The décor of her place had always been simple but elegant. She’d never opted for new and sleek but rather had gravitated toward antiques and older pieces she’d had refurbished. The walls were painted a pale blue, and the couch, one of the few custom pieces, was covered in a toned-down ivory fabric that had cost three hundred dollars a yard. Lovely to look at, but when Charlotte really wanted to relax, she sat on the floor for fear she’d ruin the sofa.
On the other side of the room was a set of built-in bookcases filled with hundreds of books. The books weren’t just for show. She’d read them all, which had always been a point of honor with her. Her name and persona might have been fake, but her intelligence and knowledge were the real deal.
So many books read. And so many books to pack. “They’re not going to pack themselves, Grace.”
Weary muscles and a throbbing headache began to argue that now was not the time to pack. Too tired. Too overstressed. Robert had hired the movers and they would pack most of her belongings, but there were private things she didn’t want them handling.
Determination had her dragging a moving box down the hallway toward the storage closet. Charlotte had never been a big saver or collector, so the closet was in relatively good shape. There was her bike, which she’d ridden only a few times, tennis rackets, and golf clubs. She’d taken up all sports initially to meet clients, but when the work had rolled in, the sports had fallen to the wayside. Now staying in shape was heading to the building’s gym and riding the elliptical trainer or treadmill five days a week.
The right side of the closet was filled with out-of-season overflow wardrobe. An admitted clothes hound, she stared at the collection calculating what she’d spent over the years. The tally made her cringe. She lifted the hanging dresses and suits and carefully rehung them in the wardrobe box.
It took the better part of an hour to carefully reposition each item. As tempting as it was to rush, she knew buying new clothes might not be an option for a good while, and she’d best take care of what she had.
When the box was full, she dragged it back into the living room and grabbed another box. But as she dragged the box toward the closet, her balance tipped out of whack, and for a moment she thought she’d topple over.
She sat back on her heels and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Her body protested the lack of sleep, and she realized she had no choice but to listen. Carefully, she made her way to her room and without turning on the lights went straight to her bed and folded back the silk coverlet. She fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Grace woke to hear the baby crying. She quickly got off the sofa and ran to the cradle, where the little girl was chewing on her fist, crying and angrily kicking her legs. She glanced toward Mariah’s bed and discovered it untouched. Mariah had never gone to bed last night.
“Damn it, where are you?”
Bleary-eyed, she lifted the baby, shushed her, and laid her on her shoulder. Unsteady, she moved to the kitchen and pulled a bottle from the tiny refrigerator, and then taking the nipple off, put it in the microwave for fifty-two seconds. The baby cried louder, and Grace carried her over to the little changing stand. Awkwardly, she struggled with the soiled diapers as the baby kicked and cried. Her hands began to shake. She shouldn’t be doing this. Finally, she secured the diaper tabs and tossed the soiled diaper away. A quick wash of her hands and the microwave dinged. Pleased, she had to admit that she had this routine down to a science.
Grace settled at the dinette set and nestled the baby back in the crook of her arm. A quick check of the milk on her forearm and she popped the bottle in the baby’s mouth. Greedily the baby suckled and ate.
With the baby’s cries silenced, her own adrenaline dropped and her thoughts turned to Mariah. Where was she?
Grace glanced down at the baby, savoring the cooing sounds and the scent of milk. “God, you deserve so much better than this place.”
She wasn’t sure if she drifted but Grace startled awake and realized the baby had vanished from her arms. She jumped to her feet and ran to the cradle, but there was no sign of the child. Panicked, she searched every inch of the trailer and then ran outside. The summer evening was warm and the air thick with humidity. The circle of trailers, all homes to the carnival workers, were quiet in the predawn hours. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life.
Grace’s heart thudded as she thought where to go for help. There was Grady, but he’d be furious if he knew she’d lost the baby. The other carnies wouldn’t care and the cops weren’t welcome here.
Desperate, she shoved trembling fingers through her hair and ran toward Grady’s black trailer. She was climbing the steps, fists clenched to knock, when she heard the first screams. Grace turned and scanned the darkness but could see no one.
“Mariah,” she called.
At first the screams seemed distant and far away but they quickly grew and grew until they were so loud Grace covered her ears. The screams telegraphed crushing fear and such agonizing panic that Grace could feel the pain herself.
And then out of the darkness, Mariah stumbled toward her. Her body and face were pale. Her lips were blue. And her clothes nearly torn from her body. Grace stepped back, fearing the sight of her sister.
Mariah extended a hand and mouthed the words “Help her.”
“Help who?” Grace said.
“Help our baby girl!”
Charlotte jerked awake, her body glistening in a fine sheen of sweat and her heart racing so hard that she felt light-headed. “Damn it.”
She rose and paced the room, hoping the activity would wrestle the nervous energy from her body. Mariah had died eighteen years ago.
So why the hell am I dreaming about you now?
Chapter 10
Friday, October 22, 7:15 a.m.
The guy who had appeared with Diane Young in the bank’s video camera was a ghost. No one remembered seeing him, and those who had said they’d seen him could only offer vague and contradictory descriptions. Hood. Glasses. Tall. Short. Fat. Thin.
Rokov swallowed the dregs of the cold coffee in his mug and blinked hard as he stared at the columns of numbers. With little sleep in the last few days, reviewing the latest set of financials for Young was proving to be a challenge. He could go long stretches without sleep as long as he was moving. Sitting, however, reminded him that he needed sleep and a real meal.
He was rereading a column when he heard a commotion by the elevators. Standing, he glanced over and saw that his father and grandmother had arrived at the station.
Garrison and Kier had stopped to greet the pair, and he could see Sinclair’s head moving in that direction. It wasn’t like his father and grandmother just to show up. The haze of fatigue vanished and concern took root.
He rose. His grandmother surrounded by the cops looked old and frail. Her spine had begun to bend in the last couple of years and her once thick hair was now thinning. Despite time’s effects, her gaze remained sharp and clear.
Rokov looked like his father, who at sixty-nine remained tall with broad shoulders. Gray had lightened once ink black hair and deep lines etched in his face, but he stayed fit and always donned a suit, tie, and hat when out in public.
When Rokov approached, his grandmother stared at Kier with a narrowed gaze. “You are smirking at me.”
Kier raised his hand to his heart. “I promise, Mrs. Rokov, but I am not laughing at you. I just don’t think it’s gonna happen.”
Rokov paused, nodded to his father and kissed his grandmother on the cheek. “What did you tell him?”
The old woman stared at her grandson and there was no missing the relief in her gaze. Seeing him seemed to ease the lines in her face. “Only the truth.”
“Which is?”
“His wife is expecting a girl.”
Kier raised an amused brow.
Rokov glanced at Kier embarrassed. It was no secret that Angie Carlson Kier was a cancer survivor, and though she’d been given a clean bill
of health, she’d never give birth. In Russian, Rokov explained the situation quietly to his grandmother, who seemed unfazed by the entire exchange.
In English, she replied, “I see what I see.”
Rokov nodded as he glanced at his father. “So what brings you here?”
“Your grandmother insisted,” his father said.
“I was worried,” his grandmother said in a clear voice.
Irina Rokov wasn’t a worrier by nature and for her to be here now was out of character. And like many older Russians, she did not welcome trips to the police station, which in Russia could also house KGB offices. He’d told her many times that the KGB was not in this country, but she never really accepted his explanation. He kept his voice even. “I’m working. We are all working on the case.”
“The witch case,” she said in Russian. “I read about it.” Every day since she arrived in this country, she had read the paper from front to back. In the early days when her English was not so good, she just looked at the pictures and used her Russian-English dictionary to translate as many words as she could.
“That’s right.”
In Russian she said, “I have something to tell you about that case.”
“What is that?”
“The killer is not finished. He will do these terrible things again.”
“How do you know this?”
“Like I know your friend Kier will have a daughter by the end of the year. And like I know your friend Sinclair must be very careful over the next few weeks.”
“What does Sinclair have to worry about?”
She gripped his wrist with bent fingers that possessed an intensity he could not ignore. “She is going to be shot.”
Sinclair did not speak Russian but recognized her name. “What did she say about me?”
“Nothing,” Rokov said.
Sinclair glanced at the old woman. “What did you say about me?”
The old woman met her gaze. “I said that you must be careful.”
Sinclair stiffened a fraction. Cops as a lot could be superstitious. “Why?”
“Because you just must.”
Sinclair drew in a deep breath. “I’m always careful.”
“Be more careful,” Grandmother said. “You are too young to die.”
Sinclair’s face paled. “Damn.”
Kier nudged Sinclair. “Lighten up.”