The Last Time I Saw Her (26 page)

“But he'll tell them about you,” Charlie said in horror. “About you being in Hughes's body, I mean.”

“First off, who's going to believe that? And anyway, I told him if he did he'd go to hell. Today.”

Charlie looked at him. “I cannot believe that worked.”

“Babe, most people are afraid of ghosts. Especially walking, talking ghosts who know lots of things they shouldn't. And they're really, really afraid of going to hell. Of course it worked.” His face darkened. “I only wish I could pay a visit to Nash”—Nash was the inmate who had murdered him—“while I'm here. But the rest of the prison's on lockdown, and I doubt they'll let me through.”

“I'm sure they won't.” Charlie's hold on him tightened. On that terrible day when Michael had bled out in her arms, Nash had taken him unawares; no way could he have killed Michael otherwise. But she still didn't like the idea of Michael going anywhere near his murderer. Then she had a thought and frowned at him. “Nash stabbed you, not a guard. There were witnesses. Lots.”

“The guards hired him, apparently. They had a thing going where they got rid of death row inmates that they really didn't like or that were special pains in the asses. Figured nobody would care and they'd save the state a bundle, so why not? Staged suicides, inmate-on-inmate attacks, accidents, anything they could come up with. Been going on for a while, apparently.”

“Oh, my God, and no one noticed?”

“Who's going to notice? Prison's a jungle, babe.” He kissed her again, then smiled down into her eyes. “Let's get out of here. Come spend the rest of the day with me.”

“What?” The suggestion startled her.

“We can go for a drive. Grab dinner. Whatever you want. You realize we've never been on a date?”

Charlie's eyes widened. That was true, and was also mind-boggling and heartbreaking at the same time. He was so outrageously handsome he stole her breath—and she loved him. Her heart beat a little faster every time she looked at him. Her body tingled from his slightest touch. As much as she hated to think about it, the fact was that his time in Hughes's body was limited. Once he was out of Hughes's body, Michael would, she hoped, still be with her in spirit form, but going for a drive or grabbing dinner with a spirit was not the same thing as doing those things with a living, breathing man. There was nothing she could do to help the missing teens, and—she wanted to be with him.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, you realize we've never been on a date?” He was teasing her.

“Yes, I'd love to go for a drive or to dinner or whatever.”

He was smiling down into her eyes when a sharp rap on her door was followed by the door, which had obviously not been shut all the way, being pushed open.

“Char—” Tony was already walking through the door when he saw them. He broke off abruptly and stopped walking at the same time. Charlie realized what he was seeing: she and the supposed Hughes, a man she'd only met two days previously that they all suspected of being a serial killer, their bodies pressed close together, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her waist, obviously intimate. She winced inwardly. Anger, astonishment, and pain blazed at her out of Tony's eyes for the briefest of moments, and then his face shut down, became hard and distant. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were busy. I have some news for you. I'll come back.”

She knew the exact moment when his gaze and Michael's collided, because Tony's eyes narrowed and went stony, while Michael's body tensed. She could feel his hands hardening on her waist.

“No, Tony, come in, please.” Charlie stepped away from Michael as she spoke. Tony looked at her warily. Michael frowned at her. To Michael she said, “If you'll give Tony and me a minute, I'll be right out.”

Michael didn't move. His eyebrows went up. “Now?”

“I don't think—” Tony began stiffly at the same time, making no move to come farther into the room.

“Oh, my God,” Charlie snapped, losing her patience. Walking forward, she grabbed Tony by the arm and dragged him into the room. Really, she'd had a trying couple of days. No, make that a trying couple of weeks. Or actually, now that she thought about it, make that a trying couple of months. To Michael she said, “Out. I'll meet you at my car.”

Michael hesitated, and she made a shooing motion with her hand. His lips compressed.

“I'll be in the hall,” Michael replied, shot a look at Tony, whose arm was rigid under her hand and whose face was so hard it could have broken rock, and walked out the door.

Following him, Charlie closed the door firmly behind him, then turned to look at Tony, who was standing thin-lipped and remote in the middle of the room. Advancing toward him, she considered her options.

“Tony—”

“You don't have to explain yourself to me. None of my business,” Tony said in a cold, clipped voice. Then he turned around, took a hasty couple of steps toward her desk, turned back to face her, and burst out with, “How the hell is it possible for you to have a thing for that guy? You know what I was coming to tell you? I just heard from the lab, which, since they couldn't reach you, called me. The DNA's a match. That guy may very well be the Southern Slasher.”

Charlie felt a surge of excitement. “That's wonderful! I knew it.”

“What?”
Tony looked at her like she was insane. Which, Charlie supposed, she might very well be. Just not in the way he thought.

“Tony, listen.” She moved toward him, stopping when she was only a few feet away to look at him earnestly. “You asked me to think about whether we can be more than friends. And the answer is we
are
more than friends. You're one of the few people in my life that I can turn to when things go wrong, that I can call and you'll come running, that I can be honest with, and I hope you feel that way about me. That means so much more to me than you know. That makes us important to each other. That makes us family. I don't know about you, but there aren't many people in my life like that.”

Tony gave her a hard look. “You know, if this is designed to let me down easy, don't bother. I get it.”

Charlie made an impatient sound. “No, you don't get it,” she said. “There's something going on here that you don't know about. That I trust you enough to tell you the truth about. And for me to trust you that much is a really big deal.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “You've got my attention. Go on.”

Charlie wet her lips. “Remember that guy I told you about, the one who died and I was still getting over, which was why I couldn't start a relationship with you?”

“I remember,” he said.

“When I was in that school bus, I thought I was going to be killed. I would have been killed, except”—she broke off, took a breath, and came out with it—“that guy—the one I love—came back in spirit form, and, since Rick Hughes was unconscious, took over his body to save my life. He's in Rick Hughes's body now.”

No need to tell Tony exactly who that guy was. No need to mention that Hughes's body was now occupied by the man convicted of being the Southern Slasher, Michael Garland. All that, in her opinion, fell under the heading of TMI: too much information.

Tony stared at her. He took a faltering step back, bumped into her desk, and sank down on the corner of it. His eyes stayed glued to her face. “You are seriously telling me that you think Hughes—that guy out there—isn't Hughes? That he's a damned
zombie
?”

Charlie sighed. “Not a zombie. I think the correct term is
revenant.
According to Tam.”

He looked even more gobsmacked. “According to
Tam
?
Tam
knows about this?”

“Yes. Tam knows. In fact, you and she are the only people who know. And I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it like that.”

He made a gesture indicating that she could count on that. “You actually believe what you're saying.”

“No, I lie to myself on a regular basis just to see if I can tell when I'm doing it.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, I believe what I'm saying. Because it's true.”

“Let me get this straight: You're saying you're in a relationship with a dead guy. Who has come back to earth and taken over another man's body.”

“Yes.” Charlie gave up on trying to ease him into it. Apparently, easing wasn't going to be possible. “Although the body is temporary.”

“He's in Hughes's body
temporarily
? Where the hell is Hughes?”

“I don't know. But he'll be back, probably in another day or so.”

“He'll be back.” The fact that Tony was repeating practically everything she told him was a measure of how dumbfounded he was, Charlie knew. She sighed inwardly. Somewhere, somebody had a life that was simple. Too bad it wasn't her. Tony continued, “So the serial killer suspect is going to return to his body. Then what? Are you still going to hang all over him?”

Charlie folded her arms over her chest and gave him a look. “You know, considering that I've given you ample demonstration of my ability to see and talk to the newly, violently dead, given that Tam has more than proved to you that some psychics are the real deal, given that we've both provided you with consistent evidence that there are whole other dimensions out there that most people have no clue exist, you'd think you'd be a little more open to the idea that the dead can and do walk among us and can, on occasion and under extreme provocation, possess a human body. Temporarily.”

He said, “You're accusing me of being narrow-minded.”

“There are only two ways this can go: You either believe I'm crazy or believe I'm telling the truth.”

They locked eyes. Tony stared at her, then said slowly, “He can break necks. He can throw kitchen knives with enough precision to kill. Those skills aren't easy to come by, and there's nothing in Hughes's background to suggest he should possess them.”

Charlie lifted her eyebrows at him, waiting.

“Fuck,” Tony swore, which unlike some people he almost never did, and Charlie knew he'd seen the truth.

She nodded, then watched him as he continued to process. Finally he shook his head and said, “You are a
hell
of an interesting woman, Charlie Stone.”

That surprised her. That made her smile and remember why she liked him so much. “
You
are a great guy, Tony Bartoli.”

“Yeah.” His voice was dry. He slid off her desk, walked over to her, and when he reached her shoved his hands in his pockets without touching her. Looking down at her, he hesitated, then said, “You're sure Hughes isn't this super con artist who's somehow convinced you of this? Because—”

Charlie shook her head. “No backsliding,” she warned him. “Think broken necks. Thrown knives.”

“Right.” He grimaced. “So what now?”

She sighed, outwardly this time, and went for the truth once more. “Now I'm getting ready to go spend the afternoon with a revenant and you are going off to find the remaining hostages and the escapees, preside over the arrest of a bunch of murderous prison guards, and, hopefully, investigate the hell out of the Southern Slasher murders. Oh, and see if you can get Lena and Buzz to make up.”

That brought a glimmer of humor to his face. “The last thing may be beyond me.”

“The rest, then.” She smiled at him. “I better go.”

“Wouldn't want to keep your revenant waiting.”

She gave him a look that said
Don't be sarcastic,
and he smiled wryly at her. And she was reminded one more time of what a good-looking guy he was, and how perfect for her in just about every way he was. It was, she reflected, a crying shame that her heart didn't see it the same way.

“Charlie,” he said. She was on her way to the door, and she looked back over her shoulder at him. “Friends.”

Shaking her head at him, she corrected, “Family.”

He looked at her, then nodded. “Family,” he repeated solemnly.

It felt like they were sealing a pact or something.

She smiled at him, then opened her door and walked out into the corridor where Michael waited. He was leaning against the wall directly opposite her door, arms folded over his chest, not looking particularly patient. As she came toward him he straightened away from the wall, greeting her with a quizzical look that changed as it moved past her to Tony, who was behind her. She looked around at Tony too to see what exactly about him was prompting Michael's suddenly coolly watchful expression.

But Tony's gaze slid to her as she turned toward him, so she got no chance to judge. All she got was a glimpse of the jaw-jut thing guys did sometimes in a kind of silent warning to other guys.

“Check in this afternoon,” Tony told her, then flicked another look at Michael that was too brief for her to read and moved away toward the group that was emerging from the interview room. Johnson, now in handcuffs and clearly about to be escorted away, was in their midst. Tony said something to the group and disappeared into the interview room. Meanwhile, with a guard at each elbow, Johnson headed their way.

They were all walking in the same direction, but the guards were hurrying Johnson along. As Johnson came abreast of them, Michael gave him the stink-eye. Johnson visibly quailed. Then they were past each other, and a moment later Johnson and his escort rounded a corner and were out of sight. Michael and Charlie reached the elevators and stopped.

Charlie said under her breath, “You know, you just made life a whole lot safer for everybody on death row, except, wait, there is no one left on death row.”

One corner of Michael's mouth quirked up. “I know, right?”

Then the elevator arrived, and on the ride down they discussed logistics and came to a consensus: Charlie would drive her car, Michael would drive Hughes's—Hughes's keys were in his pocket—and they would go first to the Pioneer Inn, where Charlie would leave her car and Michael would change clothes. Then they would head out in Hughes's Shelby, the thought of which sent an anticipatory smile curling across Michael's lips.

Nothing of importance was said until they were out of the building and heading across the parking lot. It was a beautiful Indian-summer day, sunny and just cool enough to call for a long-sleeved shirt or the lightest of jackets. On such a perfect day it was hard to imagine that such evil as they had been dealing with existed. Sadly, though, it did, and Charlie said one more prayer for Bree and the two boys who had yet to be found, then another one for the dead.

“So are you going to tell me what you and Dudley talked about?” Michael asked as they walked toward her car. The Shelby was parked all by itself in a far corner, presumably so it wouldn't run the risk of getting dinged. Michael had already spotted it: she'd seen his face brighten when he did.

Men.

“I told him about you,” Charlie said.

Michael slanted a surprised look at her. “What about me?”

“That you're not Hughes. That you're a spirit who's taken over Hughes's body. A revenant.”

“What?” Michael gave her an astonished look. “What did he say?”

“He was surprised.”

“I bet he was. Don't tell me he believed you?”

They reached her car. Charlie retrieved her spare key and turned to face him. “Of course. I'm extremely believable. Are you telling me that if I'd told you something like that, you wouldn't have believed me?”

“Babe, if you'd told me something like that back before I died, I would have thought you were bat-shit crazy.” Michael caught her chin, turned her face up to his, and bent his head to drop a quick kiss on her mouth. When he lifted his head, he grinned down at her. “Cute, but bat-shit crazy.”

“Obviously Tony is more perceptive than you are,” Charlie said with dignity as she opened her door and got ready to slide inside. “He did have a brief moment there when he wondered if maybe you were a really slick con artist trying to pull a fast one on me. But we got past that.”

“No wonder he was looking at me like he wanted to break out the handcuffs.”

“That wasn't the only reason. The DNA results came back and the lab called Tony because I no longer have my phone: Rick Hughes
is
your identical twin brother, which means he's probably also the Southern Slasher.”

“So this body I'm in belongs to my identical twin brother. Who wears silk boxers and some kind of girly-smelling aftershave and is a lawyer.” Michael stood in Hughes's room at the Pioneer Inn in said silk boxer shorts, halfway through changing his clothes. Charlie was ensconced in the surprisingly comfortable armchair in the corner, admiring the view.

The room itself was nice: large, lots of dark wood, green-striped wallpaper, heavy forest green draperies that were open to allow the afternoon sunlight to flood the room, a king-size bed. Hughes had not brought many personal items: a few changes of clothes, toiletries, a laptop. His briefcase had been on the bus, and Charlie had no idea what had happened to it. Presumably it had been logged as evidence somewhere. But Michael looked around as if trying to get a sense of who Rick Hughes was. As far as Charlie was concerned, he was the monster who had murdered seven women and gotten Michael killed. But Michael seemed to be having trouble getting his mind around that.

“Yes,” Charlie said, trying not to let herself get distracted by broad shoulders and brawny arms or a wide chest that tapered down into narrow hips. Or six-pack abs bisected by trim-fitting silk boxers in a sexy shade of maroon. Or long, powerful legs—okay, she'd just officially gotten distracted. She refocused. “He's also a murderous psychopath who almost certainly killed all those women.”

“I don't know.” Michael frowned at her. “I can't believe I was followed around by a guy who looked exactly like me and I never noticed. No one noticed. He almost had to have been inside that bar where I picked up Candace Hartnell. Or maybe he was outside and followed us. I guess that's possible: he might not have been seen if he was waiting out there in the dark.”

Charlie had seen the security video from the bar that had shown Michael meeting and leaving with Candace Hartnell. From what she could tell, it wasn't a big place, and it was in a fairly rural area, and, yes, one would think somebody would have noticed two identical men, especially when they were as big and heart-stoppingly handsome as Michael. But—

“Then there's the watch.” Michael sounded like he was talking at least halfway to himself. “Where did he get the watch? And how could he have known that my watch”—Michael nodded at the heavy silver bracelet dangling from Charlie's wrist—“would be lost by the damned idiots at the Mariposa Police Department, not to be found until after I died?”

Charlie frowned. That
was
a coincidence. A striking coincidence, now that she thought about it. Because if Michael's watch hadn't been lost, then two watches would have been introduced into evidence at his trial. His, with
Semper fi
engraved on the case, and the broken and bloodied one that had been found in Candace Hartnell's sheets. His would have been exculpatory—