A Breath Away

And if one of them had covered for the killer…he’d make him or her pay, too.

AS THE DOOR SLAMMED SHUT, Grady’s declaration echoed off the dingy walls. Violet shuddered, the empty house closing around her. The mustiness, the echo of abandonment, the stale smells of dirty clothes, booze and old sweat assaulted her. And the familiar smell of Old Spice…

Memories bombarded her, along with the unsettling feeling that she had never quite left this place. Unable to assimilate it all at once, she stood still, willing her body to absorb the shock of homecoming, along with seeing Grady.

Over the years, she’d imagined what he might look like as a man. All the girls had doted on the teenage version, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. Any trace of cuteness had disappeared, though, and in its place, a rugged prowess radiated from his every pore. Over six-three, he was big, powerful and muscular, almost frighteningly so. Prominent cheekbones and a nose crooked from being broken dominated his features. And those deep-set eyes were almost hypnotizing. When his callused hands had caught her wrist, heat had rippled between them, charged with frustration and something sexual.

No, she had mistaken that feeling.

The emotion had been anger.

He carried that in spades. An obvious hatred toward his sister’s killer flashed in his tortured eyes.

A hatred she understood. But did the killer’s face belong to her father?

And would Grady turn that anger toward her now that he realized they were on opposite sides? At least concerning her dad…

She sighed and forced herself farther into the house. Stifling heat and cloying odors of mildew and decay nearly suffocated her.

In the shoe box den, the same plaid sofa lined the back wall, the rust-colored recliner her father had lived in angled toward the ancient TV set, a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines stacked beside it. A dog-eared metal antenna jutted upward from the TV in a warped V, proving he hadn’t updated the set or his service in twenty years. The beige carpet was stained, the lack of photos a brutal reminder that her father had shut his family out of his life.

She stopped beside the wicker rocking chair and stroked the arm. She imagined her grandmother sitting in the chair, crocheting in the afternoon sunlight, sunshine that turned the tiny room into an inferno in summer. Violet had curled up at her knees and played with her rag dolls while her grandmother watched her soap operas. Now dust coated most of the ancient furniture, and cobwebs hung in the corners. She slowly walked through the kitchen, not surprised to find everything the same, only older and smaller. Newspapers and magazines littered a beige countertop spattered with stains. Dishes encrusted with half-eaten food cluttered the sink. Trash overflowed onto the graying linoleum floor, the stench almost unbearable.

A delivery box containing an uneaten pizza sat on the counter next to a full six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, as if her father had just returned from getting dinner. Odd, but both had been untouched. And the want ad page lay on the table, a red circle around two ads. Why would her father buy an entire pizza and six-pack and be job hunting if he planned to kill himself?

Depressed people aren’t exactly rational, she reminded herself.

Her father’s room was to the right, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. On the left, her grandmother’s room adjoined Violet’s. The crocheted green afghan her grandmother had used to warm her feet at night still lay at the foot of the Jenny Lind bed, the scent of her grandmother’s favorite lavender potpourri mellow, yet lingering. Violet grabbed the afghan and hugged it to her, then glanced at her own room. Had her father changed it? Turned it into a study or storeroom for the old car parts he collected? The parts that had meant more to him than she had.

She pushed open the door and was shocked to see the sawed-off iron bed still rooted in the corner, the antique dresser laden with her childhood costume jewelry. Even more surprising, Bobo, her big brown birthday bear, hugged the pillows where she had once slept. Right next to Bobo were her Raggedy Ann doll and the stuffed pony her father had won for her at the county fair. The same pale pink chenille bedspread covered her bed, too, although it had yellowed with age.

Tears pooled in Violet’s eyes. Taking a deep breath, she noticed the faint scents of mothballs and wood polish, as if her father had tried to preserve her room. Peculiar, when the rest of the house seemed in such disrepair.

She flipped on the radio her father had given her for Christmas one year. Static bellowed back at her, and she fiddled with the knobs, hoping to find some soft music to calm her. An oldies station came through, so she let it play while she retrieved her suitcase. The floor creaked as she entered the house again. Could she really spend the night in this old place?

Would the ghosts haunt her when she tried to sleep?

Exhausted and drained from the trip, she dragged on a thin cotton nightshirt. But just as she lay down, a newscaster’s voice came over the radio. “This late-breaking story in just now, folks. The search for Amber Collins, the missing woman from Savannah, Georgia, has ended tonight.”

Violet gripped the sheets. She didn’t need to hear the report—she knew what he was going to say.

Amber Collins was dead.

Still, she listened, her pulse racing. “The young woman’s body was discovered late this evening on the front steps of a church outside the Georgia state line, in what looks like it might be a ritualist killing. Sources say the coed was strangled. Although no signs of sexual abuse have been reported, one source tells us that the victim was left holding a note in her hand that read, ‘For Our Father.’ No suspects have been named thus far. Police have refused comment. We’ll bring you more information as it becomes available.”

Violet pulled the teddy bear into her arms, stroking its ears the way she had as a child. The police hadn’t mentioned finding a bone whistle beside Amber’s body. Had the killer taken it with him instead of leaving it behind? Or had she simply imagined the whistle?

Maybe her visions weren’t real.

But if they were, she needed to alert the police. Would they believe her? Or think she was crazy, the way her father had claimed?

After all, she hadn’t seen enough details to recognize the killer or even pinpoint where he’d held the woman, so how could she help?

Her head began to pound, and she lay back and closed her eyes. Why had she experienced this vision about the coed when she hadn’t had one since Darlene was murdered? And why were all these other disturbing things happening now—her father’s death, the suicide note? It wasn’t as if they were related.

Yet, she sensed somehow they were. And that she had something to do with all of them.

What about Grady? How would he play into the situation—by proving her father was a killer? By finding the real one?

As she massaged her temples, the reedy sound of the bone whistle grated through the darkness. If her premonition was right, the questions had only begun.

And so had the killings….

ROSS WHEELER’S HEART raced with excitement as he opened the magazine and examined the pictures. The young lovers would take away the pain. Their supple bodies were ripe for picking. Their size didn’t matter. They were firm and tender, begging for attention. Begging for him to taste them.

But Father told him no. It was wrong to lust. To satisfy his cravings.

How could sex be wrong when it was in the Bible? Sex was natural, a man’s God-given primal need for mating.

But the reverend had different rules for himself. He preached abstinence, while he dipped from the honey pot himself.

Maybe, as God’s spokesman, he thought he’d risen above human sins. Shame crept through Ross at the memory of the reverend’s condemnation over those sexual misconduct charges. How could the town accuse Ross of such a thing, especially in front of a divine man like his father? Ross was the preacher’s son, had been a good teacher, a soccer coach, a deacon himself until they’d ruined his reputation with their accusations.

Worse, his father had believed them….

And to think he’d always done everything to please the man.

Would he ever receive forgiveness?

Bible verses he’d been forced to learn as a child floated through his head, jumbled and distorted versions that made no sense. He’d hated the rigorous memorizing. The daily prayers. The sermons on hellfire and damnation.

His gaze flicked to the pictures again.

His hand slid down his waist, unfastened his belt buckle, pushed it aside. He slipped his fingers beneath the fabric. He was so hard, throbbing like an animal, aching for release, for the sweet fulfillment the young ones promised. He could have it, too. Pleasure lay at his fingertips. All he had to do was look at them, imagine stripping off their clothes and spreading them on the ground for his taking.

His fingers began to stroke his member, closing around the rigid length until it surged to life and droplets of erotic nectar spilled over.

Suddenly heavy footsteps clattered above. Click, clack. Click, clack.

Shit, the reverend.

“Ross!”

He jerked his hand away, grabbed a handkerchief and cleaned himself, frustration and embarrassment burning through him.

Now he would have to repent again, confess his sin to his father and kneel at the altar for hours on end. Damn the reverend for destroying his momentary pleasure.

He gathered his control and went to face the master. Tonight the reverend would be busy sucking up to the televangelist who was coming in to preach at the revival.

Ross would do whatever necessary the next few hours to please them both, but tomorrow night he’d do exactly as he wanted….

CHAPTER SEVEN

GRADY TRIED TO BANISH images of Violet Baker’s face from his mind as he and his deputy drove toward her dad’s house the next morning. But those startling blue eyes filled with anguish and vulnerability refused to leave him alone. He could still see her standing beside Darlene, looking up at his father with that hungry expression, as if she wanted to fit in, but knew she didn’t. That she wasn’t wanted.

Damn. Grady wanted a cigarette. But he couldn’t give in to the need. Just as he couldn’t give in to needs aroused by Violet.

He had never allowed a woman to distract him from his job before, and he certainly didn’t intend to do so this time. Not when he was so close to finally closing the chapter on this never-ending nightmare of his life.

He would search the Baker house with a fine-tooth comb and make sure that Baker’s confession stuck, so Grady could lay his sister’s murder case to rest once and for all.

And this time, with a warrant in his hand, Violet couldn’t stop him.

He checked the clock. It was early, but he’d planned it that way. He wanted to search the house before Violet had a chance to clean or move things around. Last night she’d thrown him off guard with her arrival. Today, he wanted the element of surprise on his side.

“I don’t know why you’re even checking this out,” Logan said in his typical dark tone. “Suicide seems cut-and-dried to me.”

Grady tried to read his partner’s expression, but Logan always wore those dark sunglasses, as if he was hiding behind them. “Yeah, well, I have to cover the bases just in case someone asks questions later. Some folks might not believe Baker is guilty or that he took his own life.”

“Hell, who would that be?”

“His daughter.” Grady shot Logan a warning look not to probe any further. Had Violet slept well in her childhood bed, knowing her father had killed her friend? Had she suffered any remorse for Darlene?

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He sure as hell hadn’t slept. Dammit, had Violet known about her father and kept silent?

Was that the real reason she hadn’t returned before now?

VIOLET STUMBLED FROM BED, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, and groped for the afghan, pulling it around her shoulders. She could have sworn she’d heard someone knocking on the door.

A quick glance at the clock made her grimace. Six-thirty. She hadn’t fallen asleep until five. Even then, that woman’s cries had reverberated inside her head, tormenting her.

The pounding grew louder. Who would come out here this early? Who even knew she was here? Grady…

“Violet, I know you’re in there.” His gruff voice resonated with impatience. “You might as well open up.”

“Just a minute.” Pushing her hair from her eyes, she rushed to the door and opened it. “What are you doing here so early?”

He dangled a piece of paper in front of her. “Search warrant.”

She frowned but reluctantly stepped aside. Grady strode in, his big presence filling the small den. Still half-asleep, she found her body tingling traitorously, imagining he’d come for another reason.

Another officer followed on his heels, his gaze skimming over Violet. His attitude said he’d seen the ugly side of life and survived it. Maybe even liked it.

“Deputy Logan.” The man tipped a headful of wavy brown hair in greeting, although his taut mouth was unsmiling. And she couldn’t see his eyes; they were hidden behind Ray-Bans. They were probably as black as his mood, she guessed, clutching the afghan tighter around her shoulders.

“Go get dressed,” Grady growled. “We’ll start in the den and kitchen.”

Violet simply stared at him. She didn’t take orders from anyone. “Excuse me?”

“I said put some clothes on.” His icy gaze locked with hers. Any trace of the compassionate boy she’d once known had disappeared.

Heat suddenly blazed her cheeks. Anger at the fact that he had come on a crusade against her father followed. “I…I don’t know what you’re looking for, Grady, but you won’t find it.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You haven’t tampered with evidence, have you?”

Violet’s fingers dug into her arms. “Of course not.”

Suspicion flared in his eyes. “Did you know your father killed Darlene?”

Her lungs tightened at the accusation.

“Is that the reason he sent you away?” A strained heartbeat passed. “Did your grandmother know and keep quiet about it all these years?”

His cold tone cut through her like a knife. She staggered backward, then turned and ran to the bedroom to change.

GRADY BRACED HIMSELF for the onslaught of guilt that attacked him at Violet’s shocked reaction.

“Playing bad cop?”

He glared at his deputy. “I was just doing my job.” And trying to find out the truth.

Or were you trying to hurt her because you hate yourself for being attracted to her? For reminding you of Darlene every time you look at her?

“You going to charge her with accessory?”

Grady pivoted on his booted feet. “She was only eight when Darlene died.”

“But she could have come forward since.”

He nodded. He had entertained the idea. And he would charge Violet if he discovered she’d lied.

“Let’s verify Baker’s confession. Look for a handwritten note or bill so we can compare writing samples. Then we’ll discuss strategies.”

“Right.” Logan grunted. “Although she’s almost pretty enough to make a man forget the law.”

Grady’s jaw tightened. He might not want Violet, but he sure as heck didn’t like the lascivious way Logan had looked at her. “Stay away from her,” he warned. “A good cop never gets involved with a potential suspect. And he never forgets the law.”

Logan’s mouth twitched as if he was about to argue. Then he seemed to think better of it, turned and went to work.

Grady dismissed the odd reaction. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get away from Violet. Then he could forget that he’d almost agreed with Logan.

But not at the cost of letting Darlene’s killer get away.

VIOLET TREMBLED INSIDE. She would never forget the look of accusation in Grady’s eyes.

It had been the same piercing look he’d given her twenty years ago when he’d stood outside her bedroom, waiting for her to tell them where to find Darlene.

Pressing her hands to her temples, she battled another onslaught of tears. She would not cry now. No, she wouldn’t give Grady the satisfaction of watching her crumble. Besides, she’d cried a river of tears the past two days, and it hadn’t helped. She had to be strong.

After all, she’d expected Grady to blame her for Darlene’s death because she’d begged her friend to come over that day. But she’d never imagined he’d believe she would protect the killer.

So why was she defending her father?

Because if he had evil inside him, then maybe she did, too…. Maybe he had been right about her. Maybe that evil was the reason she’d heard the woman’s cry.

Confused, Violet yanked on shorts, a T-shirt and sandals, then dragged a brush through her hair and scrubbed her teeth. The itch to run from this house and her father’s mess gnawed at her, but she couldn’t run away. Not without knowing the truth.

But what if Grady found something in the house? And why hadn’t she thought to look around last night after he’d left?

You were too shaken by coming home again. And by everything that’s happened.

Steeling herself against Grady’s anger, she went to the kitchen to brew coffee. The deputy was searching the den, while Grady was examining the pizza box, his eyebrows furrowed.

“The answer to your question is no, Grady. That confession note was a complete surprise.”

He glanced up, a flicker of regret simmering in his dark eyes before his mask slid back into place. “Did you and your father keep in touch?”

“We haven’t spoken in years.”

He nodded curtly, then scribbled some notes in a small notepad.

“Can I clean up this mess now and make some coffee?”

“Let me dust for fingerprints first.”

She stared at him, wondering where the kind boy she’d once known had gone. Had he died the same day Darlene had?

Well, she refused to stand here and watch him tear apart her house. She stalked out onto the front porch, more questions assailing her. If her father had killed Darlene twenty years ago and had brought her to the house, which Violet knew hadn’t happened, any evidence would be long gone. So why fingerprint the kitchen if he thought her father had committed suicide?

What exactly was Grady looking for?

GRADY WINCED AT THE SOUND of the screen door slamming, then frowned when Violet’s car tore down the graveled drive. As much as she might not want to face the fact that her father was a murderer, he had to know the truth.

She’d claimed she wanted that, too. But would she be able to handle it?

Would he, if he discovered his own father had something to do with Baker’s death?

Logan whistled as he scavenged through the desk in the den, bringing Grady out of his reverie with the location of a bill for signature comparison. Other than that, Baker’s house offered little in the way of clues, except the fact that Jed had been as depressed and lackadaisical about life as his own father. The two of them seemed so much alike that they should have been friends instead of enemies. But something had torn them apart.

Secrets. What were they?

Grady checked the refrigerator, logging the contents, then scanned the sink and counter. The uneaten pizza in its box, full six-pack of beer and the want ads on the counter disturbed him. Why would a man buy food and beer and job-hunt right before he killed himself?

It didn’t make sense.

He copied down the number of the pizza place. He’d check and see what time and day Baker had bought it. That, along with the M.E.’s report on the time of death, might help him piece together the chain of events that had led to Baker’s trip to Briar Ridge.

Other details bothered Grady. Why would Baker go to the mountains to kill himself instead of doing it at home? If guilt had triggered the suicide, why wouldn’t he have returned to the scene of the crime to take his life?

“Not much in here but some old magazines.” Logan gestured toward the desk. “Oh, and there’s a couple of photo albums of his daughter. Thought she told you they weren’t close.”

“She did. Said they hadn’t spoken in years.”

“That’s strange.” Logan pointed to three scrapbooks. “There’s all kinds of pictures of Violet growing up.”

Grady frowned. Had Violet lied to him about not staying in touch with her father?

NEEDING A REFUGE from Grady Monroe and her past, Violet drove into town and parked in front of the Rosebud Café. Without sleep, she desperately had to have caffeine and food.

Hoping no one in town would recognize her yet, she ducked her head and entered the café. It was like entering a time warp. Nothing had changed. The same earthy adobe and turquoise colors, the warm smell of coffee and biscuits, the same Native American artifacts filled the place.

Three elderly women sat at a table sipping tea, a hefty man was hunched over a bar stool, scooping up sausage patties from his plate, and two other men she didn’t recognize faced the bar, away from her. She spotted Laney Longhorse behind the counter, her long braid now graying, her skin leathery from the sun. Violet had always been fascinated with the woman. Maybe because she ignored the difference in social status between people instead of dividing them into classes the way the more prominent citizens did. In fact, Violet had felt more at home with the kids from the reservation than she did the white children in town. Except for Darlene.

She slid into a corner booth and studied the menu, surprised to see the same items Laney had always carried. Thankfully, some things never changed. A fair-haired man in his thirties smiled at her from the booth across from her. She forced a tight smile, then averted her gaze.

The older woman ambled over to her, her long skirt swishing against her thin legs. “Hi!” Laney said in her Cherokee accent. “Your order, miss?”

Good. Laney didn’t recognize her. “Coffee. And I’ll have your country breakfast.”

“Comin’ right up.” Laney studied Violet for a moment, shook her head as if she was trying to place her but couldn’t. Then she sauntered off to get the coffee.

Violet dialed the nursing home on her cell phone. The nurse assured her that her grandmother had arrived safely, but was in physical therapy. Her sister, Neesie, was there, waiting to visit.

Determined to avoid eye contact with any of the locals, especially the man who kept watching her, she informed the nurse she’d call again later, then studied the back of the menu. A small inscription described the history of the town’s name. Crow’s Landing had been named after an old Cherokee myth.

Although eagles were the revered, treasured bird of the Cherokee legends, their feathers used in religious ceremonies, one myth described an Indian boy’s battle with a wicked gambler who could change forms. When put to the test, the boy, Thunder, beat the gambler, who had turned himself to brass. The boy planted the brass in the river and hung crows on each side of a pole to ward off the beavers, so they wouldn’t chip away the brass and free the gambler.

Violet was pondering the legend when the woman returned. Interesting folklore. The crows were actually protecting the town, not haunting it or looking on, ready to prey.

Laney placed the coffee and food in front of Violet, her squinty eyes assessing. Violet offered nothing. Not yet—she wasn’t ready. But she wondered if the woman would know the Native American expression from Violet’s vision.

She thanked Laney and sipped her coffee, then took a few bites of her eggs. A tall man with a shoulder-length, black ponytail bustled in from the back. Joseph Longhorse? All grown up?

He had always been quiet, moody, angry. But she’d felt a kinship with him. Not a psychic one like she’d shared with Darlene, but they had connected. She’d been called white trash, while Joseph had suffered the cruel prejudices harbored by a few small-minded people in the town. The Barley boys had been especially ruthless, turning Joseph’s Native American name, Strong Legs, into a joke because Joseph had been the shortest kid in the class. Not anymore. Now he was six feet tall, strong and tough. She bet they didn’t mess with him now.