Superstition (46 page)

“Help! Somebody help!”

“Police! Freeze!” bellowed a man’s voice behind her, and Nicky realized that the cavalry had arrived in the form of her police escort as she dropped to her knees beside Livvy’s motionless form lying curled in the fetal position in the cool, thick grass.

“Livvy,”
Nicky said urgently. Leaning over her sister, Nicky saw the still curve of her cheek, the slack mouth, the closed eyes, and felt time stop. Her heart pounded like a piston. Her blood turned to ice. Fear tasted sour in her mouth.

Oh, God, please, please, please . . .

As the silent prayer formed in her head, Nicky heard footsteps pounding toward her, felt the rush of someone running up behind her.

“Freeze!” the cop—Officer Milton—boomed over her head. She sensed more than saw that he had his weapon out and was in firing position above her, but it was too late: The killer had been swallowed up by the night.

Officer Milton said something that was directed at her, Nicky thought, but by then she was beyond making sense of mere words. Gasping with fear, she touched Livvy’s shoulder, her neck, feeling for a pulse.

“Livvy.”

If there was one, her shaking fingers couldn’t find it. Livvy was still warm, though. She couldn’t be dead.

Please, God, don’t let her be dead. . . .

“Call an ambulance,” Nicky screamed over her shoulder at the cop. He was already on his radio, shouting something into it. She could hear noises from the house, the bang of the screen door, the babble of voices, shouts. Her mother—her family—was running around the corner of the house toward them.

Oh, God, Livvy’s baby . . .

“Livvy.” Nicky gently placed a hand on her sister’s swollen belly, then drew it back sharply as she encountered the warm stickiness of welling blood.

JOE DROVE TO THE SCENE faster than a fire truck on its way to a four-alarm. Pea gravel sprayed his cruiser as he fishtailed up the driveway. An ambulance blocked access to the parking area, its strobes lighting up the night. Beyond it, he could see a bustle of activity. Heart pounding, breathing like a runner on the last leg of a marathon, he flung himself out of his car and sprinted around the ambulance and toward the side of the house, which seemed to be the focus of activity. Fear drove his every step.

He’d been at the police station, talking to the local crazy who had walked in and confessed to the Karen Wise and Marsha Browning murders, when the call had come in that the Lazarus Killer had claimed a third victim at Twybee Cottage.

His blood had run cold. Terror had juiced his heart, knotted his stomach. He’d practically broken land-speed records getting here. Half the department was racing behind him, and they were still eating his dust.

“Chief . . .” A harried-looking Milton turned toward him as he rounded the corner of the house. A crowd of people milled around just ahead, talking, crying, praying, doing God knew what as they hovered in a loose semicircle around the body that was at that very moment being loaded onto a stretcher.

Horror was as palpable as the scent of blood in the air.

“You were supposed to be protecting her,” Joe roared at Milton without ever breaking stride. Milton said something that Joe didn’t catch. More people turned to look at him, to say something to him. He barely noticed, didn’t hear. There was John, Ham, Leonora—oh, God, Ham had his arm around Leonora and she was crying like her heart would break. Harry was there, on the periphery as ever. . . .

“Nicky,” Joe said hoarsely, coming to a stop beside the stretcher. There was a floodlight on the scene, illuminating excruciating details like the blood blooming on the blanket covering the victim and the pale limpness of one visible hand. Joe’s eyes riveted on that hand as the paramedics secured the straps that would hold her in place.

His life seemed to pass before his eyes in those few seconds.

Then he saw that the hair of the woman on the stretcher was blond, not red.

Shocked, confused, suddenly too numb even to register relief, he saw another hand clasp the poor, limp hand on the stretcher.This hand was slender and lovely and pale....

He followed the hand to its owner and found Nicky. She bent over the blonde on the stretcher, murmuring something, stroking her arm. Her eyes were huge and dark with grief; her mouth shook. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her face was so white it could have been carved from alabaster. Blood smeared the front of her pretty green dress.

Finally he realized: The victim was Olivia.

And for one of the few times in his life, he had a moment when he thought he might pass out.

LIVVY WASN’T DEAD. As Nicky and Leonora rode to the hospital in the back of the speeding ambulance with Livvy, those were the words that pounded through Nicky’s mind. Livvy was badly wounded, but she wasn’t dead.

IV bags swayed, monitors glowed, and the smell of alcohol and blood filled the cramped space. Outside, the siren screamed and the night flying past the windows was a blur of black.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it, I can’t believe it, what good is this damned useless gift if I can’t even see something like this happening to my own daughter?” Leonora wailed. Face awash in tears, she had one of Livvy’s hands clutched in hers as she looked across the stretcher at Nicky. Nicky, who held Livvy’s other hand, just shook her head. What good indeed.

Livvy, who had been as still and unresponsive as a mannequin since being loaded onto the stretcher, suddenly tensed and seemed to shiver. A low moan issued from beneath the oxygen mask strapped to her face.

“What’s happening?” Nicky asked one of the two paramedics riding with them. The hollow rumble of the Causeway Bridge beneath them as the ambulance raced across it told her that they were still a good ten minutes from Georgetown County Hospital, which was their destination. The knowledge terrified her.

One of the paramedics checked his monitors and shook his head.

Livvy moaned again. Her head thrashed.

“Livvy,” Nicky and her mother leaned close and said as one. Nicky’s hand tightened on her sister’s. On the other side, she was sure Leonora’s grip had tightened, too.

“She may be going into labor,” the paramedic said. “How far along is she?”

“Eight months,” Nicky answered.

“Livvy, we’re right here,” Leonora said, stroking her daughter’s limp hand. Then she began to pray: “Dear Lord, protect my baby. . . .”

Minutes later, the ambulance screeched to a halt. The doors opened, and the stretcher was rolled out. As Nicky helped Leonora to the ground, Livvy, now surrounded by medical personnel, was rushed through the doors of the hospital emergency room, which had been opened wide to receive her.

JOE WASN’T ABLE TO spend that night at the hospital with the group that gathered to wait for news of Livvy.

He was, after all, a cop, and the top cop to boot, and it was his job to direct the investigation. An immediate search was launched for the attacker. Roadblocks were set up, the yards and dunes and beach near Twybee Cottage were searched, and a BOLO (Be On the Look Out) was issued for a suspicious person. Word of what had happened spread around the island like wildfire, and a crowd soon gathered around Twybee Cottage to gape. All kinds of media were on the scene, and Joe got to the point that he pretty much ignored them as long as they stayed outside the crime-scene tape.

Which, of course, they didn’t do.

By morning, he and everyone else in the department were practically dead on their feet. He was running on pure adrenaline. By the time he reached the hospital, it was almost eight a.m. The storm that had threatened the previous night had passed over harmlessly, which was good news for the investigation. It meant that they were able to search the area where Livvy had been attacked by daylight for clues that might have been missed in the darkness; in the case of Karen Wise’s murder, that opportunity had been lost because of rain.

Livvy was in the ICU on the fourth floor. Officer Andy Cohen was, as ordered, standing guard outside the door. Joe acknowledged him with a nod. A small crowd of relatives and friends were gathered in the waiting room beside the unit. Joe stepped inside and looked around. Ham, haggard and bleary-eyed like everyone else, got up from his chair and came over to him.

“Any idea who did it?” Ham asked quietly. But he was enough like Nicky that by now Joe could recognize certain signs: Ham had bloodlust in his eyes.

“No.” Joe shook his head. “Where’s Nicky?”

“In there with Leonora. Only two visitors allowed in ICU at a time.”

“Think you could take her place for a while? I need her.”

Ham nodded and accompanied him into the unit.

The hospital smell was stronger once they went through the swinging door. The color scheme remained the same: gray, gray, and more gray. Nicky was sitting in a molded plastic chair pulled up beside Livvy’s bed. Leonora was in a similar chair beside her. Both women looked limp and drained. Livvy was motionless under a institutional gray blanket. Liquid dripped steadily from an IV unit into her arm, and the monitors surrounding the bed emitted steady droning sounds. Joe assumed that this was a good sign, because if it hadn’t been, he knew Nicky and Leonora would have been giving off panicked vibes. Instead, they were just sitting quietly, not even talking, just staring at the bundled shape that was Livvy.

A nurse started toward him as he entered. He flashed his badge without breaking stride, and then Nicky looked around and saw him. Her eyes lit up, and a faint smile curved her lips. She said something to Leonora, who looked around and saw him, too. Then Nicky stood up and moved toward him, all slender, tragic grace.

Joe saw that she was still wearing the bloodstained green dress.

And in that moment, he acknowledged something that he’d been trying to avoid facing for the past ten hours.

For the second time in his life, he had a weak spot. Nicky had made him vulnerable again.

“YOU DID
WHAT
?” Joe yelped, hitting the brakes a little harder than the action called for. Pea gravel crunched. In the passenger seat beside him, Nicky clutched the armrest instinctively. As his cruiser slid to a stop, his head slewed around so that he was staring at her in disbelief. They had just pulled up into the parking area at Twybee Cottage. At Joe’s request, Nicky, who had already given an official statement, was telling him about what had happened after she had found Livvy’s purse the previous night.

“I started yelling for help and ran toward them.” Nicky unbuckled her seat belt and reached for the door handle.

“Jesus Christ.” Joe closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again to look at her. “Let me get this straight: You saw the killer, you saw the knife. You knew he was there. And you
ran toward him
? Do you have a death wish or what?”

“He was murdering my sister.” Nicky opened the door and got out. She was so tired that her legs were wobbly. There was a funny little buzzing in her ears. Her head hurt. Even so early in the morning, it was already close to eighty degrees, with no breeze to speak of. The heat felt good, though. She realized that she hadn’t felt warm since finding Livvy last night.

“Milton was right behind you. The smart thing to do would have been wait for him. I mean, consider the difference. You’re a hundred-twenty-pound girl armed with a purse. He’s a two-hundred-fifty-pound cop armed with a gun.”

Joe fell in beside her as she skirted around the assortment of official-type vehicles with which the parking area was jammed to head for the back steps.

“If I hadn’t gotten there when I did, he would have killed her. As it was, he almost did.”

Nicky remembered the warm rush of Livvy’s blood against her hand and felt cold all over again. Joe must have seen something of her emotions in her face, because he grimaced and shut up. Just beyond the magnolia, yellow crime-scene tape blocked access to the side yard. Cops and other official types were moving around inside it.

“Joe,” somebody called, and Nicky looked over to see Dave ducking under the barrier.

“Yeah.” Joe caught her hand, preventing her from going up the steps without him as he turned to wait for Dave.

“How’s Livvy doing?” Dave asked, directing his question to Nicky. His round face was pale beneath its perpetual tan, and there were bags under his eyes. Like the rest of them, he clearly was operating on no sleep.

“She’s holding her own. The doctors said that if she makes it through the first twenty-four hours, she has a good chance.”

“We’re all praying for her.”

Nicky smiled at him. “Thanks.”

“Did you want me for something?” Joe asked him pointedly.

“We got a neighbor on the next street over who says she was driving along when she saw a man jump in a car parked on the side of the street and take off like he needed to be somewhere in a hurry. It was about the right time. I think this may be our guy.”

“She get a description?” Joe asked. His hand was warm and strong around hers, keeping her firmly at his side.

“Nah. It was too dark. But . . .” He paused, and a triumphant smile lit his tired face. “She got a partial license-plate number.”

“Way to go, lady.” Joe’s hand tightened on Nicky’s, and his mouth quirked into a half smile. “Track it down.”

“Will do.” Dave fell back, and Joe followed Nicky into the house. For the first time since she could remember, it was empty. Everyone was at the hospital. The vast echoing silence of the place was almost eerie.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Nicky’s heart started to pound as she turned on her laptop. It was for this that Joe had pulled her away from the hospital. She was very conscious of him behind her as the screen glowed blue, and she hit the icon to check her e-mail.

There it was.

This lesson well you should learn
You only get back what you earn.
Watching, waiting, always out of sight
Death has sent his chosen into that long eternal night.