Superstition (34 page)

The look she threw him sizzled.

“Before today, I have never in my life seen a ghost, or imagined I saw a ghost, and the reason my mother sees ghosts is because she’s a
psychic medium
,” Nicky said with bite. “If you would take the trouble to check her out, you’ll find that police departments all over the country call her all the time for her input on cases. She’s amazingly accurate. She finds people who are lost. She picks up on clues that help solve crimes. She saves lives. And yes, she
does
see ghosts. If you’re a psychic medium—and sometimes even if you’re not—it happens.”

“Actually, I did check your mother out.” Joe’s tone was mild. “I have to say, she seems to have a pretty impressive track record. Of course, she has some misses, too.”

“Nobody’s right one hundred percent of the—
You checked my mother out
?”

“Crime investigation 101: I had everybody who was at the Old Taylor Place the night of the murder checked out. You included.”

Nicky drew in a breath. “
Did
you? And what did you find out about me?”

He grinned tantalizingly. “Besides the fact that you’re beautiful, and an amazing kisser, and—?”

“Yeah, besides that.” Her voice was tart.

“Well, let’s see. Your father died when you were seven. You lived here on the island until your mother remarried when you were ten, and then you moved with your family to Atlanta. Your mother divorced that husband when you were sixteen. You were kind of a wallflower in high school, but you graduated with honors, attended Emory University, where you majored in broadcast journalism, got your first job in television in Savannah. You’ve been working your way up the TV food chain ever since. Oh, and your mother married for the third time somewhere in there. Your personal life hasn’t been all that spectacular, although you’ve had some boyfriends. The last was a lawyer named Greg Johnson. You broke up with him right before you moved to Chicago last August. Since then, you’ve—”

“Stop.” They had reached Twybee Cottage’s boardwalk by that time, and instead of starting up the steps, Nicky turned to face him, stopping him with an up-flung hand just inches from his chest. The dunes rose in undulating waves at her back, and she could hear the sea oats rustling in the wind behind her. The bottom step brushed the back of her calf through the thin knit of her pants, and her other hand rested on the smooth, gray plank of the handrail. Joe blocked a lot of her view, but on either side of him, she could see the blue-tinged beach and the ebony gleam of the sea.

“I don’t think I like the idea of this. I can’t
believe
you checked me out.”

His eyes slid over her face. He took a step forward so that her up-flung hand rested against his chest. Beneath the smooth cotton of his shirt, she could feel firm muscles and heat. The part of her mind that had trouble focusing in situations like this segued to the whole sex-on-the-beach question again. But nothing had changed—except that she was mad at him now.
Definitely not a plus in the sex column,
she thought, and clenched her hand into a fist and let it drop to her side.

The gesture, and the hesitation that preceded it, wasn’t lost on him. A faint smile curved his mouth. “Honey, that’s what us cops do. Especially when we’re investigating a murder.”

Okay, so she liked the way he said “honey.” And the way he smiled. And . . . never mind. Nicky gritted her teeth as she did a quick mental review of their previous conversations. Come to think of it, he had really asked her for very little personal information—because he basically already knew everything there was to know about her.

“Okay,” she said, glaring up at him, firmly in no-sex mode now. “So you know all about me. In that case, I think it’s only fair that I know something about you.”

“I have no problem with that.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Anyway, you already know the important stuff. I’m a cop. I’m not married. I think you’re cute.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He smiled.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty-six.”

“Where are you from?”

“Jersey. Trenton.”

“How long have you been a cop?”

“Twelve years.” There was something in his face that told her she was amusing him. That did not make her feel any friendlier toward him. Quite the opposite, in fact. “You know, it would be easier if I just sent you my résumé.”

She ignored that. “Parents?”

He sighed. “Deceased.”

“Siblings?”

“Deceased, too. Think you could save the rest of your twenty questions for another time? Shouldn’t we be heading on in and listening to your mother’s assistant’s tape about now?”

She ignored that, too. “All your family is dead?”

“That’s right.” There was a sudden underlying hardness in his voice that told her she’d hit on something that he didn’t want to talk about—which, as any reporter worth his or her salt knew, was the place to start digging.

“So you’re—” she began, only to be interrupted by the ringing of her phone.

“I told you we should be heading on up to your house,” Joe said in a smug tone as Nicky, frowning, fished her phone out of her pocket again.

“Mother . . .” she said into it impatiently.

“Nicky.”

The husky whisper shocked her into silence. Everything seemed to be whirling away: the sights and sounds of the night, the feel of the wooden step against the back of her leg, even Joe’s solid, reassuring presence in front of her. It was as if she was alone suddenly in a huge, dark void. Terror, cold and immobilizing as death, shot through her veins.

“Nicky.” This time the voice was Joe’s. She scarcely heard it, scarcely registered his sharp tone or suddenly intent gaze or the fact that he was reaching for her. The world was spinning away fast, and as it receded, all she was conscious of was the voice that had haunted her nightmares since she had first heard it under the pines the previous Sunday.

“Having fun on the beach?” it asked.

The words seemed to vibrate, echoing through her head as though she was hearing them across a vast distance. Even as Joe caught her by the upper arms, she dropped the phone and sat down hard on the bottom step of the boardwalk.

NOT EVEN THE distorting effect of moonlight could hide the fact that she had gone utterly white. She said “Mother” in an impatient tone into the phone, and then her eyes widened, her lips parted, and her phone fell from fingers that seemed to have gone suddenly nerveless. Joe grabbed her by the arms as she was going down, but she didn’t faint as he had feared. Instead, her legs folded beneath her as though her knees had suddenly given out, and she sat abruptly on the bottom step. Then she bent almost double as her head dropped forward to rest on her knees.

“Nicky, what?” Alarmed, he crouched in front of her, sliding a hand over the silky disorder of her hair to push it out of the way so that he could see her face. Her eyes were closed, but they opened as he touched her, and he breathed a little easier. Even as he ascertained that she was breathing, that she was conscious, that she didn’t seem to have sustained an injury, he knew that something was still horribly wrong. He just didn’t know what.

“It was him,” she said, her voice so soft and shaky that he could barely understand her over the murmur of the waves and wind. “Oh, Joe, it was him.”

It was impossible to mistake who she meant. “Him” could only be the sick bastard who had called her before. The killer. Joe’s eyes cut to the phone, now resting on the sand near her feet. His pulse shot into overdrive as he scooped it up.

“Hello?” he said sharply into it. Nothing. A void. If somebody was there—and he didn’t think anyone
was
there any longer—he stayed silent. “Hello? Who is this?”

“It was him,” Nicky said again, sounding as if she was speaking from somewhere far away. “He said . . . he said . . .”

She broke off with a shudder.

“What did he say, honey?” His voice was gentle as he brushed the hair back from her face again, this time tucking it behind her ear in hopes that it would stay put. His fingers slid down to the pulse below her ear. It was beating way too fast, like the wings of a trapped and terrified bird. Her skin, which only a little while ago had been warm and vibrant to his touch, was now cool and pale as milk. Gasping breaths shook her slender form. Then her head lifted suddenly, and she looked quickly, fearfully, all around.

“What?” he asked urgently.

“He’s watching.” Her voice was a terrified thread of sound. The gleam of her eyes was feral as the moonlight struck them.

Joe had to work to keep his voice even. “Is that what he said?”

She looked at him. Her pupils had dilated to the point where her eyes seemed almost black. “He said . . . he said . . .”

Even as Joe listened, he pressed the button to check her phone’s call log. The screen glowed in the dark as a number came up. . . .

“ ‘Having fun on the beach?’ ” she blurted out in a shaking voice.

“Shit,” Joe said, looking at the number. Then, to Nicky, in a different, gentler tone, “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”

“Joe—”

“I’m right here. You know I’ll keep you safe.” He was looking around warily. What he saw was a whole lot of dark, shadowy nothing—and also a whole lot of dark, shadowy places where someone could be hiding.

Just about the only way the caller could know that Nicky was on the beach was if he had seen her there, which meant that at some point during the evening—possibly even right now—he had to have been close by.

When Joe remembered the steamy little interlude that had just concluded between him and Nicky, his blood ran cold. An entire division of men could have snuck up on him during that, and he wouldn’t have noticed, or cared, until it was too late.

The last time he’d been that careless, a whole bunch of people he cared about had wound up dead.

It wasn’t going to happen again.

The phone number, and what it might signify, was going to have to wait. His first priority was to make sure Nicky was somewhere secure. Dropping her phone into his jacket pocket, he drew his Glock. Her eyes touched on the weapon and widened. She audibly sucked in air.

“Just a precaution,” he said. “Come on, we need to get you off the beach.”

He could carry her if he had to, but that would be tricky if he wanted to be able to react at an instant’s notice. Hoping that she was not too shaken to walk, he slid a hand around her upper arm.

“Can you stand up?”

“Yes,” she said.

Taking her at her word, he rose, pulling her up with him. To his relief, she seemed steady enough on her feet now, able to climb the stairs and, a moment later, hurry down the boardwalk at his urging. The echo of their footsteps joined with the steady drone of the waves and wind to, he feared, block out just about any other sound short of a scream that might be out there. The rolling dunes beneath them were probably eight feet tall in places, and the sea oats grew in among them in thick, dark clumps that swayed and rustled continuously. Anything—anyone—could be hidden among them. That being the case, he stayed close behind her, protecting her to the best of his ability, scanning their surroundings for something, a telltale gleam, a movement, anything that might betray the presence of a watcher.

Nothing. He saw nothing. The guy wasn’t a sniper, he reminded himself. A shot coming out of nowhere wasn’t his style. He liked butchering his victims. And terrifying them.

Still, by the time they reached the house, Joe felt as though he’d aged ten years.

The large bay windows at the front of Twybee Cottage were only dimly illuminated, as if the light inside the house emanated from somewhere besides the rooms fronting the beach. Nicky headed around the side of the house, back the way they had come, and Joe followed her lead. They emerged in the parking area, which was full of cars but empty of people. Joe spotted another police cruiser behind his, frowned, then realized that he and Nicky were now caught in the yellow glow of the porch light and were clearly visible to anyone who might be watching.

Vulnerable
.

“Inside.” He hurried her along with a hand in the small of her back as her steps slowed and she glanced around at him.

“How did he get my new phone number?” she asked over her shoulder.

It was an intelligent question, and one he had no answer for at the moment, although it was certainly an angle he meant to explore as soon as he could. He had confiscated her phone on Sunday night. She had gotten a new phone, complete with a new number, presumably either Monday or Tuesday. This was Saturday. Somehow, the perp had learned her new number in that length of time. The question was, who would have access to that information?

“No idea. But we’re going to find out.”

He was practically pushing her toward the steps as he spoke. Gravel crunching underfoot sounded hideously loud to his suddenly hypersensitive ears. The keening of the tree frogs and whirring of the crickets and cicadas and mosquitoes and other assorted insects in the vicinity bombarded his eardrums. A heavy perfume with notes of crepe myrtle and magnolia and the sea assaulted his nose. The taste of salt was sharp on his tongue. He saw everything—the cars, the garage, the house, the hedge and overhanging trees, and the shifting shadows beyond—with a kind of clarity that had been beyond him just moments before.

He knew what had happened. The adrenaline had kicked in.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like himself again.

“Joe—”

“Tell me inside.”

He stayed right behind her as they went up the stairs, knowing that a sniper shot was unlikely but unable to totally discount the possibility, and meaning to provide her with what cover he could. The glimpses he’d gotten of her face told him that she had her color back now and no longer looked like death on the hoof. In fact, she seemed to be more or less fully functional again, which was a good thing, because as soon as he made sure she was safe, he was going to have to leave her.

“There you are at last,” Leonora said in a tone of mild reproach as Nicky, with Joe right behind her, pushed through the unlatched screen door into the brightly lit kitchen. The paddle fan was rocking unevenly overhead, the scent of coffee and something chocolate hung in the air, and a tangle of voices and laughter broke off abruptly as all eyes focused on the newcomers. Leonora was seated at the kitchen table along with what Joe was starting to think of as the usual suspects, plus a couple. Even as the gang greeted the new arrivals and everyone started talking practically in unison, he broke the group down into its component parts: Nicky’s mother, uncles, and sister; another woman—ah, yes, he remembered her now—Leonora’s friend and assistant, Marisa; and Dave. What his Number Two was doing in Nicky’s mother’s kitchen he couldn’t at the moment begin to fathom, but he had no doubt that he would shortly find out.