Heart of the Witch (11 page)

He thought he'd feel relief, but when he hung up all he felt was shame. Dog came over and lay on the floor beside his chair. Nick reached down and rubbed the animal's head, scratching the dog behind the ears the way he liked. At least he could make someone happy. Even if it was just a mutt.

"You need a treat, boy?"

Dog whimpered and wagged his tail.

"Yeah, me too," Nick said.

He went to the kitchen and came back with a couple of jerky treats. Dog wolfed them down while Nick twisted the cap off some Jack Daniel's. He'd decided to splurge on the good stuff tonight. After all, it wasn't every day he threw away his only source of income.

He flipped the television on. ESPN was showing highlights of Ken Griffey, Jr.'s return to the Seattle Mariners this past baseball season. Nick splashed more whiskey from the half-empty bottle into the glass and squinted at the television screen.

Junior swung the bat. He made contact, the crack like the shot of a pistol. Nick tipped the whiskey bottle directly to his mouth this time, not bothering with a glass. It wasn't as if he was sharing with anyone. He closed his eyes and savored the feel and taste of the liquor.

There was another crack, then another; in rapid succession they came, over and over. Why did Griffey keep swinging, when the ball was already sailing over the wall… ?

Something wet on Nick's hand made him jump. He opened his eyes. Morning sun streamed through the windows. Dog stood at the foot of the recliner, staring at him and wagging his tail. Nick looked at the television. The ESPN baseball show was over. A fishing program was on. The cracking sound still rang in Nick's ears, except it wasn't a bat. It was the front door. Someone wanted in, badly.

Nick set the bottle upright, mourning for a moment the loss of the Jack Daniel's that had spilled over his hand when he'd fallen asleep. He rose from the recliner and unsteadily made his way to the door. Phil Bodinsky stood there, his face scrunched up and dark like a thundercloud.

"I called in for my messages and heard yours. What the hell?" Phil pushed past without waiting for an invitation, and turned to confront Nick as Nick closed the door.

Nick scrubbed a hand over his whiskers, trying to erase the throbbing in the back of his head. He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. God, he needed coffee. And a smoke. "How did you find out where I live?"

"I guess I'm a better detective than you are."

Nick let the shot roll off him. He'd heard worse. "Yeah, you are," he agreed. "So why the fuck are you here? You know as well as I do you're wasting your money."

Phil began to pace, and Nick looked away. His stomach was queasy enough without adding motion sickness.

"Speaking of money." Phil slammed a fist into his palm to emphasize his point. "I paid you well to do this job, and now you're pulling out on me?"

"I'll be right back." Nick turned to go into the kitchen. "Want some coffee?" he yelled over his shoulder into the living room. But Phil had followed, and stared as Nick fiddled with the coffeepot.

"What I want is some answers."

Nick filled the pot with water and measured four scoops into the filter, then leaned his palms on the countertop while he waited for the coffee to brew. He needed a jolt of caffeine, and he needed a big one. "I told you I'd give you a refund."

"I don't want a goddamned refund. I want this bastard stopped."

"If the police can't do it, why the hell do you think I can?" The smell of coffee filled the kitchen, making Nick feel marginally better. He took a mug from the dishwasher and before the pot finished brewing, filled his cup. Coffee dripped onto the burner, sizzling briefly before Nick returned the carafe. He rested one hip on the counter and gulped the hot liquid.

Phil began to pace. "The cops have hundreds of cases. This one's just a number to them," he ranted. "You have more time. Joe said you were good, a bulldog. Besides, of all people, I thought you'd understand."

"Why me?" Nick picked up a bottle of aspirin from the counter and shook out three, swallowing them with his coffee.

For the first time since he arrived, Phil's voice was quiet, almost sounding sympathetic. "Joe told me about your wife. You know how it feels to lose someone you love."

Reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, Phil pulled out a manila envelope. He withdrew a small stack of photos and shoved them under Nick's nose. The top picture was of a blonde woman. She sat on a porch swing, laughing. Her hair blew across her face, obscuring most of her features, but the joy in her eyes was evident.

"That's my wife Lindsey before that motherfucker took her from me. She was the sweetest, most beautiful woman in the world. We were going to have children. We were going to grow old together. Now I'll grow old alone." Phil's eyes misted, and he glared at Nick. "What would you do if your wife was brutally murdered? What would you do if the light of your world wound up looking like this?"

Phil slid the first photo away, revealing the one underneath. The same woman was there, except now she wasn't laughing. She was bloody and mutilated. She was naked and exposed, her pale flesh covered in burns and stab wounds.

Whiskey and coffee churned in Nick's stomach, threatening to make a dash for the floor. "Where the fuck did you get a crime-scene photo?" he asked. His voice was as shaky as Phil's hand holding the picture.

"Doesn't matter." Tears fell shamelessly down Phil's cheeks. "All that matters is that you stop him before he does this to another woman."

Nick stared at the photo, unable to take his eyes away. He didn't know if he could stop the sonofabitch. But he knew he couldn't say no to Phil. He knew that no matter what, this case was his. He had failed at too many things in his life and lost everything that mattered. If he ever wanted to look at himself in the mirror again, he had to do this and had to do it right.

He sighed and nodded slowly. Phil had accomplished his goal: Nick wouldn't stop until he or the Tin Man was finished.

"You ever think about popcorn and coffee?"

Nick looked at his tenant, Marvin the accountant, and wondered not for the first time what the hell the guy was talking about. "What
about
popcorn and coffee?" he asked, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Why do they both smell better than they taste?" Marvin grimaced as he took a sip from the mug.

"If you don't like coffee, then why are you drinking mine?"

Normally, Marvin's visits were only a mild annoyance. Today Nick had to restrain himself from pulling out his Beretta and pistol-whipping the guy's skinny ass. Nick had just been heading out to see the Skyler woman when Marvin popped in. He could have told him he was leaving and to just come back later, but he'd actually been relieved at the delay. Now he was beginning to rethink that.

Marvin shrugged. "I don't know, something to do?"

"
You
may not have anything to do, but I was just leaving," Nick pointed out.

The accountant's eyes widened, and his eyebrows disappeared into his bushy hair. "A case? The Tin Man, or a different one?"

"How the hell do you know about my Tin Man case?" Nick hadn't meant it to come out so sharply, but he was one wrongly chosen comment away from a psychotic episode.

Marvin's look of excitement changed to one of hurt. "I hear things." He shrugged. "What, was it a big secret or something?"

Nick lit a cigarette. Marvin hated smoke. Nick hoped he'd hate it enough to get the hell out.

It didn't work.

"You know, I could help you." He sat forward in his chair, his pale brown eyes snapping with eagerness. "I could, like, go in and ask somebody questions or something. Nobody would ever guess I was a private eye by looking at me."

Marvin wore his usual worn-out Nikes and a cheap gray sports coat over a ratty Def Leppard T-shirt. Nick wanted to tell him that no one would even guess he was
employed
, but he'd hurt the guy's feelings enough for one day. "If I come up with anything I need your help with, I'll give you a yell."

Marvin's grin spread across his face, dimpling one pasty cheek and then the other. "Promise?" Apparently he hadn't heard the emphasis on
if
.

"Yeah, I promise."

"Thanks, man. I'll be right down the hall." Then Marvin left, waving smoke out of his face.

Nothing was left to keep Nick from leaving, too. Nothing except the dread of seeing
her
again. Ravyn Skyler. Even worse than the dread was the anticipation. That was what really had him worried.

The candle store smelled even better than it had the first time Nick was there. Before, the air had been heavy with some kind of berry scent. Today it smelled like cinnamon.

The blonde, who he'd learned was Ravyn's sister, Sorina, greeted him when he entered. "Hello, sir. What can I do for you?"

He couldn't stop his gaze from wandering around the store. No sign of the sister, Ravyn. "I was in here last week. The other woman told me she could make an eighteen-ounce candle for me."

"Okay. Let's go over here and check. What scent?" asked the blonde.

Damn it, he needed to see the sister. Where the hell was she? "I don't… uh… let's see…" He pretended to think. He hadn't really forgotten. How the hell could he forget that he'd asked for Lavender Dream?

A movement from the corner of his eye made him turn. There she was—Ravyn Skyler. She wore a black T-shirt underneath a long-sleeved red blouse, which was buttoned halfway up, and black jeans. Her hair flowed loose around her shoulders. Damn. She was even more beautiful than he remembered.

"Ravyn, did you make an eighteen-ounce candle for this gentleman? He was in here last week and we didn't have that size. He can't recall the scent."

"Lavender Dream." Ravyn's reply was clipped. Not friendly. But all Nick could think was,
She remembers me
! "Yes. We have them."

Sorina Skyler walked over to the shelf of candles and reached up and chose one. "Here you go," she said.

What now? Nick had his damn candle; he'd lost his pretense. He needed to talk to Ravyn but didn't want to jump right into an interrogation. He didn't want her to know he was a PI. She'd been less than cooperative with the police so far, and he had no reason to believe she'd be any different with him.

"Excuse me," he said as Ravyn turned back toward the curtains through which she'd appeared. She stopped with her back to him, and he saw her shoulders stiffen.

After a moment, she faced him. She clasped her hands in front of her, rubbing the inside of her right palm with her left thumb. She looked at him for a long time. He shifted from one foot to the other, his hands slick on the glass jar he held to his chest.

"Yes?" Her eyes told him he was a nuisance, and that she was barely holding on to civility.

"You two own the store, right?" His gaze moved from one sister to the other.

"Yes, we do," Sorina answered. "Why?"

He hesitated with what he hoped was just the right touch of reluctance and embarrassment. "I have a problem, and I wondered if you might help me out. I wondered if you had any odd jobs around here I might do to earn some merchandise."