The Fifth Victim (13 page)

“You know.”

“Are you sure?”

Jazzy nodded. “In all these years, I’ve never asked you to do it for me, but…Is it wrong of me to want to know?”

“Wanting to know the future is neither right nor wrong, but sometimes it’s…dangerous.”

“I need to know about Jamie. That’s all. Nothing else.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way. Once I look into your future, I can’t control what I see.”

Jazzy grasped Genny’s hands. “Just do it, will you? Please.”

Genny pulled away and stood. “Let’s go into Granny’s room. It’s quiet and dark in there. And the candles are already set up.”

Jazzy followed Genny upstairs and into Melva Mae Butler’s room, which lay in darkness, the curtains closed, the unmistakable scent of roses in the air. Granny had always smelled of roses because she used rose-scented powder. An antique four-poster dominated the fourteen-foot-square area. Genny went about the room and lit the white candles that were strategically placed throughout, then she sat in one of two chairs by a small, antique table. Jazzy took a deep breath and sat in the other chair. She laid her hands palms up on top of the table.

Genny closed her eyes and repeated the name “Jasmine” several times. With her eyes still shut, she reached out, ran her open palms over Jazzy’s and let them remain there.

Silence. The whispering moan of the winter wind. Steady breathing. Two hearts beating.

Genny did “readings” for only a few people, those she knew truly believed in her abilities. She never took money, never asked for anything in return. Usually people came to her for a reading only when everything else had failed. Most people feared the future; few were brave enough—or foolish enough—to actually want to know what lay ahead for them.

The readings weren’t like the visions. She had no control over the visions, and they were devastatingly real, almost like watching through the lens of a video camera. But that camera was held in someone else’s hands. When she did a reading, she didn’t get clear pictures. Or at least not often. She got feelings, sensed things, sometimes heard a voice inside her head whispering to her.

“Sadness. Terrible sadness. A death. Not yours, but someone you know, someone—” Genny gasped. “A man is going to die.”

“Is it Jamie? Do I kill him?” Jazzy’s voice quivered with apprehension.

Genny squeezed Jazzy’s hands, then opened her palms and rested them atop Jazzy’s once again. “I don’t know who he is. But you are not responsible for his death. He will die soon. In a few months. His death harms you in some way.” Genny shivered.

“In what way? How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is that all you see?”

Genny didn’t respond. She simply sat very still, very quiet, and waited. If there was more to be told, it would come to her. She saw the shadow of a man, his image blurred. Genny felt a gentleness in him, a tender love toward Jazzy. And that’s when she knew.

“Thank you, God,” Genny whispered.

“What? What?”

“There is a man—not Jamie and not Jacob—who will make you happy. He will be good to you.”

“Will I be free of Jamie once and for all?”

Genny hesitated. “Yes. Yes, you will be free of him.” The darkness consumed her momentarily. A black, swirling reality that threatened to pull her in and trap her. Genny understood and backed away from its power. Evil, not good. She opened her eyes. Her body went limp.

Jazzy jumped up. “Are you all right?”

Genny nodded. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest for a few moments.”

“Thank you so much.” Jazzy hugged Genny. “All I needed to know is that I don’t kill Jamie, but that I’ll be free of him. Finding out there will be a good man in my future who’ll treat me right was a bonus.”

Two hours later, just as Jazzy cleared away the supper dishes, Drudwyn’s ears perked up and he growled.

“It’s all right, boy.” Genny reached down to where he sat beside her and scratched his head. “I hear it, too. Someone just drove up.”

“Were you expecting anybody?” Jazzy asked.

Genny shook her head. “No, not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I wasn’t expecting anyone, but I was sort of hoping that…well, that Dallas Sloan might—”

The loud pounding at the front door stopped Genny midsentence.

“Whoever it is wants your immediate attention,” Jazzy said. “You sit still and rest. I’ll see who it is.”

Sessions such as the one she’d shared with Jazzy taxed her energy, but she usually recovered quickly, unlike when she experienced the visions over which she had no control. At least with the readings she could back away at any point.

Genny rose from the chair, and with Drudwyn at her side, walked out of the kitchen. When she entered the hallway, she heard voices.

“Come right on in. I think Genny was expecting you,” Jazzy said. “I was just leaving. I need to get back into town and tend to business.”

“Don’t rush off on my account,” Dallas said. “I came by to ask for Genny’s help.”

“What sort of help? You haven’t come for a reading, have you? Because if that’s why you’re here—”

“Hush up!” Genny called out. “You’re saying too much.”

She had to make Jazzy stop talking. Dallas Sloan didn’t believe in psychics, didn’t think people possessed a real sixth sense. She didn’t want to scare him off before he got to know her. He needed a chance to fully connect with her, to trust her, before he would be able to believe in her.

Dallas and Jazzy turned around and stared at Genny.

“I’m sure Dallas didn’t come here for that. He’s not interested in anything vaguely connected to sixth-sense abilities.” Genny rushed down the hallway, but the quick movement made her dizzy. She staggered, then reached out and placed her hand on the wall to steady herself.

“Are you all right?” Jazzy asked.

Dallas bolted past Jazzy, straight to Genny. His big hands came down on her shoulders. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re going to faint.”

She gazed up into his blue, blue eyes and smiled. “I was dizzy there for a moment. I’m fine now.”

“You haven’t had another one of those visions, have you?” he asked.

She shook her head. He eased his hands across her shoulders, down her arms, and to her wrists, then released her.

Jazzy cleared her throat. “I’m going to get my coat and head out.”

“Promise me you’ll talk to Jacob,” Genny reminded her.

“I promise.”

Genny turned to Dallas. “Would you care for something to eat? I have plenty left over from supper.”

“No, thanks. I’ve eaten already. At Jasmine’s.”

“Best place in town,” Jazzy called out, then closed the front door behind her.

Genny laughed. Dallas smiled.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I need your help.”

“In what way can I help you?”

“You can help me find a serial killer before he kills again.”

Chapter 12

What the hell was he doing here? Dallas asked himself as he removed his hands from Genny’s slender shoulders and backed away from her. He’d tried his best to talk himself out of coming here, but, heaven help him, he’d been drawn back to this woman in a way that made absolutely no sense to him. For all he knew, she was a total crackpot.
Dammit, you idiot, she believes she’s psychic. The woman has visions. And her friends and relatives actually believe she possesses these weird powers
. But he knew better. She was a fraud—she had to be—just like all the other phonies who professed to be blessed with unusual talents like ESP.

Genny stood there, her black eyes staring at him, as if penetrating far beyond what the normal human eye could see. Dallas glanced away from her and cleared his throat.

“It’s all right,” she told him.

“What are you talking about?”
She hasn’t read your mind
, he told himself.
She simply made an assumption and guessed right
.

“You can be as skeptical as you’d like, and it doesn’t change anything.”

“It’s no secret that I don’t believe in your hocus-pocus stuff.” Dallas shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. “Look, it was probably a mistake my coming here. I just thought that maybe…” Reaching up with his right hand, he raked his fingers through his thick blond hair, grumbled incoherently under his breath, then said, “Hell, I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Yes, you do. You told me yourself. You want my help to find the serial killer who murdered your niece.”

“I know what I said, but I don’t see how you can help me. Not really. Just chalk this visit up to a guy having the hots for you.”

“Do you have the hots for me, Special Agent Sloan?”

His gaze collided with hers. She was smiling.

Dallas grinned. “You don’t seem surprised. Don’t tell me you saw, in your crystal ball, my coming here tonight and acting like a fool.”

Genny’s smile wavered slightly. “I don’t use a crystal ball.”

“What is it about you, lady? We have absolutely nothing in common. My life is a holy mess. I have only one goal and that’s to find Brooke’s killer. So unless I’m just in bad need of getting laid, there’s no reason for my being here tonight.”

Genny’s smile disappeared. “Are you in bad need of getting laid?”

Had he actually said that to her? Damn! Shrugging, Dallas grunted. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s just that you need to know I’m not the kind of guy who makes commitments, who gets involved. I’m not a man you can count on for the long haul.”

“Are you warning me off?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Yes, when the answers are important.”

“We’d mix like oil and water, you know.”

Say good night and leave
, he told himself.
You aren’t getting any pussy from Genny Madoc. She’s not the one-night-stand type. You knew that before you showed up on her doorstep
.

“Oil and water, huh?” She took a tentative step toward him. “I was thinking more along the lines of a stick of dynamite and a lit match.”

Dallas drew in a deep breath as images flashed through his mind of Genny lying beneath him, her long, black hair spread out over a white pillow and her slender limbs wrapped around him.

“Lady, you know how to hurt a guy.”

She took another step toward him. He didn’t move, although his brain warned him to run. If she came any closer, he’d probably grab her and yank her into his arms.

She halted. “How about some apple pie and coffee?”

“Huh?” Her hospitable offer took him as much by surprise as the subject change.

“Don’t go,” she told him. “And it doesn’t take a sixth sense to figure out that you’re on the verge of running from me. Stay, have some pie and coffee, and we’ll talk. About the serial killer. About Brooke. About whatever you need to talk about. I have a feeling you need someone to listen to you, to talk things over with, to care about what you care about, far more than you need to get laid.”

She was right. He did need someone to talk to, someone to listen. Teri had been a real friend during the past eight months, and he’d relied on her to be his sounding board after Brooke’s murder. But he’d soon realized he was taking advantage of the feelings she still had for him. He’d backed off. She deserved better. He’d wanted her to have her chance with Linc, and as long as she thought he needed her, she wouldn’t move on. He’d allowed her to help him with his unofficial investigation and to drag Linc into the mix because he was desperate for help. But he’d quickly severed the emotional bond Teri had tried to rebuild between them.

Now here was Genny offering to be a shoulder to cry on, and he was damn tempted to accept her offer.

“I appreciate your offering to be my confidante. And you’re right about my needing somebody to listen and to care. But you’re sadly mistaken if you think a little hand-holding will satisfy me more than our fucking would.”

Genny gasped. “Are you deliberately trying to scare me off?”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

She nodded. “Yes, but it isn’t working.” She motioned for him to follow her. “Come on into the living room while I get the coffee and pie.”

“You know I want to take you to bed and you’re still inviting me to stay?”

“Yes, I want you to stay. You need me.” She turned and walked away from him. When he followed her, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. “You won’t be taking me to bed. Not tonight.”

Coming as a total surprise, the innuendo in her comment sucker-punched him. She hadn’t said not ever, no way, no how. She’d said not tonight.

“I’ll settle for coffee, pie, and talk. For tonight.”

Jazzy’s Joint had a wild side, but it wasn’t showing that boisterous, rowdy side tonight. Since it was a weeknight in midwinter, only a couple of the usual crowd were at the bar, and a few more were scattered at various tables throughout the establishment. Jazzy had learned it didn’t pay to hire a live band during the winter months, except on weekends. But the loyal patrons kept the old jukebox she’d found several years ago at an antique fair in Knoxville blasting out the oldies. The drone of half a dozen drinkers talking and two guys shooting pool did little to interfere with the loud music. Fats Domino’s rendition of “Blueberry Hill” pumped out a steady beat.

When she’d bought this building and turned the downstairs into a bar, she had wanted a place with a little atmosphere. Something more than just loud music, liquor flowing like water, and a smoke-clouded interior. Although the place possessed those three qualities in abundance, the decor combined sleek modern with a hint of country. The bar, tables, and chairs had a clean-cut line, with chrome neatly edging the light wood and glass. The refinished hardwood flooring was beginning to show some wear and tear. A pair of large chrome light fixtures hung over a couple of pool tables placed at the back of the room. Cherokee Indian artifacts—including ceremonial pipes, handmade pottery and baskets, and carved masks—graced the walls, as did Native American pictures. Three fascinating paintings hung along the entrance wall, one being a portrait of Austenaco, a Cherokee chief in the eighteenth century; another being Robert Lindneux’s rendering of Sequoyah, who had created the Cherokee alphabet; and the third a portrait of George Lowery, a prominent Cherokee leader of mixed blood who had been a delegate to the 1827 Constitutional Convention.

With Cherokee Pointe situated so close to the Smoky Mountains, and the Cherokee lands held by the natives who had escaped the Trail of Tears, anything Native American appealed to the tourists. In order to make sure that nothing she did was offensive to Genny and Jacob, who were both a quarter Cherokee, Jazzy had asked Genny to help her decorate the place.

Jazzy entered from the back of the bar. Her office at Jasmine’s had a door that opened up to the storeroom of Jazzy’s Joint, making it easy for her to go back and forth and keep a check on both of her establishments. She nodded to her bartender, Lacy Fallon, a middle-aged brunette with a smoker’s gravelly voice and deep lines in her face. Lacy motioned for Jazzy to approach.

As Jazzy eased up on a bar stool, she asked, “What’s up, Lacy?”

“Bert didn’t show up tonight,” Lacy said.

“Did he bother to call?”

Lacy shook her head. “This is the fourth time since Christmas that he’s missed work without calling or without a halfway decent excuse when he does show up. I’d say it’s time you found yourself a new bouncer.”

Jazzy let out an exasperated huff. “This hasn’t been a good day for my employees. First Misty is a no-show over at Jasmine’s and now Bert. I’ll give Misty another chance since she doesn’t make a habit of laying out, although today makes twice for her this month. But Bert’s paycheck will be waiting for him when he does show up.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have any problems tonight.”

Jazzy glanced around at the slim crowd. “Looks pretty tame to me. But any decent honky-tonk needs a good bouncer. I’ll call the
Cherokee Pointe Herald
tomorrow and put an ad in the paper.” As Jazzy continued scanning the evening’s clientele, her gaze stopped at the pool table where Dillon Carson, the guy who ran the little theater, and a stranger were engrossed in their game.

Dillon was a regular. He liked Crown Royal and Coke. And he enjoyed a game of pool almost as much as he loved picking up any willing woman who’d walk out of the place with him. It really hadn’t been a secret—at least not to her or the Jazzy’s Joint regulars—that Dillon had been screwing Cindy Todd. But Cindy had been only one of many. Dillon wasn’t choosy, as long as the woman was under fifty and willing.

She didn’t really know much about the former actor turned amateur director and producer. He’d told her one night, after he’d had several drinks, that he had tried Hollywood and Broadway when he was in his twenties. After his going-nowhere career had hit the skids when he was in his early thirties, he’d taken a job directing a little theater somewhere out in Texas. He’d been moving from job to job ever since. She figured winding up in Cherokee Pointe had to be pretty damn close to the bottom of the barrel for a director or actor.

“Dillon’s sure not crying in his beer over Cindy, is he?” Clicking her tongue, Lacy shook her head. “I’ll tell you right now that knowing somebody out there is grabbing women and then killing them as if they were gutting a hog has got me double-checking my locks at night.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. When Misty didn’t show up for work today and didn’t call, I started wondering if I should contact the police.”

“Did you?”

“I called the Sheriff’s Department and talked to Bobby Joe. He had no idea why she’d lay out, so he’s going to stop by her place this evening to make sure she’s all right.”

“She’s probably okay, just overslept or something. Misty’s quite a night owl, what with her carousing, so she could have still been asleep at noon. Or she could have gotten sick and just didn’t think about letting you know.”

“That’s what I figured. I told Bobby Joe to give me a call later.”

Boisterous laughter from the back of the room gained everyone’s attention. Jazzy and Lacy turned their heads in time to see a chuckling Dillon slap his opponent on the back, then pull out his wallet and hand over several bills.

“This guy must be really good,” Lacy said. “I’ve never seen Dillon lose a game since he’s been coming in here.”

“At least he’s not a sore loser.”

While Dillon picked up a nearly empty glass of whiskey and Coke and headed toward the bar, Jazzy studied the man who racked the balls and hung up the cues. She’d never seen him before anywhere in Cherokee Pointe; and she didn’t miss many travelers, since she owned a bar, a restaurant, and was part-owner in a cabin rental outfit.
He’s probably new in town
, she thought as she surveyed him from the top of his shaggy brown hair that touched the collar of his black shirt to the tips of his scuffed, black leather boots.

He was tall—about six-two would be her guess—with a lean, muscular build that would attract any female with red blood in her veins, and a swagger that proclaimed his self-confidence without being cocky. He was dressed all in black. Inexpensive attire. Jeans. Black flannel shirt with a white T-shirt visible at the neckline. But she’d lay odds those boots had cost him a pretty penny.

She watched him as he walked across the room to a table near the back. He had an easy, in-no-hurry stride, like a self-assured big cat, knowing he was king of the jungle. He dropped into a chair where a black leather jacket hung, then picked up the bottle of beer, finished off its warm contents, and set the bottle down. He turned halfway around and glanced over his shoulder, obviously searching for the bartender.

When Lacy started to come out from behind the bar, Jazzy said, “I’ll see what he wants.”

She sauntered over to his table, taking her time, allowing him several minutes to watch her, to study her as she had studied him. When she reached his table, he smiled.

“What’ll it be?” she asked.

“Another of the same.” He glanced at the beer bottle. “And how about some conversation?”

“While I go get your beer, be thinking of an interesting topic.”

His smile widened, and for a split second it held her mesmerized. He wasn’t movie-star good-looking, not a pretty-boy the way Jamie was, but he was stunningly attractive in a totally masculine way. His eyes were a rich whiskey brown with golden highlights. And his dark brown hair displayed the same honeyed tones.

“Hurry back,” he said, his voice a deep rumble.

Jazzy returned to the bar and asked Lacy for a Budweiser.

“Looks sort of dangerous to me,” Lacy said.

“Maybe.” Jazzy grasped the beer bottle. “But when has danger ever scared me off?”

Lacy chuckled.

After Jazzy handed the stranger his beer, she sat in the chair across from him. “You’re new in town.”

“Been here a few days.” He lifted the cold beer to his lips and took a hefty swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Where are you staying?”

“Motel out on three twenty-one.”