A Breath Away Page 2

  The single reason he’d studied law himself. Only so far he had no clue as to who had committed the vile crime or how the killer had eluded the police for two decades. The police referred to it as a cold case—a dead file.

  The file would never be shut until he found his half sister’s killer.

  Jamming the pencil in the electric sharpener, he mentally sorted through the recent cases on his desk. Crow’s Landing had the usual small-town upheavals. Traffic citations. Domestic crimes. A complaint against a stray dog that might be rabid. Not like crime in the big cities. A man murdered in Nashville two days ago. A drive-by shooting in an apartment complex in Atlanta. And this morning, reports of a woman missing in Savannah.

  As if to mock him, the phone trilled. “Sheriff Monroe here.”

  “Sheriff, this is Beula Simms.”

  Oh, Lord. What now?

  “Get out to Jed Baker’s house right away. Your daddy and Jed’s at it again.”

  She didn’t have to say at what; Jed and Grady’s father had hated each other for years. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up and snagged the keys to his patrol car. A headache pounded at his skull, the painkillers he’d managed to swallow barely touching the incessant throbbing. He should have left off the tequila the night before, but the approaching anniversary of his half sister’s death always brought out his dark side, the destructive one.

  And now this call.

  Five minutes later, he screeched up the graveled drive to Baker’s clapboard house. His father and Baker were yelling at each other on the sagging front porch. Grady opened the squad car door and climbed out, although both men seemed oblivious that he’d arrived.

  “You should have left town a long time ago.” His father waved a fist at Jed.

  “I did what I had to do and so did you,” Jed yelled.

  Grady’s father raised a Scotch bottle and downed another swallow, staggering backward and nearly falling off the porch. “But if we’d done things differently, my little girl might be alive. And so would my Teresa.”

  “I know the guilt’s eatin’ at you, Walt.” Jed ran his hand through his sweaty, thinning hair. “We’ll both be burning in hell for keeping quiet.”

  “Hell, I’ve been living there for years.”

  “But you don’t get it—someone’s been asking around.” Jed’s voice sounded raw with panic. “Claims he’s a reporter.”

  His father coughed. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

  “Hell, no, but I don’t like him asking questions. What are we gonna do?”

  “Keep your goddamn mouth shut, that’s what.”

  “I ain’t the one who wanted to blab years ago. And what if he gets to Violet?”

  “It’s always about her. What about what I lost?” Walt lunged at Jed, ripping his plaid shirt and dragging them both to the floor. Jed fought back, and they tumbled down the stairs, wood splintering beneath them, before they crashed to the dirt.

  The late evening heat blistered his back as Grady strode over to them. “Get up, Dad.” He yanked his father off Jed, and the other man rolled away, spitting out dry dirt and brittle grass.

  Walt swung a fist at his son. “Leave us alone!”

  Grady grabbed him by both arms and tried to shake some sense into him. “For God’s sake, Dad, do you want me to haul your ass to jail for the night?”

  Jed swiped a handkerchief across his bloody nose and climbed onto the lowest step. Grady’s father wobbled backward, a trickle of blood seeping from his dust-coated lower lip.

  Grady jerked a finger toward his vehicle. “Get in the damn car before I handcuff you.”

  His father muttered an obscenity as Grady shoved him into the back seat. He slammed the door and glared at Baker. “Are you all right?

  Jed merely grunted.

  “You want to press charges?”

  “No.”

  Grady narrowed his eyes, wondering why Baker would allow his dad to assault him and get away with it. But as usual when the two men fought, neither Jed nor his father offered an explanation. Although this time the conversation had triggered more questions than usual.

  It was senseless to ask, though. Something had happened years ago that had caused a permanent rift between the men. Something they refused to talk about.

  Judging from their conversation, it had to do with Darlene.

  And sooner or later, Grady was going to find out exactly what it was. Then maybe he’d figure out who had killed his sister.

  * * *

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, he pulled up to his dad’s house. The Georgian style two-story had once been impressive, almost stately with its front columns, but had deteriorated in the past twenty years from lack of upkeep. Paint peeled from the weathered boards, shingles had blown off the roof in the recent storm, and the columns needing painting. A sad testament to his father’s life. “You’d better stay put tonight, Dad,” Grady ordered.

  His father staggered toward the den, his face ruddy with rage. “You should have left us alone.”

  “Sleep it off, Dad.” Grady slammed the door and jogged to his car. Dammit, just as he’d expected, his father had clammed up, refusing to talk about his fight with Baker or offer an explanation.

  His nerves shot, Grady reached for a cigarette, then remembered he’d quit smoking for the dozenth time this year. Rummaging through the papers littering the console, he grabbed a piece of Juicy Fruit gum and shoved it in his mouth instead. The shortest span without his Marlboros had been six days. The longest, six months.

  He automatically veered toward the graveyard beside Crow’s Landing Church, the daisies he’d bought for his little sister’s grave a reminder of the reason he’d started smoking in the first place.

  Darlene’s death.

  Everything in his life could somehow be related to that one crucial event. And the fact that her killer had never been caught.

  Twenty years ago today she had been kidnapped. Twenty years ago tomorrow, they had found her dead. He knew his father was in pain. Hell, so was he. Grady had lost his entire family that day.

  He’d never forgive himself for it, either.

  If only he hadn’t stopped to hang out with the boys…If he’d come straight home to watch Darlene, she wouldn’t have set off across the hollow by herself to see that little friend of hers, Violet. And she wouldn’t be dead.

  The small graveyard loomed ahead, shadows of tombstones darkening with age. Some graves were littered with debris, others better tended, a few decorated with artificial flowers. The dank air and smell of freshly turned dirt from a new grave enveloped Grady as he forced his rubbery legs to carry him through the aisles of cement landmarks. It was almost midnight, the day of mourning upon him.

  Night sounds surrounded him, plus the crunch of his boots, the snapping of twigs and leaves. He knelt and traced his finger over the curved lines of Darlene’s name carved in slick marble, then laid the flowers across the headstone, his gaze straying to her mother’s grave beside her. At least the two of them were together; he tried to take solace in that fact. God only knew where his own mother was. She might be dead for all he knew. His father refused to talk about her.

  Grady reached into his pocket and removed the bag of marbles he’d purchased earlier at the Dollar General, fingering each colorful ball as he arranged them in a heart shape on top of the grassy mound. A streetlight in the distance illuminated the colors. A green one with swirls of gold flecks looked almost iridescent, like mother-of-pearl, the cascade of bright reds, oranges, purples and yellows a kaleidoscope of colors against the earth.

  “Come on, Grady, play Barbie dolls with me.” Darlene’s childlike voice echoed in his mind. He automatically pressed a hand over his shirt pocket, where he always carried a green marble. He’d refused to play Barbie with her, though—he’d been too cool. So he’d tried to convince her to play marbles instead. She’d never taken to the game, but she had been enchanted with all the colors, and had started collecting marbles, calling them her jewels.

>   Damn, if he had it to do over again, he would suck it up and play dolls with her.

  He could still picture her angelic little face as she lined her jewels up on the shelf above her bed, those lopsided red pigtails bobbing, the freckles dancing on her pug nose. “Look, Grady, I’m making a rainbow. The green one looks like my eyes. And this chocolate-brown one looks like yours, and this pretty blue one is like Violet’s. And look at this sparkly clear one! I can see through it, just like I can see right through Violet’s eyes sometimes.

  Although he didn’t understand their friendship, Darlene had loved the homely Baker girl. He’d been shocked when Violet hadn’t attended the funeral. But Baker had claimed his daughter had had a breakdown, that he’d had to send her away. And as far as Grady knew, she’d never returned to Crow’s Landing. Maybe she’d totally forgotten Darlene.

  His life might be different if he moved away, too. He might escape the constant reminders of his past. His father. And his guilt. But he didn’t want to escape.

  He wanted revenge.

  * * *

  HE PACED AROUND AND around in a wide circle. The moonlight was bright, bright, bright. The light hurt his eyes. Hurt his eyes. Hurt his eyes. But the circle had to be complete.

  He raised his arm and tore at the hairs. One, two, three.

  No, stop it! he silently cried. He gripped the rocks, inhaling pungent, salty air and the delicious scent of death as he frenziedly twisted his hands over the jagged surface. Then he ground his palms so hard the pointed rocks tore at his skin. The first trickles of blood seeped from the cuts and dripped down his arms. He raised a fist to study the crisscrossed patterns where the streams of blood met, the angle they flowed across, and the thickening at the base of his hand. Snippets of the Cherokee language rolled through his head.

  Gi’ga—blood, the force of life. The scarlet color stirred his loins. Excitement sang through his veins. I am the gi’ga-tsuha’li. One cut, two cuts, three—

  No! He no longer thought in threes. One was his number.

  Three was the first pattern. One for his mommy, one for his daddy and one for him.

  Then he’d learned about another.

  But that one had to die.

  He imagined her sweet, baby lamb’s face with those big trusting eyes. That day he’d heard another voice in his head, ordering him to stop. He’d known there were more. Too many more. He had to make them all die.

  Let them know he was the chosen one.

  But his mommy and daddy found out what he’d done. He hadn’t been careful. No, he’d been stupid, so stupid, and they’d gotten angry. Finally they’d admitted it wasn’t his fault, then they’d called him their little angel. But after that, they’d kept him locked up at night. He despised being shut up. Hated the bare white walls. Had clawed them until blood streaked down, giving them color. Pretty crimson color.

  His mommy needed him now, though. Oh, yes, yes, yes. He couldn’t let her down.

  Laughter bubbled up inside him, erupting like blood bursting from an open vein. Like the dark red substance he drew from the sacrificial lambs before they died. Yes, he was the blood taker, the gi’ga-tsuha’li.

  He was the good son. The only one who could save the father. And he wouldn’t stop until he did.

  His favorite childhood song chimed in his head: “There was one, there were two, there were three little angels….”

  Smiling to himself, he reversed the words. “There were ten, there were nine, there were eight little angels, there were seven, there were six, there were five little angels, there were four, there were three, there were two little angels, one little angel in the band.”

  Yes, when it was over, there would be only one little angel left.

  And it would be him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “THERE WERE TEN, there were nine, there were eight little angels….”

  The childish version of the old rhyme played in Violet’s head as she hurried to her shop the next day. It had been playing all night. Except, oddly, the song was playing backward.

  Goose bumps skated up her arms, but she didn’t understand why. Probably because of the story about the missing woman, Amber Collins.

  The story plagued her. Not that the reporter had mentioned angels or the song, but the girl’s disappearance had triggered paranoias Violet had struggled to overcome her entire life. One of them, that she would meet Darlene’s killer in a crowd and not recognize him. The other, that he knew she and Darlene had shared a connection, and that he would come hunting for her.

  She searched the crowd. Was he here somewhere? Watching her? Had someone in town kidnapped the woman? Was one of them a rapist? A murderer?

  Amber’s picture flashed through her head again. Light blond hair, green eyes. She was only twenty-five. Although Violet didn’t remember all her customers, she’d noticed this girl in the shop the day before. Amber had been especially friendly. Once she’d sampled the pecan pralines, she’d bought five tins, claiming she had a bad habit of eating late at night when she was studying. Violet had laughed because she used to do the same thing, her affinity for café mochas and Snickers bars costing her five pounds every exam week.

  Shaking off the unsettling feeling that she and Amber would have become friends, Violet crossed the street, frowning at the driver of a black sedan who nearly skimmed her knees with his bumper as he raced through the stop sign. The scents of crawfish étouffée, shrimp and beer oozing from Tubby’s Tank House, and the rich aroma of chocolate from Carlotta’s Candy Shop, wafted around her. Unfortunately, the stale smell of too much partying and sweaty bodies lingered from the night before, as well, reminding Violet of the seedy side of Savannah nightlife. The side she avoided.

  The clatter of glasses and the murmur of voices drifted through the balmy summer air, the sidewalk choked with early morning browsers. A couple of homeless men lay sleeping off their liquor in the trash-filled alley. Pigeons pecked along the Savannah River shoreline, searching for crumbs, the occasional blast of a ship’s horn startling them into a skitter. In contrast, the horse-drawn tourist carriages clip-clopped along, adding to the genteel historic atmosphere.

  Her grandmother’s parting words rang in her ears: “Please be careful, Violet. Make sure no one is following you.” She’d shrugged off the warning, knowing her grandmother had been spooked by the report on the missing woman. But she couldn’t dismiss the reality that a madman might be stalking innocent women in Savannah.

  * * *

  GRADY DROVE THROUGH the town square, making his usual noon rounds, still contemplating the argument he’d heard between his father and Baker. Why was someone asking questions about a twenty-year-old murder? And why did his dad and Baker want to keep quiet? His father had claimed he wanted Darlene’s killer caught….

  In fact, her unsolved murder had been an obsession with both Monroe males. The absence of Darlene at the dinner table had not only ended the family Sunday night dinner tradition, it had torn them apart completely. His dad had begun substituting liquor-for-one for the family meal. Booze and anger, a deadly combination that had grown worse over the years.

  Grady had borne the brunt of his temper.

  Because he was responsible.

  The fact that he and Darlene hadn’t shared the same mother hadn’t made a difference to Grady; the guilt had been the same. And his father had never let him forget that he should have been home watching her the day she’d been kidnapped.

  Wiping sweat from his brow, Grady scanned the streets, passing the hardware store, the small bookstore Serena James had opened last year, and the barbershop the Chutney couple manned together. He parked in front of the Redbud Café, cut the engine and headed inside.

  The homey scents of fried chicken, meat loaf, green beans and apple pie floated through the ancient establishment. Adobe-colored tablecloths and curtains in turquoise matched the clay-colored laminate tops of the booths and tables. The pale yellow walls held a wide assortment of framed Indian arrowheads, spears and pipes, showcas
ing the owner, Laney Longhorse’s, penchant for preserving the history of the area. She loved reciting tales of the ancient customs, especially the religious tribal dances and traditions. Some of them were pretty damn eerie. As were those bone artifacts displayed on the wall. Her son, Joseph, collected them. Grady wondered if he’d found them or killed the animals first, then hung them to show off his hunting skills.

  Kerry Cantrell, an attractive blonde a few years younger than him, offered a flirty smile and sauntered toward him. She’d been throwing out vibes for months. Maybe one day he’d ask her out. Then again, that would piss off Joseph Longhorse, who worked at the diner. The Native American had been chasing Kerry ever since she’d moved to Crow’s Landing. He already hated Grady, had since he was a child, although Grady didn’t know why. He’d actually tried to stand up for the kid one time, but Joseph had snarled that he didn’t want or need Grady’s help.

  “Hey, Grady. Want some sweet potato pie with that coffee?” Or a piece of me, her eyes suggested.

  “Pie sounds good.” He contemplated her silent offer. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. They always wanted more than he could give.

  She handed him the dessert, letting her fingers brush his knuckles. “Anything else you want, you just holler, sweetie.”

  Joseph suddenly appeared through the back door, his shoulder-length black hair tied into a ponytail with a leather thong, his black eyes blazing fire at Grady. Shit, let the man have her. He sure as hell wasn’t getting into a fight over a woman. That close call with Luanne years ago had taught him better sense. No woman could understood his obsession with solving Darlene’s murder.

  Besides, Kerry had that look about her that said she wanted the whole package.

  “Kerry, can we get some service over here?” Bart Stancil, a crotchety old man who practically lived on the vinyl bar stool, flicked a wrinkled hand.

  Kerry winked at Grady, then pranced toward Bart, coffeepot in hand.

  Grady ate his pie in silence, studying the other regulars. Agnes Potts and Blanche Haney, two widow women who organized the Meals on Wheels program at the church, waved at him from their biscuits and hash browns, while a teenage couple cuddled in the corner, feeding each other ice cream sundaes.