A Breath Away

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, showcasing 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.

Tate, the incompetent sheriff Grady had replaced a few months ago, folded his beefy body over a stool, glaring at him. Tate had bungled Darlene’s murder investigation years ago. Unfortunately, the man owned half the town and was now mayor, which meant Grady still had to work with him.

Mavis Dobbins and her son, Dwayne, claimed their usual corner booth. Dwayne was in his thirties now, but he’d had some sort of accident at age fourteen that had triggered a psychotic break. If Grady remembered correctly, the doctors diagnosed him as bipolar. He still lived with his mama. Dwayne laid out three sugar packets for his coffee, then ordered his usual—three eggs, three biscuits, three slices of bacon.

Grady pushed away the remaining pie, his stomach churning. Years ago, when Dwayne was sixteen, Grady’s dad had paid him to do yardwork. When Grady had noticed him watching Darlene, he’d threatened to beat him up if he touched her. He’d always wondered if Dwayne had something to do with Darlene’s disappearance.

The lunch crowd drifted in slowly, and Grady caught a sharp look from Ross Wheeler. The minister’s son, Wheeler was a former teacher who’d lost his job because of complaints of sexual misconduct from female students at the high school. Wheeler had denied the charges, and they’d finally been dropped, but his reputation as an educator had been ruined. Grady had been shocked when Wheeler stayed in Crow’s Landing. He still hadn’t decided whether the man had been guilty or victimized.

Grady tossed a few bills on the counter, nodding goodbye to Kerry as he walked to the door. Maybe he’d ride up and check out that rabid dog report. Not much else to do today.

Tonight he’d look over the files on Darlene’s case. One more time.

Outside, he noticed Laney Longhorse talking to his father. She turned in a huff, then gathered a group of Cherokee children into a circle. Her long gray braid swung around her shoulders as she spoke. “The power of the circle,” she said, crooked teeth shining. “Just as the sky is round, and the stars and the moon. The sun comes forth and goes down again in a circle. The seasons form a circle in their changing, always come back to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.”

Grady nodded, accustomed to her aphorisms, but Tate and a few of the other locals protested her storytelling, especially when she shared Native American folklore with the Caucasian kids. His father was watching her, too, a frown on his face. Odd how some of the town and the natives mixed, while others let prejudices fester like old sores. As did his dad and Baker.

Just as Grady reached his police car, the radio crackled. He pushed the respond button, but static rippled over the connection. He tapped the speaker, frustrated with the inadequate equipment. “Sheriff Monroe. Over.”

“Monroe…” More static. “Jim Logan here.” His deputy’s voice sounded raspy, as if he’d been running.

What’s up?”

“I’m out at Briar Ridge. You’d better get over here.”

“Trouble?”

“Definitely.” Logan paused. “We found a dead body over the cliff.”

AS VIOLET ENTERED Strictly Southern, she steered her mind toward business. Thankfully, tourists already crowded the gift shop. Children shrieked over the cheap souvenirs, women were gushing over the Savannah cookies and pecans, and teenagers were choosing colorful T-shirts of River Street and scenes from the movie Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

“Am I glad to see you, dear,” Mrs. Guthrie chirped. “We’ve been busy as bees this morning. Just sold the last of those lovely notecards of yours.”

“Good.” Violet removed more notecards of Savannah sights from her bag and arranged them on the display. That steady work, plus her commissioned sketches of the town and historical buildings, had earned her a decent income in Charleston, where she’d lived before. When she’d moved to Savannah, she’d supplied the store with the same type of merchandise, and two weeks ago had bought the gift shop herself.

“These are wonderful,” Mrs. Guthrie exclaimed. “Would you paint a portrait of my granddaughter one day?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t paint people,” Violet said softly. Especially children. To draw faces right she had to delve inside people’s heads. It was too personal. Too painful. Especially when Darlene’s face flashed into her mind.

“That’s too bad. I’m sure you’d do a beautiful job.” The woman fluttered a hand. “Damon sold the sketches you put in the art gallery. He said one customer wanted to talk to you about showing some of your pieces in Atlanta.”

Nerves sputtered in Violet’s stomach. “What did you tell him?”

“Don’t worry, hon. I know you like your privacy so I didn’t give him your address.” She removed a business card from her apron pocket. “He left this, though, and asked if you’d call him.”

“Sure.” Stuffing it in her pocket, she headed to her office, where she spent the afternoon ordering new stock. Around five, she picked up a pack of her grandmother’s favorite hickory coffee and shortbread cookies, then walked to the market.

A navy ship had docked on shore and dozens of tourists were lining up to take pictures of the seamen exiting. Violet breathed in the fresh, salty air, focusing on the children’s laughter from the park and the sounds of jazz music drifting from the riverbank.

Someone had tacked flyers on lampposts and bulletin boards with the missing girl’s picture and a full description. Violet studied one. Amber Collins was twenty-five, originally from Memphis, Tennessee. She had light blond hair, green eyes, was five feet nine inches tall and weighed approximately one hundred thirty pounds. She’d been last seen leaving her dorm room at the college, heading toward the library. She’d been wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt.

Violet hoped they found her alive. The coed was too young to die.

Taking a flyer for her store, she cut across the square, keeping her distance as she passed the graveyard near the parking lot where she’d parked her Civic. She hated cemeteries, had ever since her father had taken her to visit her mother’s grave when she was three. It had been a cold winter day in the mountains, and a bristly wind had rustled the bare branches of the trees, heavy with ice from a recent hailstorm. She’d dropped rose petals on the slab of marble, not knowing how to feel as she tried to picture the faceless woman who had died giving birth to her.

Although giant azaleas, neatly trimmed hedges and jonquils flanked the iron gates of this cemetery in Savannah, disguising the morbid interior, the hair on the back of Violet’s neck stood on end. Suddenly a whisper broke through the haze. “Help me.”

Violet hesitated, wheeled around to stare at the tombstones. She could almost see the ghosts of the dead in the sea of monuments. And she could have sworn someone had just called to her. A woman’s voice…

A storyteller from one of the walking ghost tours was spinning a tale for a group of tourists. Slowly, the faces and storyteller’s voice faded.

Dizzy, Violet stumbled toward a park bench and dropped onto it. She yanked at the neckline of her shirt as the voice whispered to her again. Images played in her head like an old movie trailer….

HE WAS WATCHING HER, playing out his sick twisted game, dancing around the fact that he was going to kill her with platitudes in that singsongy voice that had grated on her nerves for hours. He enjoyed seeing the terror in her eyes.

And she was helpless to stop from showing it.

She did not want to die.

His olive skin looked pale beneath the harsh fluorescent light. Bluish veins bulged in his arms as he stalked around her. She struggled against the bindings holding her down, but the drugs he’d given her were slowly paralyzing her limbs.

“Your blood is rich and thick, and in some ways perfect,” he murmured. “But you aren’t the one.”

His face loomed like some kind of distorted monster. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said in a soothing voice. “I wanted you to be it. I really did.”

She moaned and tried to scream, fighting to escape. But a gag captured the sound, and her movements were stilted and slow, only token gestures of the will to survive.

He brushed a tendril of her wiry, tear-soaked hair from her face. “You let me down.”

She shook her head violently, silently pleading for him to spare her. But anger darkened his already poisonous-looking eyes.

“It’s not my fault. Father needs you. But you can’t help us. Don’t you see that?” His voice grew edgier, his eyes like marbles cut from ice. “I’m doing it all for him. I shall pray for your soul, and the angels will carry you to heaven. We are all children under one blessed father.”

He ran a steady finger over the sharp end of a piece of bone he’d carved earlier. Then he slid the blade of a pocketknife along the jagged edge, scraping and shaving off more brittle bone. The rhythmic sound crawled over her skin. He scraped and whittled, painstaking in his task. Perspiration rolled down her breastbone as he held the bone up to the light and tested its smoothness. Then he raised it to his lips and began to blow.

“The tune of the bone whistle,” he said softly. “The song that tells the story of sacrifice. Pin peyeh obe, my sweetness. Then you must die.”

CHAPTER THREE

A MAN WAS DEAD. Was he a local or a tourist?

Grady flipped on the siren, tore from the Redbud Café and headed toward the ridge. Cutting across town, he took all the side streets because he didn’t want any of the nosy townsfolk following. They might interfere with an investigation. If one was required.

He doubted it. The victim was probably some unlucky vacationer who’d wandered too close to the edge and lost his balance.

The Great Smoky Mountains rose in front of him as he veered from town onto Route 5. He sped past run-down chicken houses and deserted farmland, through the valley, then steered onto Three Forks Road to wind up the mountain. Sweat beaded his forehead and he cranked down the window of the squad car, cursing the stifling summer heat and his broken air conditioner. Thick pines and hardwoods dotted the horizon; blinding sunlight reflected off the steaming asphalt. The smell of manure and wet grass filled the air. He shoved his hand through his hair, his throat tightening as it always did when he passed Flatbelly Hollow, where his little sister’s body had been found.

The Deer Crossing sign had been vandalized, he noticed, the stop sign from the side road leading to the fishing camp turned the wrong way. The latest graduating class’s graffiti defiled the rocky wall of the rising cliff. Moss flanked the embankment, icy water trickling down the rocks like a small waterfall. The air cooled as he navigated up the mountain, the curves so routine he could have driven them in his sleep. Shadows from the yellow pines cast a murky haze over the ground as he parked at Briar Ridge next to Logan’s squad car. Paramedics stood on the ledge, organizing the lift procedure.

Logan stalked toward Grady, his sunglasses shading his eyes. “I’ve already photographed the body and surrounding area.”

“Good.” Although Grady would take more photos as backup. He peered over the jagged ridge to assess the situation. The man’s body sprawled facedown on the ledge a few hundred feet below, his arms and legs twisted at awkward angles. Blood splattered the rocks around his head. He wore plain jeans and a ragged T-shirt, nothing outstanding to distinguish him from any other tourist or a local.

“How did you find him?”

“Hiker called in. He was taking pictures of the mountains and spotted him.”

“He still around?”

“Waiting in the car.” Logan cleared his throat. “Young kid. Poor guy’s pretty shook up.”

“Did you question him already?”

“Yeah, said he didn’t see any other cars around, hadn’t spotted a soul until he came to the ledge and found the body.”

Grady nodded and gestured toward the dead man. “You recognized him?”

“No.” Logan shoved an evidence bag holding a piece of paper toward Grady. “But I found this thumbtacked to that pine tree.”

Grady pulled on gloves, then removed the note and unfolded it. The handwriting was scrawled, almost illegible, but he slowly managed to decipher the words.

“Sorry. Killed her. Couldn’t live with the guilt anymore.”

Killed who? Grady read further, his heart thundering in his chest at the name.

Darlene.

Unbelievable. His hands shook as he lowered the note to his side. His hopes for ending the mystery surrounding Darlene’s death had finally come true. Full circle, as Laney Longhorse would say.

The dead man had confessed to killing his baby sister.

THE SPANISH MOSS of a giant live oak shrouded Violet in its haven, painting fingery shadows that resembled bones along the sidewalk. Disoriented, she clutched the wrought-iron rail surrounding the tombstones. Her imagination must be overactive. Savannah thrived on ghost stories about soldiers who’d died and hadn’t yet found peace. Ones who lingered between realms, tortured and lost, forever searching.

But she had never heard voices from the grave before.

Although this voice hadn’t called to her from the grave, she realized. The woman had still been alive. Had the voice belonged to Amber Collins, the missing coed? Had Violet heard her cry for help just before she was murdered?

Had the evil gotten inside her again? Or had she envisioned the images and voice because of the flyer? Because Darlene’s murder was on her mind?

Violet glanced at the crumpled paper in her hands and felt paralyzed. People had been reported missing, even murdered in Charleston where she and her grandmother had lived before, but she’d never experienced visions of them.

Pin peyeh obe—what did the expression mean? It sounded like a Native American phrase. But she didn’t know any native words, so why would one come to her in her thoughts? And what kind of bone had the man held to his lips?

Her mind spinning, she staggered to her car. Darkness descended as more storm clouds rolled in from the east. According to the weatherman, Hurricane Helena might hit tomorrow. Violet felt as if it had hit today.

Hands trembling, she started the engine and turned onto the island road, wincing as she bounced over the old bridge. A pair of headlights appeared in her rearview mirror, steady but not too close. The car coasted nearer as she crossed the narrow bay bridge and veered onto the side street that led to her cottage.

She clenched the steering wheel tighter, certain he was following her.

GRADY KNOTTED HIS HANDS. Everything had come full circle. Back to the beginning, back to the people in town, the ones they’d trusted. Memories of that grueling search crashed back. The long, endless night before they’d found Darlene. This man consoling Grady’s father when they’d finally discovered her small limp body.

Grady turned to the paramedics. “Make sure the autopsy is thorough—tox screens, hair and fiber samples, the works.” He gathered the crime scene kit from the car, then snapped more pictures of the area and body, and videotaped the scene. The rescue team lowered a paramedic to the ledge to secure the corpse on a stretcher, prior to transporting him to the coroner’s office.

“Why all the fuss over a suicide?” Logan’s voice was gravelly as he ran a hand over his sweat-streaked brow.

Grady frowned as he knelt to study the landing. “The first rule of being a good cop—everything is suspicious.”

“Right. Sounds like the bastard deserved it. He killed a defenseless child.”

Grady cut his eyes toward his deputy, but he couldn’t read the man’s expression, not with those damn sunglasses he always wore. “What do you know about my sister’s death?”

“Not much,” Logan said. “Just heard about it in town. I’d think you’d be glad he’s dead.”

Grady glared at him. They had never talked about personal things before. In fact, once he’d asked Logan about his family, but the man had clammed up and stormed outside. And Grady had certainly never shared anything about his own life.

But Logan was right. He should be happy. Ecstatic. Ready to celebrate.

Yet a nagging feeling plucked at the back of his mind, warning him things weren’t quite right. Was it something about the case file? The suicide note? The confession?

Darlene’s innocent young face flashed in Grady’s head. Her knobby knees, missing front teeth, the strawberry curls he used to tease her about. He pictured her and that homely friend of hers tagging along behind him. Playing dress-up and skipping rope out by that old sweet gum tree. Darlene had always protected her friend. But who had protected her? No one.

Had he really found her killer? It almost seemed too easy….

Deep down he wanted it to be over. Closure meant he could move on with his life. Maybe his father could find his way out of the bottle, too.

Grady fisted and unfisted his hands, blood pounding in his veins. He’d wanted to find Darlene’s killer alive so he could exact his own revenge. He hadn’t realized how much he’d craved that confrontation, how the urge to make her murderer suffer the way his little sister had suffered had driven him through the years. How much the idea of that revenge had thrilled him.

Fighting for control, Grady scrutinized the ground for foot patterns.

The deputy squatted, then leaned his elbows on his knees. “Find anything?”

“Hard to tell,” Grady muttered. “Looks like someone might have moved the straw to cover a footprint or scuffle. Then again, the wind and rain last night could have readjusted the soil.” He shifted on the balls of his feet. “I want every inch combed. We’ll send the note and any other evidence to the crime lab in Nashville to be analyzed. Did you find his car?”

“Yeah, run into the ditch over there.” Logan pointed to a thicket of trees. “Reeks of whiskey.”

Grady nodded, then gestured toward the surrounding bushes. “Look for loose or torn bits of clothing. Footprints. Anything to indicate the man might not have been alone. And I want the car impounded and processed.” He stood. “I don’t want this confession leaked in town, either, not until I have a chance to investigate the case thoroughly.” Grady sighed. “For now, this is a suicide, but I’m leaving the case open.”

Logan nodded, then began combing the bushes while Grady headed toward the paramedics carrying the body to the ambulance. The man’s face was bloody, his clothes smeared with dirt, his broken femur jutting through his ragged pants; it had been severed in two places. His jeans were still damp, indicating he’d probably been there since the night before, but the EMT would give them a better idea of the exact time of death. The fetid odor of lost body fluids hung in the air as Grady checked the corpse for indications of a struggle. A small contusion lacerated the back of his head. If the man had fallen face-first, how had he hit the back of his head? Unless he’d been struck before falling.

Grady frowned, disturbed by his own train of thought. Maybe he’d fallen, then rolled over.

The paramedics loaded the stretcher and the ambulance roared off. Grady had to call his father, tell him they’d found Darlene’s killer.

No, he couldn’t yet. Not until he was sure. Not until he’d checked out the man’s death. Not until he’d notified the next of kin.

He stalked to the woods to search the area. As soon as he finished, he’d visit the coroner’s office for a full report, then make that call. Even worse, he had to tell the surviving family that their loved one had taken his own life.

And that he had confessed to a murder.

VIOLET CHECKED HER rearview mirror. Yes, someone was following her. Was on her tail. She wound through the side streets, reminding herself that she shouldn’t lead a stranger to her house, then turned right on another side street. Nervous now, she wove through a nearby neighborhood, turned and headed back in the opposite direction. The sedan slowed, then swung into a drive. She sighed in relief. If whoever it was had been following her, he’d realized she was onto him.

Relaxing slightly, she headed back toward her cottage, then veered onto Palm Walkway. The inside of the cottage seemed dark as she parked and exited her car. Crickets chirped in the background. A bird cawed above.

Weary now, she climbed the small steps to the stoop, grateful to be home. When she stepped inside, the house was too quiet. “Grammy?”

Her grandmother was sitting in the wooden chair, pale and listless, the phone clutched in one hand.

“Grammy, what is it?”

Her grandmother’s blank gaze showed no sign of response.

“Mrs. Baker…” A man’s voice called over the line. “Mrs. Baker…are you still there?”

Violet pried the receiver from her grandmother’s fingers and laid it on the counter. “Grammy.” Violet gently shook her. “What’s wrong? Please talk to me.”

“No,” her grandmother rasped, in a voice so low Violet could barely discern it. “No, it’s not true.”

“Mrs. Baker,” the man shouted from the phone, “are you all right?”

Her grandmother’s face went ashen, and she was trembling. No, she wasn’t all right.

Violet grabbed the handset. “This is Mrs. Baker’s granddaughter, Violet. Who is this and what did you say to upset her?”

“Violet?” Shock tinged the man’s deep voice.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Sheriff Monroe.” He hesitated, his voice husky. “Grady.”

“Grady?” Darlene’s brother?

“I’m sorry…I had to give your grandmother some bad news.” His breath whistled out. “Violet, your father is dead.”