The Last Echo (8 page)

HE CREPT IN QUIETLY, MORE CAUTIOUSLY THAN
he had before. He knew he’d waited too long to return, but he’d been angry; her rejection had stung.

He desperately hoped she was ready now.

This time, when he lit the candle, he stood there longer than he needed to, watching as the flame sputtered and waved, casting luminous shadows on the wall behind it. He waited, letting the scent of the smoke reach him, settling his jangled nerves before turning to face her.

Just like before, her eyes were wide, her expression expectant. He prayed it was a good sign. A sign that she’d come around.

He smiled at her, a peace offering. It was small, bashful, childlike. He felt butterflies erupt in his stomach as he watched her. She remained still, her gaze never leaving him. He clutched the tray in nervous fingers as he stepped nearer to the bed where she lay resting.

“I’m sorry I stayed away so long,” he apologized, remorseful. “But I needed you to understand. You must follow the rules.” He said the last part firmly, hoping he didn’t sound like he was scolding her. He didn’t want to frighten her.

But this time, she nodded, and he felt confidence swell within his chest. Tears of a different sort filled his eyes and he released a grateful breath from between clenched teeth.

“Thank God,” he whispered, setting the tray on the bedside table. “I knew you’d get it. I knew I hadn’t made a mistake by choosing you.” He lifted his hand to the rag that bound her mouth. He raised his brows expectantly. “No noise, right?”

She shook her head, assuring him that he’d been right about her. That she was perfect for him.

His shoulders sagged in relief. “Good. Now, are you thirsty?” He tugged the gag away from her swollen lips. At the sight of them, his heart ached. He wanted to tend to them immediately. They were cracked and bleeding, and he needed to make them soft again, uninjured. But first she had to have water. Girls never survived long without water.

Her head bobbed eagerly, gratefully, the liquid brown of her eyes as smooth as melted chocolate. He brought the glass to her mouth, gently cradling the back of her head as he relished the feel of her silken hair beneath his hand. He watched her drink greedily, and then he drew the glass away even as she tried her best to follow it. She made a gagging sound as the rope at her neck reached its limit, choking her.

“Don’t worry,” he crooned, leaning close, whispering his gentle reassurance hotly against her cheek. “There’ll be more. And I brought you breakfast too. You can eat just as soon as we get you cleaned up.” He reached for the bowl of warm water and squeezed the excess liquid from a washrag. He smoothed it tenderly, gingerly, across her forehead, and down her cheeks to her neck. He took his time, patiently taking great care with his task. He hesitated when he reached the top of her blouse.

She squirmed, and started to moan, but clamped her lips tightly as she turned her head away from him. She didn’t protest. And she didn’t scream.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized earnestly as he unbuttoned the top buttons and slid the washcloth inside. He was nervous around her, and he reminded himself that they were still getting to know each other, that they were only
dating.

His hands shook, and he kept his gaze averted while he worked, telling himself that this was necessary. He couldn’t allow her to wallow in her own filth. He was doing her a favor.

When he finished, he released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“There,” he announced. Things were progressing well. They’d just passed another milestone. “That’s better, right?” When she didn’t respond, he lightly tugged her chin with his finger, drawing her gaze back to his. He scowled at her until the shadow of a smile touched the corner of her lips. It was tight and tentative, but it was a smile nonetheless. He was certain of that.

“Now, I bet you’re ready for some food.” He smiled back at her with no tentativeness at all. He felt elated. “And after that, a treat.” He lifted the bottle of nail polish. “How do you feel about lilac?”

“ARE YOU SURE YOU HAVE TO WORK TONIGHT?”
Violet asked, leaning through the open window of Jay’s black Acura. “Maybe you could call in sick. Just this once.”

The sounds of other students and engines starting filled the lot. The rain had lifted just before lunch, and the sun was making intermittent appearances between clouds that drifted idly across the sky, warming Violet’s back. Like the weather, her bleak mood had cleared as well.

“You know I can’t. Al’s counting on me. Besides, I need the money.” He lifted her chin with his finger, compelling her eyes to his. “I have tomorrow off, though. We can hang out then.”

Violet’s lips pulled into a demure smile. “You read my mind.”

“I’m starting to think maybe I got a little psychic thing goin’ on too.”

She crossed one foot over the other and leaned closer, so that her mouth was precariously close to his. She felt bolder now, her lips parting slowly, purposefully. “Then what am I thinking? Read my mind . . .” She let the words hang like a promise as her breath mingled with his.

Jay reached around her neck and slipped his fingers into her curls as he dragged her so close she was almost
inside
the car now.

She let go of her backpack, and it fell to the ground with a
thunk
as she balanced on her toes, leaning half-in and half-out of his window. She pressed the flat of her hand against his chest to steady herself, feeling his muscles bunch beneath her fingertips.

His breath was warm as his lips feathered over hers. Her pulse fluttered in the base of her throat. And before she knew it, they were kissing, heat uncoiling in the pit of her stomach, making her crave more. His lips and tongue moved with hers, until she felt fevered and restless.

When she pulled back and looked into his dazed eyes, she felt something stir within her, something fierce and feral. She felt like a cat toying with a mouse.

“I’ll be at work until nine, nine thirty,” he explained, his voice shaky. “Maybe you can stop by the store and visit me.” And then he grinned at her, all lopsided and boyish, and Violet realized
she
was the mouse in this scenario. Whenever he smiled at her like that she wanted to nod stupidly, agreeing to whatever he requested of her.

But this time she never had the chance, because all at once, his expression changed, a scowl shadowing his face. Violet knew something was wrong.

“What’s the matter?” she breathed.

“What the hell?” Jay muttered. “What’s he doing here?”

She followed his black gaze, craning her neck so she could see behind her.

Her breath caught when she saw Rafe standing near the edge of the school parking lot. His stance was casual as his eyes met hers, a red motorcycle helmet tucked beneath his arm.

Rafe lifted his chin, giving a cursory nod, and Violet couldn’t help wondering if it was meant for her or for Jay. She didn’t miss the smile that tugged at his lips.

Violet’s grip on Jay’s arm tightened. “I don’t know.” She wasn’t lying. Rafe hadn’t been to her school since the first time he and Sara had come there, searching out Violet in the parking lot after she’d discovered a missing boy on the waterfront.

And he fit in just as well today as he had back then, with his torn black jeans and his jet-black hair—basically, not at all.

Jay’s gaze raked quickly over Rafe, taking him in before he turned back to Violet. His jaw clenched. “Well, I guess you better find out. I doubt he came all this way to ask about the weather, Vi.” She was relieved when he didn’t sound angry; his voice was resigned, passive. But the effect was just as painful for Violet. She hated that he was uncomfortable, even if he had no reason to be jealous of Rafe.

“I swear I didn’t know he was coming. . . .”

But Jay just reached for his keys and started his engine. “I know.” He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles whiter than they should be. “I really do have to get to work.” He put his car in gear and glanced at her wistfully before pulling away, leaving Violet standing in the spot where his car had just been.

She turned then, her mouth drawing into a hard line. She was frustrated that Rafe had shown up unannounced. And with Jay for being jealous, and for making her feel guilty, like she’d done something wrong.

She was mad at herself too. For not stopping Jay so she could tell him he was being ridiculous. For not explaining that it wasn’t a competition between the two of them . . . that it would never,
ever
be a competition.

“Ever hear of a phone?” Violet stormed across the pavement, not bothering to keep her voice down. Even though the lot had mostly cleared out for the day, a few heads turned toward the commotion.

Rafe shrugged like he always did, as if he wanted everyone to know he didn’t care . . . that nothing bothered him. But Violet saw the smirk concealed just beneath the surface of his invulnerable outer shell.

“You can’t just show up whenever you want.”

Again, he shrugged. “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“You know what I mean.” Violet glared, not exactly sure where all of her anger was even coming from. But she didn’t like the way she felt inside, regret and remorse festering, and Rafe was the only one she could think to blame. If he hadn’t shown up . . .

Then Jay wouldn’t have left, not like that.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I have a life here. And Jay doesn’t like . . .” This time she was the one who shrugged, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Jay didn’t like what? He didn’t like Rafe? He didn’t like the two of them spending time together? Both, she supposed, but said neither.

“Relax, it’s not like I came to cause trouble. Here—” He held out the helmet he’d been holding, the one Violet had assumed was his. “Sara was able to get an appointment to see that kid today, the one from the jail. We’re supposed to meet her there so you can take a look at him.”

Stubbornly Violet held her ground, refusing to take the helmet and ignoring the fact that her curiosity had been piqued by the mere mention of the boy from the night before. “I didn’t get the message,” she argued.

“I tried to call, but you weren’t answering. All the calls went straight to voice mail.” He lifted his black brows curiously. “Almost like you were avoiding me.”

Her hand automatically went to her pocket, but she froze.
Oh right, my phone
. She still wasn’t used to not having it. “You’re pretty full of yourself. Actually, it had nothing to do with you. Thanks to you, I got my phone taken away.” She eyed the motorcycle behind him with the same suspicion she always did. “And you’re crazy if you think I’m riding that thing.”

His serious expression cracked, just slightly, and Violet knew he was toying with her. “C’mon, I’ll have you back before bedtime.”

He tried to hand her the helmet again, but Violet pressed her palm against the cool red fiberglass to keep it from coming any closer. “No thanks, I’ll drive myself,” she insisted, making a point of searching for her keys in her backpack so she could ignore the look of satisfaction that crept over his face.

“I’d give you directions,” he quipped. “But if I’m not mistaken, you already know the place.” He strapped the helmet he’d been saving for Violet to the back of his bike and grabbed his from where it was dangling from the handlebar. His helmet was a sleek polished black with chrome accents, nicer even than the motorcycle he rode on. Then he slipped his shoulders into a well-worn leather jacket and hopped on his bike. “Race you there!” was the last thing Violet heard before he sped away.

The closer she got to Seattle, the more Violet questioned what she was about to do. Generally speaking, she went out of her way to avoid places like prisons, juvenile detention centers, and jails. Those who killed carried imprints.

Sure, Sara had taken her to the county jail, and even to Juvenile Hall, so she could sit in on interviews. Or, more accurately, Violet had recognized early on, so Sara could have opportunities to study the way Violet’s ability worked. Violet had almost gotten used to Sara putting her in situations where there was only one answer—
echo
or
no echo
.

And she hadn’t failed a test yet. The problem wasn’t whether she could sense the echoes, it was figuring out a way to make that information helpful to the team. Tracking bodies was one thing—useful only after someone had already been killed. Violet would rather track killers. To find them
before
they could strike again.

A far more difficult task.

THE HAIR ON THE BACK OF VIOLET’S NECK TIGHTENED
, standing on end as she pulled into a tight space in the parking lot and took a deep breath. This was it, she told herself. She could do this.

She was relieved to find Rafe waiting for her in the parking lot, checking his watch as he strode assuredly toward her car. “What took you so long? Even if you went the speed limit, you should’ve been here like fifteen minutes ago.”

She raised her eyebrows, unamused. “I had to stop and call my parents. No phone, remember? I told them I had a project to finish and I’d be out late.” She grabbed her wallet before locking her car and she followed him through the parking lot.

“So you lied to them? Didn’t really figure you for a liar.”

“Funny. I didn’t lie, exactly; it’s just not a
school
project. And who wears watches anymore?” she shot back, eyeballing the thick leather studded watchband on his wrist. “Isn’t that what cell phones are for?”

“Yeah? Then what time is it, V?”

Ignoring the jab, Violet reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him before they made it to the building. Despite her bravado, her heart was hammering harder now. “Wait. What do you know about this guy? Did Sara tell you anything?”

Rafe shifted suddenly, and she realized he looked just as anxious as she felt. She wondered how she hadn’t noticed that before. Swallowing, he said, “Gangbanger. Drug dealer. Pimp. Take your pick, apparently this guy does it all. He was picked up yesterday after a domestic violence call. When the cops got there, they found his girlfriend and their two little kids dead. Slaughtered. He claims it was some kind of retaliation thing—rival gang stuff. But they think he’s lying.” His eyes dropped to his feet and his hands were clenched into fists.

Violet thought about the boy she’d seen yesterday, and her throat tightened. “How—how old is he?”

“Eighteen,” Rafe said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

She winced. That was only a year older than she was. “They were
his
kids? And they think he killed them?”

Shrugging, he kept his gaze down. “That’s what Sara said.”

Violet hadn’t seen Rafe looking this uneasy since they’d first met, and she wondered if he was worried about the same things she was.

She thought about the things Rafe had just told her, and about seeing the boy again, someone capable of harming—
killing
—his own children. She felt sick. She considered refusing, at least this time. About making up an excuse that she had too much to do: homework or chores. Something.
Anything.

But Rafe glanced up at her then, his voice barely a whisper. “Come inside, V. See if you can help nail this guy.”

Goose bumps stood up from the tips of her fingertips all the way to her toes, and Violet rubbed her arms. She stared back at him speechlessly, her brow furrowed with worry. Finally, after a long moment, she held her breath and nodded.

Rafe sighed, his stance visibly relaxing. “Let’s go. Sara’s waiting.”

She wondered what had gotten into him all of a sudden. This wasn’t the Rafe she knew, nervous and fidgety and unsure. She wondered if this case had somehow struck a nerve with him. It certainly had for her.

She had the feeling she wasn’t going to like what she found in there.

Once inside, Sara got them checked in and through security quickly. The three of them were escorted by an armed officer who chatted with Sara about the specifics of the case. Violet was grateful that the man was “clean” of imprints, since it would make it easier to discern the ones coming from the boy. It was also easier for Violet to be around him.

“James Nua. Three domestic violence calls in the past month alone. There was a restraining order in place,” Violet heard the officer telling Sara. “His record goes all the way back to when he was thirteen. Breaking and entering, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, possession, possession with intent to distribute . . .” He continued to tick off the offenses that had been leveled against James Nua, and that feeling of restlessness persisted, setting Violet’s teeth on edge.

Beside her, Rafe remained fidgety.

When they stopped, Violet glanced at the black door with a rectangular wire-enmeshed window set vertically in the top. It looked like it was made from steel, or something equally solid, but it had pit marks and scars as if its strength had been tested . . . repeatedly. Violet stood as far from the door as she could manage in the narrow hallway, her eyes avoiding the small window at the top.

He was in there. Even from out here she could sense James Nua . . . and his imprints.

“We’re going in here,” Sara indicated, pointing to a different door, and Violet followed, suddenly hoping she’d be able to tell them something useful.

“Are you ready for this?” Sara asked, turning to look over her shoulder.

Violet was about to say, “Yes,” when she realized that Sara wasn’t talking to her. It was Rafe she spoke to now. Rafe, whose silent, brooding stare fixated on the white-flecked tiles of the floor beneath him. He didn’t answer.

“Rafe?”
she repeated, and when he glanced her way, she asked again. “Are you sure you can do this?”

He lifted his shoulder, not quite a shrug, not really a response at all, and he pushed his jet-black hair out of his eyes. “Of course.”

But from where she stood, Sara didn’t hear what Violet had, the hitch in his throat. The officer opened the door, and Violet stayed back, trailing in behind Sara and Rafe, not sure
she
was ready either. She felt a chill the moment she walked through the doorway, one that had nothing at all to do with imprints.

She was about to come face-to-face with a child killer.

At the sound of the door closing, the click, Violet forced her gaze up, focusing on the window before her. She took a step closer, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t alone as she looked through the glass to the room beyond it. Even though he couldn’t see her, even though he was in an entirely different room, Violet released a grateful sigh that Nua was handcuffed to the metal table he sat in front of . . . and that the table was bolted to the floor beneath him. Even his feet had been restrained.

She concentrated on finding them, the echoes she’d felt attached to him the night before. The choral voices and the sugared apples. The tattoos were easy; she’d noticed them slithering just below the surface of his skin the moment she’d looked at him. There were others too, the ones she hadn’t been sure about the night before, that were somehow easier to pinpoint now that she wasn’t surrounded by police officers and other criminals who muddied the waters.

She smelled autumn leaves, still crisp and earthy as if they’d been raked into a multicolored pile and were waiting for a child to bound into them at any moment.

And something else. Something far less pleasant. It was the cloying stench of rotting flesh. She’d smelled that smell before . . . too many times for a girl of her age. Even though it was less intense than the scent of leaves, it was much more visceral, finding a hold in Violet’s gut and making her want to recoil. She had to remind herself it wasn’t real, that she wasn’t actually
smelling
Nua’s decaying family. It was simply an imprint.

Sara came to stand beside Violet while Rafe remained at the back of the room, staying as far from them as he could. “His twenty-four-hour hold is almost up and so far they don’t have enough to arrest him. I was hoping—” Her blue eyes held a strange mixture of optimism and regret. “I was hoping you might be able to tell us how many people he’s killed. Maybe who he’s killed. If we know what to look for we might have a better chance of finding it.”

Violet’s heart sank. She thought Sara understood . . . that she realized Violet’s ability didn’t work like that. “I can,” Violet said at last, a solution coming to her. “If you take me to the bodies.”

“How are you holding up?” Sara asked Violet as she handed each of them a bottle of water.

Violet unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow, trying to shake off the slimy feeling that still clung to her, that sensation of James Nua’s imprints that seemed to permeate her skin. She felt like she needed a shower.

“I’m fine,” Violet finally said, taking another gulp. “Really,” she promised when she saw that Sara was still examining her.

Sara slipped off her jacket and draped it over her arm. “What about you, Rafe? Was that too weird?”

They exchanged a look that Violet realized she wasn’t meant to decipher, and Violet was suddenly aware that they seemed to understand each other a little too easily. She wondered how long they’d been working together to form a bond like that.

Rafe inhaled slowly before answering. “It was weird enough. But you don’t need to worry about me.” His brows lifted. “Really, Sara, I’m fine.”

She studied him for a long moment, squinting at him with her lips pressed together, as if she didn’t quite believe him. But then she handed him something. “Here.” Rafe palmed it so quickly that Violet didn’t see what it was, only that it was small. A coin? Maybe a piece of jewelry? He tucked it into his pocket. Another secret between the two of them.

She turned to Violet again. “What about you? I know you can’t be specific, but I also know you sensed something back there. What
can
you tell me?”

Violet glanced at Rafe before answering. “He’s definitely killed before. Several times, at least five or six.”

“And you think if you can get in to see the bodies of his family, you’ll know if they were among his victims?”

Violet nodded, choosing her next words carefully. “I think so . . . yeah. The only way I can tell
who
he’s killed is by matching the imprint to the echo.” Violet waited a moment, making sure that Sara understood what she was trying to tell her. She didn’t look Rafe’s way. She didn’t want to know if he understood.

Sara gazed over Violet’s shoulder, thinking, and then she nodded. “Well, let me make a call. I’ll see if we can make a quick stop at the morgue.”

Even though her stomach knotted, Violet knew it couldn’t be avoided. If she was going to learn to help—really help—she’d have to do things like that.

Things like going to the morgue.

Sara left them standing in the hallway while she made the call, trying to get them a “viewing” right away.

When she was out of sight, Violet turned to Rafe. “What happened back there? You seemed sort of . . . I don’t know, freaked out. Are you okay?” She knew why Sara hadn’t believed him when he’d said he was fine; his face was still ashen.

Rafe just shrugged, and even though she wanted to, Violet didn’t press him. Rafe didn’t like to be pushed, and she didn’t entirely blame him. If he wanted to talk, he’d tell her.

That was when the door to the other room, the one James Nua had been in, started to open. Violet’s eyes bulged as she jumped out of the way, realizing belatedly what was happening.

James Nua was still in there.

And she was out here.

Rafe reacted before she did, and she felt her heart slam against the walls of her chest as his hand closed around hers, pulling her roughly behind him.

But it was too late. Nua was being escorted out, and he’d already seen her.

He carried himself as if it were a normal affair for him to be restrained and accompanied in that way, strolling with handcuffs and armed guards. And even when Violet saw the light of recognition flicker in his eyes, his step barely faltered.

Barely.

And then a knowing grin parted his lips while the black ink coiled and curled and crawled along his skin. “Hey, White River.” His voice sent a spiderweb of fear shooting from Violet’s core, radiating outward, firing tenuous threads that made her arms and her legs quiver. Its sticky webs reached into every crevice of her being. Somehow he not only recognized her, but he’d just mentioned the name of her school.

His smile grew exponentially, but there was something in the way he looked at her, something in his eyes as he watched her—a suspicion almost—that made Violet’s breath catch.

He was shoved from behind then, forced to keep moving. He somehow managed to maintain pace with the men who escorted him, even though his neck craned to keep Violet in his sights for as long as possible. Violet didn’t breathe again until he was no longer near her.

Until his imprints were no longer visible or audible to her.

Then she struggled to unravel the cobwebs that infiltrated her mind, making it hard for her to think . . . to find the missing puzzle piece. How did he know anything at all about her?

“Violet,” Sara said, standing at the other end of the hallway, her startled expression making it clear she’d overheard what James Nua had said to her. “What were you wearing yesterday?”

Violet frowned. What did it matter what she’d been wearing? How could her wardrobe choice possibly be relevant? “Jeans and a hoodie,” Violet answered. And then it came to her . . . painfully, brutally clear. Her throat went dry as she looked down at the simple black zip-front jacket she wore today. When she spoke again, her voice was just the ghost of a breath. “I was wearing my White River High School hoodie.”

Violet glanced up at Rafe, who was waiting for her while Sara filled out some paperwork and chatted with the medical examiner. They’d all three arrived together in Sara’s black SUV within half an hour of leaving the jail.

Now that she was here, Violet could feel her skin itching. Already—even from out here in the lobby—the echoes of the dead were calling to her . . . reaching out to her . . . drawing her to them.

She had yet to determine whether any of those echoes matched the imprints carried by James Nua.

“This is the autopsy suite,” the technician assigned to escort them explained as they stopped in front of the large window. From her side of the plate glass, Violet looked at the stainless steel tables, sinks, and cabinets. Glaring overhead lights reflected off the polished silver surfaces, and she could practically taste the metallic tang from all that steel in one place. The oversized room was empty now, but she imagined that this was where bodies were brought to be examined for signs of foul play, to be scoured for clues and evidence. Calling it a
suite
—of any kind—felt odd, considering it was cold and sterile, outfitted with scales, hoses, lights, and state-of-the-art camera equipment. It was exactly as Violet thought it would look. Only the name seemed not to fit.