The Last Victim (20 page)

“I wouldn’t bet my life on it.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall and folded his arms across his chest as he looked her up and down. Again, if Charlie hadn’t known for sure he was dead, she wouldn’t have believed it. Her stomach was even starting to settle down. “Anyway, you’re welcome.”

“I never said thank you.”

“That was me ignoring your bad manners.”

Charlie’s lips compressed. “What happened to the guy with the knife?”

“He won’t be back. We crashed through into Spookville right in front of a hunter. He was nabbed. Lucky for me, I’m getting pretty good at slipping out of there. Just dove right back out the same hole I came in through. What the hell was that guy doing anyway?”

“Apparently the old woman’s husband shot him a few days ago. He was trying to rob their shop at the time. He just hasn’t figured out he’s dead yet. He’s confused, and he’s repeating the last few minutes of his life.” Charlie shrugged. “It’s what happens sometimes.”

“Jesus, are you telling me you see nut-jobs like that all the time?” He regarded her with a combination of alarm and fascination.

“Oh, yeah.
All. The. Time
.” Her heavy emphasis on each word, coupled with the pointed look she gave him, implied that she included him in that number. He grinned.

“I bet it’s a real joyride.” He glanced around restlessly. “Damn, I’ve seen the inside of more ladies’ bathrooms lately than I ever expected or wanted to see in my life. Don’t you ever hang out anyplace fun? Bars? Nightclubs? Football games?”

“No,” Charlie answered. “During the day I work. At night I go home—or when I’m not at home, like now, I go to wherever I’m staying. And I hate football. But feel free to go to all those places without me. In fact, please do. Start now. The door’s that way.”

She pointed.

“You act like you think I’m showing up where you are on purpose. Sorry to bust your bubble, Doc, but like I told you before, it ain’t a choice. I come out where I come out. So far, it just so happens it’s been in your vicinity.”

Charlie stared at him with as much horror as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. A terrible thought—no, scratch that, a terrible certainty—had just clonked her over the head. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before.

“Oh, my God.” She started shaking her head. “Oh, no, no, no.”

“What?”

Charlie took a deep breath. “I don’t believe this. I think
you’re
attached to
me
.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Garland looked wary. “I like you and everything, Doc, but
attached
to you? I am—was—attached to my dog. And my Harley. And—”

“No,” Charlie interrupted. “I see this kind of thing happen all the time. You’re
attached
to me. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. Just like that guy with the knife was attached to the old lady. Sometimes when people die suddenly and violently, like you did, they latch onto someone or something that’s close by at the time of their death. I think it’s kind of a way of not letting go, of hanging on to their lives and the earth, like throwing out a psychic anchor. I was working on you when you died. You latched onto me.”

Garland stared at her. After a moment his mouth twisted. “I got to say, if you’d started spouting off stuff like this a week ago, I would’ve said you were the one who needed to see a shrink. Bad.”

Charlie had gotten used to skepticism, back when she was still trying to enlighten people about the undead in their midst, but the difference here was that Garland had to believe her, because he himself was living (?) proof. It made a nice change, she discovered.

“Yeah, well, welcome to my world.”

“You mean to say I’m, like, tethered to you? Like by a psychic rubber band or something? Because you
didn’t
save my life?”

“You ever hear the saying ‘No good deed goes unpunished’?”

“
Didn’t
was the key word there.
Didn’t
save my life. So if I were you I wouldn’t get too wound up congratulating yourself on your good deed.”

“I don’t want you attached to me,” Charlie told him. “This doesn’t work for me.”

“You think I like it any better than you do? You’re cute, Doc, but you’re not exactly my idea of a rousing good time. Now, if you were a stripper, or a whore …”

“There, you see? You’re disgusting. And crude. And a
psychopath
. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you are.”

“And what’s that?”

“You brutally murdered seven women.”

“Did I?”

“The Commonwealth of Virginia says you did. They sentenced you to death for it, if you recall. What, are you going to try to tell me you’re innocent?”

“Would you believe me if I did?”

“No.” Charlie thought it over for as long as it took for logic to clench the matter, which wasn’t very long. “And don’t even bother trying to convince me otherwise. The afterlife you described to me—purple twilight, screams, the whole bit—that’s not what most people experience when they die. Most people see the white light. The reason you’re experiencing Spookville, as you call it, is because you’re on your way to hell. And if you’re on your way to hell, then I’m confident there’s a good reason. Like you brutally murdered seven women.”

“You always latch onto the worst in everybody, Doc? Or am I just getting lucky here?”

Charlie started to reply, realized there was no point, and shook her head. “I’m not doing this. Uh-uh.”

“I hear you. But unless I’m missing something, I don’t think you have a choice.”

“You can always let go and embrace the afterlife. Sooner or later, that’s what you’re going to have to do anyway.” She smiled less than sweetly at him. “I’d be glad to help you on your way.”

Garland straightened away from the wall. “You try any more ju-ju on me—”

“And you’ll do what, exactly? Just so we’re clear, I think murder’s out for you now. The spirit may still be willing, but the flesh is—oh, wait: gone.”

The look he shot her said he wasn’t amused. “Are you afraid of me, Doc? Is that it?”

“Afraid of the ghost of a serial killer who’s following me around like a puppy on a leash? How crazy would I have to be to be afraid of something—you notice I don’t say some
one
—like that?”

“You are. You got no need to be, Doc. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“You
couldn’t
hurt me, Casper.”

“I wouldn’t if I could.”

“That’s actually kind of rich, considering you’ve been threatening me practically since you died.”

“If I’ve been threatening you, it’s only been since you tried to voodoo me out of here. Don’t do that again, and you and I should get along just fine.”

“I don’t want us to get along just fine. I want you gone. Nothing personal, but you’re a complication my life doesn’t need.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Afraid I’m going to cause a speed bump in your love life, Doc?”

“Afraid you’re going to be a total pain in the ass, which obviously you are.”

He gave her a warning look. “You try to get rid of me again, and …” His voice trailed off, but his face said it all.

“And chalk up one more threat.” As his eyes narrowed, Charlie held up her hands in a peacemaking gesture. “Don’t worry, I won’t try to get rid of you again. You know why? Because I don’t have to. The good news is, the state you’re in is a temporary thing. As I may have mentioned before, spirits who linger usually hang on maybe a week. It’s like you need time to get your head around the idea of being dead or something, and once you do you’re ready to go.”

“Without anybody doing anything? I’ll just … go?” Garland looked uneasy.

“You got it. The ones I’ve had experience with—one day they just disappear. According to my calculations, you’ve got at most—probably four or five days.”

Garland looked at her. “Fuck.”

“Who are you talking to?” Kaminsky’s voice made Charlie jump. She’d been so caught up with Garland that she hadn’t even heard the other woman enter the restroom. Now Kaminsky stood just on the other side of the threshold between the lounge and lavatory areas, staring at her. With obviously no idea that she was looking right through the hottest guy she’d probably ever seen in her life, who was large enough and vital enough, at least from Charlie’s perspective, to fill the space to overflowing.

“Myself.”
God, I’m getting good at lying. And sick of it
. Quickly she tried to recall the part of the conversation that Kaminsky had been most likely to overhear. “If you’re here to use the facilities, you’d best get a move on. We need to get going. Bayley Evans only has about four days left.”

“What’s
your
name, Sugar Buns?” Garland drawled at Kaminsky, who of course didn’t hear a syllable. Charlie would have been furious, except she suspected the remark had been aimed at riling her rather than hitting on Kaminsky, who he knew perfectly well couldn’t hear him. “Doc here never did introduce us.”

“I just came to get you,” Kaminsky told her. “Bartoli was concerned because you’ve been in here a while.”

“Ooh, Bartoli.” Looking at Charlie, Garland batted his eyes like a love-struck girl. “He was
concerned
. That’s touching, Doc, it really is.”

“Let’s go, then. Um, I’ll follow you.” Waiting until Kaminsky had turned her back and started for the door, Charlie cast an evil look at Garland.

“If you don’t shut up, I
will
ju-ju you. First chance I get, I swear to God,” she hissed, hopefully too low for Kaminsky to hear. Then, just to make a point, she marched right through him. The sensation of having plunged into an electromagnetic force field was worth it, she told herself fiercely, even with her skin tingling all over and her hair going all static-y. Even when she heard Garland laughing softly behind her.

In the SUV on the way back to Kill Devil Hills, a thought began to take root in Charlie’s mind. They’d been talking about the case,
about various ways they could winnow the pool of suspects—which at that point was about the size of a small town—down to a more manageable number.

“Another characteristic to look for is a history of mental illness in the family.” Charlie was staring abstractedly out the windshield as she spoke. Beach Road was beautiful by night, despite the sizable volume of traffic traveling in each direction. The ocean and the sky above it were both shades of midnight blue, while, hovering just above the horizon, the moon looked as rich and round as a butterscotch candy. “Bipolar, schizophrenia, maybe ECT treatments. Probably the family member will have a record of psychiatric episodes. If not, alcoholism or drug abuse might serve as markers.”

“Nearly everybody we look at is going to have one of your ‘markers,’ ” Kaminsky objected. Charlie didn’t see her roll her eyes, but from the agent’s tone she figured Kaminsky probably did just that.

“Possibly, but I doubt very many in your pool will have more than one or possibly two of them,” Charlie replied, glancing around at Kaminsky. She and Crane were once again riding in the back, while in the third seat, the bench seat in the very back of the vehicle, sprawled out with his boots between the bucket seats occupied by Kaminsky and Crane, sat Garland. He had his eyes closed, his arms folded across his chest, and looked like he was enjoying a nap. Not that Charlie thought he was (did spirits even sleep?), but at least he was silent—silence on his part was the best she could hope for until he disappeared for good, she figured. “By itself, each marker doesn’t mean all that much. It’s when they’re present in multiples that it sets off alarms. When we find the man we’re looking for, he’ll have a long list of markers in his background, I promise you.”

“Just think of yourself as a kind of human metal detector,” Crane said to Kaminsky. “You come across enough hidden treasure, and your alarm should go off.”

“The best lead we’ve got right now is the band—Kornucopia—and everyone and everything connected with it,” Bartoli said. “We need to look at the musicians, the technicians, the roadies, and anyone else who travels with the band. Kaminsky, while you’re compiling that list you also need to screen every name you identify as a possible suspect for their whereabouts on the nights of the murders, then
cross-check them with the twenty-five remaining individuals you came up with who’ve been off the grid for fifteen years. Not that being off the grid is a deal-breaker, because it’s possible we’re dealing with a copycat, so keep that in mind. Crane, you do the background checks and evaluate every viable lead with an eye to the markers Dr. Stone has suggested. Anybody that overlaps gets put on the hit parade—bring that list to me pronto. And we have to be discreet, because if this guy stays true to his pattern, the girl is still alive and we don’t want to cause him to kill her faster than he planned.”

“So, who’s the human metal detector now?” Kaminsky asked Crane, sotto voce.

“Beep-beep-beep.” Crane approximated the sound of an alarm under his breath.

“Let’s try to stay focused, guys.” Bartoli frowned at them in the mirror. “Clock’s ticking.”

“Got it, boss,” Crane said. “Background checks and markers.”

“I don’t suppose you want me to go around
asking
this possibly very large pool of potential suspects where they were on the nights of the murders?” Kaminsky’s voice was dry.

“That’d be a little obvious, don’t you think?” Bartoli looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Try checking work records, phone records, credit card records, that type of thing first. If we find the guy, we don’t want him to know it until we’re sure where the girl is.”

“You can’t just arrest him?” Charlie asked. Never having been involved in an investigation of this sort from the law enforcement angle, she’d thought that swooping up the bad guy just as soon as they knew his identity would be the way to go.

Bartoli shook his head. “The smart ones never say a word. They lawyer up. They depend on the legal system to protect them.”

“Even if we arrest him, we don’t have any way of making the unsub tell us where he’s got the girl stashed,” Crane explained.

“See, for us, waterboarding’s out,” Kaminsky said. “All we can do is say ‘Pretty please tell us.’ ”