A Breath Away (8 page)

But another scream rent the air, and he took off running.

* * *

H
E HAD TO MAKE SURE
Violet Baker left town.

Walt Monroe tapped the end of his pipe, lit the imported tobacco and took a long draw, savoring the rich taste along with the first sip of his afternoon bourbon. The girl had always been trouble. Putting crazy notions in his daughter's young mind, enticing her to the other side of the tracks to carouse with the white trash.

Darlene should have been going to ballet class, preparing for the Sweet Gum Pageant, being primed for the cotillion. He'd known he had to put a stop to her relationship with the spooky little child before Darlene's teens or his daughter would be lost to him forever.

Bitterness blistered his insides along with the smoke and liquor. He had lost her, anyway. And it was half that Baker girl's fault. Hers and her goddamn mother's and father's.

He ran his fingers over the knotty pine branch he'd picked earlier, then angled his knife and began to carve away the rough edges. Even strokes. Rhythmic. Soothing strokes that would turn the raw wood into anything he wanted. Another lamb, maybe.

Thank God Jed was gone. Walt had worried too
many years that the old coot might blow a gasket and spill the truth about what had happened twenty years ago. And that would be deadly.

Enough people's lives had been destroyed. His had changed forever.

But none of it would bring back his baby girl. And he didn't want the Baker bitch around to dredge up old questions. Questions that he'd barely guessed the answers to.

Questions best left unanswered, or they all might end up dead.

* * *

G
RADY'S HEART POUNDED
as he raced over the graves and brittle grass toward the woods beyond the cemetery. That scream sounded like Violet. If something happened to her…

Thick maples, pines and dogwoods encircled the property, shadows clinging to the mossy trunks. He hesitated, listening for another scream as he drew his gun. Which way should he go?

Suddenly Violet came running through the dense brush, her hair tangled and wild around her pale face. He grabbed her, but she screamed again, then flailed her arms at him.

“Violet, stop it!” He shook her, forcing her chin up so she could see into his eyes. “Look, it's me, Grady.”

She froze, the pupils of her eyes so dilated he could see his reflection in them.

He stroked her arms, wanting to comfort her. “What's wrong? Who's after you?”

Her chin quivered. She dug her nails into his arms and sagged against him. “You have to save her, Grady. He's going to kill her.”

His breath caught as he tucked her close to him. “Who? Someone in the woods?”

A sob rattled out. “No…I don't know.” Her voice broke. “But he has her. He's taking off her clothes, touching her. He's going to kill her tonight.”

Grady's hand tightened around the cold metal of the gun, and he turned toward the woods, ready to run. “Go to the car. I'll find him.”

She clawed at his arm. “No, don't leave.”

“I'll be back, Violet, but I have to search the woods. Run to the car and lock the door.”

“No, you don't understand,” she screeched. “He's not there, but he has her. He's going to kill her tonight!” She looked wild-eyed and crazy, the panic in her voice nearing hysteria.

“Violet, I don't understand.” He gestured toward the thicket of trees. “Was someone after you? Joseph Longhorse? Was he in the woods?”

“Joseph was here?”

“Yes, at least I thought I saw him. Was he chasing you?”

“No,” she cried. “I mean, I didn't see Joseph. But a man has her.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“I don't know her name, but she's a student. He left her alone for a while, but he's going back.” She gripped his arm tighter, but he felt the trembling in her limbs. God help him, he wanted to protect her.

“Grady, you have to find him before he takes her blood. Then he's going to kill her, just like the last time.”

“What do you mean, the last time?”

She gave him a beseeching look that tore at his soul.

“Just like the woman in Savannah.”

V
IOLET DIDN'T WANT TO SEE
these awful things, didn't want to feel these women's fears and pain.

It's the evil within you.

Was her father right? Did she have a connection to these murders because she carried the devil inside her?

“Violet, what do you know about the woman in Savannah?” The cold, harsh tone of Grady's voice snapped Violet back to reality.

She blinked him into focus, then read the questions in his eyes. He thought she was crazy. Either that or that she might be involved, just as he'd suspected she'd known that her father had killed Darlene.

“I asked you about the murder in Savannah. Did you know the woman who was killed?”

“No…I mean yes, I'd met her…in my shop. But I didn't really know her.” Her voice faded. She felt so drained, as if all the energy had been zapped from her.

His cutting gaze pierced her to the bone. “Do you know who killed her?”

She shook her head, emotions gathering in her throat. “I…I saw her, though. I heard her crying for help.”

His expression became skeptical. “You mean you witnessed the murder?”

“No.” How could she make him understand when she
didn't understand herself? Not why she'd connected to Darlene or these two women, when she hadn't connected to her father. She couldn't read Grady's thoughts, either, except to know that he must suspect that the rumors about her being unstable were true.

Tension stretched between them. The cloying heat was suddenly suffocating. The woman was cold, though, so cold and numb with fear she'd lapsed into a comatose state somewhere between reality and sleep.

Violet needed to rest, too. Her legs buckled beneath her, but she caught herself, hating to show weakness.

“Violet, if you know something about that murder, you have to go to the police.”

“Why? So they can look at me like I'm crazy, just as you're doing?” She pulled away and stumbled forward, intending to leave, but he grabbed her arm.

“The police can provide protection.”

He sounded almost worried. But no man had ever cared for her, and Violet couldn't believe that Grady did now. Not after her father's confession, and his own father's attitude.

“That's just it—I don't really know anything. Besides, they wouldn't believe me any more than you do.” She scrubbed a hand over her face as helplessness washed over her.

“Tell me the truth,” he said in a gruff voice. “I'll believe it.”

Why did she feel as if he were talking about her father, not the Savannah woman?

“I did. Another woman is in danger,” she said softly. “I don't even know her name.”

“You don't know where he's taken her?” His voice
was hard again, his eyes slices of black granite in his chiseled face.

“No.”

“But you supposedly told your father where to find Darlene.”

Again, it was back to his sister. The chasm of darkness that had opened between Violet and the rest of the world so long ago would never close. It had obviously affected Grady the same way, had shaped him into a different man than the kind young boy he'd been.

“Yes, I told my father where to find Darlene,” she said in a pained whisper. “But it was too late.”

Contempt mingled with disbelief in his eyes, robbing her of a reply. So she turned and ran, her legs wobbling as she picked her way across the graveyard.

She would visit Darlene's grave later, when she could be alone. Grady was no longer the big brother of her best friend. He was a hard-hearted sheriff. A man ready to hang her and her father for his sister's death.

She'd have to find out the truth on her own.

* * *

J
OSEPH
L
ONGHORSE WATCHED
from the shadows of the elm tree, his anger growing like the kudzu that tangled around his
etsi
's sunflowers, choking the life from them. He did not want Grady Monroe to have Violet.

Monroe was his enemy.

And Violet was his friend. Or she had been once, before her father had sent her away. Though different cultures separated them from birth, a deep connection ran between them, like the river joining the jagged rocks of the two mountain ridges at Black Mountain Peak. Violet was like a wildflower, a patch of color brightening the desolate parched ground that had been his childhood.

Thankfully, she had run from Monroe. Not like Kerry, who was running after him.

Joseph's gaze followed her as she crossed the graveyard, her chestnut hair dancing in the wind like the mane of a wild mare who'd been tethered all her life. His body stirred, a primitive arousal rising within him that he'd never anticipated feeling for his childhood friend.

She was no longer a child.

He pictured her in that old raggedy, tattered dress that had been two sizes too big, hanging on her frail body when she'd slunk up to his mama's fire. Until her grandmother had moved in, Violet had gone for days without a good meal. She'd stand at the edge of the forest near their camp, those big eyes peering through the darkness, watching their rituals. He'd caught her looking, heard her stomach growling. And he had taken her hand and brought her into their circle. Somehow he'd known it was right. His
etsi
always roasted enough ears of sweet corn and fried enough cornbread cakes to go around. And later, as they'd gathered in the firelight, she'd told the stories of their people.

He and Violet had forged a silent bond back then. They were both outcasts, shunned by the rich and powerful members of the community.

But his mama had dreamed of a better life for him, had insisted he get a white man's education. She'd forced him to attend the classes at the schoolhouse, though he'd begged to stay on the reservation and live off the land. The mountains, the wild animals, the customs of his ancient forefathers lay deep in his soul and blood.

Bitter childhood memories flooded him. Of the kids
taunting his size, his native ways, his skin color, his customs, his mama. They hadn't completely singled him out. They'd made fun of Violet's shabby outhouse, her bare feet and thrift-store clothes, her daddy's drinking. And some had been so cruel they'd tossed out ugly names. The one time he'd defended her, five bullies had ganged up on him and beaten him to a bloody pulp. Grady Monroe had stepped in to save him.

He hadn't wanted Grady Monroe's help. In fact, he'd despised it.

It had only been a reminder of the power the wealthy had, and how little Joseph himself possessed. He did not want to be indebted to anyone, especially a Monroe.

His mother had preached to him not to blame Grady or the other kids in town. Even when some of the old biddies had refused to eat at her café, she had not hated. She'd tried to teach him forgiveness, had even claimed a deep sadness for those who were close-minded.

So he had hated them for her. The Monroes, Mayor Tate, even Doc Farmer. And though the wilderness called him, he had stayed around to protect her.

But he'd sworn that one day the town would pay.

His muscles tight with restrained anger, he raced across the woods and into the mountains.

The comforting balm of nature and his tribal rituals beckoned. He could already smell the blood and feel the excitement of the hunt….

* * *

G
RADY TOLD HIMSELF
to let Violet go. It was better to not get involved with her. She might be beautiful and troubled, but she was the daughter of the man who'd murdered his sister. And she sounded half-crazy.

Or was she?

A headache gnawed at him as he stopped by Darlene's gravesite, knelt and straightened the flowers that had bent in the wind. The marbles were still there, just as he'd placed them. Except for the blue one. Strange. Had it been blown away? Had someone taken it?

“I'm going to find out who did this to you, Darlene, I promise. I won't stop until I do.”

Although God knew he hadn't been to church in years, so he had no idea if the man upstairs would listen, he offered a silent prayer before he headed to his car. Then he swung back by his place, picked up the files and drove to his office.

His deputy glanced up from the desk when Grady entered, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. The blinds were closed too. For some reason, his deputy liked the darkness.

“Any calls come in?” Grady asked.

Logan shook his head. “A lady named Samson—her cat ran up a tree. Volunteer fire department went out and rescued it.”

Grady nodded. “Coroner's report come in on Baker?”

“Not yet.”

“Hear anything on that Savannah case? Any more missing women?”

Logan leaned back, crossed his booted feet on top of the desk. “You think there'll be more?”

Grady shrugged. “Just wondering. The ritualistic aspect suggests it might be a serial killer.”

“True,” Logan said. “Didn't that Baker chick come from Savannah?”

Grady nodded, checking through the messages on his desk. “I believe so.”

“Does she know something about the murder?”

Not wanting to incite any more questions, he shook his head. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“Seems like danger's following her.”

Grady jerked his gaze toward Logan. His voice had a cynical note, almost as if he knew something he wasn't telling.

Then again, maybe Grady was making too much out of his comment. Looking for suspicion in every corner. He spun around and strode out the door. Hell, he had enough on his hands making sure Baker's confession was real, and chasing down his daddy.

He didn't need Violet Baker's weird rantings. He might be drawn to her, but she was here to clear her father and prove he hadn't killed himself. If Baker hadn't committed suicide, it meant he had been murdered.

Then the finger would be pointed at Grady's father….

* * *

A
S SOON AS
V
IOLET
arrived at her father's house, she locked herself inside and called to check on her grandmother. The nurse assured her Grammy was fine. Unfortunately, she still hadn't regained her speech. Her recovery would take time.

Exhausted, Violet stretched out on her childhood bed. The weight of knowing another woman would die tonight taxed every nerve in her body. But what could she do?

Lie here and wait for another vision? Hope that the woman revealed some detail to help Violet find her?

Why all this now, when she was supposed to be clearing her father's name?

She closed her eyes and tried to control her fear, but the woman's cry echoed in the back of her mind. She was so still now, so cold and alone. Just as Darlene had been.

Violet's body trembled. She had let Darlene and Amber Collins down. She had no idea how she could save this woman, either….

Unable to sleep, Violet got up, cleaned the kitchen, but she was still restless. Her art had always been therapeutic, so she took out her sketch pad. The images she drew weren't pleasant, but they had filled her head…and she had an incessant urge to put them on paper.

When she added the outline of the bone whistle, its eerie sound invaded her peace again, and she shoved the pad away. There was nothing in the drawing that could help the police. No details about the killer's appearance or where he was holding the woman.

Just as there hadn't been anything concrete in her visions twenty years ago.

Frustrated, she decided to focus on her father. Grady and that deputy had searched the house, but maybe she would see something they'd missed.

She headed to the den first. At first glance, her hopes disintegrated. Not much inside the room but dusty, worn furniture. She looked through the kitchen cabinets and drawers, the wooden table where the phone sat, hoping to find a note or letter—anything that might offer information about her father.

Next, she rifled through a stack of auto mechanic magazines on the wobbly coffee table, then leafed through the mail topping the knotty pine desk in the corner. Overdue electric bill, overdue phone bill, overdue water bill…How long had it been since her father had worked?

Finally, she opened a drawer and spotted a photo album. She frowned, wondering if it was something her mother had started when she'd been alive, then lifted it and opened the cover. Surprise rippled through
her. The album contained photos of her growing up, mostly candid shots that her father would have no way of having unless her grandmother had been keeping in touch with him all along.

Violet flipped the pages, recalling the events—her middle school graduation, then high school. Several snapshots of her walking on the beach in Charleston, where she'd taken classes. Each time, she'd thought of her father, wished he had cared enough to be there.

Each time she'd been disappointed.

Had he followed her growth through pictures her grandmother mailed him? And if Grammy had been sending him photos all along, why had she never mentioned it? Had her father wanted the pictures, or had her grandmother been trying to solicit his interest?

A horn blasted outside, then another and another. Violet ran to the window and looked out, shocked to see three cars barrel by, teenagers hanging out the windows.

“Get out of town!”

“Child murderer!”

“Crazy lady!”

Eggs and tomatoes flew toward the house, splattering the mailbox and windows. A rock crashed through a windowpane, sending shards of broken glass raining over the floor. Violet jumped back and brushed the slivers from her hair and blouse. Hateful childhood memories resurfaced. She hadn't backed down when she was five and the bullies in town had teased her. And she didn't plan to leave now.

No matter what they did to her.

* * *

“I
DON'T CARE WHAT
happens, what they do to you.” Walt Monroe stabbed a chubby finger at Doc Farmer.
“Even if they threaten to take away your license or lock you up, keep your goddamn mouth shut.”