Breaking off because she really couldn’t say another word, she pulled free of Bartoli’s hold and darted into the master bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she locked it, then ran for the toilet.
She barely made it in time.
When she was finished, she flushed the toilet, rinsed her mouth, then walked on shaky legs back into the bedroom. She was sweaty and weak, and her head ached like someone was pounding on her skull with a hammer. What she wanted more than anything else in the whole wide world was to turn her back on the horror into which she had been plunged, whisk herself home to her safe little house in the mountains, and do her serial-killer-analyzing from a safe distance while pretending she knew no more about what happened after this life than … Bartoli, for example.
Oh, grow a pair. No one else here can do what you do.
Grimacing as she faced that inexorable truth, Charlie turned to the second reason she had locked herself in the bedroom. Chalk outlining a shape on the hardwood floor beside the bed showed where Julie Mead’s body had been found.
Knowing she didn’t have much time—Bartoli wouldn’t wait passively in the hall forever, and for all she knew, Haney and the others were now there, too, throwing a hissy fit because she’d locked them out—Charlie stood beside the outline and whispered, “Julie? Can you hear me? I’m here to help.”
Julie Mead materialized in front of her. The blood, the gore, the gaping wound in her throat were as real-looking and gruesome as if Charlie were seeing them in life. There was no trace of the meat-locker smell usually associated with a new kill, but the blood appeared so fresh that it almost seemed to steam in the chill of the air-conditioning. When the apparition reached out its hands in an attempt to clutch at her, it was all Charlie could do not to back away. The dead hands passed right through her flesh with a sensation that felt like a cold mist making contact with her skin. Even then, when every instinct she possessed shrieked at her to draw away, the anguish in the other woman’s eyes held her in place.
“My babies. Trevor. Bayley. Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it? Oh, please, you have to help me!”
Charlie steeled herself against the spirit’s energy. It was frantic and dark, filled with fear and horror at what had been done to her and hers. Charlie knew from experience that if she did not guard against it she would soon be overwhelmed with those emotions herself.
She kept her voice at a whisper, hoping it could not be heard beyond the door. “I’m going to do my best. You have to tell me who did this to you.”
Julie Mead wet her lips. “A man—it was dark—I couldn’t see. He—he hurt me. Cut me. I’m bleeding. Oh, God, I’m bleeding! Where’s Tom? Oh, where are my children?”
The anguish in her voice cut Charlie to the heart. Every instinct she possessed urged her to tell Julie Mead to look for the light and go into it, because once the woman did that her spirit’s suffering would be at an end. But as long as Bayley was missing, Julie Mead, in whatever form she now existed, was still needed here on earth.
“Julie,” Charlie whispered the woman’s name forcefully, hoping to keep her grounded in the present for long enough to provide what answers she could. “Where’s Bayley? Did you see what happened to Bayley?”
Julie Mead looked bewildered. “Bayley—Bayley’s asleep. Isn’t she?”
The bedroom doorknob rattled as someone tried to get in … or was warning that her time was almost up.
“Isn’t she?” Julie Mead’s voice went shrill. Her eyes began to dart around, and Charlie felt a change in her energy. “She came home. She went to bed. Bayley! Bayley!”
“Can you describe the man who attacked you?” Charlie tried her best to keep the spirit focused. Mindful of the possibility that she might be overheard, she kept her voice so low that it was scarcely louder than a breath even while trying to project calm insistence.
“I didn’t see him. I told you. He was strong. Tall. Oh, God, he has a knife!”
Her voice went shrill again on that last, and the abject fear in it told Charlie that Julie Mead was once again on the verge of getting caught up in reliving the nightmare of the attack.
“How old was he?”
“I told you I didn’t see him.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No. Nothing. I woke up—and he was stabbing Tom. Tom! Tom! My God, Tom’s dead!” The rising hysteria in Julie Mead’s voice made Charlie’s chest tighten. It seemed pretty clear from the widening of her eyes and flaring of her nostrils that the spirit was re-experiencing a sighting of her husband’s murdered body.
“What do you see? Anything about your attacker that might help us find him,” Charlie commanded urgently.
“I tore his glove—surgical glove. He wore surgical gloves. He has a heart—a red heart—on the back of his hand.” Julie Mead looked sharply around. “Oh, my God, no!” She vanished with a terrified shriek that made every tiny hair on Charlie’s body catapult upright.
Left alone with Julie Mead’s scream still ripping the air, which was made all the more terrible because no one else could hear it, Charlie had to take deep, steadying breaths to keep from screaming right along with her. Finally, when the last shivering note went silent, she was able to summon the fortitude to push the experience away, turn, and answer the now-determined knocking on the door.
Unlocking it, she pulled the door open to find herself practically nose to nose with Haney, whose fist was raised to pound again.
“What in the name of all that’s holy was that?” Haney verbally pounced before she could say anything, his fist lowering as he glared down at her. “You call that professional behavior? You just compromised a major crime scene.”
“I had to throw up. Would you rather I’d done it all over the floor? That would have compromised the crime scene.” Still battling the headache from hell, a chill that permeated her bones, and a pervasive, all-over feeling of utter bodily weakness, to say nothing of the wrenching sorrow for the victims that clawed at her heart, Charlie rallied to cover any suspicion that there was more to her bolt into the bedroom than that. She shot Haney a stick-it-where-the-sun-don’t-shine look to boot as she walked past him. Bartoli was right there, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for her. As soon as he saw her his arms dropped and he moved toward her. Something in his face as he looked at her told her that he wasn’t entirely satisfied with her version of what had gone down, but instead of piling on along with Haney, he shifted his eyes from her to clash with the cop’s.
“Back off, Haney. She didn’t compromise the crime scene any more than she would have done if we’d taken her in there.” Bartoli put himself between Charlie and the cop. Ordinarily Charlie didn’t need anyone springing to her defense, but at the moment she was feeling decidedly sub-par, so she appreciated any help she could get.
“She touched the knob. She touched the lock. She touched the goddamned toilet handle.” Haney practically bristled with indignation. “At a minimum.”
“So? If your people did their jobs, all those surfaces have been tested for fingerprints,” Bartoli countered. “I know our lab’s already working on the trace evidence that was recovered in there.”
“A killer of this type would wear gloves. Probably surgical gloves,” Charlie said, with Julie Mead’s words in mind. “I doubt you’ll find any fingerprints, although if the gloves were ripped it’s possible.”
Haney gave her a hard-eyed stare.
“Detective!” A shout-out from the kid’s room interrupted before he could say anything, making them all glance that way. “You want to come in here a minute?”
“Yeah,” Haney called back. With a dark look at Charlie and a glare for Bartoli, Haney growled, “She’s your expert. In the future, I suggest you keep her under control,” before heading that way.