Superstition (47 page)

It was signed Lazarus525.

Last night, the date Livvy had been attacked.

Tears stung Nicky’s eyes. Her head throbbed. Her stomach roiled. She curled both hands around the top slat of the ladderback desk chair and squeezed hard.

I won’t cry. . . .

“Nicky.” Clearly moved by her distress, Joe gently gripped her bare upper arms. His voice was low and deep. “Nick.”

Nicky’s hands tightened around the chair as a hot, blinding tide of anger flooded her veins. The image of Livvy lying helpless and bleeding on the ground rose in her mind’s eye. It made her want to jump through that computer screen and find the animal who had hurt her and rip him apart with her bare hands.

“I’m going to find you,” she said softly to Lazarus525. “I don’t care what I have to do, or how long it takes. I’ll get you, I swear.”

“Nicky.” Joe’s hands tightened on her arms and he gently tugged her back a pace, away from the computer screen. She obediently let go of the chair, clenching her hands into fists instead as he turned her around to face him. Still so angry that she was trembling with it, she looked up to meet his gaze. His mouth tightened at what he saw in her face, and his eyes turned dark with compassion for her.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her. For the briefest of moments, she stayed stiff with anger in his embrace, but then she slowly relaxed. Bit by incremental bit, she allowed his warmth, his strength, the mere fact that he was there with her,
for
her, to soothe her. Resting against him, she slid her arms around his waist. Letting her head drop to his chest, she closed her eyes.

“So sorry,” he murmured again. Nicky felt what she thought was the brush of his mouth against her hair.

“We need to catch him,” she said.

“We’ll catch him.” Joe’s tone was soothing. “It’s just a matter of when. He won’t get away with this.”

Her trembling had almost stopped. Nicky stayed where she was for a moment longer, absorbing his heat, absorbing his comfort, then took a deep, steadying breath and opened her eyes.

“We have to work fast.” Her voice was surprisingly calm and strong. “He may disappear again. Notice he says ‘Death
has sent
his chosen.’ He’s got his three.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Your sister isn’t dead.”

“No.” Nicky drew strength from that thought. “She’s not.”

Okay, enough of the pity party. Letting her emotions take over did no one any good, least of all Livvy. Pulling out of Joe’s arms, Nicky managed a brief smile for him.

“I want to take a quick shower and change clothes, and maybe grab a few things for my mother. Then I need to head back to the hospital. Will you wait for me?”

Joe’s mouth quirked, and his eyes met hers.

“Count on it,” he said.

WHILE NICKY SHOWERED and changed, Joe did a quick search of the upstairs rooms and then headed downstairs, where he also did a quick search of the premises. It didn’t take long to make sure that except for Nicky and himself, the house was empty. Even though it was broad daylight and about a dozen cops were walking around outside while he was in the house, he was taking no chances. Relying on what he thought he knew just might be enough to get Nicky killed.

His blood ran cold at the thought.

He hadn’t seen it coming, it was the last thing he wanted, but it was also too late to do anything about it: Good old Achilles had grown another heel, and it was showering upstairs. That being the case, he meant to make damned sure she stayed alive.

He hadn’t seen what had happened to Livvy coming, either. Livvy didn’t fit the profile of the other victims. She wasn’t single, she didn’t live alone, and she wasn’t involved with the media. She’d been attacked on a Wednesday night. The other two had been attacked over the weekend. She was hugely pregnant. Of course, the soon-to-be-ex-husband, trying to pull off a copycat attack, was a possibility as a suspect. According to Dave, the man had made a complaint about Livvy assaulting him on the night of Marsha Browning’s murder, which had never gotten followed up on because (a) the witnesses, all Livvy’s family members, swore a blue streak that he’d been hit by a falling tree branch, and (b) the police were simply too busy. But Joe didn’t think the ex had anything to do with it. He was virtually certain the attack was the work of the Lazarus Killer (hell, now Nicky had him calling the perp that, too), and he also thought it was very possible that Livvy hadn’t been the intended target: It seemed more likely that the perp had been after Nicky.

Perhaps Livvy had seen him skulking in the shadows, and the perp had been forced to act sooner than he had planned.

That would explain certain things, like the dropped purse on the parking area, the midweek timing, and the fact that the attack had a hurried, almost improvised, feel to it—the most glaring evidence of which was the fact that it had not succeeded.

Joe’s phone started to ring. He pulled it out, glanced down at the incoming number, and felt his pulse quicken.

He’d been waiting for this call.

“Yo,” Joe answered.

“I got that tape enhanced for you.”

“Yeah?”

“The girl starts off with ‘Hello,’ and then she listens. Then she says, ‘I meant every word I said. And I’m not backing down.’ She listens, says, ‘I can’t hear you; you’ll have to speak up.’ She listens again, says, ‘Oh, that’s what I was hoping you’d say. What? There’s static—I can’t really hear.’ And then she listens one more time and says, ‘Fine. That’s good. What? All right, I’m going to walk outside and see if that helps.’ And that’s it.”

Not much. Definitely no smoking gun, of course. When was life ever that easy?

“That help?”

“Maybe,” Joe said. “Can you overnight me a copy of that?”

“You got it.”

“I appreciate your help. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Joe disconnected, thought for a second, then walked over to the back door—his perambulations had taken him into the kitchen by the time the phone rang—and opened it. Then he yelled for Dave. Going to find him wasn’t an option. No way was he stepping outside the house while Nicky was alone in it.

“You finished checking those phone records yet?” he asked Dave without preamble as soon as he stepped into the kitchen.

“Almost. The last three people I spoke to mentioned hearing static, by the way. The funny thing about it is, one of them was on Marsha Browning’s call list, and there was never any suggestion of static in the Browning case.”

Joe felt a spurt of disgust. “I’m not surprised.” He could thank Nicky and her show for that. Put an idea like that out into the collective consciousness, and it stuck like a burr in every mind that heard it. “Okay, I know we’re swamped here, but that needs to be finished ASAP. And we need to start rechecking alibis.”

Dave looked troubled. “You really think we’re going to catch this guy?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. Then his phone started to ring again. He glanced at the number, frowned, and answered.

Nicky walked into the kitchen just as he disconnected. She was still pale and drawn-looking but clean, with her beautiful hair all smooth and shiny and a touch of lipstick on her mouth. She was wearing a chocolate-colored tank top and matching pants and looked, literally, good enough to eat.

Joe hated what he had to tell her.

“That was your mother,” he said, knowing that there was no way to make hearing this any easier for her. “We need to get you back to the hospital right away. There’s a crisis with Livvy.”

20

L
IVVY’S DAUGHTER WAS BORN by Caesarean section at 5:18 p.m. With Livvy battling for her life, the doctors felt that taking the baby was the only option. The newborn was immediately whisked away to the neonatal ICU, more as a precaution than anything, as her life wasn’t felt to be in danger. Livvy’s soon-to-be-ex, Ben, who had shown up at the hospital several hours before, followed to stand watch over the infant, and a group—which apparently didn’t include the bimbo, as neither Leonora nor Uncle Ham went ballistic—arrived to stay with him. Almost beside herself with anxiety, Leonora went back and forth between her daughter and granddaughter, and Nicky stayed with Livvy.

All through the night, she sat beside her sister’s bed, holding her hand, listening to the beep and whir of the monitors, and praying like she had never prayed before.

Around four a.m., Livvy moved and made a small guttural sound. Alarmed, Nicky stood up and leaned over her.

“Liv?”

To Nicky’s surprise, Livvy opened her eyes. Their gazes met.

“My baby?” It was a reedy whisper, sounding nothing at all like Livvy’s usual voice.

“She’s fine. You don’t have to worry.”

Livvy’s hold on Nicky’s hand tightened.

“Pinky swear?”

Nicky felt her throat start to close up. “Pinky swear.”

The faintest of smiles just touched Livvy’s mouth. Then she closed her eyes.

THE OTHER CALL Joe had been waiting for came in about eight a.m. Friday morning.

“Want the good news or the bad news?” his caller asked.

Joe grunted. “You mean there’s actually some good news? You’re already making my day.”

“That untraceable e-mail address? Traced it.”

“Yee-haw.” Despite the complete and utter exhaustion that went hand-in-hand with having had almost no sleep for two and a half days, Joe felt a welling of excitement. “So, where’d it come from?”

“It started out with a free Bigfoot account, got encrypted, bounced around Asia a little bit, got encrypted again—”

“Can we cut to the chase?” Joe asked. “Things are kind of hopping here.”

“Cutting to the chase brings us to the bad-news part.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Bottom line is, your e-mails originated from the Free Public Library in Charleston. Main branch. Original sender name was Mr. Potato Head. I could probably break it down to a specific computer for each e-mail for you, but I don’t think it would do you much good. You know how many people use the computers in there each day?”

“Too damn many,” Joe said glumly. “But at least it’s a place to start.”

He hung up and placed a call to the Charleston police.

NICKY AND LEONORA and Uncle Ham and Uncle John and Harry and Marisa and the police guards Joe had assigned to stand watch and God knew who else all stayed at the hospital until about three p.m. Friday, when Livvy’s doctors said that it looked as though she was going to make it. By then, the strain was showing on everyone. Leonora broke down and cried. Nicky insisted that her mother go home and rest, and Leonora agreed to do so as long as Nicky promised to go home and sleep when she came back. This Nicky agreed to, and they, along with Uncle Ham and Uncle John and a few others, quickly worked out a loose schedule so that Livvy and the baby would not be left alone. Then Leonora left. By the time she came back, accompanied by Uncle Ham and Joe, Nicky was so tired that she could hardly get up out of her chair.

“How is she?” Leonora asked.

“Better,” Nicky answered. “She asked for water twice, and the baby once, so I think she’s doing pretty well, considering.”

“They’ve got her heavily sedated, you know,” Uncle Ham said. “The doctor said they were going to start weaning her off it tomorrow.”

“Come on.” Joe slid a hand around Nicky’s elbow. “You look like you’re about to fall down. You need sleep.”

Coming from a man whose face was gray with fatigue, this was something like the pot calling the kettle black, but Nicky was too tired to point it out. Anyway, she did need sleep—desperately. It was kind of touch and go as to whether her legs would support her all the way to Joe’s car.

On the way to the elevators, they passed by the newborn nursery. Tired as she was, Nicky stopped for a moment to look through the glass. Hayley Rose—that was the name Livvy had chosen weeks before—appeared peacefully asleep in her incubator. She was tiny, red-faced, and wrinkled, with a little pink knit cap pulled down low over her brow. Livvy hadn’t seen her yet.
Your mommy is going to love you,
Nicky told her new niece silently. Then, as the nurse inside the baby ward frowned at her through the glass and Joe tugged at her arm, she moved on.

The warm, sweet rush of fresh air that greeted her as she stepped outside the hospital for the first time in almost thirty-six hours revived Nicky to some degree. It was just after eleven p.m., and beyond the frosty halogens that lit up the parking lot, the night was still and dark.
Still and dark
had the power to spook Nicky now, so she held on to Joe’s hand tightly and stayed close by his side all the way to his cruiser. It was possible that the Lazarus Killer had fulfilled whatever mission he was on and was even now in the process of fading away into the shadows for another fifteen years, but she wasn’t ready to bet her life on it. Anyway, as Joe had pointed out, he had promised to kill three, and only two were dead. That knowledge gave her the shivers.

They reached the car, and Joe opened her door for her, then closed it as she settled in. By the time he slid into the driver’s seat, Nicky had her seat belt on and her head was resting back against the smooth, faux-leather seat. Yawning, she inhaled the scent of plastic and coffee and cigarette smoke, which was what the inside of Joe’s police car smelled like.

She was
so
tired. She couldn’t remember ever being this tired.

“So, did anybody ever track down that partial license-plate number Dave was so excited about?” Nicky asked as Joe started the car.

Joe grimaced. “It was a rental. The guy was a tourist who was rushing off to a pharmacy to pick up a prescription for his kid’s ear infection. Everything checked out.”

“Oh,” Nicky said, disappointed. “What about—”

“Wait.” Joe pulled out of the lot. “Whoa. I’m not talking about this anymore tonight. I need a break, and so do you. You hungry?”

“A little. Mostly I’m just tired.”