A Breath Away. Rita Herron
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MAN WAS DEAD. Was he a local or a tourist?
Grady flipped on the siren, tore from the Redbud Café and headed toward the ridge. Cutting across town, he took all the side streets because he didn’t want any of the nosy townsfolk following. They might interfere with an investigation. If one was required.
He doubted it. The victim was probably some unlucky vacationer who’d wandered too close to the edge and lost his balance.
The Great Smoky Mountains rose in front of him as he veered from town onto Route 5. He sped past run-down chicken houses and deserted farmland, through the valley, then steered onto Three Forks Road to wind up the mountain. Sweat beaded his forehead and he cranked down the window of the squad car, cursing the stifling summer heat and his broken air conditioner. Thick pines and hardwoods dotted the horizon; blinding sunlight reflected off the steaming asphalt. The smell of manure and wet grass filled the air. He shoved his hand through his hair, his throat tightening as it always did when he passed Flatbelly Hollow, where his little sister’s body had been found.
The Deer Crossing sign had been vandalized, he noticed, the stop sign from the side road leading to the fishing camp turned the wrong way. The latest graduating class’s graffiti defiled the rocky wall of the rising cliff. Moss flanked the embankment, icy water trickling down the rocks like a small waterfall. The air cooled as he navigated up the mountain, the curves so routine he could have driven them in his sleep. Shadows from the yellow pines cast a murky haze over the ground as he parked at Briar Ridge next to Logan’s squad car. Paramedics stood on the ledge, organizing the lift procedure.
Logan stalked toward Grady, his sunglasses shading his eyes. “I’ve already photographed the body and surrounding area.”
“Good.” Although Grady would take more photos as backup. He peered over the jagged ridge to assess the situation. The man’s body sprawled facedown on the ledge a few hundred feet below, his arms and legs twisted at awkward angles. Blood splattered the rocks around his head. He wore plain jeans and a ragged T-shirt, nothing outstanding to distinguish him from any other tourist or a local.
“How did you find him?”
“Hiker called in. He was taking pictures of the mountains and spotted him.”
“He still around?”
“Waiting in the car.” Logan cleared his throat. “Young kid. Poor guy’s pretty shook up.”
“Did you question him already?”
“Yeah, said he didn’t see any other cars around, hadn’t spotted a soul until he came to the ledge and found the body.”
Grady nodded and gestured toward the dead man. “You recognized him?”
“No.” Logan shoved an evidence bag holding a piece of paper toward Grady. “But I found this thumbtacked to that pine tree.”
Grady pulled on gloves, then removed the note and unfolded it. The handwriting was scrawled, almost illegible, but he slowly managed to decipher the words.
“Sorry. Killed her. Couldn’t live with the guilt anymore.”
Killed who? Grady read further, his heart thundering in his chest at the name.
Darlene.
Unbelievable. His hands shook as he lowered the note to his side. His hopes for ending the mystery surrounding Darlene’s death had finally come true. Full circle, as Laney Longhorse would say.
The dead man had confessed to killing his baby sister.
THE SPANISH MOSS of a giant live oak shrouded Violet in its haven, painting fingery shadows that resembled bones along the sidewalk. Disoriented, she clutched the wrought-iron rail surrounding the tombstones. Her imagination must be overactive. Savannah thrived on ghost stories about soldiers who’d died and hadn’t yet found peace. Ones who lingered between realms, tortured and lost, forever searching.
But she had never heard voices from the grave before.
Although this voice hadn’t called to her from the grave, she realized. The woman had still been alive. Had the voice belonged to Amber Collins, the missing coed? Had Violet heard her cry for help just before she was murdered?
Had the evil gotten inside her again? Or had she envisioned the images and voice because of the flyer? Because Darlene’s murder was on her mind?
Violet glanced at the crumpled paper in her hands and felt paralyzed. People had been reported missing, even murdered in Charleston where she and her grandmother had lived before, but she’d never experienced visions of them.
Pin peyeh obe—what did the expression mean? It sounded like a Native American phrase. But she didn’t know any native words, so why would one come to her in her thoughts? And what kind of bone had the man held to his lips?
Her mind spinning, she staggered to her car. Darkness descended as more storm clouds rolled in from the east. According to the weatherman, Hurricane Helena might hit tomorrow. Violet felt as if it had hit today.
Hands trembling, she started the engine and turned onto the island road, wincing as she bounced over the old bridge. A pair of headlights appeared in her rearview mirror, steady but not too close. The car coasted nearer as she crossed the narrow bay bridge and veered onto the side street that led to her cottage.
She clenched the steering wheel tighter, certain he was following her.
GRADY KNOTTED HIS HANDS. Everything had come full circle. Back to the beginning, back to the people in town, the ones they’d trusted. Memories of that grueling search crashed back. The long, endless night before they’d found Darlene. This man consoling Grady’s father when they’d finally discovered her small limp body.
Grady turned to the paramedics. “Make sure the autopsy is thorough—tox screens, hair and fiber samples, the works.” He gathered the crime scene kit from the car, then snapped more pictures of the area and body, and videotaped the scene. The rescue team lowered a paramedic to the ledge to secure the corpse on a stretcher, prior to transporting him to the coroner’s office.
“Why all the fuss over a suicide?” Logan’s voice was gravelly as he ran a hand over his sweat-streaked brow.
Grady frowned as he knelt to study the landing. “The first rule of being a good cop—everything is suspicious.”
“Right. Sounds like the bastard deserved it. He killed a defenseless child.”
Grady cut his eyes toward his deputy, but he couldn’t read the man’s expression, not with those damn sunglasses he always wore. “What do you know about my sister’s death?”
“Not much,” Logan said. “Just heard about it in town. I’d think you’d be glad he’s dead.”
Grady glared at him. They had never talked about personal things before. In fact, once he’d asked Logan about his family, but the man had clammed up and stormed outside. And Grady had certainly never shared anything about his own life.
But Logan was right. He should be happy. Ecstatic. Ready to celebrate.
Yet a nagging feeling plucked at the back of his mind, warning him things weren’t quite right. Was it something about the case file? The suicide note? The confession?
Darlene’s innocent young face flashed in Grady’s head. Her knobby knees, missing front teeth, the strawberry curls he used to tease her about. He pictured her and that homely friend of hers tagging along behind him. Playing dress-up and skipping rope out by that old sweet gum tree. Darlene had always protected her friend. But who had protected her? No one.
Had he really found her killer? It almost seemed too easy….
Deep down he wanted it to be over. Closure meant he could move on with his life. Maybe his father could find his way out of the bottle, too.
Grady fisted and unfisted his hands, blood pounding in his veins. He’d wanted to find Darlene’s killer alive so he could exact his own