Talking With The Dead Part 2

Lucas might be dead, but he was still Michael's brother.

Dasynda Crandall saw the guy sitting at the far end of counter and summed him up with a fairly quick glance as she crossed the cafe. Built, handsome, and something about the look in his eyes added not to be messed with to her list.

He made her back itch, but she couldn't exactly say she felt something off about him. Not that she could really trust her instincts much any more. Her first guess would be that this was a decent guy for the most part, even if he did look a little too big and a little too scary to set the mind at ease.

But Daisy's instincts just plain sucked, as far as she was concerned. She had a d.a.m.ned killer in her town and she wasn't getting so much as an inkling on who it was.

Her instincts had always served her well, but they had four bodies now, and no clue about the killer. Daisy was frustrated beyond all belief. Why in the h.e.l.l had murders started after she had taken office?

This was why she had left the Louisville Metro Police Department. The instincts she had lived her life by seemed to be failing her. Women she had known all her life were being killed and Daisy didn't even know where to start.

She watched the stranger from the mirror that had hung over Elsa's cash register for a good twenty years. Even though Elsa had finally given up the fifties and the beehive hairdo, she still kept that mirror and checked her cardinal red coiffure rather regularly. Daisy watched as the man glanced to his right on a regular basis. Like he would if he was talking to somebody.

But his lips never moved. And there was n.o.body there. The food on his plate didn't seem to interest him much, but she did see him finally eat some of it. He had some of Elsa's world famous pot roast on that sandwich, but he might as well have been chewing bark for all the enjoyment he showed as he took yet another bite.

Forcing her attention back to her own food, she started to eat. To think. She didn't want to think about the killer. Thinking about it reminded her just how incompetent she had become. But she hadn't ever been one to run from her problems and she sure as h.e.l.l couldn't run from this one.

There had to be something somewhere. No killer could come and go without a trace like this.

But what in the h.e.l.l was going on in her town?

The image of Tanya's body danced before her eyes and her stomach pitched. Tanya hadn't just been killed. She had been tortured. Raped repeatedly. Strangled so brutally it had d.a.m.ned near crushed her throat. When death had finally come, it had come slowly, her blood trickling out so she was aware of exactly what was coming. Her death had been slow and horrific.

Daisy's fondest wish in life was to mete out that same brutal death to the man who had killed Tanya. Dropping the sandwich, she shoved the plate away and propped her arms on the counter.

"I'm going to find you," she whispered harshly. "Just wait."

Chapter Two.

Somebody was having fantasies at that moment.

Oh, he was going to have fun with her. The young ones were always the best. She didn't know him-he would miss out on that initial shock, the denial, when they came swimming up out of sleep and saw him for the first time. He did enjoy seeing that look on their face. Enjoyed listening to them beg and plead...why are you doing this to me? Then they'd try to bargain. I have kids-babies. They need me. You know they need me.

Yeah, that was fun. But a young girl was even more fun. Pretty little runaway had no idea what she had gotten into when she climbed into his car. As he took his time tying her up, he smiled and ran his hand through her platinum blonde hair from time to time. He had her restrained at the wrists, the elbows, the ankle and knee, legs spread wide, straining the crotch of her cotton jersey pants.

The hair was silky, soft, straight as could be. She wasn't a real blonde-he'd already checked. The wispy little curls between her legs were a dark brown. But the blonde locks did look good on her.

As her eyes finally started to flutter open, he rested a hand on her belly and crouched down by her side. He propped his chin on the bed so that his face was next to hers. He wanted to be the first thing she saw when she came to.

Appropriate, since he planned on being the last thing she ever saw as well.

First there was confusion. The nerves and anxiety. As she started trying to move her arms and legs, she realized she was tied down, and that was when the fun began. As the terror entered her eyes, a pleased smile spread across his face. "Morning, sweetheart. Didn't anybody ever tell you not to go hitchhiking?"

She opened her mouth to scream and he just laughed.

"n.o.body close enough to hear you, sweetie. They never heard the others. They won't hear you," he told her, leaning close so that his nose brushed against hers.

She recoiled into the mattress and screamed, the sound high and terrified. Pleased, he sat back on his heels to listen and watch.

Mike felt the cool brush of the woman's body against his own as he hugged her. He never knew what to say to them, never understood if what he did was the right thing. But so far, this time, it seemed to be the right thing.

"I'll try to help her," he said.

She smiled up at him.

"Who is he?" he asked quietly. "Can you tell me?"

That was when she retreated. The minute he mentioned the man who had killed her, the ghost faded away. Fear crowded her mind and she fled.

Shoving a hand through his hair, he spun away, kicking a rock. Lucas was watching him from a distance. "She's young." Anger colored his voice, turned it into a thunderous crash that boomed through his mind as he spoke to Michael.

Sourly, Mike muttered, "Too many of them are."

"You can't keep doing this, Mikey. Looking for killers, talking to ghosts." Lucas looked at Mike, his eyes concerned, his mouth turned down in a familiar scowl. Mike had heard this song and dance before and it would end the same way it always did. Stopping wasn't an option.

Just like leaving wasn't an option for Lucas.

"Then why don't you give me a break-you talk to me nonstop."

Lucas grinned. "I'm an exception. We're family."

Slanting him an evil look, Mike started to prowl the grounds. He'd seen the yellow police tape but he'd also seen too many cases where small things had been missed. He needed something small-something the killer had brushed up against could lead him right to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

It wouldn't take much. h.e.l.l, a rock that the killer had kicked as he dumped the body. Mike could lift a psychic impression as easily as a crime scene unit lifted fingerprints. But nearly an hour later-he had to admit, the whole place was virtually null. The killer had been very, very careful.

There wasn't a single thing that Mike could see to trace him.

At least not here. There would be something, though. There always was. All Mike had to do was wait. He just hoped it happened before another woman was killed.

Daisy had to stifle the urge to snarl in pure frustration as the last possible lead she had on the killer who had killed four women in her town came up empty. Nothing. Yes, Kelsey Morrow told her, she had seen a car that night before she called him. But it was so dark...and she couldn't tell a Trans Am from a Camry, Kelsey relayed mournfully. She thought it was a four door-maybe. And the color was dark. But dark blue, dark green, gray...black...

d.a.m.n it. Daisy suspected it could have been a Pinto painted with black and white pinstripes, and Kelsey wouldn't have remembered. It could have been a vintage Mustang convertible in pristine condition, and Kelsey wouldn't have noticed.

Why, on earth, did the one woman who had seen the probable killer have to be Kelsey?

She was a sweet enough girl, and Daisy loved her dearly-after all, they were stepsisters.

But Kelsey was an airhead. Talking to her made Daisy as dizzy as a whirlwind. Daisy tugged on her braid in a gesture born of nervous habit as she muttered to herself, lowering her gaze back to the papers, reports and pictures spread out in front of her.

An hour later, she had poured through the scant file on Tanya Dourant and she came back to the conclusion that she had already reached.

Taken from her home, late at night, no signs of struggle in the house-and on the one night that her husband had been out bowling like he did every Wednesday.

She had known her killer.

Of course, they lived in Mitch.e.l.l, for crying out loud. The small town in Indiana had less than a thousand who lived inside the city limits. Several hundred more in the county, outside the city limits. Almost everybody knew the other, at least at a glance. And Tanya was a nurse for the town's sole pediatrician. So she knew almost everybody. d.a.m.n it all.

Thirty-three, sweet, funny, good with kids...and dead.

Some son of a b.i.t.c.h had bled her like a d.a.m.ned pig.

Rubbing her thumb along one of the pictures, she studied it. That bright, happy grin made her heart hurt. Thinking about those little kids, asking for Mama day after day, and Daddy having to explain she wasn't ever coming home again.

Fury pulsed through her and she shoved back from the chair, pacing the small office and turning it over in her mind.

"Something. Has to be something," she muttered. Gritting her teeth, she lowered herself back into the chair and grabbed the first thing that came to hand. It was a crime scene photo of the empty field where Tanya's body had been dumped.

"Waste of time, going out there again." Then she shrugged and stood, grabbing her jacket on her way out the door.

Not that staying in the office was terribly productive right now.

The road was paved up until about a mile from the field. Tanya had been found by some hunters, a week after being reported missing. The hunters had known who it was. Daisy had seen the knowledge, the fury, the shock, in their eyes as they led her back out there.

As Daisy had expected, the official cause of death was hypovolemic shock, caused by ma.s.sive blood loss. There had been thirty-six cuts, all inflicted by the same blade. Most likely the same knife that had been used on the other victims. They had all been cut thirty-six times as well. There was nothing careless or uncontrolled. The victims hadn't been stabbed violently, but cut with a careful precision.

Also like the others, Tanya had been raped. He had also spent some time strangling her. He'd squeezed her throat until she blacked out from the lack of oxygen and then he'd let her go. Let her wake up. And then he'd start all over again.

All of that, and he hadn't left a single sign of himself. Not a hair follicle, not a bit of skin under the fingernails, not a drop of s.e.m.e.n or blood. He left nothing and Daisy had come up with nothing.

The instincts that had helped her nab some of the biggest drug runners in Louisville had deserted her. Not even a quiver as she walked the trail back to the field. Her gut had been playing tricks on her for a while, but now it was like she was working blind. No gut urges, no hunches to follow.

Just four dead bodies...and a stranger standing in the meadow where the last body was found.

It was the guy from the diner. He stood there, facing away from her, staring down at the ground. There was a knapsack slung over one big shoulder. It had a worn look to it, like it had been used a lot. Other than the bag, his hands were empty. But his clothes were dusty, like he had been kicking around the field for quite a while.

Twilight was starting to gleam gold on the horizon as Daisy calmly shifted the gun she wore inside her jacket. Hadn't ever gotten used to wearing a holster at her waist the way her predecessor had. Too many years working in narcotics, she supposed.

"You're on private property, pal," she said levelly.

The blue eyes that cut her way were the color of the sky just before sunrise. Deep, dark blue. And cool. Very cool. She hadn't noticed the color of his eyes back at the diner. Neither had she realized just how very...large he was.

Six feet four, easy. Shoulders that would have done a linebacker proud. High cheekbones and a chiseled chin. The only things that saved him from being too pretty were his hard, unsmiling mouth and his eyes. He had the saddest eyes that Daisy had ever seen.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice a low, easy drawl that spoke of the South. "Just out seeing the sights. Saw the road. I wanted to take a look around."

"Look for...what, exactly?" she asked, suspicion in her gut. Sad eyes or not, there was no way he had just happened upon this place. The field was too d.a.m.n far out for somebody to stumble on to it. The path to it was overgrown and unless somebody knew it was there, it wasn't going to be easy to find.

He lifted the bag at his side and smiled, but it wasn't a real smile. It wasn't reflected in his eyes, or on his face. Just a polite little smile to set people at ease, she suspected. But she wasn't put at ease. Not at all.

"Scenery. I'm an amateur photographer. On vacation, wanted to find someplace quiet." His voice was soothing, the kind of voice that tended to rea.s.sure people.

Daisy wasn't looking for rea.s.surance. She was looking for answers and she wanted to know what in the h.e.l.l he was doing standing in the middle of her crime scene.

For a brief second, she entertained the possibility that this was her guy. It wasn't unusual for killers to revisit crime scenes-could explain why he was at the site where they'd found Tanya. He definitely had the weird, mysterious vibe to him. But it wasn't him. She didn't know why he was here, but it wasn't because he wanted to see if his victim had been found yet.

So instead of calling for back up, she just said, "Mitch.e.l.l has plenty of nice places. And a lot of them aren't on private property. Maybe you should find of one of them."

That same polite little smile, and he nodded. "Of course. Hope I didn't cause trouble, Sheriff," he said. And then he was gone, moving past her on incredibly silent feet.

Daisy fought not to scowl as he headed for the trees, that black bag slung over his shoulders, his hands tucked into his pockets, broad shoulders straining at the seams of his worn denim shirt.

Nice a.s.s.

Then she mentally slapped herself across the head, turning back to study the field with narrowed eyes.

She slid her gaze back in the direction where that s.e.xy stranger had disappeared. Blowing a breath out, she started to jog across the field, catching sight of that faded blue denim. "Hey...hold up a minute."

Michael stopped in his tracks and raised his eyes heavenward as the woman's voice drifted to him.

"Should have split when ya had the chance," Lucas said, a grin curving up his mouth. He was standing in the middle of the path. The lower half of his body was lost to sight. A big oak had fallen down some time ago and was blocking a lot of the path. Lucas looked like he was standing inside the oak. His upper body was transparent but it took on a more solid look every time he spoke. As he winked at Michael, he could have almost pa.s.sed for something other than a ghost. "I will tell ya, she is a looker."

"Hmmm," Michael murmured. He turned around and watched the pretty sheriff approach. Nope, he couldn't disagree. She had a head full of riotous golden brown curls and a direct hazel stare that was kind of uncommon in a woman. Of course, since she was a cop, that direct stare shouldn't be a surprise. She had a small, straight nose, high cheekbones and her eyebrows were so dark a brown they appeared black.

Her body was a compact, deadly package of curves and muscles. She looked incredibly soft and incredibly strong. Definitely a lethal package. As she moved, he caught a quick glimpse of the shoulder holster under her jacket and he imagined she was every bit as competent with that gun as she looked.

Michael had always had a weakness for women like her-confident, composed, strong and s.e.xy as all get out. She wouldn't mind if a man opened the door for her but at the same time, she probably handled a weapon better than most men did.

He heard Lucas snickering and he gave his brother a silent warning. The last thing he needed was to make the pretty sheriff think he was just a little too strange. That sort of thing could land him in jail, considering the s.h.i.t they had going on here.

He met her eyes, arching a brow, keeping his expression blank, forcing his mouth into a curious smile. "Ma'am?"

"Just occurred to me. I haven't seen you around before," she said. "Well, at the diner. But eh...other than that, well, you know, Mitch.e.l.l doesn't see too much in the way of tourists or travelers. Been in town long?"

He shrugged, keeping his gaze from cutting to his brother as Lucas murmured, "She's onto us, pal."

Michael said, "I drove in yesterday. Slept at the Spring's Inn. Was planning on heading out today, but then I decided to wait a few days. It's quiet here. I like the quiet."

"Yes. I do, too. I work real hard to keep it quiet. I'm Daisy Crandall. The sheriff here. We've been having some trouble lately. Strangers in town probably aren't going to help people rest easier. Care to give me your name? What you've been doing the past few days?"

"Michael," he sighed out, rubbing his hand across his eyes. "Michael O'Rourke. And until four days ago, I was in Philadelphia. I'm on vacation for the next few weeks."

"Taking...pictures?" she supplied, arching a skeptical brow.

"If I feel the need," he said shortly.

"And what is it you do in Philadelphia? You don't exactly sound like a Yankee to me. Lived there long?"

d.a.m.n. Cops. He wasn't in the mood to lie to her, although he could fabricate a very believable, very plausible story. Still, if he thought she'd believe him, he would have done it. But she wouldn't believe him.