Heart of the Witch (8 page)

He turned off the engine and sat for a while, staring at the cabin. In his mind, Nick pictured a shadowed figure bending over Ravyn, pressing the red-hot steel of his knife against her pale flesh. There would be terror in those green eyes. She would have been helpless and innocent. At the mercy of a maniac.

His chest tightened, and Nick forced the image away. At least the girl had survived. When would the bastard strike again? Would the next victim be so lucky? There was no way to know.

Nick climbed out of his Mustang and walked toward the cabin, bending to slip under the yellow crime-scene tape. Trees shrouded the yard, still dressed in leaves that would start to fall in a few weeks. The killer would have had a measure of concealment here, but only through the spring and summer months and for part of the fall. This hadn't stopped him from killing year-round. The authorities weren't sure that he'd brought
all
of his victims here, but they suspected it. If he had, the Tin Man would need a new killing ground.

Nick tried the door, and it swung open. He stepped inside and saw why it wasn't secured. The only lock was one of those old-fashioned hooks, which had long since rusted. Dingy sheets covered the windows. The cabin smelled musty, as if some animal had made its home here not too long ago. The odor of burnt flesh lingered in the air.

In spite of the cool October breeze drifting through the cracks in the walls, the cabin was warm. Underneath Nick's jacket, sweat trickled down his back and sides.

A hospital bed sat incongruously in the center of the main room. Straps hung from either side. Nick examined the ends, which looked as if they'd been cut clean through. In addition to the bed, there was a frayed orange sofa with yellowed stuffing poking from its threadbare upholstery.

Nick squatted in front of the fireplace. Ashes remained, but they had been sifted through recently. The CSI techs would have gone over everything. So, what was he doing here?

He thought back over Ravyn Skyler's account of that night. She hadn't been able to identify her assailant; she could only give the police vague details. He'd worn a beard, and she hadn't been able to make out his eye color because it was dark. The composite sketch in the newspaper had looked generic. A nondescript, bearded man. He could be anyone.

Nick stood, and his gaze roamed over the room once more. He noted the position of the bed, the window, the fireplace. He recalled her story. Something didn't quite fit. He wasn't sure what.

He crossed his arms and felt the bulge of the whiskey bottle in his jacket pocket. Pulling it out, he considered taking a drink. Just one. But unscrewing the lid, he hesitated and closed the bottle again. He'd driven here, and in spite of his lack of concern for rules in general, not drinking and driving was one he followed closely. Most of the time.

As he was putting the half pint back in his pocket, it slipped from his fingers. There was a brief moment of panic in which he anticipated the crash of broken glass, but it didn't come. He bent to pick up the bottle, relieved it was still intact. But before he could straighten, he noticed a small, oblong, blue-gray object in the dust of the cabin floor.

He picked it up and studied it. Some kind of medication? A capsule. Had the killer dropped it? Had the woman? Neither? Did it belong to one of the many people who had wandered through here over time? How had the CSI boys missed it? Maybe he was just in the right spot at the right time. Dumb, blind luck. If, that is, it wound up meaning anything.

He peered closely at the writing.
Neoral
was printed in red letters, and underneath,
100 mg
. Nick slipped it into a baggie he'd brought with him, and placed that in his pocket along with the bottle. Couldn't hurt to check it out.

As he was about to leave, he heard a car pull up, followed by doors slamming. Shit. Whoever it was, he didn't want them to find him here. But it was too late—he could hear footsteps on the porch. He pulled his Beretta from its holster.

The door opened, and two men walked in. The first was Detective Carlos Mungia. The second was his partner, Scott Harris.

It had been almost five years, but Harris hadn't changed much. He was stocky, with narrow shoulders that didn't fit his physique. His hair had thinned, and he'd tried that goofy-ass comb-over thing. Craggy scars marked his face and his nose had a hump where it had been broken. By Nick.

Nick put his gun away and faced the two men.

Harris's eyes rounded, glittered with hatred. "Lassiter," he snarled. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Nick didn't speak. He looked at Carlos, who gave no hint of hostility, just exuded an air of annoyance. As if Nick had just made his life a bit more problematic.

Nick headed to the door, cutting a wide swath around Harris. It wasn't wide enough. The cop's arm shot out and gripped his sleeve. "I asked you a question, fucker."

Nick reached out instinctively and grabbed Harris's wrist. A quick twist backward and the detective released his hold, yelping like an injured animal. "Keep your hands off me," Nick growled. His voice was low, but the danger was audible.

"Got any DUIs lately?" Harris glowered as he rubbed his wrist.

"Beat up any little girls lately?" Nick returned.

Detective Harris raised his fists, his pain forgotten as he lunged forward. Mungia grabbed him before he got to Nick and pulled him back. "Knock it off, Harris," he snapped. "Just let the guy leave."

Harris shook off his partner's hand, but he didn't make any more moves toward Nick. "Hell, he's probably drunk right now. I oughta haul his sorry ass in. Hear that, Lassiter? I oughta haul your ass in."

"Yeah, maybe you should. You wouldn't want to waste your efforts actually doing your
job
. You know, finding the maniac who's been chopping up women."

"Fuck you," Harris snarled. He lunged toward Nick once again, and this time Mungia was too slow. Nick sidestepped, not wanting to be arrested for assault, and Harris stumbled. The cop crashed right into the cabin door as it opened.

The detective's head cracked loudly on the wood, and he rose up like an enraged tiger. Before Harris could act on his rage, however, a newcomer stepped inside. He was an older man, probably in his early sixties. He wore a sheriffs uniform.

"What the heck's goin' on?" The man's gaze swept from Carlos Mungia to Nick and back to the panting Detective Harris, who glared and rubbed his hand across his forehead.

"Homicide, OCPD," Mungia told him, flashing his badge. "We're working the Tin Man case."

"All three of ya?" the sheriff asked.

"No," Harris spat, pointing a finger at Nick. "He's not. He's trespassing."

Nick stuck out a hand. "Nick Lassiter. I'm a private investigator. Just up here taking a look around."

"Sheriff John Whitehall." The sheriff shook Nick's hand as he introduced himself. His eyes narrowed. "Lassiter? From the city?"

Nick nodded.

"You the fella I read about in the paper a few years back? The one that risked his ass to save that junkie?"

A drug-crazed man had been holding his wife and child hostage. Nick was there with the hostage negotiators. They'd convinced the suspect to release his family, but he wouldn't come out. He said he was going to blow himself up. The wife told them her husband was strapped with explosives. Nick had gone inside and freed the man from the bomb, despite the guy waving a gun around and threatening to blow his head off. They'd both survived. Nick didn't think the guy remembered him with gratitude: he was currently doing a twenty-year stint in the federal penitentiary for kidnapping and aggravated assault.

"Yeah," Nick admitted.

"You also solved that series of rapes—the one where the guy broke into old ladies' houses, robbed 'em, beat 'em and raped 'em? He finally killed one of 'em. Then you nabbed him," the sheriff pressed.

"Yeah," Nick replied. "Hey, I was just heading out. Didn't mean to cause any trouble."

Harris glared at Nick. He didn't like the sheriff recounting Nick's successes. Nick didn't like it much himself. Most cops did the same shit as he'd done, and they did it every day. Nick had just happened to catch the media's attention. Mainly because of the way things had ended. The way his career had ended.

"You're also the one that wound up beatin' the tar out of your partner, right? Left the force not long after that, if I recall."

From the corner of his eye, Nick could see Harris. The detective's fists were clenched, and the air was suddenly thick with tension. "The media twists a lot of things around," he offered, in an attempt to deflect any further conflict.

"It didn't make the papers, but word around here is the sonofabitch beat up some twelve-year old girl. An interrogation gone bad in a case you and this guy was working. That true?"

A burst of air popped from Harris's chest as if he'd imploded. "That was a motherfuckin' lie!" he growled. "Cocksucker spread that shit about me, but it was a lie!"

Mungia grabbed his partner's arm, more forcibly this time, and steered him toward the door. "Come on, Scott," he said. "We can come back. There's nothing left here we haven't gone over anyway."

Harris tried to shake him off, but Mungia didn't let go.

Whitehall's brows lifted in surprise. To Nick, it looked like feigned surprise. "Oh, geez, sorry 'bout that," the sheriff said. "Was you the fella?" He peered at Harris's scarred face. "That where you got them injuries?"

Harris didn't answer. He stood in front of Whitehall, breathing hard and glaring. Carlos still held him, but Nick noticed Harris wasn't making much of an effort to break free. A moment later, and without another word, the two detectives left. Nick had a feeling he'd run into them again.

Whitehall turned his penetrating gaze on Nick. "What's your story? Why're you here?"

Nick shrugged. "The husband of one of the killer's victims hired me to find the man who murdered his wife. I'm just checking out the crime scene."

The sheriff jerked his head toward the door. "If that bozo is on the case, can't say as I blame the husband." He shook his head and reached into his pocket. "I never knew what to think when I read about you doin' that fool thing with the druggie. Then all that other shit…" He pulled out a cigarette pack and held it toward Nick. "Want one?"

Nick nodded. "Thanks."

"Sure. Don't have a lighter, though. Sorry. Don't usually smoke 'em."

Nick pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit up. Whitehall put a different cigarette in the corner of his mouth but left it unlit. "As I was sayin', all that stuff I read about you… I figured you was either the dumbest goddamned cop around—or the best."

Nick took a pull from his cigarette and released the smoke. "Maybe a little of both," he admitted.

"I don't think you're dumb." Whitehall walked farther into the cabin and looked around, then turned back to Nick. "How long you been here?"

"Maybe twenty minutes. Probably five or ten before they got here. Why?"

"Whadda ya got?"

"Excuse me?"

"What's your theory?" The sheriff made a sweeping gesture around the room with his arm. "About what happened. About that night."