Killer Honeymoon Part 3

But they had decided that heavy weapons strapped against their ribs would not enhance the romance of the occasion. Surely, a newlywed couple wouldn't need guns on their honeymoon, so both had left their weapons at home.

She turned to Dirk, saw the look of horror on his face, and knew he was feeling exactly what she was.

Well, maybe not exactly.

As she turned and looked back at the woman lying, dying in the water, a sense of dread flowed through her that only someone who had endured a similar, terrible circ.u.mstance could feel.

Only a few months before, Savannah, too, had been felled by gunshots and had lain on the ground, bleeding, knowing that her life was literally flowing out of her.

In that moment, standing on the beach, she could feel the other woman's pain-that searing, fiery misery-in her own body. Savannah could feel her icy terror and the agony of thinking that no one was coming, no one could save her.

But someone had saved Savannah. Dirk had been there for her when she'd needed him most. Someone had to be there for the woman on the beach, too.

Savannah couldn't stand there, in the safety the rocks afforded, and just let her die alone. Shooter in the woods, or not, she shook off Dirk's restraining hand and darted out from behind the rocks.

It was crazy, she knew, to put herself in harm's way, out there in the open with no cover. No weapon. No armed backup. It went against all her training and even her common sense.

She could hear Dirk yelling at her. She knew he was terrified and furious with her.

She'd deal with him later.

If she made it to the woman without getting shot herself.

As she ran, she braced herself for the feeling she knew all too well, the impact of bullets piercing her body, scorching and fierce as they ripped into soft, unresisting flesh.

But there were no more shots.

No one ran out of the bushes toward her-though she was dimly aware in her peripheral vision of Dirk racing across the sand toward the trees.

For a moment, a sharp bolt of fear crashed through her. What if Dirk was killed? What if his reaction to her impulsive move got him shot?

Fortunately, she didn't have long to play that nightmare fully in her mind, because she had reached the woman and was standing, knee deep in the surf, grabbing for her.

The victim was still alive, but thrashing weakly; her face downward in the brine. Savannah slid one forearm under each of the woman's armpits and dragged her back onto the sand.

She flipped her onto her back, and that was when she saw the wounds. Two dark areas blossoming into hideous red circles of blood-one on the woman's chest, the other in her abdomen.

Exit wounds.

Sometimes they were smaller than entry wounds. Sometimes the same size. But more often, they were larger.

These were huge.

Savannah's heart sank when she saw them. Not just the size, but the location.

She looked into the woman's eyes and could see that she, too, knew what was about to happen. No matter what Savannah-or anyone else did for her-she was going to die.

Savannah glanced back toward the trees. She could see Dirk moving among them, quickly, but carefully. Ordinarily, she would have been rooting for him to catch the bad guy. But an armed bad guy? And Dirk without his weapon? No, this was one time she hoped the two wouldn't meet.

She knelt beside the woman, leaned over, and checked her breathing. She could hear air rushing in and out, but it wasn't a comforting sound. It had an awful, gargling quality that Savannah had heard before. It was a sound that preceded death.

The woman's eyes were open, wide open, registering her pain, fear, and shock. She seemed aware of Savannah's presence.

"It's okay," Savannah lied as she pressed her palms over the dark wounds, an action that did absolutely nothing to stanch the flow. "You're okay."

"No," the woman whispered. "Not okay."

Savannah looked deep into the victim's eyes and knew-this wasn't the time for lies.

"I'm going to stay with you," Savannah said. "I'll be right here with you. Okay?"

The woman seemed to understand and nodded slightly.

"The worst has already happened," Savannah told her. "I know you're scared, and I know it hurts. But it's going to get better." She glanced down at the blood pouring through her fingers at an impossibly high rate, staining the sand and water around them.

"Soon," Savannah told her. "It's going to get better soon. All right?"

The woman on the sand nodded again. Some of the fear seemed to leave her face as she stared up into Savannah's eyes.

For the briefest moment, it occurred to Savannah that she might know this woman. Something about her was familiar, but she couldn't place her.

There would be time for that later. The trained police officer in Savannah came to the fore, pushing everything else to the background.

"Who shot you?" Savannah asked her. "Who did this?"

The victim moved her lips, though the sound she made was little more than a whisper. The dreadful gurgling sound was diminishing. Instinctively, Savannah knew she had only moments to live.

"Who were you running from?" Savannah asked again. "Who did this to you?"

Savannah leaned closer, her ear nearly against the woman's mouth. She heard one word, feebly uttered, but clear all the same.

"William."

"William? William shot you?" Savannah asked, feeling a rush of discovery, even in such sad circ.u.mstances.

But then the woman shook her head. "No. Not William. William . . ."

And that was all.

Savannah moved her hands away from the wounds and reached to grasp the woman's hand. It was limp. As lifeless as the eyes that now stared blindly up at her.

A moment later, the gargling stopped. So did the blood flow.

Savannah felt the strength go out of her own legs. She sat down abruptly beside the body.

In an unconscious movement-her mind frozen from the trauma of having just watched someone lose her life-she spread her fingers and held her hands down below the surface of the waves. She watched as the water flowed over them, washing away the blood. She watched for what seemed like a very long time, as with each wave they got cleaner.

She watched because she didn't want to see the beautiful young woman stretched out on the sand beside her.

"Van."

The miracle of life gone forever from her eyes.

"Savannah."

The woman she hadn't been able to save.

"Savannah. Honey, are you okay?"

She turned her head and looked up. Dirk was standing over her, staring down at her, a dark expression on his face.

"Yeah," she said.

He glanced toward the body. "She's gone," he said. It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah."

He reached down and offered Savannah his hands. She took them, and he pulled her gently to her feet.

"I didn't see the shooter," he told her. "I found the spent casings over there, under that big oak tree."

"Okay."

"There's a road only about fifty feet in. He's probably long gone."

Savannah was barely listening. She was forcing herself to look at the dead woman's face. A lovely face, even in death. A face that did, indeed, look very familiar to her.

"Amelia," she said, more to herself than to him.

"What?"

"I knew I'd seen her before. So have you. That's Amelia Northrop."

Dirk studied the victim for a moment. "The Channel Seven newscaster that we watch every night?"

Savannah nodded solemnly.

He bent down and took a better look. "Holy cow, you're right. It's her. Now that I think about it, I heard that she has a vacation home here on the island, her and her big-time land developer husband, William Northrop."

"William. Yes, William."

"Huh?"

"She said his name . . . before. . . ."

"Like, 'Tell William I love him'?"

"No. I asked her who shot her, and she said, 'William.' Then I said, 'William shot you?' and she said, 'No.' She pa.s.sed before she could say any more."

"Great. Just what you want at a homicide. An incomplete dying declaration."

Suddenly Savannah began to shiver violently. Though she blamed it on the fact that her clothes were wet, she knew better, because the chill reached deep inside her.

Dirk wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She buried her face against his warm chest and closed her eyes. But she could still see it-all that blood pooling between her fingers. The light going out in the young woman's eyes.

"I couldn't save her, Dirk," she said softly.

He hugged her more tightly. "You did what you could."

"I was hoping I could save her."

"You did all you could. You kept her from dying alone."

"It wasn't enough."

He reached down, put his hand under her chin, and forced her to look up at him. His eyes were moist, like hers, when he said, "Savannah, listen to me. You risked your life for her. It was enough."

His eyes searched hers, looking for a sincere response.

"Do you hear me?" he asked.

Finally she nodded. "I hear you." And the words were from her heart.

Yes, she told herself as she pressed her face, once again, to his chest. I did all I could do. And "all" has to be enough.

Chapter 4.

One phone call to 911 and twenty minutes later, the sh.o.r.eline was crawling with Santa Tesla's finest. But there weren't that many of them. And Savannah and Dirk weren't at all impressed.

They had expected the police force arriving at the crime scene would be minuscule compared to the LAPD or even San Carmelita's teams. The island had a reputation for being virtually crime-free, so why would they need a ma.s.sive department?

But even the smallest and least busy law enforcement agency needed a rudimentary knowledge of how to process an area where a felony had occurred. And their total lack of efficiency was driving Savannah and Dirk crazy. Standing on the sidelines, watching the so-called investigators walk around in circles, was almost more than they could stand.

What impressed them least was the fact that no one had even debriefed them about what had happened. Not interviewing eyewitnesses was a highly unusual procedure, considering the gravity of the crime and the fact that they had seen it happen firsthand.

Two uniformed policemen, a man wearing a white smock, which suggested he might be a coroner or CSI, and a woman in a black suit strolled around, the four of them chatting among themselves, while occasionally stopping to study the body and the surrounding beach area.

"Shouldn't we go grab one of them and tell them about the cartridges we found, and the shoes, and the purse?" Savannah asked Dirk, who was leaning on the rocks they had previously hidden behind when they had witnessed the shooting.

His arms were crossed over his chest and the scowl etched on his face told it all. Dirk didn't like standing by and watching people bungle a job when he could-with his characteristic total lack of humility-tell them how to do it much better.

He was especially offended when the shoddy job being done was police work.