The Last Echo (9 page)

Barely acknowledging Violet or Rafe, the tech focused his attention solely on Sara as he gave her “the grand tour,” leading them to where the bodies were stored. Violet was too distracted trying to extricate one echo from the next to notice the slight, and Rafe didn’t seem to care.

He had fallen quiet on the ride over, and Violet was certain it had something to do with the object in his pocket. Rafe hadn’t let it go since Sara had given it to him back at the jail.

“So, what is that?” Violet finally whispered, curiosity getting the best of her.

Rafe’s gaze met hers, his eyebrows low, scrunched together.

“That thing . . . that Sara gave you. What is it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he answered, teasing her like a little boy with a secret.

Violet hated secrets.

She wanted to pretend she didn’t care, to tell him it didn’t matter what it was. But she’d be lying. She
did
want to know . . . more than she cared to admit. “Just show me,” she demanded, trying not to appear too eager.

Rafe stopped walking, and Sara and the tech increased their distance by several steps. “You really wanna see it?”

Violet nodded, and this time she couldn’t keep the interest from her face.

“I could really torture you, you know?” He started to pull his hand from his pocket, his expression playful, and Violet caught a glimpse of something shiny—something gold. She leaned closer. And then he shoved his hand back inside again, hiding whatever it was from sight.

“Cut it out,” she complained, crossing her arms. “If you’re not gonna show me, just say so. You don’t have to be a jerk about it.” Instead of waiting for a response, Violet turned on her heel and hurried after Sara, leaving Rafe standing there.

When he reached her, he tugged at her arm. “Come on, I was just messing with you.”

But they were already there. And Violet barely heard his words as she stood rigidly outside the door that led to the storage lockers, the place where the bodies were kept.

Even from here, the echoes were strong, reverberating deeply and making her skin burn. She strained forward, not wanting to go closer but virtually unable to resist.

As the tech explained what they could expect to see, his gaze moved anxiously from Rafe to Violet . . . as if neither of them had ever seen a dead body before. He looked worried that one of them might be sick, that this was too much for kids so young. And it might have been for any other kids; maybe it was, even, for Rafe. She had no idea if he’d ever seen a body before. But it definitely wasn’t for Violet.

At last he opened the door and let them inside. The bodies were still safely entombed within the stainless steel refrigeration units, and Violet faced a wall of small, rectangular doors, three high and six wide. Eighteen spaces. Eighteen units where bodies could be held. She had no idea how many of the spaces were occupied. From inside several of them, she could already sense the murdered dead.

Unable to stop herself, Violet stepped forward, ignoring the surprised look on the tech’s face as she brushed past him, disregarding the warnings he’d given them about staying back. She tentatively pressed her hands flat against one of the closed doors. From where she stood, Violet could feel the heat trying to find its way out, as if there were a fire trapped within the steel vault. Impossible, she knew, since the unit was refrigerated, but even from out here, that door—and only that door—shimmered and rippled, the way heat did when it rose from the asphalt of a desert highway.

Heat was this person’s echo.

“That’s not the right one,” the tech explained, his voice thick with criticism.

For an endless moment there was silence, and then Violet answered, “I know. But I hope you’re looking into this person’s death too.” She stood back. She didn’t have to be told that the body of James Nua’s girlfriend wasn’t behind that particular door, or that it didn’t belong to one of his children. She knew because she’d already sensed their echoes . . . the moment she’d stepped into the room.

They were here. And Nua had killed them.

She stepped to her left and pressed her hand against another of the doors. “This is one of them,” she said as the strange choral whispers filled her ears, echoing within her own head. Then she moved again, brushing her fingertips over the silver door just to the right of it. The distinct taste of candied apples was there too. “And this one.”

And then she found the last one, that strange chill that she hadn’t been able to distinguish as real or imprint when she’d been in James’s presence. It was here too, clinging to the life he’d extinguished. She held her hand over yet another steel door and nodded, looking at Sara, and only Sara.

She had no idea who the slithering tattoos had belonged to. She had no doubt that killing came easily to a boy like James Nua.

Violet stepped back, this time reaching for Sara and finding the sleeve of her jacket. “I’m ready to go,” she said softly, reverently.

She could see Rafe too, a gold chain wrapped around his hand as his thumb feverishly stroked a simple cross. James Nua’s cross, Violet was certain of it. Sara had given Rafe one of Nua’s personal effects, hoping that he might be able to pick up on something about the young killer.

Once they were in the parking garage again, away from the cloying overload of echoes from the dead, Violet sighed, trying to find her way from beneath the suffocating burden of those who were unsettled. She climbed into the SUV and strapped her seat belt around her. She barely realized when Rafe climbed in beside her instead of sitting in the front seat with Sara. She felt robotic, like she was just going through the motions of everyday life.

At last she said the words that struggled to find their way to the surface. “I’m just so tired.” She let her head fall against Rafe’s shoulder, and his arm slipped around her. The musky scent of his skin was mingled with deodorant and leather. “I need to go home now.”

SHE WAS SLEEPING. HE FELT BAD WAKING HER
, and he hoped not to, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided. It was dark and he couldn’t bear to be alone.

Instead of the candle, he used a small penlight. The bulb was nearly microscopic and the light was dimmer than a candle’s flame, yet he found his way to her bedside without stumbling, even over his heavy clodhopper feet.

His face dropped, and his eyes moved downward as his cheeks burned with humiliation.
Clodhopper.
What a terrible word. What an awful thing to tell a child. He flashed the penlight’s glow over the top of his shoes, not wanting to look, but unable to do anything else. They weren’t so big, he thought. They weren’t awkward or unwieldy. They were just normal feet, he assured himself. Just average, ordinary feet. There was nothing special about them.

Yet, he was angry for the shame he felt . . . that he could still be embarrassed in that way, even in the privacy of his own grown-up thoughts. His mother wasn’t here, he reminded himself. She couldn’t hurt him . . . she could no longer humiliate him.

He pursed his lips, bitter now instead of afraid, and wondered if this was really the best time to see his girl again. None of this was her fault, after all, and facing her when he was in one of his moods wouldn’t do either of them any good. It never did.

But the idea of going back to bed, upstairs all by himself, made the acids in his stomach churn violently. He closed his eyes, trying to think clearly.

At last, he lifted the penlight and flicked it across the peaceful plains of her face, checking to see if she was still asleep. Her eyes were closed, her lids still, motionless. A dreamless sleep.

That’s usually how it was after they’d eaten one of his “special” meals. He felt better knowing they would sleep peacefully, that waking wasn’t an option.

He lifted a finger to his mouth to chew on the ragged edge of his fingernail, and then he remembered what a disgusting habit that was and dropped his hand away guiltily. He let the glow of the penlight move down over the blanket, finding the girl’s limp hand in the darkness, as he studied her long, lovely fingers.

He felt himself relax when he saw the color, the shimmering lilac he’d painted on her fingernails.

She had beautiful hands. Clean and pretty and soft.

He wanted to be near her. He didn’t want to be alone, not tonight.

He crept closer, hesitating as he reached the side of her bed, and he listened to the long, stretched out sounds of her sleep. Such a peaceful sound. Such a soothing sound.

The bedsprings creaked as the weight of the bed shifted. There was plenty of room for him, and he slid beneath the covers easily. He curled himself around her, finding her warmth and letting it surround him, lull him. Yet she never flinched, never moved.

She was ready for him, waiting for him.

VIOLET STARED OUT HER BEDROOM WINDOW AT
a black sky punctuated by a million effervescent white lights. She was trying to decide if it was too late to go to sleep or too early to be up. From where she stood, looking out, everything was so peaceful. Calm. Yet inside of her, a war waged, and sleep was overruled by torment.

She listened to the darkness, to the nighttime sounds that surrounded her: the furnace blowing air through the vents, the occasional creak of her house, a dog barking in the distance . . . too far away to be bothersome to anyone but those who were already awake. She knew it wasn’t any of those things that troubled her. She knew it was James Nua’s family—his girlfriend and their children, lying dead in the morgue, miles away—who kept her awake.

She’d tried to slow her breathing, to concentrate on finding that
inner calm
Dr. Lee had taught her to draw upon. But tonight, for some reason, inner calm was hard to come by, and Violet found herself struggling with the weight of the echoes cloaking her in a mantle of sorrow and despair. She hoped the bodies would be buried soon, hoped they would find peace at last.

Frustrated, Violet sighed and shoved away from the windowsill. She felt sluggish, as though she were wading through gelatin, gummy and sticky, while it sucked at her, dragging her down. Every movement felt slow and strained.

She wandered to her chest of drawers and pulled the top one open, peeling back a layer of clothing she’d used to conceal the pill bottle Dr. Lee had given her. She picked it up and jiggled it, letting the white capsules rattle together, like tiny graveyard bones picked bare.

Violet smiled; death was definitely on her mind tonight.

Everything would be so much easier if she’d just take one of the chalky pills. Maybe she’d sleep then. Maybe she’d feel some peace at last, even if it was only temporary.

The idea had definite merit.

But she sighed once more as she closed her eyes and let the bottle fall from her fingers. She just couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bring herself to even open the stupid bottle.

Yet here she was, sapped, a bone-deep kind of exhaustion that made her legs feel like rubber as she listlessly closed the drawer again.

She blinked, her eyes feeling gritty, abraded by her own eyelids as she shuffled back to her bed. She would keep trying. She refused to let the echoes consume her.

She collapsed heavily onto her bed and punched her pillow before rolling over. When the phone on her nightstand rang, she was reaching for it, checking the caller ID, and pressing Talk before the first ring had ended. It was one thing to have the home phone in her bedroom, a poor substitute for the cell phone that had been taken away from her; it was another to have it wake her parents in the middle of the night.

Violet glanced at the clock on her nightstand. 1:57. “What are you doing, calling so late?” She glared into the darkness, hating how easily her curiosity was pricked.

Rafe’s voice was low and gravelly on the other end. “How come you can’t just say hello? You give off kind of a hostile vibe, you know that?”

She curled her hand around her mouth, not wanting to wake her parents as she whispered frustratedly. “I wouldn’t if you’d call at a decent hour. You could have woken me.”

“Could have?”
She could practically see the smug look on his face as he pointed out her poor word choice.

“Well . . . you know . . . I was just . . .” She faltered, and then shrugged as she gave up, sitting up and crossing her legs in front of her. She balanced her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her palm. “I was having a hard time sleeping, that’s all. But you didn’t know that. I should have been asleep.”

The silence dragged between them as Violet leaned forward, waiting for him to get to the point. And when he did, his tone was somber. “Another girl’s been taken, V.” He paused, and his voice grew thick. “Sara thinks it was the collector.”

Violet’s head cleared instantaneously, her mind reeling with a hundred unanswered questions. “When? How? What makes her think it was him—”

Rafe seemed to know what she was going to ask even before she’d finished asking. “Nothing in particular. The girl was reported missing by her roommate, said she didn’t come home after work.”

“And that was strange?”

“Cops didn’t think so. They assumed she went out with friends. Figured she was a big girl and didn’t need to check in with her roommate. No one took it seriously at first.”

“So why does Sara—”

“Krystal,” Rafe stated flatly, cutting Violet off again.

Violet thought about that, and wondered what Krystal had told Sara exactly. “She knew?” was all she asked.

Rafe didn’t answer the question directly. “Sara made a call and told the detectives what she suspected. She talked them into checking out the lead, and apparently, when they went to the girl’s house, they found what Krystal said would be there. He’d dropped something . . . it was under her bed.”

Violet’s eyes widened, her heart pounding. “What was it?”

“It was a piece of jewelry. A ring. It was Antonia Cornett’s. It was reported missing from her belongings.”

Violet gasped, covering her mouth, not wanting to wake her parents. “Did Krystal say how she knew it would be there?”

There was another pause, and then Rafe answered her. “A girl spoke to her in her sleep. She thinks it might have been Antonia, but since it was just a voice, she can’t be sure.”

Violet’s blood turned to ice at the mention of the girl’s name, a ghost now, and she reached for her blanket, pulling it up to her chin. “She . . . she spoke to Krystal?” But Violet already knew the answer. Isn’t that what Krystal said, that the dead talked to her? “What’s her name, the missing girl? Do you know who she is?”

“Her name is Casey Atkins. She goes to the university, just like Antonia did.”

Violet felt sick. She wondered if there were any other connections between the two girls, other than the school they attended. She thought about this new girl, Casey, and tried to imagine what she was like, tried
not
to think about what she might be going through right now.

She hoped they could find her before it was too late.

“What about you?” he asked. “It was a rough day. How are you holding up?” Violet didn’t want to talk about what had happened at the morgue, but it didn’t matter—Rafe wasn’t really asking after her feelings to be nice. “Can you come to the Center in the morning? Sara’s trying to get some of Casey’s things.” He was asking if she could still work.

Violet shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not yet.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to stave off the fogginess that threatened to steal over her once more. “Besides, there’s not much I can do anyway,” she added, as if that was the only thing keeping her away, her inability to do what the others could.

Rafe went silent again, longer than necessary, and Violet wondered if there was something else, something he wasn’t saying. But then he just softly added, “If you change your mind—”

“I won’t,” she stated resolutely. She didn’t want to know any more, not about Antonia Cornett and not about Casey Atkins. Not now. Not while she was feeling like this.

“Fine,” Rafe said. “Good night, V. Sleep tight.”

Violet hung up, ignoring the odd sensation that penetrated the leaden veil surrounding her.
Sleep tight?
she thought, wishing she had the strength to smile.
Who says that anyway?

And what was that other thing? The barely concealed tenor she’d heard in his voice. Something like affection? Maybe tenderness?

Was Rafe going soft on her?

She shook it off, certain she’d only imagined the tone in his voice. She was disoriented, she reminded herself, as her thoughts once again drifted unwittingly to Casey Atkins.

Rubbing her temples, she wondered how on earth she was ever going to get any sleep now, with the fate of a missing girl weighing on her conscience.

After a few minutes, Violet got up and paced across the room once more. The pills were still there, lying on top of a pile of rumpled T-shirts in the top drawer, and she plucked them out, slipping the cap off without a second thought.

They were easier to swallow than she’d imagined they’d be, and for several long minutes as she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling she thought nothing was happening, that the pills weren’t working. And then her eyelids fluttered, growing heavier and heavier. Until, at last, she could no longer hold them open.

And a dark, dreamless sleep claimed her.

At some point, during the early hours of the morning, the dreams found their way in. They were dark dreams, treacherous, submerging Violet in their murky depths until she was incapable of finding her way to the surface. At first the images were harmless, like some sort of crazy kaleidoscope, drifting in and out of focus, colliding and splintering and reforming again. Happy childhood memories, mostly. Flashes of Jay and her friends. Summer days spent climbing trees and playing flashlight tag. Slumber parties, camping, picnics, cherry Slurpees, and school carnivals. Just quick snapshots that meant nothing at all when pieced together.

And then the images became more gruesome. Glimpses of dead squirrels and possums. A cat with empty sockets where its eyes had once been, now gouged out. And the face of the first dead person she’d ever seen—a girl whose eyes had been wide and pleading. Although what Violet most remembered was the girl’s echo, the haunting voice that had called her away from her father’s side as they’d walked through the woods behind their home.

But it was the last fragments of the dream, images that made her feel as if she were drowning, reminding Violet that her ability was nothing less than a curse, where she saw the faces of killers. The two men who’d hunted in her hometown just months before, killing violently, brutally. Mike and Megan’s father, a man who’d murdered his wife years earlier, and then killed himself in a final act of desperation. And her uncle, someone she loved almost as much as her own father, whose imprint had been earned simply by saving the life of his own niece from the hands of a serial killer. She saw too the sadistic James Nua, who’d ended the lives of his very own children.

Finally, the last man she saw didn’t have a face in her dream; she simply knew him as
the collector
—but he was there too, a dark, featureless mass, coming closer and closer to where Violet flailed, struggling to remain afloat and desperate to find her way to the surface and break free from the waters that threatened to drown her.

She gasped at the same time she jolted upright, her body gripped in the spasm of an unvoiced scream. As if deprived for too long, oxygen savaged her lungs as she gulped mouthfuls of air, waiting until enough time passed that, at last, her breathing finally found a rhythm that felt steady and calm.

And the tormenting visions faded, becoming nothing more than a memory. Enough was enough, Violet thought. She had to take control. She needed to go to the Center after all.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Violet asked once more before reaching for the door’s handle.

Jay scowled, but not at Violet. He was gazing uncertainly at the neglected façade of the warehouse they were parked in front of. “Are
you
sure this is the right place?” It was impossible
not
to notice the grime and the desolation in this part of town. “
This
is where all the magic happens?” He chuckled, but Violet could hear the concern and couldn’t help wondering at his use of the word
magic
. She was suddenly nervous about him being there, about having him so close to her team.

“But you understand why you can’t go inside, right?” She shifted in her seat, blocking his view of the building and forcing him to look at her instead.

Jay grinned, the corner of his lip riding up just a bit. “I know you have work to do, and that it’s top secret or something. That you’re some sort of super spy, right?” She didn’t stop him when he closed the gap between them, his lips finding hers in a deep—and territorial—kiss. She couldn’t help wondering who he thought might be watching.

She’d called Jay first thing in the morning, to ask if he could drive her to the Center before school. She hated that he had to wait outside, but she didn’t trust herself to drive this morning. Not after the pills . . . and the nightmare.

Besides, she was still feeling foggy from the pills Dr. Lee had given her, and she’d been worried about driving herself.

Inside the warehouse, Rafe was already in the hallway and Violet wondered if Jay hadn’t been right to think they might be being watched. She eyed Rafe curiously but he was already leading the way. “We don’t have much, but Sara wanted to fill us in on all the latest.” Violet followed him, feeling strange about leaving Jay outside.

In the Center, Sara had started the debriefing, and Violet and Rafe slipped silently into the gathering.

“—I was able to get photos of the first two victims, and a little more information about them. The first of the girls was from Ballard and had been doing an internship at a local advertising agency. She was twenty-three. The second was a twenty-one-year-old preschool teacher from the Green Lake neighborhood. Not much to link them—either to each other or to the two college students—except for their looks.” She passed the photos to Violet, and there was no denying that the resemblance was striking. Both girls looked like Antonia Cornett. “I’m still working on getting the file for the missing girl, Casey Atkins, and some items from her home, including the ring they found.” She smiled at Krystal when she mentioned the ring they’d discovered in Casey’s home. “I do have some things from the other girls, though, if you don’t mind taking a look at them.”

Everyone started to jump up, but Sara stopped them. “Oh, and guys. Just so you know, the police suspect that he’s the one who’s been calling in the girls’ locations.”