The Hexed. Heather Graham
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how urban legends start. In the dorm hallways people would see the ghost of Melissa, her throat red and bleeding, and she’d say, ‘Help me.’ When kids went parking out by the woods, they were warned to beware of the Backwoods Slasher.”
Rocky knew all about urban legends and ghost stories.
It was just different when you’d been there. When you’d really seen a woman lying dead in the dirt, a necklace of red around her throat.
When you’d really heard the words from somewhere in your mind.
Help me!
And when you’d completely failed to do so.
“Haley, that was thirteen years ago,” Rocky said. “We don’t know what’s going on here yet. We will find out this time, though.”
She smiled at him. “I know you will,” she said. “Meanwhile, you know you’re welcome to stay here. We have a little room behind Jackie’s. It’s yours, so long as you don’t mind tripping over Legos now and then.”
“That’s nice of you, Haley,” he said. “Thank you. But I’m at the new hotel on Derby Street. I’m okay. And now it’s time for me to go.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Jack told him.
As they headed to the car, Jack said, “Hell, you even look like a fed. Black suit, perfect tie.”
Rocky laughed. “And you look like a detective.”
“Oh, yeah, how’s that?”
“Nondescript,” Rocky teased. “I’m joking, of course. You look good. I’m sure you can still ‘go long.’”
“It’s softball for me these days,” Jack told him. “I’m a damned good first baseman.” He hesitated. “Vince is on the team, too. You can imagine what that’s like. When he hits the ball...well, if he gets a piece of it, we’re all rounding the bases.”
“I have no problem believing that. How’s the rest of our old gang?” he asked, then added softly, “You and Haley are married. What about Renee?”
“Renee is the eternal cheerleader—she’s coaching now. Obviously Vince is still in town, too. Believe it or not, he’s running for city council. He became an attorney,” Jack told him.
Rocky laughed. “Well, hell—Vince is going to show us both up. Good for him.”
Jack was thoughtful for a moment. “It changed us, you know? Melissa changed us. We were all cutups—except for you. But...maybe we realized how short life could be. I don’t know. But after the night she was found...after the grief counselors came to school...and after watching...waiting... for something horrible to happen again. I don’t know. We changed. Actually, I thought about you a lot. You could have done anything. With your grades, you had it all made. But all you wanted was to be a cop. Like your dad.”
“Did it have anything to do with wanting to solve Melissa’s case?” Rocky asked. “You deciding to become a cop?”
Jack shrugged. “Maybe. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Rocky admitted.
“And you walked right into another murder.”
“Technically, I was driving. Miss Lyle walked into the murder—or sort of, anyway.”
“How do you figure that?” Jack asked him.
“That she sort of walked into a murder?”
“Yeah.”
“She said she heard something. But according to the medical examiner, the woman was killed around five, and Miss Lyle didn’t even get home until it was at least six. By then...who knows what she heard. I’m going to talk to her again tomorrow—with your permission, of course.”
Jack grinned. “You have my permission, though I have a feeling you’re not going to need it. Someone on high is going to tell the sheriff to invite the FBI—and you’re going to be it.”
“I doubt I’ll be alone,” Rocky said. After his meeting with Jackson Crow, he’d met the other members of the local Krewe. Crow’s wife was also one of his agents; her name was Angela Hawkins, and her main job was to assess reports and determine which agents should work each situation, according to their talents as well as their availability. She would undoubtedly be sending someone else to work the case with him.
Jack nodded. “Autopsy tomorrow, if you want to observe. Carly Henderson was released to her family a few days ago for burial. You’ve seen all the records and reports, though.”
“Thanks. And good night, Jack. Good to see you. I just wish...”
“I know. You should have shown up for the reunion,” Jack said. “Except even then...”
“Melissa was on everyone’s mind.”
“Yeah,” Jack agreed.
Rocky slid into the driver’s seat.
Jack called out to him one last time. “I’m glad you’re here, Rocky. I’m, uh, ready to go long.”
Rocky waved to him. “Takes a team,” he replied.
A little while later, in his room at the hotel, Rocky laid his Glock in its small holster on the bedside table, stripped down to his shorts and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Three. Now there were three.
That they knew of.
Why one all those years ago—and two more now, so many years later?
He could ask himself the question all night and it wouldn’t matter. He didn’t have the answer.
Yet.
Finally he slept.
And he dreamed. He was a kid again, following a voice. A voice that said, “Help me.”
He ran—ran hard and fast. This time, he had to save the victim. He came to a graveyard and hopped over and around stones, trying to reach the summit of a little hill right in the middle of the graves. Because he could see her there.
It was Devin Lyle.
She was facing him. The wind had caught her raven-black hair and swept it around her face. She was tall and sleek, and her dress was caught by the whipping breeze, as well. The night sky was a deep blue, with black shadows. He could hear her calling to him, asking for help, and he couldn’t reach her.
There was a presence behind her, but she didn’t know. She didn’t see.
It was the killer.
For a moment something glittered in the starlight.
A knife.
Rocky jerked awake drenched with sweat. He looked at the bedside clock. It wasn’t quite 6:00 a.m.
Screw it. He got up and showered. He thought of the different investigative paths he might take.
By the time he was dressed, he knew exactly where he was going.
* * *
The old saying was right. Daylight did make everything better.
Devin rose, showered and dressed, then brewed coffee. Looking out, she saw that there was still a patrol car in front of her house, just as she had been told there would be.
She poured a cup and went outside. Unbidden, an image came to her mind. She was going to get there and find out that the officer was dead. There would be a bullet hole through his forehead or a knife stuck through his throat.
Her imagination playing tricks again, of course.
He wasn’t dead. And he was young, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, tops.
“Thought you might like some coffee,” she told him.
“That’s