You had a bad dream. That’s all. Get over it. She drew in another long breath. She was in her own bed. Home. Safe.
With a mother of a migraine. Her head throbbed. Her throat ached, and she smelled smoke in her hair from sitting too many hours in the bar. Oh, God, she’d really overdone it last night. She winced against the first rays of the new morning as dawn crept through the open window. A jasmine-scented breeze carried with it the sounds of fresh rainwater gurgling in the gutters. The French doors were slightly ajar, and the lacy curtains lifted and fluttered, shadowed in places, darkened and stained.
Why was the door open? Had she opened it last night before crawling into bed because of the heat? Images of the nightmare stabbed into her consciousness, mingling with blurred memories from the night before. She’d had a few drinks at a bar . . . somewhere on the waterfront. Or was that part of the disjointed dream, too? She remembered the noise of the band, and she could still smell the cloud of old cigarette smoke that had hung over the crowd. She’d drunk a little too much—well, a lot too much, but she’d managed to get home. Somehow. But that part was blank.
The headache no amount of Excedrin would be able to quell throbbed behind one eye and she felt groggy, disconnected, as she glanced at the clock. Red digital numbers flashed. Twelve o’clock. Midnight? Noon? No way. Birds were just beginning to warble. It had to be early. Five or six. A god-awful time to wake up. The power must’ve been interrupted. It was the dream that had awoken her, the ragged, disjointed scenes screaming through her brain.
Her mouth tasted bad. Dry as cotton. Her stomach felt empty, as if she’d lost its contents sometime during the night. Swiping a hand over her sweaty forehead, she brushed back a clump of damp curls and felt something crusty. Her fingers were dirty or . . . or . . . What the devil was that smell? For a second she thought she might have thrown up, but the odor was metallic rather than sour and . . . and . . . oh, God . . . She held her hand in front of her face and saw the stains that had run down her arm. Dark purple. Thick and crusty, having seeped from the slices on the wrists.
What?
Blinking hard, she pushed herself up in the bed, higher against the pillows. Panic swelled. She fumbled for the light switch. Click. In a blinding burst of light, she saw the blood.
Pooled on the sheets.
Scraped across the headboard.
Wiped on the curtains.
Smeared on the walls.
Everywhere.
“No . . . oh, God, no!” Caitlyn bolted from the bed, her legs tangled in her nightgown and she fell face first on the apricot-colored carpet now stained red. “Jesus!” Dear God, what was this? She scuttled like a crab over the crusty carpet. It looked as if someone, or something, had been slaughtered in this fifteen by twelve-foot room. And you slept through it!
Her heart froze as she saw a handprint on the door casing, another wiped on the panels. She had to fight the nausea that climbed up her throat. Scared out of her wits, she scrambled to the bathroom.
Whose blood is this?
Yours. Look at you!
Her gaze landed on the mirror over the sink. Red stains smudged her face where her hands had swiped her skin, and her nostrils were caked with blood. Her hair was matted and wild. Had she just had a horrid nosebleed, like the ones she’d had as a child and somehow managed to sleep through? No . . . that wouldn’t explain the nicks on her wrists. Nor the blood smeared everywhere in the room.
She remembered the open door . . . Had someone done this to her? Fear knotted her stomach. Oh, God . . . but why? Who? She was beginning to hyperventilate but forced herself to calm down. The blood wasn’t all hers. It couldn’t be. She was alive. Anyone who had lost this much would certainly be dead. No one could have survived such a massacre.
She leaned against the sink and tried to think. She did feel woozy, lightheaded, her migraine eating away at her brain.
Oh, God, what if the person who did this is still in the house?
No, that didn’t make sense. If someone had tried to kill her, he would have finished the job. The blood in her hair, on the walls, in the shower had dried. Time had gone by. So he was either scared off or took off.
Or you did it and left the door open.
No . . . But she couldn’t remember, didn’t know.
If the blood isn’t yours, whose is it?
“I don’t know,”she whispered.
Maybe the victim is still in the house.
She glanced at the shower; the frosted glass was cracked, a bloody handprint visible.
God help me.
Steeling herself, she placed her hand on the glass. She half expected to find a dead body, eyes rolled to the ceiling, tongue lolling, red stains running into the drain. Nervously, she pushed the door open.
No one jumped out at her.
No half-dead body was sprawled over the shower floor.
Dried blood was splattered and ran down the tiles in ragged rivulets. She felt her stomach turn. What had happened here? What? Her whole body was shaking as she raised her hand and found that it was the same size as the print on the shower door.
“Mother of God,”she whispered. Think, Caitlyn, think. Don’t panic.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again.
How had this happened? Where had she been? Whose blood was smeared everywhere? Her knees gave way. She caught herself on the edge of the sink and leaned forward to splash cold water over her face to keep herself from passing out.
Maybe you’re not alone. Maybe even now there’s someone with you, someone downstairs. Someone waiting. She looked up quickly at her reflection. White skin, wild hair sticking up at odd angles, panic in her hazel eyes. The door to the verandah was left open and you don’t remember doing it. Her gaze moved and in the mirror she saw an image of the door ajar, the curtains billowing and stained. She thought she might be sick.
Had some killer come in and she, suffering one of her black-out headaches, not heard him invade her home? But—there was no body. Nothing but her own hacked wrists and bloody nose . . . no one would come here to slice up someone and take away the body . . . no. Her head was pounding, leaping with wild ideas.
If someone else had even stepped into the house, why hadn’t the alarm gone off?
The door to the verandah isn’t latched, you idiot. Obviously the alarm wasn’t set.
She leaned a hip against the counter and closed her eyes. This made no sense. None. And it scared the hell out of her.
Maybe you invited someone in. But who? And why? And if it was an intruder . . . why hadn’t Oscar barked so loudly the entire neighborhood had woken up?
Oscar!
Where was he?
Scared to death, she took another horrified look at the stains on the floor. Not the dog . . . not Oscar! Swallowing back her fear, she mopped her face with the sleeve of her stained nightgown and started for the staircase. She gave a low whistle.
Nothing.
Her throat tightened.
You’d better grab a weapon. Just in case.
She didn’t keep a gun in the house, didn’t believe in it. Biting her lip, she grabbed a small dumbbell, one she used when working out while watching television, then inched into the hallway.
Ears straining over the frantic beat of her heart, she listened as she moved. The house was still. Quiet. As if all were safe.
Pull yourself together. Do it, Caitlyn. Don’t let fear paralyze you! Her fingers tightened over her weapon as she peered into the hall bath. It was empty.
Nervous sweat slick on her body, she slowly eased open the door to one of the other bedrooms and her heart tugged as it always did as she looked into the space that had been her daughter’s. Jamie’s favorite stuffed animal, a droopy-eared bunny was propped against the pillows of a double bed covered with a quilt hand-stitched in soft pastels. Luminescent stars and clouds that she had painted for Jamie still covered the ceiling. But the room was empty and, she thought sadly, was starting to smell musty and stale, reminding her that her
baby was gone.
“Happy birthday dear Ja-mie . . . ” The discordant children’s voices blared in her head.
Don’t go there. Not now.
Her sweaty fingers tightened around the weight. Nervously she eased into her den with its drafting table and computer desk, just as she’d left it. Her desk, drafting table, computer all stood silent, the desk slightly cluttered. But no one was hiding in the corners or behind the closet doors. Turning, she spied a figure in the darkness. No! She gasped, before realizing it was her own reflection staring back at her from the full-length mirror she’d hung on the door.
She nearly collapsed.
Come on, Caitlyn. Toughen up!
Silently she edged down the stairs, the fingers of her left hand trailing along the banister, her right fist coiled tightly over the weight. But no dark figure wielding a knife or gun leaped out of the dining alcove at her as she stepped onto the second riser. No gunshot blasted through the house. No—
She heard a quick, loud scrape.
The sole of a leather boot on hardwood?
She froze.
Over the mad drumming of her heart, she heard the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the hall clock. She wanted to call out to the dog, but decided to wait. But she forced herself to inch forward, her gaze sweeping the rooms. The living room was just as she’d left it, still smelling of the roses she’d cut and placed in the vase on the coffee table. No trace of blood.
She began to calm. The house felt empty. She checked the laundry room and kitchen, where morning light was beginning to filter through the windows, and the dining alcove with its view of the back courtyard. Everything was in its place.
Eerily so.
Except it looks like Charles Manson held a party in your bedroom while you were sleeping.
She heard a sharp bark.
Oscar!
She saw him through the bay window, a scruffy mutt scratching at the back door. She nearly collapsed in relief. “How did you get out here?” Caitlyn scolded kindly as the scrappy terrier-mix stood on his hind legs and pawed frantically at the glass. The sound she’d heard. She unlatched the door and he flew into her arms. Ruffling his coarse mottled fur, she wondered if she’d left him out by mistake. Had she come home, let the dog out, then, because she’d had one or two too many Cosmopolitans, wandered upstairs and forgotten him?
Why would you do that? Just so you could hack away at your wrists and suffer the worst nosebleed you’ve had in five years? You know, Caitlyn, Kelly might be right. You might just be losing it. Big time.
“What happened last night?” she asked the little dog as she set him on the floor, then opened a can of dog food and scraped the contents into his bowl while he turned in quick tight circles. “You’re not half as glad to see me as I am to see you,”she assured him as she set his bowl on the floor. Tail whipping frantically, he plunged his nose into the dish and ignored the fact that she patted him on his head. He’d been Jamie’s dog, named after her favorite Sesame Street character, Oscar the Grouch, for his rumpled fur. “See . . . we’re okay,” she said, but had trouble believing it herself.
The smell of the dog food made her stomach quiver. She rocked back on her heels. What the hell had she done last night? Where had all the blood come from? Her bedroom looked as if something or someone had been diced to ribbons there. But she remembered nothing after going to the bar—what was the name of it? The Swamp. Yeah, The Swamp. She’d sat in a booth for a long time waiting for her twin sister, Kelly, to show up.
She’d noticed the bartender staring at her from time to time. Probably because he thought it odd that she’d ordered two drinks—a Cosmo for her and a dry martini for Kelly, which, if she remembered correctly, she’d swilled down when Kelly had pulled one of her usual disappearing acts.
But aside from tackling both stemmed glasses and sucking the pimento out of three olives before chewing them, she remembered very little. Too little.
It had been noisy . . . loud hip-hop music at odds with the conversation and laughter and . . .
Like a razor slicing through flesh, a quicksilver image passed through her mind. She was in the foyer of the house she’d decorated—the paintings of thoroughbreds adorned the walls, the grandfather clock stood guard at the foot of the stairs. The heels of her shoes tapped across the marble as she crossed to the open door of the den. The sound of classical music lured her to open the door and find her estranged husband looking up at her with sightless eyes, blood pooling beneath his desk chair.
Caitlyn gasped. Why would she think of Josh now? The image of his white, lifeless face flashed in front of her eyes again. Why would she envision him dead?
Becaus it was your daughter’s birthday yesterday.
Because the bastard was divorcing you.
And because he was going to sue you for wrongful death. Of your child. Your baby. “Stop it!” She’d had a dream. No big deal. No harm done. She grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, twisted it open and drank half of it down only to feel it coming back up again. Fast. She doubled over the sink.
She threw up. Over and over. Until the dry heaves took over and she was wringing wet with sweat.
You should call your shrink. You’re losing it!
But she couldn’t. Dr. Wade had moved recently. So Caitlyn was fresh out of psychiatric help. Great. She hadn’t bothered trying to find another therapist. Didn’t want one.
Until now.
Then the police. Call them.
Why? Because I had a nosebleed? Because I might have . . . in my drunken state . . . tried to slash my wrists?
Again. You might have tried again, that nagging voice in her brain reminded her.
If I call the cops, they’ll haul me away. To the psych ward.
Maybe that’s where you belong.
“No!” She glanced down at her arms and frowned. That other incident was a long time ago.
That “other incident” nearly cost you your life.
She didn’t want to think of that. Not now.
First things first. She had to pull herself together. Calm down. Get a major grip. She needed to make sure the house was locked, then clean herself up and tackle the mess upstairs. But first sheed call Kelly. Find out what had happened.
Maybe the blood upstairs is hers.
A new fear gripped Caitlyn, and she frantically punched out the numbers to Kelly’s cabin at the river, her “hideaway,” as she called it. The phone rang. Once. Twice. “Come on, come on. Pick up!” The phone jangled a third time. Caitlyn leaned against the counter and willed her twin to answer. A fourth ring and then a distinctive click. “Hi–you reached me, but I’m not here. Leave your number!” She heard a flat beep as the recorder clicked on.
“Kelly? Kelly? Are you there? If you are, pick up. Now . . . it’s Caitlyn . . . I need to talk to you. I mean, I really need to talk to you . . . about last night. Please, call me back ASAP.” She hung up slowly and tried not to panic. With a trembling hand, she pushed the hair from her eyes. Was Kelly going out of town again? She had a business trip planned, but when?
Caitlyn’s heart was racing. Faster and faster. Think, Caitlyn, think!
Kelly’s cell phone! She dialed, then waited, silently counting the rings as she prayed her sister would pick up. One. Two. Three. Oh, no. “Please answer.” Voice mail picked up. “You’ve reached Kelly’s cell. Leave a message.”
Great!
Just calm down. The answering machine beeped. “Kelly, it’s Caitlyn. Give me a call. It’s important.” She hung up and considered driving out to her sister’s cabin. But what good would that do? What good at all? If Kelly was around, she’d call back.
Or would she?
Sometimes Caitlyn wasn’t sure.
Two
“Who the hell is Josh Bandeaux?” Pierce Reed asked.
Sylvie Morrisette, his partner, was speeding along East Bay Street as if they were in the Grand-damned-Prix. “You mean besides being a major prick?” Her eyes hidden behind wrap-around
shades, Morrisette slid a glance his way.
“Yeah, besides that.”
She sighed through her nose. “Sometimes I forget what a greenhorn you really are. Cute, but a greenhorn.” With her spiked blond hair, athletic body and sharp tongue, Sylvie was as tough as her snakeskin boots and as prickly as a saguaro cactus. From the moment Reed had been paired up with her, he’d won looks of condolence from the other men in the department. “Lived your life in a goddamned vacuum,” she added in her West Texas drawl. A transplant from El Paso, she had fifteen years on the Savannah police force. To his six months. Aside from a short stint here twelve years earlier, Reed had spent most of his adult life on the West Coast, most recently San Francisco. He’d left San Francisco on bad terms, but managed to land a senior detective position here. If Sylvie resented his status, she had the good sense not to show it.
Lights flashing, tires squealing, she took a corner too fast and nearly swung into the oncoming lane.
“Hey, let’s get there in one piece.”
“We will.” She managed to keep the cruiser on the pavement as the driver of a new pickup passed and looked about to flip them off when he realized he was dealing with cops and kept his middle finger from springing to attention.
“So fill me in.”
“He’s just one of the wealthiest son of a bitches in the city, maybe even the state. Grew up with a silver spoon wedged between his gorgeous Georgian teeth and married into more money. Big-time gambler. Made and lost fortunes but always came out of each thorny deal smelling like a damned rose.”
“Until last night,” Reed reminded her.
“Yeah. Last night I guess his luck ran out.” She blasted her way through a red light. “Dead at forty-two. Possible suicide.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“But you don’t buy it.”
“No way, José. I had the misfortune to meet the prick a couple of times. He donated money to the department. Any charity we hosted, he was certain to show up in an Armani suit with a big check in hand.” Her lips twisted downward. “Then he’d have a few drinks and the next thing you knew he’d be pinching some cutie’s ass. A real charmer, our Josh.” She smiled without a hint of humor and floored it through the next yellow light. “The fact that he was married didn’t stop him from making a pass at anything in a skirt.”