She dumped her backpack on the edge of the bathtub and reached into the shower, turning on the tap. The water was icy, so she let it run, and hunted around for the little sachets of soap and shampoo. She found several of both in the cupboard under the sink, and she shoved a couple in the shower. Out of habit, she put the rest into her pack. Never waste anything had been their motto for as long as she could remember.
From the living room came an odd sound—a gurgling sort of cry that was quickly cut off. Goose bumps chased their way up her arm. There had been fear in that cry, and the recognition of death.
Swallowing heavily, she opened the bathroom door and peered out. Constable Ryan sat in one of the two armchairs, his blonde hair just visible above the headrest. Dicks stood just behind him, but turned as she opened the door.
"Something wrong, Miss Brown?"
The coldness was deeper in his eyes, almost inhuman. A chill crawled over her skin. She clenched a fist, resisting the impulse to slam the door shut. "Did you call out? I thought I heard someone call my name."
The lie tasted lame on her tongue, and amusement gleamed briefly in Dicks'
blue eyes.
"Maybe you heard the TV."
And maybe it was all in her imagination. Maybe she was finally going mad, as one of her many foster parents had insisted she would. But they'd been devout Catholics and had believed magic to be the devil's work. She still found it amazing that she and Helen had lasted three months under their care. But as she stared at Dicks, she knew it wasn't imagination nor madness. Something odd was happening in the room. The feel of magic was in the air.
"I'll just go have my shower, then," she said, closing the door. There were no locks on the door. She bit her bottom lip and looked quickly around. There was a towel rack on the wall next to the door. Better than nothing, she supposed. She grabbed a sweater out of her pack and roped it between the handle and the towel rack, knotting the arms as tightly as she could. It wouldn't hold for more than the time it took to scream, but for some reason, she felt a little safer.
She stripped off her jacket and thrust a hand through her wet hair. What she needed was a drink. If nothing else, it would calm her nerves and perhaps help her forget, if only for a few hours—another bad habit of hers, according to Helen.
But to get a drink, she'd have to leave the bathroom, and instinct warned her that might not be a good move right now. Over the years, she'd learned to trust that inner voice, and in doing so, she had saved both hers and Helen's lives more than once.
She wished it had spoken up earlier tonight and saved Helen for her. Tears stung her eyes. She wiped them away with the heel of her hand and noticed the steam was beginning to fog the room. She frowned and flicked the fan switch up and down a couple of times. It didn't seem to help. In the other room, the doorbell rang. Constable Ryan's pizzas had obviously arrived. Her stomach turned, and she wondered how he could eat, especially after what he'd seen at her house. Maybe a lead-lined gut was a prerequisite for a copper. She walked across to open the window.
Kirby, get out. Leave, while you still can.
The voice sounded so close, the warmth of the speaker's breath seemed to brush past her ear. Her heart leapt to the vicinity of her throat, and she spun, fists clenched against the sudden rush of electricity across her fingertips. But there was no one in the room with her.
Now she was hearing things, on top of imagining them. Great. Just great. She took a deep breath, then reached up and opened the window. As she did, the screaming began.
Two
The door opened with a crash that rattled the empty soda cans and coffee mugs lining the bookcase to his right. Doyle Fitzgerald glanced up to watch his best friend and sometimes partner drip in.
"You're wet," he said, leaning back in his chair with a grin. Russell was more than just wet. He looked like the proverbial drowned rat—brown hair plastered to his face and accentuating his sharp features, nose and cheeks mottled red, clothes sodden and shoes squelching.
"No kidding?" Russ stripped off his coat and threw it roughly into the corner. "It is supposed to be summer here, isn't it?
They'd come here to Australia from the U.S. a week ago and had yet to see any real sunshine. Not that it really mattered, Doyle thought grimly. Most of their work was done at night. 'The lady in the coffee shop down the road said you get all four seasons in one day here."
Russell snorted. 'The only damn season we're getting at the moment is winter. The boss in?"
He glanced toward the interview room. It was dark except for the occasional flicker of warmth from the candle Camille had lit earlier. "Yeah. She's trying to do a reading."
"She'll want to see this." Russell undid the top few buttons of his shirt and dug out a manilla folder.
Doyle groaned. "Tell me it's not another murder." Russ's brown eyes were grim. 'Two points down, three to go."
"Damn." They were here to supposedly stop the murders, but so far all they'd managed was to be three steps behind. "Who this time?"
"One Helen Smith and her boyfriend, Ross Gibson." Camille had done a reading after the first murder and gathered a list of possible victims. Neither Smith nor Gibson were on it. Doyle scrubbed a hand across his eyes. He just didn't like the feel of this case. "Camille was pretty certain her list was accurate."
"That doesn't mean it was." Russ shrugged. "Let's go see the boss. I'll be damned if I'm going to repeat everything."
He headed for the interview room. Doyle grabbed three mugs from the top of the bookcase and followed. Russ knocked softly on the door.
"Stop making all that damn noise and just come in," a raspy voice stated. Russ cocked an eyebrow. 'The old witch sounds in fine form tonight."