Unseen (15 page)

But the man she was watching had other things on his mind, too. He casually dropped money on the table and headed out the door. A girl on a bike was just arriving and he and the girl exchanged glances. Wolf read it like it was a newspaper. Sex steamed between them.

And then his witch jumped up and flew out of the diner on the man’s heels. Wolf had to scramble to leave money on the table for the coffee and danish that hadn’t even arrived yet.

He followed her out. The man she was after climbed in a van and moved away. The witch followed in a silver car. Wolf hurried after them as best he could without calling too much attention to himself. As he passed by the girl on the bike she assessed him with sharp eyes. He purposely averted his face and climbed in the truck and nearly spun gravel in his haste to catch up with the witch.

He knew what she wanted with the man. What her kind always wanted. And though the guy’s desire for young girls pulled at him, the witch would win. She would take him down. She would tie him up with invisible threads and when he was naked and vulnerable she would finish him off.

Wolf pictured himself riding her, strangling her, burning her. But then the witch in the white skirt and hooker heels came into his fantasy, and she was laughing. Laughing at him. He ripped at her clothes and they turned into brown shorts and a shirt, which made her laugh harder.

He suddenly came to and realized night had fallen in earnest. He’d been in the truck for hours. For a moment he thought maybe she’d come home and he’d missed her, but as if his brain had awakened for just this moment, he saw the black Corvette’s headlights pull into the lot and turn toward the back lot.

His mouth turned into a cruel smile. Soon…soon…

But he’d misjudged. He stared in fury as she appeared from the back stairs, hanging on a young man whose mouth was all over her neck and hair. The witch was giggling. Wolf’s rage boiled upward and a growl ripped from his throat.

They didn’t hear. They were struggling with each other at the door. Fumbling. Squealing. The bastard actually gave her a few humps against the door, which sent her into new peals of laughter.

Oh, she was filthy.

He clenched his fists. The man wouldn’t be leaving. He had no car.

The wolf pondered what this meant.

He thought about it for nearly an hour before he climbed out of the truck and flipped open the GemTop. Leaning in over the tailgate, he popped up the lid to his tool box, fumbling until his hand closed over the wrench. Holding it close to his body, he bent his head, moved to the back of the building, then climbed up the rear stairs. He stepped noiselessly to the window, listening hard. He could hear nothing. He suspected they were both long passed out.

Carefully, he eased the window upward, aware that the pane was just sitting in the casing and could slide out and fall to the ground if he wasn’t careful. But he was extremely careful. The sudden exposure to the night air sent the curtains shivering inward and he caught a glimpse of them on the bed. The man was on his stomach, out cold. The witch was lying beside him on her back, completely naked. Her mouth was open but her eyes were closed. The stench of alcohol nearly overpowered him; the wolf was sensitive to scents.

Her hooker heels were tossed on the floor. Her white skirt bunched and tossed aside. Her bra and panties mixed in the pile. Her uniform part of the overall mess.

The wolf carefully took out the window pane and put it on the deck outside the window, then he pushed the casing up farther and dropped himself inside the room. He landed with a loud thud but neither of them noticed.

This wasn’t right. He wanted her to fight. To
know
! The power of the wolf was complete. She was going to die by his hand. Die because she deserved to go back to hell.

And then the man turned over and lifted his head, gazing blearily at the wolf. “Whad da fuck?” he murmured, reaching a leg over the bed.

The wolf moved quickly and slammed the man’s head with the wrench. His body tumbled to the floor, going down hard. Wolf felt for a pulse at his neck. It was there. Good. He didn’t want to kill him. He was a victim of the witch, too.

And now the witch was his. Wolf climbed atop her and rubbed himself over her. When that didn’t wake her up he licked the side of her face but she tasted like sweat. Evil. Sick. Rotting. He slapped her lightly across the face and she moaned but didn’t wake up.

“Witch,” he whispered. “Whore.”

Slowly she opened her eyes. “Phil?” she said.

The wolf suddenly remembered the dead eyes of his brother. In a fury, he clapped his hand over her mouth and pinned her hard to the bed.

“Die,” he ordered. His hands circled her throat.

Feebly she reached upward, trying to fight him off. Her body stiffened as she came fully awake but the alcohol still made her dull. Her fingers clawed against the bandage at his neck, ripping it loose.

Wolf’s erection failed him and for that he threw back his head and roared. He squeezed her throat. Squeezed and squeezed.

“Witch. Witch! You killed my brother!”

Her eyes rolled upward but he heard her laughter. Another witch’s laughter. Inside his head. Louder and louder and louder!

When he came to it was a long time later. Or maybe it was just minutes. But the man was still in the room, lying beside the bed, out cold but breathing heavily. The witch was staring in silent death at the ceiling.

Hurriedly he pulled out his matches and cigarettes. He couldn’t take her with him to burn. He couldn’t risk it. Things hadn’t gone as planned.

But he could sear her flesh. Purify her.

He lit the match and stared at the flame a long moment before touching it to the end of the cigarette.

Chapter Twelve

The diner was bustling as Gemma ripped an order from her notepad and clipped it to the circular stainless-steel drum for Milo. She picked up the plates for table seven, two burger specials, which meant they were complete with fries and “Macie’s secret sauce,” a form of thousand island dressing. Depositing the burgers, she turned to the booth that had just been occupied, but the elderly couple were still settling themselves down and were a good five minutes away from even picking up the menus.

Gemma had a moment to stare out the front window, which Macie and Charlotte had strung with little jack o’lantern lights—tiny plastic pumpkins surrounding string lights. Outside a stiff breeze was rounding up curled leaves and whirling them into frenzied eddies. The sky was gray, rain looming, but as yet still waiting in the clouds.

The lunchtime crowd was winding down. Gemma had worked half a week and was getting used to the tiredness in her arms and legs. She made a face, grimacing hugely, testing the muscles in her face. Tingly pain and soreness, but the bruising was all but gone. If you didn’t look at her too closely, for all intents and purposes, apart from the pinkish tinge of blood in one eye, she looked almost normal.

She hadn’t needed to call Dr. Tremaine Rainfield, as it turned out. His father had told him about Gemma and the younger Dr. Rainfield had called her. Reluctantly, because she didn’t know if this was the right plan of attack or not, Gemma had agreed to see him. Her appointment was tomorrow, her day off.

For the better part of the week she’d been thinking about her mother’s car and trying to figure out which ditch it had landed in. If it were on the side of Highway 26, which was the road she was almost certain she’d been driving, then why hadn’t anyone found it? If the license plate had been reported as an abandoned car, word would have reached Detective Tanninger by now. And if he had that information he would have reappeared on Gemma’s doorstep.

So, where was it?

As Gemma pondered, she saw Little Tim come loping toward LuLu’s front door. She greeted him and showed him to a booth, inwardly sighing at the way his eyes moved over her body. It didn’t take a mind reader to know what was going on in his head and Gemma wished like mad that he would get over this sexual attraction because it was damn uncomfortable. She liked Tim and would have liked to be his friend, but things were just too awkward between them.

“You came for the peach cobbler,” she said.

“I wanna go to the quarry with you,” he insisted.

“I know, Tim, but I told you I have a boyfriend.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’ll get your peach cobbler.” He stared down at the table’s faux wood Formica tabletop.

“I don’t have money.”

“I’m buying it for you. As a friend,” she told him, then went to retrieve a piece of the dessert.

She caught Macie’s eye and Macie sauntered over to the table as Gemma served Tim. “The peach cobbler,” Macie said. “You know, it’s put us on the map, Tim. People driving back and forth to the coast stop at Quarry just to have my peach cobbler. It was my Granny Gert’s recipe. We’re like a must-do tourist stop ever since we were on morning TV. You know that?”

“Uh-uh.” He gazed at her, wide-eyed.

“Yep. All summer long. I’m having to go with canned peaches now, but it’s still darn good.”

Tim pulled his gaze from Macie and attacked the cobbler with his fork. He shoved a massive bite in his mouth. “Ish good,” he mumbled.

“You say hi to your mama for me,” Macie said, pulling Gemma away. “He’s got a real thing for you, hon. It’s kinda sweet and kind of a problem.”

“Maybe he’s the one who left the note on my porch.”

Macie squinted at her. “Y’think?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

“Wha’d it say again?”

“
I see into your soul
.”

“Just doesn’t sound like Little Tim, y’know?”

Gemma had to agree.

“Have you gotten any more notes?” Macie asked.

“Just the one. That’s why I thought it might be Tim, since I don’t feel…under siege. If I had a real stalker, someone intent on harming me, I think it would be different.”

“I hope you’re right. Did you tell that detective about it?”

“Hell, no.”

Her firm denial brought a smile to Macie’s face. “You got a problem with your law enforcement friend, hon?”

“I just don’t want him anywhere near me.”

Macie’s heavily shadowed and mascaraed eyes twinkled with merriment. “Now, why do I think that has nothing to do with that hit-and-run case he’s been dogging after. You’re a little taken with him, aren’t ya?”

“I don’t want him to send me to prison,” Gemma answered tightly.

“What do you want him to do?”

Her insinuations scraped along Gemma’s nerves. She deliberately changed the subject. “Davinia Noack keeps calling. I don’t know how many ways I can say no and still not get through.”

“Oh, give her a reading. You sure turned off Sally Van Kamp. That woman has nothing nice to say about your abilities anymore. You know that. She was in here yesterday and just was being so loud and spiteful.”

“She left a casserole dish with me,” Gemma said glumly.

“Better get it back to her before she adds that to your list of transgressions.”

“If I give her any encouragement at all, she’ll be right back at my door.”

“Well, aren’t you the cocky one.”

“I read minds, remember?”

Macie laughed. “Oh, give ’em what they want. What’s it gonna hurt? And take their money, too. You got a gift, use it.”

“You’re a lot of help.”

“I just don’t know what you’re fighting, hon. You were given this ability for a reason. Just go with it.”

Gemma had no intention of doing as Macie suggested, but she was done talking about it. Pulling off her apron, she said, “Think I’ll take off now.” She’d been working since the crack of dawn and her shift was over.

“See you tomorrow,” Macie said over her shoulder.

“I’ve got an appointment in the early afternoon,” Gemma reminded. “Have to leave a little bit early. Have you got someone to fill in?”

“Oh, Heather should be able to get a ride by then,” Macie snorted. “Don’t you worry.”

On her way home Gemma yawned like she’d been up for days. She yanked on the truck’s emergency brake and let herself in the back door. She hadn’t been sleeping all that well and it had really caught up with her. Kicking off her shoes, she flopped onto the living room couch and was instantly asleep.

It was the longest English class in the history of English classes, Charlotte determined as her teacher, Mrs. Ondine, rambled on about the story they were to write. Three paragraphs minimum. Subject being something to do with Halloween. And remember the topic sentence at the beginning of each paragraph.

Charlotte stared at her blank sheet of paper, then looked up at the clock, then around the room at her other classmates. Halloween was a time for candy and spooky costumes and fake blood. It shouldn’t be an
assignment
, she thought scornfully. Way to smash the fun right out of it.

She quickly wrote a topic sentence:
Halloween is the funnest holiday of the year.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Christmas was good, too, although Thanksgiving was just about eating a big meal, and though turkey was okay, Charlotte wasn’t convinced pumpkin pie was all that great. There was no way Thanksgiving could even compete with Christmas or Halloween.

She erased the sentence and went the other way:
Halloween is a holiday where bad things happen. Candy, for bad tooth-aches. Scary costumes for scaring the shit out of little kids.
As soon as she wrote it down, Charlotte erased
shit
. That wouldn’t work. Mrs. Ondine would call her mother and blah, blah, blah, more trouble would start.

She twiddled her pencil, thinking, thinking, thinking. This paper was too hard.

She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to the bell, but then another class.

Charlotte looked up and saw that Mrs. Ondine was staring her down in that teachery way that said she was way ahead of her. Bending her head to her task, Charlotte decided she would look busy as a bee. But when the bell rang, she was outta here.

Damn, she wished she had her bike.

Lucky drove down the road in a daydream. She was in a truck, lost to memories, most of them uncomfortable. It was late afternoon and shadows were crawling over the road. The sun had dipped behind the Coast Range and she was somewhat aimlessly traveling down roads, lanes really, that crisscrossed this large, flat, open area of land that led into Laurelton, Hillsboro, Beaverton, and Portland beyond.

A sign appeared on her right:
WELCOME TO WOODBINE. POPULATION
3,002.

Who were the extra two? she wondered.

Letton was dead. Gone. Kaput. The whole world knew now because Channel Five with the evening news had interviewed the girl Lucky had saved. Carol Pellter had given an interview, saying she was sorry somebody had to die but he’d been a pretty bad man. Someone else had suggested that God worked in mysterious ways, but Carol hadn’t been interested in sharing the spotlight with anyone, even God, so she’d tartly reminded that if it weren’t for her nameless friend—a good Samaritan, her father inserted self-consciously—then Carol would be checked out by now and it wouldn’t be pretty, gosh darn it.

Letton’s nutty wife, Mandy, had tearfully proclaimed that the sheriff’s department wasn’t doing its job. No one cared that her husband had been murdered! No one cared that the woman in the hospital who’d run her poor husband down had been given a pass!

The news channel’s announcer had taken over then, reminding the station’s viewers that the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department was indeed still looking into Edward Letton’s death, and any information regarding the “avenger” who’d run him down in a silver car would be greatly appreciated. (They wouldn’t go so far as to label Lucky a good Samaritan.) They’d been continually interviewing persons of interest but no arrests had been made.

The woman in the hospital…

Lucky’s brows knit together. She wondered if that little slip on local TV had been purposeful. A clue. A way to direct the attention of the public toward what local law enforcement wanted.

Bastards.

She drove through the main street of Woodbine: a grocery market, a lumber store, and a building with office space for lease around a tired-looking flooring shop where the carpet samples in the window looked like they’d been there since the fifties.

The woman in the hospital.

She turned the truck around and drove through Woodbine again. There was something breathless and dead about the place. One of those forgotten half-towns that seemed to be locked in another era.

Ten minutes later she was driving through Quarry, population 5,577. It was like moving through a memory. Her senses were both heightened and dulled. She’d experienced this sensation many times, ever since she could start remembering.

Surprisingly, she wasn’t feeling as satisfied as she’d hoped. Yes, she was glad Letton was dead. But there were others. Sometimes, when she was just walking through a store she sensed them, like she had Letton. Other times they seemed to come to her as she was just sitting in her car, like now, although she only had a strange, insubstantial feeling.

She drove on and saw a girl walking down the road toward her. As she passed, the girl lifted a hand and waved and Lucky waved back.

Now, what was that about?

Lucky watched her in the rearview mirror and the girl looked back at her. A cold feeling slipped down her spine.

That girl knows me.

How?

Sheriff Nunce’s office was packed with personnel. Will and Barb were there, as was the noxious Burl Jernstadt, naturally. Nunce’s forehead was a series of furrows, like a child’s depiction of ocean waves.

“I’m not saying I’m forgetting about the woman who killed Letton, Burl,” Nunce said with weary patience. “I’m saying we’ve got another case that’s in the forefront.”

“Laurelton PD’s jurisdiction,” Burl argued.

“We’re working it together,” Nunce reminded.

Burl waved a hand, as if swatting a fly. “But that psycho LaPorte woman killed him, that’s what I’m saying. She’s batty and unpredictable. She’ll go after somebody else.”

“I heard someone leaked her name to the press,” Nunce said.

Will turned toward Burl. Barb, smiling faintly, followed suit. Jimbo stopped in the office doorway and snorted. “The LaPorte woman should get a medal.”

“She’s a killer,” Burl retorted. “Don’t care how much you and Tanninger want to get in her pants.”

“Shut up, Burl,” Will said.

“Shut up, yourself.” He was offended.

Jimbo moved off, the tail of his plaid shirt billowing behind him. It wasn’t a closed meeting; that wasn’t Nunce’s style. But Will would have given a lot to get Burl ousted once and for all.

Nunce raised a finger, as if schooling two errant boys. “Burl, you’re here because I’m letting you be. Will, bring us up-to-date on the Selbourne case.”

“I talked to McNally. They’re tracing Selbourne’s movements on the last few days of her life, canvassing Portland bars. I got the name of a friend of hers from the hospital, someone she partied with, DeeAnna Brush. Maybe we’ll get some answers soon.

“This morning we got a call from Don Enders at the Clatsop County Sheriff’s Department. Another woman’s body was found, strangled and burned with cigarettes. A lot like the Selbourne case but she wasn’t taken to a separate site after he killed her. Jamie Markum’s body was left in her apartment.”

“Think it’s the same killer?” Nunce asked.

“Could be,” Barb answered before Will could respond. “Clatsop County is sending over pictures. Apparently, there was a man with her when she was attacked.”

“A man? What do you mean?” Burl frowned hard at Barb as if he thought she was lying.

“Enders says the guy was her date,” Will said. “Went back to her apartment with her. They had sex. Seems to have been an ongoing thing between them. She goes to a certain bar in Seaside. He’s already there. She pretends she’s a hooker even though she’s a delivery person for To You Today. He acts like a big wheel, though by day he’s a grocery clerk.”