Last Whisper Page 2

  Mia smiled. “That makes me feel better. I hate to think of the rest of the world being out having a good time while I’m—”

  “Stuck with me?” Brooke interrupted.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” Brooke laughed. “I’m not stupid, Mia. I’m sure nothing could be more fun than spending your evening showing this nightmare of a house with me.” She slowed her car slightly, peering closely as they passed a lovely one-story stone house on Fitzgerald Lane. White numbers painted on a piece of dark wood jutted from a brick post near the street: 7313.

  “That house isn’t up for sale, is it?” Mia asked.

  “No, I just remember it fondly. I visited there several times when I was a kid. I thought the house was beautiful and the people who owned it were wonderful, and I wanted desperately to live there. I almost did.”

  “You almost lived there? What happened?”

  Brooke jerked her mind back to the present. “It was during the awful time after my mother’s death. I won’t bore you with all the details. I’m just glad to see that the house is as pretty as ever.”

  They turned right on Sutton Street. Although they only traveled a block, the area looked run-down and nearly deserted. Mia groaned. “Oh God, there’s our house hulking back in the woods. Who on earth designed that place, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I think the architect obliterated all mention of his name from the blueprints, then killed himself after it was built.”

  “Really?” Mia asked innocently.

  “No, but he should have.” Brooke turned into the long driveway. “I don’t see a car. Looks like we beat our prospective buyer to the spot.”

  “Lucky us.”

  Brooke pulled up to the house and they both got out of the car. We look like twins, Brooke thought. She wore a tailored periwinkle blue suit with her long hair pulled up in a French twist. Mia had selected an aqua suit cut the same as Brooke’s, and had pinned up her slightly shorter blond hair. The prospective buyer will think this is the Townsend Realty uniform, Brooke thought, amused. At least Mia wasn’t wearing pearl earrings and stood an inch shorter than Brooke’s five foot six.

  “This house is really ugly,” Mia said, gazing at its long, low, tubelike gray lines and tiny windows. “It looks like a submarine. I wonder how the owner’s wife felt about it.”

  “He wasn’t married. According to Aaron, he was extremely odd and a recluse. He bought two acres surrounding the house and some land across the street, too, so he could ensure his privacy. That’s why there are no houses near it. He wouldn’t sell the land.”

  “I doubt if he had many bids on it, anyway. Who would want to live near the neighborhood submarine? You’d think you were in an amusement park.” Mia shook her head. “I guess there’s no way we can avoid going inside.”

  “Not if we want to sell it. And please put a smile on that pretty face and emphasize all the good points to our customer.”

  Mia looked glum. “This house doesn’t have any good points.”

  “Okay. You just smile, Mia, and I’ll emphasize the good points. The last five years have turned me into an expert at making a disastrous house sound like a jewel.”

  “If you can sell this place, Aaron owes you a very big bonus.”

  When they entered the musty house, Brooke was glad they had arrived before the client. “Let’s open some of the windows and air out the place,” she told Mia.

  “You mean those portholes masquerading as windows? Even on a breezy day not much air could creep through them.”

  “Then we’ll open the front and back doors, too. And turn on the air conditioner. It must be eighty-five degrees in here. If Aaron hadn’t just dropped this in my lap, I would have come earlier to prepare the place.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It won’t sell.” Mia forced open a small window. “This house is a lost cause.”

  “Nonsense, young lady! Every piece of property is just waiting for the right buyer!” Brooke said with gusto.

  Mia groaned. “Oh no. When you start quoting our esteemed leader Aaron Townsend, I know we’re in trouble.”

  They prowled through the house, turning on lights, checking the cabinets and closets to make sure no vermin had gotten up the nerve to creep in and die. Decaying mice never made a good impression on a buyer, Brooke told Mia solemnly, making the girl giggle. When they’d inspected the entire house, they sat down in an ugly yellow booth in the kitchen.

  “It’s still hot in here,” Mia complained.

  “I know. We should have stopped for soft drinks on the way, but then we might have spilled them on the beautiful gravel gray carpet.” Brooke glanced at her watch. “The client said nine o’clock. It’s nine twenty.”

  “He can’t blame traffic. There’s hardly any at this hour.”

  “But he can blame the maze of Charleston’s one-way streets. Or his unfamiliarity with the South Hills region.”

  “Or he might say he didn’t know the Kanawha River separates South Hills from the downtown section of Charleston.”

  “There you go. He had trouble finding a bridge. We’ll allow him fifteen more minutes for that.”

  At quarter to ten, Brooke looked at Mia. “Forty-five minutes late and no call on my cell phone. He’s a no-show.”

  “So we’ve sat here all this time for nothing.”

  “Nothing! Why, I’ve had an enchanting evening sweating in my good suit and scouring my brain for nice things to say about the house and wishing I could slap Aaron for pushing off this ordeal on us.” Brooke stood up. “I say it’s time to get out of here.”

  “No argument from me,” Mia said, then asked almost meekly, “May I drive your car? I love the feel of a new car.”

  “Certainly.” Brooke fished in her purse and came up with the keys. “Just don’t bang into anything or run us into the river. River water doesn’t do much for new-car smell.”

  “So I’ve heard. I promise not to go over eighty miles an hour.”

  “You’ll also pay for the speeding ticket,” Brooke laughed. “Come on, kid. Let’s abandon ship.”

  The moist, heavy air of a night late in August descended on them as soon as they stepped from the slightly cooled house. Brooke locked the front door, then turned to see Mia hurrying to the driver’s side of the Buick Regal. Brooke would have preferred a sportier model, but the one she’d chosen was excellent for driving clients around, with its comfortable seats and plenty of legroom.

  Brooke walked past the headlights a moment before Mia flashed them on bright. “Just trying to get my bearings in here,” Mia said distractedly. “I don’t want to flip on the windshield wipers when I mean to turn on the blinker.” Brooke climbed into the car and shut the door. “Okay,” Mia said gaily. “I think I’ve got everything located. I’ll be really careful—”

  The blast came just as Brooke had bent down to squash a mosquito clinging tenaciously to her ankle. Glass rained on her head. Glass and big wet globs of something. She reached up and dabbed at one.

  Why, it’s blood, Brooke thought calmly. Imagine that.

  The second shot knocked Mia’s body back. From where she still crouched, Brooke could see Mia’s feet jerk above the car pedals. This isn’t happening, Brooke thought distantly. This just can’t be—

  A third shot followed, slamming Mia down on top of her. Brooke’s head crashed on the console between the bucket seats. She remained conscious, but before she could get out a sound, Mia’s blood was pouring over her face, running into her hair, and dripping down the neck of her suit.

  Brooke stayed crouched for what seemed an endless time, waiting for the fourth shot, that would finish her. But it didn’t come. And finally, unable to bear not knowing whether Mia was still alive, Brooke gently tried to lift Mia off her. Light tugging didn’t work, though. Finally, Brooke had to give the girl a hard shove that hurled her back against the door.

  “I didn’t mean to push you so hard,” Brooke quavered, trying to loosen her leg and back muscles that seemed loc
ked into place. “How bad are you hurt? Can you hear me?”

  But now that Mia rested in an upright position, Brooke knew Mia could not hear her. Or see her. The beautiful, laughing girl who had just gotten into the car five minutes ago was now nothing but a lifeless husk, her left shoulder blown off, blood pouring from a wound in her neck, and the left side of her face gone. Gone. Just like Mommy’s, Brooke thought as the world began to spin. Her face is gone just like Mommy’s.

  Brooke climbed out of the car, carefully closing the door behind her, walked to a line of shrubbery about thirty feet away, bent down, and threw up. She dropped to her knees and again threw up, this time so hard that the spinning world went dark for a little while. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she awakened disoriented. She breathed deeply and touched her lips, which were moist with something the color of blood.

  Absently, she wiped her hand across her mouth, tottered to her feet, and started back to the car as her mind began to clear a bit. My purse, my cell phone, she thought hazily. Then she stopped. She could not go near the car again. She tried to force her steps in that direction, but her body simply wouldn’t obey. Mia was in there. Poor, shattered Mia . . .

  Brooke’s hands began to shake, and on legs that felt as substantial as water she managed to turn and began walking in the opposite direction. She knew she should do something more resourceful, but she couldn’t think of anything. No other houses sat anywhere near. She saw no one else, but that didn’t mean whoever had shot at the car wasn’t lurking close by. For a moment, she considered turning back and scuttling into the submarine house, but the keys to the house were in the carnage of her Buick. Besides, if someone really wanted to get in that house, they’d find a way. She decided she would probably be almost as vulnerable in there as she was outside.

  Brooke’s body trembled. Her mind roiled, her thoughts a whirlpool of grotesque images. Only one clear phrase kept echoing in her head—Fitzgerald Lane. I need to get to Fitzgerald Lane.

  And what was on Fitzgerald Lane? For a few moments, she couldn’t imagine why Fitzgerald Lane was important. Then she pictured the lovely stone house and somehow knew that inside lay safety.

  But how could she get there without taking a chance on being shot out here in the open? Brooke thought, I can’t. There’s no other way than to walk.

  Suddenly, she saw the movement in the bushes to her left. Time seemed to slow and almost stop. She sensed danger so near she could hardly breathe. She closed her eyes and touched a heart-shaped locket given to her long ago by her mother. She didn’t pray. She just waited.

  Then a car drove by, headlights on bright, garishly illuminating the street, the shrubbery, Brooke. She was too surprised to move. The car slowed and Brooke stood still and tall, staring at the rough-faced male driver who stared back, then stopped the car and rolled down the window. “Give you a ride there, little lady?” he called.

  Brooke shook her head, but he didn’t drive on. He just stared at her, then finally said, “Awful lonely here in this car.” He showed her what he must have thought was an enticing grin, with long, crooked teeth. “It’s nice and cool in here.” He leaned over and began opening the passenger door. “Pretty lady like you don’t need to be wanderin’ around in the dark.” He pushed his door open wider. The interior lights of the car shone on her and his smile abruptly disappeared. “Hey, is that blood on you?” His lips parted in surprise. “How’d you get blood all over you?”

  “Someone is trying to kill me,” Brooke said stonily. “Someone with a gun is following me.”

  “What the hell?” The man gaped at her. “You’re . . . you must be crazy!” he blustered. Then he looked again at the blood splattered all over her. He slammed the door and roared off so fast he left tire tracks on the street. Should I have said that? Brooke wondered. Should I have gone with him? Then deep inside she knew she was safer on the street with someone possibly following her than she would have been with that man.

  She ambled to the corner of Sutton Street and Fitzgerald Lane and stood for a moment, her head pounding, her hair stiffening with Mia’s drying blood. Brooke felt alone and terrified, and she was certain death hovered near, just waiting for an opportunity to snatch her. Terrified but desperate, she closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and started down Fitzgerald Lane toward a stone house where she remembered that warmth and security had lain a long time ago.

  2

  With every step, Brooke’s head hurt more, and in the humid, almost starless night mosquitoes bit viciously at her face and hands. She realized she’d begun to stumble in her high heels when finally she saw the big white numbers on the dark wood: 7313. She’d found the house on Fitzgerald Lane.

  A few small landscape lights led up a curved sidewalk to the home made of wood and natural stones, the wood painted yellow and the shutters slate blue. Pink impatiens lined the sidewalk and the lights inside glowed bright and warm.

  She stood outside for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone familiar passed the windows, but no one walked by them at all. Then she moved a bit closer to the house, abruptly afraid the people who’d once lived here had moved away.

  Pain pierced her left temple and she reached up, feeling dried blood. For a moment she thought she was going to faint. She swayed just as the front door of the house opened. The form of a man stood in the doorway.

  “Miss, can I help you?” Her throat had gone dry, her dizziness increased, and she couldn’t answer. The man flipped on the porch light and stepped outside, “Miss, are you all right?”

  Brooke forced herself to swallow the little bit of saliva left in her mouth. “I need help,” she muttered. She came forward reluctantly, shakily. When the man saw her clothes, his smile morphed into a look of shock. “My God, what happened to you?”

  She managed one more word. “Accident . . .”

  He peered at her in the light. “You were in an accident? What kind of accident? A car wreck?”

  “No. Shooting.”

  “Shooting?”

  “Someone shot at me, but they killed Mia instead.” Violent trembling overtook her and she began to sob.

  Someone came up behind the man. It was another man, much older, with thick gray hair. Brooke could see them muttering. She gained control of the sobbing, lowering it almost into silence, and heard the older man saying, “If she’s hurt, she needs to be brought in.”

  The young man looked shocked. “Bring her in! That’s ludicrous! We don’t know anything about her. She’s covered in blood. I’m going to call the police.”

  “Come inside, young lady,” the older man said.

  “No!” The young one looked both furious and wary. “Dammit, Dad, do you know how dangerous it could be to let her in?”

  The older man, however, kept smiling, ignoring the younger one’s angry reluctance. “We want to help you, don’t we, Vincent?”

  “We’ll call nine-one-one, but she is not coming in this house!”

  The older one suddenly turned on the other. “This is my house, Vincent. You do not give orders here, especially to your father!” He looked at her again, squinting. “We’ll call for an ambulance, miss, but you must come inside. You look like you’re going to collapse.”

  Brooke moved toward the older man’s gravelly yet amiable voice. A familiar voice. When she reached the brighter light of the porch, the older man stepped in front of the younger one named Vincent and peered at her from beneath shaggy brows. He frowned and she bit her lower lip, suddenly fearful of his deep scrutiny. She was on the verge of backing away from him, in spite of his kind voice. She didn’t really know him, except that something about him seemed familiar to her, but she stood still, too weak to walk. The man finally stood about two feet away from her, studying her closely, when surprise flashed in his slightly bloodshot blue eyes.

  “Dear God,” and he exclaimed, “Vincent, I’m almost sure this is Cinnamon Girl!”

  “Cinnamon Girl?” the younger one repeated blankly, but Brooke didn’t hear him. She�
��d finally collapsed from terror and exhaustion into the sweet nothingness of unconsciousness.

  3

  “Dad, who is this woman?”

  “I told you. Cinnamon Girl.”

  “That’s a nickname. What’s her real name?”

  “It’s on the tip of my tongue. Damn, I hate this Alzheimer’s. I’m sundowning, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” the younger one said sternly, then more gently, “I don’t think you really know her, Dad. Maybe she looks like someone you once knew—”

  “No! I’m telling you, this is Cinnamon Girl!”

  “Okay. Don’t get upset. I’ll call Emergency Services. They’ll know what to do for her. I’ll go in and get a blanket to throw over her.”

  “No. We’re taking her in the house.”

  “Dad—”

  “I do recall that there was trouble involving her. . . .”

  “All the more reason for not letting her in the house.”

  “The trouble was not of her making—it was something she got caught up in.”

  “I’ll call for an ambulance and get a blanket. You can watch over her out here.”

  “I said no,” the older man commanded. “If you don’t help me carry this poor woman inside, Vincent, so help me I’ll shout and rave—”

  The man called Vincent saw the older one’s face getting dangerously red as sweat popped out on his forehead, then began running down his face.

  “Okay, Dad,” Vincent said in a softer voice. “I’ll help you carry her inside if you promise to calm down. Your heart—”

  “I’m healthy as a horse! You get her legs and I’ll get her shoulders. Be gentle, Vincent, or I swear I’ll—”

  “You told me.” The look on Vincent’s face changed from anger to worry. “I’ll be gentle. Just calm down. You know what the doctor said.”

  “The doctor is a damned fool! I’m as strong as ever. Now pick up her legs, Vincent.”

  “She’s so slender, I can carry her into the house myself. You open the screen door for me, all right?”