Whisper of Evil (12 page)

"I didn't come back until I had to. You made that point yourself."

"You didn't come back… until you had a reason to. A nice… safe… professional reason."

Sooner indeed.

"Like I said. It's my job." She nearly held her breath, afraid he'd keep pushing. More afraid he wouldn't.

Abruptly, Max shoved his chair back and got to his feet. "Okay," he said; face expressionless. "I'll think about it."

Nell felt that sick sensation in the pit of her stomach again, but this time it was accompanied by a stab of pain. Hiding that, she said, "I'll be here tomorrow. There's enough to keep me busy here in the house. But don't take too long, Max. If you decide to pass, I'll have to figure out something else, some other way of gaining access to the crime scenes. And time is an issue."

She knew she sounded like a pro. Matter-of-fact and disinterested. Professional all the way.

He nodded, still expressionless. "There's one thing about your visions you haven't explained, you know."

She knew. "Yes."

"You've told me that sometimes what you see is something that hasn't happened yet. The future. But how can that be, if it's memories you're tapping into?"

"I don't know."

"Could it be a second, completely different ability? Precognition?"

"Bishop says not, and the others agree." She shrugged, conscious of the tension in her shoulders. "The experience is essentially the same, whether I'm seeing past or future. The same sensations, emotions, the same time-out-of-sync awareness. So it's the same ability. The flip side of it maybe, but the same."

"How can a place hold the impression, the memory; of an event that hasn't yet occurred?"

"I don't know. We don't know. Maybe time is more flexible than we can possibly imagine, not linear at all but a loop, or a series of loops. Maybe different time lines occupy the same physical world but in alternate dimensions, dimensions I'm somehow able to tap into because they contain another kind of energy I'm sensitive to. Or maybe it's a question of fate, of the physical world holding the energy of future events because those events will happen, are destined to happen—in a sense have already happened."

Max shook his head. "That's a little too metaphysical for me."

"You asked." She smiled slightly, wondering if she could have done this, handled this, if she hadn't been able to lean on duty and professionalism. No. Definitely not. "The simple truth is, I don't know how it works. I only know that it does."

He seemed about to say something else, but finally shook his head again. "Well, I guess I have to accept that. For now, anyway."

Nell was tempted to ask if he expected anything to change later but once again shied away from probing too deeply. She rose to her feet and walked with him to the front door.

"I'll let you know something tomorrow," he said.

"All right." She looked at him gravely, wondering if he was putting her off for the sake of appearances or for some other reason. He'd danced awfully close to guessing her true motivation in coming here, and from there it was only a step to also guess she was involving him in the investigation for reasons other than the flimsy ones she had stated.

Did he know? And if he did, would he use the knowledge for a little payback?

Abruptly, Max said, "That scene you saw out in the woods. A man carrying the body of a woman."

"Maybe a body. She might not have been dead."

"Either way, it could be something that hasn't happened yet."

Nell made her voice matter-of-fact. "There's no way to be sure. I've checked records of dead or missing women in the county, and nothing seems to fit what I saw. No female murder victims in years, at least none found in the woods. So maybe it hasn't happened yet."

"And if it hasn't happened yet… it could be you. It could be a vision of your own future you saw."

"I never see my own future."

"You mean you never have before."

"I can take care of myself, Max."

Max's hands lifted slightly, as if he wanted to grab her and shake her, but in the end they curled into fists at his sides and he said tightly, "You're here investigating a series of murders, you're a threat to the killer, and you've seen something that could mean a confrontation with him that you'll lose."

There was no way she could reassure him of her safety, since it would have been a lie. So Nell didn't even make the attempt. "Whatever I saw changes nothing, and if that's how it ends, then that's how it ends. I'm here to do a job, Max, and I intend to do it." She paused, but not long enough to give him the chance to argue with her. "Don't bother telling me to lock the door behind you. I will."

"Have you got a death wish, Nell, is that it?"

"No. Good night, Max."

They stared at each other for a moment, then Max swore beneath his breath and went out the door, closing it with a distinct click behind him.

Nell threw the dead bolt with the same emphatic sound, then stood there for a moment watching her hands shake. She had thought she was ready for this, but hours spent in Max's company had proved her wrong. She wasn't ready for this. She would never be ready for this.

But there was no going back. Not now.

Nell sighed, wondering if there had ever been a point when she could have turned back. Probably not. The universe was about balance and about dealing with the past.

Sooner or later.

As for Max, all things considered, his display of concern for her safety was definitely unexpected, and she wasn't quite sure how she felt about it. Scared mostly, because retribution wasn't nearly as effective if it wasn't preceded by an interlude of unsuspecting happiness.

She looked at her hands again and willed them to stop shaking, not surprised when it only half worked. She was tired. And worried. And afraid. And for just an instant, she was tempted to open the door and call Max back, because being alone in this house tonight was almost more than she could bear.

Her hand even reached out for the doorknob, but Nell forced it to fall to her side.

I can do this. I can take care of myself. I have to.

She walked across the foyer toward the kitchen, pausing at the side table beside the stairs where the phone and answering machine were. The answering-machine light was blinking. When Nell pushed the button, the message she heard was brief.

"Nell, it's Shelby. Listen, when I was taking some pictures today I got something… unexpected. I think you should see it. I can bring it to your place tomorrow, first thing, if that's okay. I may be out late tonight, but you can leave a message on the machine and let me know what time."

Nell glanced at her watch, then reached for the phone.

It was still a bit before midnight when he did his meditation thing and sent his dream self off to visit Nell. It was, he'd decided, the best way to keep an eye on her without being too obvious about it. The connection took him to her even faster than before, and it pleased him to be able to so easily follow the well-worn path.

Some things seemed unaffected by the passage of time.

Not surprisingly, she was in bed, asleep, and for a time he hovered near and just looked down at her. Fascinating to be so close to her when she was entirely unaware of it. To be able to stare at her unabashedly.

She was a beautiful woman, even in the dark. The night stole color, so the hair spread out over her pillow was shimmering darkness and her skin was pale, smooth, her relaxed features the picture of delicate femininity. The covers were drawn up to her shoulders, so all he could see of her sleepwear was that there was nothing frilly or sexy about it, maybe just a T-shirt or something like that, colorless and shapeless.

While he watched, she stirred restlessly, and a shaft of moonlight streaming in the window fell on her face and allowed him to see a fleeting, uneasy frown.

It caught him off guard for an instant, even shook him.

Was she simply disturbed by being in this house again after so many years? Was that what disrupted her sleep on this quiet, peaceful night? Or was her sleeping mind somehow aware of him? Could she sense him?

Hear him?

He felt a moment of uneasiness, even fear, but then the possibilities occurred to him, and they were too fascinating and seductive to ignore.

He focused his concentration and gathered enough energy to whisper her name, watching intently to gauge her reaction. He was almost certain there was a reaction, that another frown flitted across her face and there was a break in the evenness of her breathing.

Ah.

How receptive would she be?

How far could he go?

After considering briefly, he whispered again, this time telling Nell to turn over in bed. He repeated the command, soft but insistent, willing her to obey. There was another catch in her breathing, another brief frown, and then she turned over.

A very minor success, he thought, but a good indication of control. A good beginning. Another tool he could no doubt find a use for. Yes, definitely.

He was going to have to think about this. Practice a bit more until his control over her improved.

Smiling, he left Nell to her disturbed dreams.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FRIDAY, MARCH 24

Ethan Cole closed the file folder and scowled across his desk at the small group assembled uncomfortably in several straight-backed visitor's chairs. "So what're you telling me?"

Justin Byers glanced at the other two CID detectives—strictly speaking, only the three of them made up the entire Criminal Investigation Division for the Lacombe Parish sheriff's department, though the uniformed deputies helped out when necessary—and realized glumly that he was still expected to be spokesman. Whether he liked it or not.

"We're telling you that we don't have much more this week than we had last week," he replied matter-of-factly. "We know all four of the victims received a phone call the night before they were killed, the calls placed from different pay phones around town. So far, we haven't been able to find any witnesses who noticed anyone placing the calls. Other than that, there's nothing new to report."

If anything, the sheriff's scowl deepened. "Any of George Caldwell's secrets come to light yet?"

Lying without a blink, Justin said, "Not so far."

"Shit. I hate waiting for that."

The lone female detective, Kelly Rankin, offered, "Like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Unnerving." She shook her head and absently pushed a wayward strand of pale hair off her face.

Ethan half nodded in agreement. "I'll say. Look, do we have any idea at all whether this bastard is finished with his little rampage?"

Justin said, "There's just no way to know that. Maybe he had only four names on his hit list, or maybe he's got a dozen. So far, we haven't found the common denominator—not a single person with any kind of a grudge that we can connect to all four men."

Kelly spoke up again, saying, "Granted, we haven't yet sifted through the victims' secret lives thoroughly enough to find everything there is to find; these guys kept their secret sins very well hidden. And those sins are all so… varied. I mean, we've got pornography, gambling, embezzlement—and God only knows what Caldwell's secret will be."

"All different," Ethan mused.

She nodded, her blue eyes intent. "Yeah. So maybe we're wasting time combing through the secrets looking for a common denominator, one enemy they all made."

Justin said, "Maybe the secrets are the common denominator."

The third CID detective, Matthew Thorton, agreed with a nod. He looked tired, which wasn't really surprising, his gray eyes bloodshot and graying dark hair somewhat rumpled. "That really is the only thing we're sure of so far—that at least the first three victims led some kind of a secret life. So maybe what we've got here is a killer whose only goal is to expose secrets. Maybe none of them did anything to him personally. Maybe he just plain doesn't like people pretending to be something they aren't."

"Which, if true, is not going to make our jobs any easier," Justin finished with a sigh. "Forget even trying to figure out who the next victim might be. And if this guy doesn't have a tangible connection to the victims, if there's no trail there for us to find, then we've got about zero chance of catching him, unless he makes a mistake."

The sheriff eyed him somewhat grimly. "That's a pretty defeatist attitude."

"Realistic. Serial killers with no connection to their victims get caught when they fuck up. Period." Catching himself belatedly, he added in a much more diffident tone, "At least everything I've read on the subject says so."

After a long moment, Ethan leaned his chair back until it creaked, and shook his head. "I'm still not convinced we've only got one killer here. For one thing, we've got four distinctly different causes of death: poison, drowning, electrocution, and gunshot. How often does a single killer vary his methods over that wide a range?"

"Not often," Justin admitted. "But it happens. Especially if one of his goals is to throw off the police."

"Maybe. But unless you people can uncover George Caldwell's secret life—assuming he had one—or discover some other connection to the first three victims, then I'm inclined to consider his murder as a single crime separate from the other three."

That surprised Justin somewhat. If Ethan Cole was indeed one of Caldwell's blackmail victims, would he be prodding his investigators to look for a motive specific only to that murder? Or was he convinced such a motive would both implicate someone else and surface before anyone could find evidence of Caldwell's secret vice?

Or was Justin totally wrong about the sheriff, seeing reluctance or interference in an investigation when none was actually there?

Kelly said, "He got a phone call from a pay phone just like the others the night before he was killed, that's certain." It wasn't quite an objection, merely a very careful reminder.