Ultraviolet (46 page)

I wasn’t sure I believed it.

There were voices behind me. Alarmed voices. A sense of urgent scurrying.

Melinda stumbled back from me. The gun dropped with a thud into the muck beneath our feet, companion to her cell phone.

She said, “You shot me.”

I blinked. Stared blankly. Didn’t say that she was wrong.

She pressed her hand to her stomach, holding her white coat close.

I backed away from her, dimly aware that I felt no pain. None. I wasn’t hurt.

She lifted her hand, looked at the palm. A smear of red showed. It lay in streaks on her white coat. Not a lot of blood. Yet.

She turned. The back of her coat showed dark red around a small tear. An exit wound. The bullet was somewhere in the park.

She took two steps and collapsed.

I bent over her. There was a rushing in my head. A sense of my world shrinking, a loss of peripheral vision. My old buddy shock was trying to take over. I drew several deep, cleansing breaths and my head cleared.

Melinda lay on her side, her eyes open, her white coat soaking up dirty water. She made some sound, garbled words, that I couldn’t understand.

Then with a sigh, her body relaxed and she fell into sudden, limp death.

EPILOGUE

I
forgot about Thanksgiving.

And damned if some thief didn’t pick up my rum cake and run off with it while I was trying to sort things out with the Lake Chinook police. Talk about low. Between the harrowing events of the weekend and the loss of my precious cake, I spent the next week disoriented, tired and needing time to recover. Maybe that was an excuse. Maybe battling with Keegan, discovering Dante’s body and having Melinda die in front of me created its own form of illness and I just needed to shut down.

Once again I’d been taken into custody by the Lake Chinook police. Once again I found myself explaining what had happened. Once again Dwayne and Vince Larrabee came to my rescue, relating all the pieces of the story in my defense.

I sure was going to owe a lot of quid pro quo to Larrabee.

Violet greeted the news of Melinda’s death with shock and horror, emotions almost immediately superseded by glee and relief as she was finally cleared. She celebrated by becoming CMC’s new hostess, and George Tertian’s girlfriend. Knowing Violet, I suspect she might be planning to make that relationship something more personal and permanent. After Rol-Ex, maybe it was time for husband number four.

On Thursday morning I took my dog for a walk, lifting my arms to a surprisingly nice day. Cold, yes. A bit gray, okay. But the sun was trying hard to stay ahead of the clouds, and the sky seemed higher and lighter than it had in weeks.

About nine o’clock Cynthia called and reminded me of the holiday.

I responded with a total lack of enthusiasm. I told her I couldn’t come. I was sorry, but I just…couldn’t. She said it was okay. She understood I’d had a tough week. She didn’t mind. She would bring some food by later in the afternoon. She hung up before I could argue with her. I called back, but she sounded remarkably cheery and determined that it was okay. Things had changed, she said, sounding slightly mysterious. She would tell me about it later when she stopped by.

I got in my car and drove directly to Dwayne’s. I’d spoken to him several times while I’d cocooned myself and he’d talked about the cases beginning to percolate. I’d tried to keep my mind on them, but honestly, I was currently simply not interested.

To my consternation, he was loading up his surveillance car with an overnight bag when I arrived at his cabana. “What’s this?” I asked.

“I’m heading to Seattle to see my sister. No, I don’t want to go. Yes, I’m a masochist. Yes, my stepmama will be there and will find a way to eviscerate me.” He slid me a look and a smile. “But I’m a little good at that, too.”

His drawl was deep today. I had an insane desire to throw myself in his arms and demand he take me to his bedroom and make love until the damned holiday was over.

Instead, I said, “Drive carefully. There are idiots out there.”

He said, “Tell Cynthia hello.”

I said, “Cynthia’s coming to my house and bringing food. Something’s happened. She sounds…happy, though.”

He said, “Must not have to do with family.”

And then he turned to me and for a moment I held my breath. We shared a look. That kind of scary awareness that sometimes we act on, sometimes we don’t. I thought he was going to touch my face, or my hair, or kiss me, or something. He settled for a good-bye hug. I wondered if I held on a little longer, would something shift between us? I suspected it would.

I let him go.

Forty minutes later I was through a cold shower, dressed in my traditional Thanksgiving sweats, wringing water from my hair, when my doorbell pealed.

Expecting Cynthia, I was surprised to find Booth on my doorstep. Booth with a row of four earrings on the edge of one ear. Booth with shaggy, unkempt hair and an equally unkempt beard. My twin looks a lot like me, same hazel eyes, same light brown hair. He’s always been more driven, more serious, more intense than I, but now he looked downright guy-tough and scary, exhibiting that kind of gangish, urban, dangerous aura that’s so popular these days, and which I don’t quite get.

“Wow,” I said.

“What happened to your eye?” he asked, to which I shrugged.

Binkster came over, wiggling and excited, but it was a bit tempered. Not as wildly effusive as she can be. I didn’t blame her.

Booth bent to pet her and I took it as a good sign as he’d been less than thrilled to learn I had a dog when Binks first landed on my doorstep. The extra attention garnered him a quick doggie lick on the lips. “That’s huge,” I told him as I closed the door behind him. “She doesn’t give out kisses to just anyone.”

Booth wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She have all her shots?”

“Except rabies. I kind of took a stand on that one. Don’t think it’s necessary.”

Booth actually smiled.

“What brings you here?” I asked.

“It’s Thanksgiving.”

“Like that’s something we care about.”

Booth sank onto my couch. He seemed tired, yet pent-up at the same time. I decided right then and there that working undercover for long periods of time is detrimental to one’s health. “Cynthia said we were meeting at your place.”

“Cynthia,” I repeated. Not
your friend
Cynthia. Not
that friend of yours who owns the art gallery
Cynthia. Just Cynthia. “I didn’t know you knew her that well.”

He didn’t answer.

“I’ve never known her to play the ‘let’s get the family together’ card before,” I said, watching him. “Is Sharona coming by, too?”

“Sharona and I broke up,” he said.

My shoulders sagged. “Over your undercover assignment?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Jane.” He narrowed his gaze on me. “I talked to Vince Larrabee about you.”

“If you’re going to start in with all the ‘you can’t do the job’ bullshit, save it.”

“What do I know?” Booth said with a shrug of his shoulders.

This was so unlike him that I stared. I asked him a few questions about what he’d been up to, but he said it involved drugs, gangs and a seamy underbelly of life that he didn’t really want to go into.

Cynthia showed up about an hour later and Booth and I helped her carry sacks and trays of food inside. She pulled out a couple of bottles of wine, chattering in a way I found faintly disturbing. She wasn’t acting like herself at all. Her friend/chef had prepared everything in advance. The turkey was ready to pop into the oven, which she did with a flourish, shutting the oven door with her hip. In a gray skirt and sweater, and silver chunky jewelry, she made me feel pretty damn low-class in my sweats.

“Did you lose the memo on the dress code?” I groused.

She laughed merrily. Now I really stared. “Cynthia” and “merrily” don’t go together. And then I saw the way she looked at Booth from under her lashes, and I read the faint smile on his lips.

It was like a
zing
of energy shot across the room.

I was horrified. “Oh no. You’re not—”

Booth said, “I walked into the Black Swan one afternoon.”

Cynthia sat down on the couch beside him, her eyes all over him. “It was lust at first sight.”

“What about Sharona?”

“She broke it off, Jane,” Booth replied. “I didn’t.”

“But…I’m sorry…you were…so in love.” They were freaking me out. Nobody could change that fast. Nobody.

“Her ex came back into her life,” Booth said with a trace of bitterness. “Criminal defense attorney. Just like her. Being undercover, that’s just been an excuse.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. I hadn’t realized until this moment that I’d depended on Booth and Sharona’s relationship. Believed it was the bedrock of true love.

Cynthia and Booth both looked at me. I couldn’t come up with an appropriate response. I don’t know how other people feel about their friends getting together with members of their family, but yikes. It looked bad to me.

“Maybe I need a drink,” I said and turned toward the kitchen.

My cell phone buzzed. I snatched it up like a lifesaver. Something to rescue me from the terrible complications of life.

Please, please, let it be Dwayne, saying he’s turned around.

“Hey, Jane!” Chuck’s voice boomed. “I bought your cottage! Signed the agreement last night. I’m gonna be your landlord. Woohoo! What do you think about that!”

ONE BY ONE, THEY’LL DIE…

Years ago, wild child Jessie Brentwood vanished from St. Elizabeth’s High School. Most in Jessie’s tight circle of friends believed she simply ran away. Few suspected that Jessie was hiding a shocking secret—one that brought her into the crosshairs of a vicious killer…

UNTIL THERE’S NO ONE LEFT…

Two decades pass before a body is unearthed on school grounds and Jessie’s old friends reunite to talk. Most are sure that the body is Jessie’s, that the mystery of what happened to her has finally been solved. But soon, Jessie’s friends each begin to die in horrible, freak accidents that defy explanation…

BUT
HER…

Becca Sutcliff has been haunted for years by unsettling visions of Jessie, certain her friend met with a grisly end. Now the latest deaths have her rattled. Becca can sense that an evil force is shadowing her too, waiting for just the right moment to strike. She feels like she is going crazy. Is it all a coincidence—or has Jessie’s killer finally returned to finish what was started all those years ago?

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at

WICKED GAME,
by

Lisa Jackson and Nancy Bush

Coming in February 2009!

St. Elizabeth’s campus, February, 1999, midnight…

T
he girl rushed headlong through the maze, stumbling, grazed across the face by a poking branch. She cried out softly in surprise, clapped a hand to her cheek. Blood welled against her fingers.

This was wrong. Impossibly wrong.

It shouldn’t be this way! Couldn’t!

Glancing behind her, she listened hard, deafened by her own heartbeats. She wasn’t lost. She knew where she was. She knew the twists and turns that would take her to the maze’s center and out again.

But she felt fear—true fear—for the first time in her life, because he
knew
about her. How could he?
How could he?
When she’d spent so many years—her entire life, it seemed!—learning the truth about herself.

And now he was here, following her, brought to the maze by her own invitation.

But things weren’t going right. Not like she’d planned. Somehow the hunter had become the hunted.

He couldn’t know…unless…he was
one of them.

She heard something. A noise…a sibilant hiss…

What
was
that?

She froze, hands up, as if to ward off danger, her body quivering, poised on the balls of her feet, panting.
He was here!
He’d entered the maze. She could hear him now, easily, as he was making no effort to disguise his approach. Was he alone? She thought he was alone. He
should
be alone. She’d set this up so he
would
be alone, but now she didn’t know. Didn’t know…

And that’s where the fear came in, because she
always
knew. That was her gift. She always knew. That’s why they hadn’t been able to keep the truth from her. That’s why she’d found out who they were and who she was, even though they’d tried hard to keep her from learning.

For her own safety, they’d said.

And now…now she was beginning to understand what they’d meant.

She strained to listen, her heart pounding, her fear mounting. He was walking through the maze. Unhurried. Undeterred. Making all the right turns. Were there more than one set of footsteps? Someone else? She couldn’t be sure.

And she couldn’t stay where she was.

As stealthily as possible, she edged onward, toward the center of the maze, toward the statue. She’d always been slightly leery of the ghostly Madonna, but now she wanted with all her heart to reach it. Her need to find it was like a hunger, something she could almost cry out for if she dared on this dark night. Sanctuary. Safety.

Or so she hoped.

Fear filled her veins with ice. Paralyzing. Cold. Freezing her so thoroughly it felt as if her blood might solidify is she ceased moving.

She rounded a final corner and the statue of Mary suddenly appeared, arms uplifted, greeting her in pale white, accompanied by the shiver of the branches and the musty smell of dead leaves and mud. The girl stumbled and a tiny stick snapped beneath her shoe. She glanced backward, crouched, poised like a hunted animal. Behind her, in the maze, he came onward, steadily. She knelt at the statue and mouthed, “Mother Mary, save my soul…”