Chapter Fifteen
Balancing two cups in a cardboard carrier on her hip, Vicki knocked on the door to Becca’s shop. The lights inside illuminated the small upscale gallery, but all was quiet. She checked her watch. An hour before opening time.
Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed two men jogging along the river. One of them pointed toward the shops farther down the Riverwalk. A tingle jolted through her body. Oh, no. Another body. They found another body.
She rushed down the sidewalk in the direction the jogger had pointed. The muffled scuffs of her tennis shoes on the concrete marked time with her racing heart. Her throat tightened at the thought of whom she might find. Becca, River, or the woman at the pub? She choked back a sob, realizing the odds favored someone she knew.
All too soon she stumbled to a stop, the coffee in the cups she carried splashing and slapping against the plastic lids. Distinctive yellow police tape snapped in the cool morning breeze flowing from the Savannah River. Nearby, a police officer kept watch over a handful of people who gawked at the macabre scene. But Vicki’s gaze traveled beyond them all, riveting on the crisp, white sheet covering the body.
Oh God. This is it. On stiff legs, she shuffled to the line. With each step, her chest tightened, choking the air from her throat. Who is it?
The body lay nestled in the curve of the stone-paved street that exited the Riverwalk up to Bay Street. A sharp gust slashed across the ground, ruffling the edge of the sheet. Mauve fingernails on a pallid, lifeless hand peeked from beneath the starched whiteness. A middle-aged cop standing nearby took notice and hurried over. His eyes wide, his mouth set in a thin line, he bent down and plucked the edge of the sheet, tucking it back in place.
Vicki expelled a short burst of breath, and relief surged through her, leaving her light-headed. Not Becca or River. There’s a chance I can still save them both.
One of the joggers she’d followed to the scene stood on his toes, as though trying to get a better view. “What do you think happened to her?”
“It’s unconfirmed,” a heavyset guy on her left answered. “But I think the killer used a knife.” The distinctive sound of a 35mm camera shutter snapped three times. “She was found by a couple of drunk college students.”
“How utterly gruesome,” the jogger murmured and clutched his partner’s arm. “Robbie and I will be locking our doors tight tonight, that’s for sure.”
“Wouldn’t hurt. Lotta weirdos out there.” Two more snaps came from the camera. “You wouldn’t believe the crazy stuff I’ve seen while tracking down a story.”
Vicki turned toward the guy with the camera. He swiped the back of his hand across his pudgy button nose and gave her a quick once-over through round, wire-rimmed glasses. When his gaze met hers, his eyes widened, filling the circular lenses.
“You.” The single word shotgunned from his mouth. He held up his free hand as though she might strike him and stepped back.
Astonished, Vicki clutched the cardboard carrier, almost dislodging the cups. The guy who’d written the article about her in the paranormal rag, the slimy bastard who’d spouted all those horrible lies about her stood right in front of her. He’d found her, tracked her like a damned bloodhound.
She pointed at him, icy anger coiling in her stomach. “How—?”
“Ms. Victoria Spiere?” a deep, commanding voice interrupted.
She glared at Lenny Johnston then rounded back toward the crime scene and jerked in surprise. Oh my God. It’s him. “Matthew?”
“Ms. Spiere, would you step over here please?” He lifted the police tape, and she scooted beneath.
After straightening, she stared at him. It’d been close to ten years since he’d last made an appearance. He must be almost fifty. And other than an extra line or two at the corners of his eyes, he looked the same as when he’d come to her house and saved her from Scarecrow. He even wore the same type of well-pressed dark suit and tie.
After swift inspection of the crowd, he nodded to the attending police officer, who touched the rim of his police hat in confirmation. Appearing satisfied, Matthew peered down at her. “Ms. Spiere, please come with me.”
He led her to the other side of the street near the end of the stone wall. When he stopped and turned to her, she realized they stood far enough away from both the onlookers and police so their conversation couldn’t be overheard. With his back to the wall, he gave her a quick head-to-toe assessment then scanned their surroundings, his gaze sweeping the area with a soldier’s vigilance.
“There are some things you need to know,” he said, his tone low and serious.
“Yeah.” In an attempt to get him to focus on her, she stood on her toes. “Like what the hell are you doing here?”
That won a second glance. And a raised brow.
“Right to the point, is it? Good.” He nodded, shifted his attention over her shoulder. “I’m here to tell you to watch your step.”
“Well, if you’re referring to the jerk who outed my curse in a national UFO magazine, you’re a little late.” She jerked her thumb, indicating the line of spectators. “He’s probably taking pictures of me for his next big exposé right this second.”
“I’m not referring to Lenny Johnston.”
His response sent an unexpected jolt through her, the cardboard tray almost slipping from her grasp. He knows that scum sucker?
“If not the UFOP hack, then who?” A car door slammed, and she peered over her shoulder. The nose of a smoke-gray Chevy Malibu peeked around the bend in the street. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. “Do you mean Detective Chastain?”
“He’s part of it.” Matthew placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing her attention. “His presence in Savannah isn’t serendipitous. Nor is yours. You’re both part of it.”
“Part of what?” Vicki shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Use your gift, Victoria. So far you’ve stood by, an observer.” He inclined his head toward her. “You need to reach beyond.”
“Reach beyond what?”
“Work with him.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” She shook her head, feelings of helplessness and irritation colliding. “He won’t listen to me. He thinks I’m the murderer.”
“Make him listen.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m still watching over you, but there’s only so much I can do.”
Matthew had always appeared at critical junctures in her life. When she was eight, he saved her from Scarecrow. When she was eighteen, her parents died, and he stopped her from committing suicide. I just turned twenty-eight, and here he is again. Is this another crossroads where Death is shadowing me?
She twisted toward the murder scene. River strode over the convoluted cobblestones, pausing at the police tape blocking the upper part of the street from pedestrians. Detective Dauscher joined him, said something to which River replied. When he looked up, his focus snapped to her, locking with pinpoint accuracy. Somehow, he’d known she was there.
“Vicki,” he called. Ducking beneath the tape, he hurried in her direction.
She pivoted to Matthew, needing to ask how she might convince River she wasn’t a murderer, and found nothing but the stone wall.