The Last Kiss Goodbye: A Charlotte Stone Novel Page 12

  “You’re all right,” Michael told her swiftly, and when she dropped her head and burst into tears again his arm went around her once more.

  “Ask her about the man. Can she describe him?”

  Encountering his gaze, Charlie was surprised at the anger in his eyes.

  “Did you see the man, Laura? What did he look like?” Michael’s tone as he shifted his attention back to the girl was, in contrast, very gentle.

  Laura shivered violently. “Death. He looks like death. All in black—his face, it’s white. Horrible white. Oh, no, please. He’s going to kill me—why? I was in the bar and then …” Closing her eyes, she gave a piteous-sounding whimper.

  “What bar?” Charlie prompted. Michael, face taut, repeated the question.

  Laura’s eyes were still closed. “Omar’s. I didn’t win. I—I left, and then—there was a van.” She moaned, and Michael’s arm tightened around her.

  Charlie knew the signs. The spirit was growing increasingly distressed. They needed to get as much information out of her as they could as quickly as they could. Charlie prompted Michael: “What did the van look like? Color, make, model?”

  He said, “What did the van look like, Laura? What color was it? Do you remember the make or model?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know! It was blue, I think. Or maybe gray. Old. It—it smelled bad. Like fish.”

  Charlie said, “Does she remember anything else about the van? Or the driver?”

  Michael asked.

  “I heard—a phone call. Ben. I can’t talk right now, Ben, is what he said. I tried to scream but I couldn’t. That’s all I remember. Oh, won’t you please help me? Please! I just want to go home! Can’t you please take me home?” Laura started to sob again, while Michael shot Charlie a seething look and rubbed the girl’s shoulder comfortingly.

  “Ask her: where is Omar’s?” Charlie said, but before he could, Laura shook free of Michael’s arm and jumped to her feet, glancing behind her in shock as she clutched the sides of her head with both hands. “No! That hurts! Oh! Jen—Raylene—something hit me in the head! Stop! It hurts! It hurts!” By the end, she had whirled around to bat at an unseen assailant even as Michael, having straightened to his full height beside her, put his hands on her shoulders to try to calm her down.

  “Laura …”

  “No, no, no!” She looked at him with abject fear in her eyes. “They’re killing me.”

  Her voice rose to a screech on that last. Then, abruptly, her face turned up toward the lightless night sky as if she heard or saw something there that Charlie at least could not. Laura’s eyes widened. She shook from head to toe.

  “Laura. It’s okay.” Michael’s voice sounded strained.

  “There’s Kylie,” Laua moaned. “And Sara. Oh, my God, where am I?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  In the next instant Laura dissolved into nothingness beneath Michael’s hands.

  “Holy fucking hell,” Michael said.

  “What?” Charlie demanded. It was obvious that Michael was seeing—had seen—something that she had not.

  “Two little girls came down out of the fucking sky. Two little girls who were covered with blood.”

  “Laura must have known them. Something bad must have happened to them.”

  “Yeah, I gathered that.” The look he turned on Charlie was grim. “Jesus Christ, don’t you ever see any happy dead people? You know, old folks who were ready to go or somebody who was so sick death was a release? Somebody like that?”

  “No.” Charlie’s response was flat. Her stomach continued to churn, but her senses were getting back to normal. The hypersensitivity was going, and that meant the spirit(s) were gone, too. Well, present company excepted. She fought to get the nausea under control.

  I will not throw up.

  “No wonder you’re twisted,” Michael said.

  “Twisted?” Charlie began indignantly, only to jump sky-high as someone behind her asked, “What’s twisted?”

  Tony. Charlie recognized his voice even before Michael had finished with his sardonic, “Oh, yay, it’s Dudley Do-Right,” even before she had finished whirling around to confront the newcomer. The sight of Tony was instantly steadying: he looked so normal, so real. So totally nice and uncomplicated: a genuine good guy. Exactly what she needed in her life, in fact.

  Instantly she vowed to try harder where he was concerned.

  “Uh—what was done to these poor victims,” she said. Luckily, thinking fast on her feet was something she was getting really good at. “It’s twisted, is all.”

  “It is that,” Tony agreed, while Michael said, “Just so you know, every time you tell a lie you stick out that pretty pink tongue of yours. Only a little bit, like you’re getting ready to wet your lips. I caught on to it while you were still doing the starched-up-shrink thing back at the Ridge. It’s sexy as all get-out, but it’s a dead tell.”

  Charlie’s reaction to that was to clamp her lips together. Realizing what she had done, she barely managed to not shoot the thorn in her side a dirty look. Instead, with what she considered commendable control, she ignored him in favor of saying to Tony: “So how’s it going?”

  Okay, the question was inane. It was the best she could do with Michael mock-sexily wetting his lips at her.

  Tony appeared to notice nothing amiss. “We’ve got the bodies, which should give us time and cause of death. Including the knife that was left in your kitchen, we’ve got a variety of possible murder weapons. The rain’s made everything else problematic. It’s going to be hard to tell what we have that’s usable until the sun comes up and everything dries out.”

  “Try telling him about Laura,” Michael said. “Go on, I want to hear this.”

  It took effort, but Charlie managed to keep her expression neutral. Curling a hand around Tony’s arm, which felt strong and firm through the slick windbreaker, she tugged, towing him with her as she walked determinedly away from the font of perpetual annoyance. Mindful of the possibility that her stomach might disgrace her at any second, she headed for a relatively secluded section of the site, away from the klieg lights. But the increasing darkness made her skin crawl, and she was suddenly thankful for Tony’s solid presence. Unlike Michael—who was, of course, dogging her every footstep—Tony could actually offer something in the way of physical protection. Plus, he had a gun.

  Charlie said, “I—uh—actually have some information that might help the investigation.”

  Tony lifted his eyebrows at her. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Laura Peters was at a bar called Omar’s right before the Gingerbread Man got hold of her. She was put into an old blue or gray van that smelled like fish. The man who took her spoke to someone named Ben on the phone.” Even as Charlie recited the details that Laura had passed on to Michael, her stomach roiled. Taking a deep breath, she swallowed hard in an effort to make the sudden upsurge of nausea go away.

  Michael said, “You left out the part where he looked like Skeletor. You know, all in black with a white face.”

  Swallowing hard, Charlie stopped walking as she willed her stomach to settle. Tony stopped, too, to look down at her with a frown.

  She said, “The man who took Laura Peters—the Gingerbread Man, unless he has an accomplice, which I don’t think he does—was dressed all in black. His face appeared very white. Like death.”

  “There you go,” Michael said. “That’s what she said.”

  “How do you know all that?” Tony’s eyes were intent on her face. Then they flickered, and he frowned. “You have one of your psychic experiences back there?”

  “A psychic experience? Is that what he calls them?” Michael stopped on her other side.

  “Yes,” Charlie said to both of them. Defiantly.

  Michael grimaced. “From what I’ve seen, what you go through is more like full-on American Horror Story. You planning on keeping Dudley around, you probably ought to tell him how bad it gets.”

  “Okay,” Tony said at the same time.
He had pulled out his cell phone, and was busy pecking at its virtual keyboard. She assumed he was making a note of what she had told him, or perhaps texting or e-mailing it, although whether or not there was cell service up here on the mountain was questionable. Finishing, he looked at her. “You sure of your information?”

  Charlie nodded, smiling at Tony gratefully because dealing with him was just so damned easy. Then, since she really was feeling sick as a dog, she turned her back on both of them to head for a nearby rock, where she abruptly sat down.

  “Here we go again,” Michael said grimly. “For God’s sake, put your head between your knees. You look like you’re about ready to pass out.”

  Tony, having also followed her, stopped on her other side to say, “You’ve gone a little pale. Are you all right?”

  Michael snorted. “A little pale? You’re white as a fucking ghost—no, whiter, if the ones I’ve seen are anything to judge by. If you need to barf, do it. Maybe your boyfriend will start getting a clue.”

  It took a moment’s worth of deep breathing before Charlie could say anything at all. When she did, she ignored the irate-looking ghost looming over her in favor of smiling at Tony, who stood a few feet away watching her with concern. “It’s nothing. I … well, get a little nauseated sometimes when I have these psychic experiences. If I sit here for a minute, it’ll pass.”

  Michael said, “That’s right, babe. Sugarcoat it,” while Tony said, “Take all the time you need.”

  Charlie fought for control, both of her stomach and her temper. She was starting to feel like a Ping-Pong ball bouncing between the two of them, which, given the state of her stomach, was not good. The look she wanted to direct at Michael would be a waste of a good glare—glaring at him didn’t seem to abash him one iota—and might be misinterpreted by Tony. Likewise, snapping something on the order of stick it where the sun don’t shine was subject to misinterpretation by the only other living human being within earshot, who was not its intended target. Glancing around in hopes of a distraction, her gaze fell on the body that was at that moment being dragged from the pit by a boat hook and then, when it was close enough, by two of the coroner’s assistants, who grabbed it under the armpits with their gloved hands and hauled it, streaming water, up on the rocks.

  Having so recently seen Laura Peters, she was able to identify this body as belonging to Raylene Witt: the phantom girl with the rock from her house.

  Funnily enough, the sight of an actual corpse didn’t make her sick. It was only the close proximity of spirits that did that. What seeing that poor, limp corpse did was fill her with sorrow. And grief. And a deep and corrosive fear.

  What was it about her and violent death anyway? Was it drawn to her, in some sort of hideous karma? Secretly, almost shamefully, Charlie realized that what bothered her most about the spirits she saw was her near conviction that one day, she, too, would come to just such a horrible, violent end.

  The prospect made her shiver.

  “You okay?” Michael frowned down at her.

  “Better?” Tony asked at almost the same time.

  Clearly Michael at least had seen that unmistakable sign of her distress.

  Get it together.

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Raylene Witt’s corpse being zipped into a body bag. This time she did not shiver.

  Instead she focused on staying strong.

  Deep breath.

  “What I can’t understand is how the Gingerbread Man managed to get all three of the victims up here,” she said, and was proud of how coolly professional she sounded. Her stomach still churned, but she was determined not to give in to it—or to the abiding fear that she had discovered curling like a parasite deep in her psyche. “Even if he brought them one at a time, it’s a long way up the mountain. I don’t think he can have carried them, and if he made them walk—” She considered Laura’s failure to relate anything about what was sure to have been a harrowing journey. “Well, I don’t think he did that.”

  “He didn’t walk ’em. Too hard to control them over that kind of distance,” Michael said, which earned him a sharp glance as Charlie instantly wondered how he would know something like that. Clearly (and correctly) interpreting that look to mean that she was once again picturing him as the serial killer she’d actually begun harboring doubts that he was, his mouth twisted.

  “I was a marine,” Michael said. “Sometimes we took prisoners.”

  Considering that, she decided it made sense. Anyway, if she remembered the details correctly, at least the last woman he was supposed to have murdered had been killed in her bed. No death march required.

  Okay, then.

  “As a matter of fact, we just located an old mining road that passes to within about a quarter of a mile south of here,” Tony said. “I’m betting that’s what he used to get the victims in place. The ME has a truck coming up it right now to transport the bodies back down, which is why I came looking for you: I think you ought to ride down with his team, then grab a few hours’ sleep. I’m depending on your expertise to help us tomorrow. I’ll send Kaminsky with you, of course.”

  Although she couldn’t argue about the value of sleep, Charlie looked at him with a gathering frown. “I don’t need Kaminsky to babysit me.”

  “Oh, yes, you do,” Michael said. “Sugar Buns kicks butt and takes names. She also carries a gun.”

  That nickname for Kaminsky earned him a glinting look. Sugar Buns was demeaning and disrespectful, and she didn’t like it. He knew how she felt about it, which was probably exactly why he had used it. In fact, the quick quirk of his lips with which he responded to her look confirmed it: Michael was being deliberately annoying again.

  “Given that the perp knows who you are and is specifically reaching out to you, I feel it’s best that you have protection.” Clearly recognizing the resistance in her face, Tony smiled coaxingly at her as he spoke. She really did like the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled like that. Unlike the mocking glint in the sky blue eyes currently sliding over her face, the expression in Tony’s eyes was actually kind of sweet. “Come on, Charlie, don’t give me a hard time about this. You know as well as I do that you need protection. And I need to be able to do my job without worrying about you.”

  “So bring on Kaminsky,” Charlie capitulated with a sigh. Physically, she was starting to feel exhausted as well as sick at her stomach, and the thought of going home held increasing appeal. “She’s not going to be happy about it, though. And what about you? And Crane? Aren’t you coming? You need sleep to function, too.”

  She had already offered, and they had already agreed, that he, Kaminsky, and Crane would be spending what was left of the night at her house.

  “Crane and I will be down as soon as I’m sure everything that can be processed or preserved here is being processed or preserved,” Tony said. “I’ll crawl into bed sometime before dawn, I hope.”

  Michael folded his arms over his chest. “You get that he’s weighing his chances of topping off his night by crawling into your bed, right? And just for the record, it ain’t happening. Not while I have to stay within fifty feet of you. I’m not big on watching.”

  Charlie’s lips tightened, and she battled the urge to flip Mr. Infuriating the bird.

  “I hope so, too,” she answered Tony, and smiled at him way more flirtatiously than she would have if the ghost from hell hadn’t been watching her with hawk eyes.

  Which promptly narrowed.

  Tony, on the other hand, smiled back.

  “I’ve got your house key.” Tony patted his pocket where the key presumably was located. “So no worries. You feel up to moving yet?”

  The truthful answer was no, but Charlie nodded gamely. Tony reached out to help her up. Only when she felt the warmth of his hand closing on hers did she realize that, despite the clammy heat of the night, she was bone cold.

  Tony said, “Let’s go give Kaminsky the good news,” as he hauled her upright, th
en released her hand, only to slide his fingers supportively around her upper arm. Conscious of Michael’s gaze on her arm where Tony was holding it, Charlie straightened her spine and lifted her chin. Silent message: her real, live relationships were none of Casper’s business.

  “You know she’s not going to like it,” Charlie said to Tony. As they headed toward Kaminsky, who was directing a technician to store something in what looked like a black plastic garbage bag, what Charlie saw out of the corner of her eye made her chest tighten: Laura was back, standing beside the pit, watching as her corpse was hauled from the water.

  Crying as if her heart would break.

  “Oh, hell,” Michael said, and Charlie knew that he saw Laura, too.

  There was only one thing to do. The problem was getting the chance to do it.

  It was while Tony was briefing Kaminsky that Charlie had a chance to step a little away and whisper to Michael, “You need to go tell her to look for the light and, when she sees it, walk into it.”

  He knew that she was talking about Laura: both of them had been watching her—Charlie covertly—as the spirit had hovered over her corpse while it was examined, photographed, and then put into the body bag. Now Laura was sitting cross-legged beside the zipped blue plastic shroud, rocking back and forth as she watched the other body bag, the one holding the remains of Raylene Witt, being loaded onto a stretcher to be carried the short distance to the waiting truck.

  “What? No,” Michael said.

  “I would do it, but she can’t hear me. It would be cruel to leave her like this.”

  “It would be cruel to tell her to look for a white light when there damned well isn’t one.”

  “Just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean that there isn’t one.”