Something Wicked

  He sent his mind back to the dying detective . . . the dark hole that opened up to the other side for just a nanosecond. His blood heated at the memory, and his spirits lifted a teeny bit. Good Time Charlie wasn’t completely dead.

  And then the voice in his head, scratching against his skull like fingernails on a blackboard: I’m coming for you.

  “You’re a dead woman!” he snarled aloud, his patience with the bitch completely shattered.

  “What?” Victoria turned wide eyes his way.

  “Watch the road,” he snapped. “I didn’t mean you.”

  And then the voice came back with a surprising message: Not a woman, big brother. See you in the next life.

  Charlie thought that over long and hard. No wonder she could play the game so well! She was a he.

  “What’s so funny?” Victoria asked.

  Charlie hadn’t even realized he was chuckling until she spoke, ruining one of the only moments he’d had without pain since the fire had burned him. Now he shuddered violently. He’d never liked fires. He’d sensed from a very early age that it was the method that he would die by.

  “Shut up,” he said to Victoria. Then to the voice, which he could feel was still waiting, In the next life, then . . .

  Ravinia walked along the road, south, toward California. Sometimes she accepted rides; sometimes she just walked because she wanted to. The weather was holding for the moment, though rain was in the forecast.

  She was south of Tillamook, and it was growing dark. She wasn’t far from a place to stay, but she would rather keep going. As if hearing her, a car pulled up beside her, but it was two men, who looked at her lasciviously. She looked into their hearts, but she didn’t need to. She’d already determined she wouldn’t catch a ride with them.

  “Ah, c’mon, honey,” the one in the passenger seat said as the car pulled to a complete stop and he stepped a foot out.

  Ravinia fingered her knife, but she felt a wraith move up beside her, maybe even through her. On her sudden intake of breath, the man backed up, jumped in the car, slammed the door, and the vehicle tore away.

  She looked from the car to her left. A wolf stood beside her, its yellow eyes watching the departing vehicle.

  Ravinia felt her pulse slow down and her awareness heighten. She looked into the wolf’s heart and sensed its fiercely protective nature.

  “Friend or foe?” she asked in a whisper, but it just turned away and padded back to the woods. As Ravinia continued toward the orange neon sign of the motel about a mile ahead, she caught sight of the wolf’s gray shadow flickering in and out between the trees, tracking her progress.

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed SOMETHING WICKED! I can’t tell you how much fun I have writing “The Colony” books with my sister. (It’s kind of like my dream job!) We’ve plotted out a complete series around Siren Song and the women within its gates and have a great time with it. We both love the Oregon Coast and a touch of the paranormal. And come on, who isn’t intrigued by a cult of sorts. What started out with WICKED GAME and WICKED LIES has grown and we’ve come up with ideas for a continuing series. The next book, WICKED WAYS, takes off where SOMETHING WICKED leaves off and should be out in late 2014, so look for it!

  In the next couple of months I’ll have some other new books out, too. This July, TELL ME, my hardcover set in Savannah, Georgia, will be on the shelves. In TELL ME we’ll meet a few characters who were first introduced in THE NIGHT BEFORE and THE MORNING AFTER, two previous books. Yes, reporter Nikki Gillette and Detective Pierce Reed are once more investigating a new—or rather an old—case! The kicker is that now Pierce and Nikki are engaged, (Yep, things heated up in the intervening years.) The trouble is that Nikki’s starting to get cold feet a few weeks before the wedding. Let’s face it, her family isn’t known for solid marriages. Now, Nikki’s a true crime writer and working on her third book, which centers around Blondell O’Henry, Savannah’s most infamous and reviled killer. Blondell, who was found guilty of killing her own daughter and wounding her other children, is being released from prison on a technicality and Nikki not only smells a story, but a best seller in the making. If Blondell, who has protested her innocence from the get-go, isn’t the killer, then who is? Nikki’s not buying Blondell’s story—the woman is a known liar and narcissist, and, to make things worse, the victim? Blondell’s daughter, Amity? She was Nikki’s best friend. Is Blondell truly guilty, a twisted killer who would take her own daughter’s life? Or was she set up? One way or another, Nikki intends on getting to the truth, never realizing that she’s putting her own life on the line.

  Fast on the heels of TELL ME, READY TO DIE, my next Grizzly Falls book featuring Detectives Selena Alvarez and Regan Pescoli, will be published. READY TO DIE is the fifth book in this series and this time the entire Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department is in the crosshairs of a methodical and determined killer’s sights. He’s made a list of victims and, seeking a dark revenge, starts taking them out, one by one. In a race against time, Pescoli and Alvarez try to outwit and foil the killer, each knowing that she may be the next target on his hit list.

  Of course I’m working on future stories as well, those written with Nancy Bush as well as others. For a full list of my novels or excerpts about the books, just log onto www.lisajackson.com. Or, if you’d rather, catch up with me on Facebook where I post most days and you can learn about current, past and future projects. There’s always a lot to talk about on the fan page, more information on the books, contests and conversations, so log on!

  Keep reading!

  Lisa Jackson

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Lisa Jackson’s

  TELL ME,

  coming in July 2013!

  “Just tell me what you know about that night. Let me tell your side of the story to the rest of the world. If you didn’t try to kill the children, if you didn’t mean to hurt them, then tell me the truth. Let me be your mouthpiece. Trust me, I can help!”

  The eyes beyond the glass didn’t so much as blink. I wasn’t even sure that the killer had heard my question. Then again, did someone who had tried to murder kids in cold blood ever hear anyone else? Ever really try to explain?

  As I sit in my tiny stall, an open booth with an uncomfortable stool, a heavy telephone receiver and thick glass separating the free from the incarcerated at the prison, I try my best to be convincing and earnest, hoping to wring the truth from the person on the other side of the clear barrier.

  But it seems impossible.

  The prisoner suspects I’m up to something; that I’m using the information I get from this interview for my own purposes, which, of course isn’t far from the truth.

  As I stare through the smudged glass to the person who’s agreed to be contacted, a person whom the public has reviled, a person with whom I’ve been through so much, I wonder if I’ll ever get through; if the truth will ever be told. Suspicion smolders in the inmate’s eyes, and something more too, something almost hidden. Hopelessness? Fear? Or is it accusation?

  As if she knows.

  But then, why wouldn’t she?

  It isn’t as if we’re strangers.

  My heart trips a bit and I want to bolt, to hide. But I force myself to sit on the worn-down stool where thousands have sat before me.

  “I can help,” I plead and cringe at the tone of desperation in my own voice.

  Her expression falters a bit, and even dressed in drab prison garb, without makeup, her once shiny hair streaked with gray, a few pesky wrinkles appearing on what was once flawless skin, she’s a beauty with high cheekbones, large eyes, and rosebud lips. The years, since the horrific crime for which she’s accused, have been surprisingly kind.

  There is noise in this hallway, on my side of the thick window, whispered voices from other booths filtering my way as there is no privacy here, not with the cameras mounted on the ceiling, the guards watching over the line of free people attempting to speak to inmates.


  I hear sobbing from the elderly woman to my right as she tries to speak in low tones. I saw her shuffling in before me. She wears a bandanna on her head and dabs at her eyes with a hankie. Her wedding ring is loose on her finger, her sadness palpable.

  The stool to my left is vacant, a man in his thirties with tattoos climbing up his arms and a neatly trimmed soul patch the only hair on his head, storming angrily out, his footsteps pounding away angrily.

  But I can’t be distracted by the hum of conversation, or the shuffle of footsteps, or an occasional burst of laughter. There is little time and I want only one small thing: the truth and all of it.

  “Come on, I can help. Really,” I insist, but in my little nook, where I can sense the prison’s cameras filming this interview, all remains silent, the person staring through the glass at me, quiet as death.

  “I know, I know. I’m working on it. Really! I just need a little more time to come up with the right story!” Nikki Gillette glanced up at the skylight where rain drizzled down the glass pane. The sky was gray and gloomy, the air thick with the storm, twilight hurrying across the city. Beneath the window to the sky, curled into a ball on the top of the day bed, her cat Jennings lay, eyes closed, tail twitching slightly as he slept.

  At her desk, Nikki held the phone to her ear with one hand and fiddled with a pen with the other. The conversation was tense. Nearly heated. And for once, she knew she was at fault. Well, at least partially.

  As her agent described why her latest book submission had been rejected by her publisher, Nikki glanced at her computer monitor, news stories streaming across the screen, another storm on its way inland.

  “What was wrong with the idea about the Bay Bridge Strangler?” she asked, but, deep down, knew the answer.

  “For one thing he’s in San Francisco.”

  Nikki could imagine Ina rolling her expressive brown eyes over the tops of bifocals that were always perched on the tip of her nose. She’d be sitting in her tiny office, cup of coffee nearby, a second, forgotten one, maybe from the day before, propped on a pile of papers, pushed to one corner of her massive desk.

  “The second thing is, you never met him. Since good old Bay Bridge is big news on the West Coast, I’ll bet a dozen stories are being written about him from that enclave of mystery writers they’ve got out there. You know, I probably already have a submission.”

  “Okay, okay, but I sent you an idea about a story surrounding Father John in New Orleans.”

  “Who knows what happened to that freak? Jesus, a killer dressing up as a priest! Gives me chills. Yeah, I know. He’s a better match, closer geographically and infinitely more interesting than Bay Bridge, but really, do you have a connection with him? An inside look?” There was a pause, a muffled “Tell him I’ll call him right back” on the other end of the line, then Ina was back, never missing a beat. “As near as I remember Father John’s disappeared, either moved on, or, more likely dead in some Louisiana swamp. Crocodile bait or something. No one knows and right now, not a lot of people care. He’s old news.”

  “Wait a second. No one really knows what happened to Zodiac and he hasn’t killed in decades, but there’s still books being written about him. Movies.”

  “Meh. From authors and producers without any new ideas. The reason your first two books did so well was because they were fresh, you were close to the investigation.”

  “Too close,” Nikki said, shuddering inwardly when she remembered her up-close-and-personal experience with the Grave Robber.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. And I’m not advocating you ever becoming a victim again, trust me. But you know you have to write something to which you’re emotionally connected.”

  “So you keep saying,” Nikki admitted as she looked around this little garret with its built-in bookshelves, easy chair and reading lamp to go along with her desk. A perfect writing studio, as long as she had a story to write.

  “So here’s the deal,” Ina said, “The reason your first book worked so well, or at least in the publisher’s eyes, is your connection to the story, your involvement.”

  “That might have been a once-in-a-lifetime thing,” Nikki admitted as she twisted her pen between her fingers and rolled her desk chair back.

  “Let’s hope,” Ina said. “Look, no one expects you to be a victim again, oh, God, no, but, you know, you had a connection with the second book, too.

  Therein lay the problem. She’d sold Coffin for Two, which was a true crime book about the killer she’d dubbed the Grave Robber, a psycho who had reigned terror on Savannah before targeting Nikki herself. She had no intention of coming that close to a psycho again—book deal or no book deal. Coffin for Two, in which she’d infused a little dark humor along with her own personal account of dealing with the madman, had sold thousands of copies and caught the eye of a producer for a cable network that was looking for particularly bizarre true crime stories; so the book was optioned, though not yet produced.

  Her second book, Myth in Blood also had a personal hook as she had been close to that true crime story as it had unfolded. Working for the Savannah Sentinel, Nikki had pushed her way into the investigation, stepping on more than a few toes in the process and pissing off just about everyone in the crime department at the newspaper. That case, involving the rich and ill-fated Montgomery family, had enough grotesque elements to appeal to the public, so another best seller had been born.

  So now Nikki was planning to write Book Three, but so far, no go.

  “You know, there are dozens of true crime books out every month, but the reasons yours stood out was because of your personal involvement. Take a tip from Ann Rule; she knows what she’s doing. You’ve read The Stranger Beside Me. The reason that book is so damned chilling is because she knew Ted Bundy. She was there!”

  “She seems to have done well with other books, where she didn’t know the killer.”

  “I’m just sayin’ that we could use another Coffin for Two.”

  “Or The Stranger Beside Me.”

  “Yeah, I’d take that, too.” Nikki heard the smile in her agent’s voice.

  “I bet.”

  “You can come up with something. I know it.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Standing, Nikki kicked out her desk chair and stretched her back. She’d been sitting for hours, working on a story for the paper and now, her spine gave off a few little pops. She needed to get out. To run. To get her blood pumping. For as much as she was arguing with Ina, Nikki knew her agent was right. She was itching to get to work on another project, couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into a new book about some grisly, high-profile murder.

  Cell phone pressed to her ear, she walked to the window where she was lucky enough to have a view of Forsythe Park with its gorgeous fountain and display of live oak trees. From her vantage point above the third floor, she could watch people in the park and look over the trees to the rooftops of Savannah. She loved the view; it was one of the selling features that had convinced her to buy this old converted mansion with her advance from the three-book deal. She leased the two lower floors to renters and had kept the third and this newly converted office space for herself. She was in debt to her eyeballs.

  “Look, Nikki, it’s getting to be crunch time. Maybe you should talk to Reed, see if he’ll let you help with an investigation.”

  Glancing at the diamond sparkling on the ring finger of her left hand, she said, “Don’t go there, Ina. You know I won’t use Reed.”

  “I know just the opposite.” Ina wasn’t one to mince words.

  “Ouch!” Inwardly, Nikki winced as she glanced at a picture propped on her desk. In the photo, she and Reed were huddled close together, beach grass and sand dunes visible, their faces ruddy from running on the sand. The wind was up, her red-blond hair blowing across Reed’s face. They both were smiling, their eyes bright, taken on the day he’d proposed on that same beach. So now she was considering compromising their relationship.

  “Okay, maybe not use him, of course, but m
aybe he could, you know, let you get involved in some way with a current case?”

  “That’s not Reed’s style.”

  “Hmmm. Seems you managed to squeeze into an investigation or two before,” her agent reminded her and she squirmed a little in her chair. There was a time when she would have done just about anything for a story, but that was before she’d agreed to become Mrs. Pierce Reed.

  Right?

  Right!

  “Forget it, Ina, okay? Look, even if I could get him to agree, and let me tell you that’s a gigantic ‘if,’ it’s not like knife-wielding psychopaths run rampant through the streets of Savannah every day, you know.”

  “Every city, or area around a city has bizarre crimes. You just have to turn over the right rock and poke around. It’s amazing what you might find. People are sick, Nikki.”

  “So I should capitalize on that?” Nikki didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  “Absolutely. It’s what you do best. So dig a little,” Ina suggested. “Turn over those rocks. Squeeze Reed for some info on a new case, even an old one. There’s got to be something. What are the police working on now?”

  “Reed doesn’t confide in me. Or anyone. It’s just not his deal.”

  Ina wasn’t persuaded. “Not even pillow talk? You know, men really open up in bed.”

  “If you say so. Look, let’s not even go there.”

  Ina sighed loudly. “Don’t play the blushing virgin with me, okay? It’s not going to work. I know you, Nikki. If you want something, you go after it and hell or high water be damned, you get it.”

  That much was true. “Come on, Ina. Think about it. If there were another serial killer running loose in Savannah, don’t you think I would know about it?”