the door. Presumably he was not yet ready to call it a night.

Charlie caught herself wondering if the team that had searched for Holly had been as dedicated, then forced the thought from her mind.

“By the way, a two-hundred-fifty-mile radius is too large.” Charlie walked past Kaminsky into what, from her first glance around, appeared to be a decent-sized apartment that took up the entire left side of the second floor. “The killer should be living—or working—within a thirty-mile radius of the crime scene at the most. Say, a half hour’s drive. Since there are three separate crime scenes, that would apply to each of them. If anyone on your list is staying in RV parks or campgrounds within that circle, I’d start there.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Kaminsky’s voice was dry. Charlie once again got the impression that Kaminsky wasn’t a fan, but at the moment she was too tired to care. “If you need anything, I’m right across the hall.” She nodded toward an open door just across the landing. Charlie glimpsed a bedroom through it. “Give a shout.”

Charlie nodded. Then Kaminsky left, closing the door behind her. Locking the door, beyond thankful to finally be alone, Charlie glanced around her new living quarters. She was standing in a small sitting room furnished with a yellow chintz couch, a deep green recliner, and a bentwood rocker, plus the appropriate tables and lamps. A large flat-screen TV on a bamboo console took up a corner, and on the opposite side of the room a round, glass-topped table complete with four bentwood chairs composed an eating area. A half wall to the left of the eating area provided separation from a small but modern kitchen, complete with white-painted cabinets and stainless steel appliances, including the promised refrigerator and a gas range. Beige wall-to-wall carpet covered the floor. Three of the walls were celadon green, and the same chintz that was on the couch had been made into drapes that covered the entire fourth wall. Since that was the wall facing the ocean, Charlie presumed there was a spectacular view behind the yards of gaily-patterned floral pleats, but she was too exhausted to even think about checking it out.

Lit by the round white ceramic lamps on either side of the couch, the sitting area was warmly welcoming. Charlie turned her back on it and walked through the small hallway that bypassed the kitchen, to the bedroom. It held a queen-sized bed with a quilted spread made
from that same yellow chintz, and a bamboo headboard, plus the usual nightstands and a bamboo dresser with a mirror over it. Her suitcase was on the floor beside the dresser. Swooping down on it, she extracted her toiletry kit, her white terry cloth robe, and the first nightgown that came to hand. The bottle of Tums was tucked in beside her running shoes. Opening it, she popped two chalky, mint-flavored tablets into her mouth, shook two extra-strength Excedrin out of another bottle, and then, chewing, tottered off toward the adjoining bathroom. Unpacking the rest of her stuff would have to wait for morning. She didn’t have the energy to do anything except shower and fall into bed.

The bathroom was solid white: white tile, white fixtures, white towels. It had both a tub and a separate, glass-walled shower. First she swallowed the Excedrin with a handful of water in hopes of easing the headache that wouldn’t quit. Then, stripping like she was being paid to get naked fast, Charlie twisted up her hair, pulled on a clear plastic shower cap, stepped into the shower, and turned on the tap. Hot water had never felt so good. Closing her eyes, Charlie let it sluice over her skin, warming her up, taking the worst of the tension out of her muscles. The soap was plain white Dove, but it smelled nice. By the time she turned the water off, she was feeling … not a hundred percent, but at least a hundred percent better.

At least she was until she stepped out of the shower, reached for the towel hanging nearby—and discovered a man standing just inside the closed bathroom doorway, watching her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Every tiny hair on Charlie’s body shot upright. Jumping backward, she screamed like a steam whistle.

“Jesus Christ, Doc, it’s me!”

If that was supposed to make Charlie feel better, it failed miserably. Even as her heel caught on the threshold of the shower and she smacked down hard on her butt on the tile floor, she recognized him: Garland.

Correction, Garland’s ghost. The orange prison jumpsuit was gone, replaced by a white tee, snug jeans, and cowboy boots, and his hair had morphed from its previous prison crop into a tawny mane that almost brushed his shoulders, but there was still no mistaking the just-about-hottest guy she had ever laid eyes on for anybody else.

Dead or alive.

His expression was almost comical. Clearly death hadn’t affected his hearing any: he was wincing from the earth-shattering blast that she’d loosed even as he loomed large as Bigfoot in the claustrophobic confines of the bathroom.

Sprawled in a semi-reclining position half in and half out of the shower, Charlie realized two things at once: she was naked, and he
was eyeing her just like any live human male would eye her under the circumstances. She had a good body, slim and tight and long-legged, with breasts that might have been on the small side but were perky and well shaped, and a well-groomed strip of pubic hair in the usual place. His gaze didn’t skip an inch of her, and the carnal glint in his sky blue eyes as he looked sent a rush of alarmed adrenaline pumping through her veins.

“Smokin’ bod, Doc,” he drawled.

Bad enough that she was plagued by ghosts, but horny, homicidal ghosts? It was too much. Charlie saw red.

“Get out of my bathroom!” she snarled, outraged, and clapped the towel she’d managed to grab on the way down to her bosom. It covered her salient parts—barely—but still left way too much of her shiny wet skin exposed for her comfort.

“Hey, don’t—”

But whatever he’d been going to say was interrupted by an urgent pounding on the apartment door.

“Dr. Stone? Dr. Stone, are you all right?” It was Kaminsky, and from her tone she’d be kicking down the door in another split second.

“I’m okay,” Charlie yelled, scrambling to her feet while keeping the towel clutched to her front and a ferocious glare fixed on Garland. “I slipped in the shower.”

“Dr. Stone? I need you to open the door.
Now
.”

“I’m coming,” Charlie shouted back, upping the volume just to make sure she was heard, while frowning fiercely at the menacing-looking apparition. He seemed way more solid than any ghost had a right to and he stood between her and the door. Any way she looked at it, he posed a ginormous problem. If she tried to get out, he might stop her. If she didn’t, she would have to explain to Kaminsky how it was she couldn’t leave her own bathroom. Even if she did manage to get past him, if she tried to hitch the grossly inadequate towel around herself, she didn’t see any way to avoid flashing him, and although he’d already seen it all she didn’t want him to see it again. On the other hand, if she tried getting past him the way she was, and succeeded, he was going to get a full and unobstructed view of her bare backside. In motion.

Not happening
.

“Dr. Stone!”

“I’m coming!” Charlie shrieked. No way Kaminsky didn’t hear that. It was so loud it hurt her own eardrums.

“Who’s that?” Garland asked. To her fury, he was starting to look amused.

“Throw me my robe,” she hissed at him, because he was standing right beside it—it was hanging from the hook on the inside of the bathroom door. Glancing around, Garland obligingly reached for it—and his hand went right through the thick terry cloth without disturbing so much as a thread.

And that would be because he’s dead
.

“Fuck,” he said, looking mildly surprised.

“Dr. Stone! I’m coming in!”

“I’m
coming
,” she yelled at Kaminsky. Then her voice dropped until it was scarcely louder than a breath, but her eyes killed as she skewered the apparition. “Get out of here. I mean it.
Go
.”

Expression fierce, she made shooing motions with her one free hand as she stomped purposefully toward him. It was pretty much the same technique she used to chase the neighbor’s chickens from her garden at home.

His brows arched, but somewhat to her surprise he retreated, backing right through the closed door. Then he was gone, or at least she couldn’t see him anymore. What she found herself glaring at instead was her robe hanging against a solid panel of white-painted wood. Charlie snatched her robe from the hook, managing to fumble into it without dropping the towel until the robe was on, just in case Garland was still somewhere he could see her. Then, still tying the belt around her waist, she jerked open the bathroom door. Keeping one wary eye out for Garland, who was thankfully nowhere in sight, she hurried toward the apartment door just as Kaminsky came bursting through it.

So much for kicking down the door. Charlie could see a key in the lock.

Spotting Charlie, Kaminsky stopped short just steps into the sitting room. Still fully dressed except for her heels—she was now in
stocking feet—Kaminsky was flushed, breathless, her black hair ruffled, clearly on high alert. Charlie’s eyes widened as she spotted the gun the other woman was two-handing.

“Is somebody else in here?” Kaminsky’s voice was sharp. Her eyes ran swiftly over Charlie.

“Cute friend,” observed an appreciative male voice behind her. Charlie tensed even as she cast an automatic glance around: wherever Garland had disappeared to, he was now back. Arms crossed over his chest, leaning a broad shoulder against the hall wall, he looked as real and solid as Kaminsky. God, what had he been doing since he’d been killed? In the course of the last few hours, he’d even acquired a tan. “Think she actually knows how to use that gun?”

She’s FBI
, Charlie almost snapped before remembering that for all intents and purposes he was not present and she and Kaminsky were alone.

“No, of course not,” she said to Kaminsky instead. The strain of not being able to reply to Garland gave her voice an edge.

“I thought you were being attacked. You’re telling me you screamed like that just for fun?” Kaminsky looked pissed. She cast a suspicious glance past Charlie in the direction, Charlie realized, in which she herself had just thrown that hostile look at Garland. “You trying out your own personal version of a test of the emergency broadcast system, Dr. Stone?”

Garland grinned. Charlie tried not to notice. “I slipped in the shower.”

“And screamed like that? Most people just say
ouch
.”

“It hurt.”

Kaminsky glanced past her again. “You mind if I look around?”

“Knock yourself out.” Okay, Charlie realized she sounded grumpy. But the strain of ignoring a six-foot-three-inch, muscle-bound, smirking ghost with possibly evil intent was making her nerves jump. “You think I’d lie about a thing like that?”

“I don’t know you well enough to know what you’d do.”

“What’s up with that chick?” Garland watched Kaminsky with interest as she walked swiftly through the apartment, gun held low in front of her, checking corners, closets, bathroom. Twice she walked right past Garland—who’d stepped inside the living room to give her
clear passage—coming within inches of him both times without appearing to sense a thing. “She’s a cop, isn’t she? I can smell ’em a mile off. What, are you on some kind of house arrest now or something?” He shook his head. “Damn, Doc, what the hell did you
do
?”

Aside from a glare at him that she hoped said
Shut up
, Charlie ignored him.

“So you really made that much fuss just because you fell in the shower,” Kaminsky marveled as, search completed, she walked back into the sitting room, clearly much less wary than before. The look she gave Charlie as she tucked her gun back into the shoulder holster beneath her jacket brimmed with disgust. “If you scream like that when you fall down, what do you do when something scares the snot out of you?”

“I’d say scream louder, but I don’t think you could,” Garland said to Charlie, once again clearly enjoying himself. “That scream was
righteous
. Scared the hell out of me.”

Kaminsky stopped right in front of him. His lids went to half mast, and Charlie was willing to bet the farm that it was because he was giving Kaminsky a thorough once-over.

Part of Charlie wanted to shriek
There’s a serial killer in the room with us, right now, right behind you
, but she didn’t because she knew it wouldn’t do any good.