Chapter 3
Sol Augustin stood, barefoot, on the very ground where Billy Huber had lost his life. It was still dark, a few hours before dawn, and she was alone, had ignored his posted warnings and the yellow band of crime-scene tape as she’d parked near the gate and walked to this low-country farm.
The area where he’d lain was clearly marked near the barn, the grass flattened and part of the chalk line still visible.
She wanted to feel his death, to sense what he’d seen, to witness, in her mind’s eye, how he’d died. She needed to experience his last moments on earth.
And she didn’t want anyone to know that she was here or what she was doing. Especially not anyone from the police department.
No one would understand.
This she knew from past experience.
But she’d covered her tracks and, gratefully, had slipped onto the property unseen. Where she could be one with the dead.
Who was this dead man, and who had killed him so violently?
She took in a deep breath and heard the soft, plaintive hoot of an owl over the creak of an ancient weather vane as it turned in the breeze. She felt the dampness of the earth beneath the soles of her feet and the moisture in the air. Could smell the decay and rust.
There was clutter all around.
Man-made objects that the dead man found dear.
She’d caught sight of them in the beam of her flashlight as she’d walked into this barnyard.
A rusting, curved arm of a carnival ride—the octopus, she thought.
It stretched from one of the sheds to the fence, where rolls of chicken wire and collections of bottles were piled near the toppling frame of a beehive.
Treasures.
Sol slid out of her simple cotton shift, where the white fabric had contrasted with her mocha-colored skin, the coloring she’d inherited from her Haitian mother. Her eyes, too, were large over high cheekbones, but were more green than brown, thanks to her white, missionary father.
It was their combination of genes, island native and deeply super-naturalistic Christian, that had given her the gift that was sometimes a blessing and oftentimes a curse. But it was a gift that she used to her advantage, as she was doing now.
With the dress pooling around her, she closed her eyes.
Whispered a prayer to the gods of the earth and sky, hoping to reach him.
Come to me.
William Jasper Huber, come to me.
She waited and drew in a long breath, smelling the grass and pines. The cool Georgia night surrounded her.
Somewhere, not too far off, a creek babbled.
She felt the flutter of a bat’s wings as it darted overhead, chasing insects.
She imagined the ruffling of the Spanish moss in the live oaks that rimmed the property, sensed the presence of a rabbit moving through the tall grass …
but she needed more, and waited for the deceased to bridge the chasm between the living world and the dead.
“Come to me,” she called aloud, hoping his spirit would find her, would cross over, and looked into the shadows of the surrounding trees.
She closed her eyes.
There was an occlusion.
Too many voices.
Not only had the police been here clouding the energy, but others, too, had trod upon this very spot. Emotions sizzled through the air. Anger. Curiosity. Fear. Disgust.
Too many voices.
Concentrate, she told herself.
Filter out the noise.
Find him.
She took a deep, calming breath.
Slowed her heart rate.
Her eyelids fluttered, her teeth chattering just a bit.
Then it happened.
The slight tremor in her body.
As if she were experiencing the rising of William Huber’s escaping spirit.
Come back.
But Billy’s essence didn’t stop rising, only paused to look down at the bloody scene and his own broken body.
He wasn’t alone. A man bent over him. An angry man who yanked a blade from Billy’s bearded neck. Furiously, the man wiped the bloody blade against his thigh before tucking a stone beneath Billy’s shell of a body and scuttling away, toward the woods.
Inside, Sol turned to ice, the night curdling cold.
Who is he? Who did this to you?
In her mind’s eye, the dead body twisted to stare at her with unblinking eyes.
“Who?” she said aloud.
The dead man’s lips didn’t move, but she heard his voice, clear as a clarion call: “Who did this to me? The damned spawn of Satan, that’s who.”
And then he disappeared.
But that wasn’t all, she knew.
Billy Huber’s wasn’t the only death … oh, no. She’d caught a glimpse of another soul this night, and she knew, with a blood-chilling certainty, there would be more.
The day hadn’t quite dawned when Nikki, unable to stand it a second longer, brought up the investigation. Pierce was just finishing breakfast, while Chloe was propped in her booster chair and giggling as she plucked Cheerios one by one from her plate and dropped them to an eagerly waiting Mikado.
“You’re going back to the Huber place?” she asked.
While Pierce had showered, shaved, and dressed in a navy suit, she was still in her PJs and robe, no makeup, her hair caught in a very messy bun, tangled from a bad night’s sleep, her thoughts swirling over what had happened to Billy Huber.
“After the office.” He no longer seemed angry with her, thank God, but he wasn’t chatty either.
“No news?”
“Nikki,” he warned.
“Don’t say it. Police business. I know.”
“Good.”
“But as a member of the press,” she said, as he finished his coffee and carried his empty cup to the sink, “I could use some information. And you were on the phone last night.” She’d tried to overhear the conversation, but the door to his office had remained firmly closed as he’d made and received calls.
All of which she surmised were about the homicide of Billy Huber.
When she’d asked him about the calls as he’d slipped into bed, he’d tersely explained that Huber’s dog had somehow escaped the animal control officer and was nowhere to be found.
That was the extent of information he was willing to impart.
But then he’d taken her into his arms and begun kissing her, and for the time being she’d let herself be carried away in a heated, passionate, and emotional wave of lovemaking. Afterward, Pierce had kissed her forehead, rolled over, and begun lightly snoring almost immediately.
Not so for Nikki. She’d tossed and turned all night, wondering what had happened to Billy Huber. Who had killed him and why? That was the crux of the mystery. If, indeed, Billy had been the victim of homicide, which seemed likely because of Pierce’s involvement.
Then there was Huber’s dog. Why had the animal control officer been so careless? Where was it now? She’d worried about the dog all night, and what little information she’d pried from Pierce this morning hadn’t eased her mind or abated her curiosity.
Now Pierce interrupted her thoughts. “The last I heard, you were an independent reporter these days.”
“Still a member of the press.” She took a sip of her now-tepid coffee, then set the cup down.
“Technically, yes, but you’re not on the staff of the Sentinel.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she demanded, then to her daughter, “Chloe, stop that. Mikado doesn’t need Cheerios.”
“He likes them!” Chloe was delighted by the dog’s attention.
“If you want to know more, as a member of the press,” Pierce said, “just call the station. Talk to the PIO about the case.”
She rolled her eyes as he found his keys on a side table. The new public information officer, Vivian Johnson, was professional and oh-so tight-lipped.
Unfortunately, Pierce was right. From the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant with Chloe, Nikki had given up working at the office, had gone freelance completely, and even stopped writing true-crime books.
As she’d suffered a series of miscarriages, she’d been over-the-top in following her doctor’s instructions and had decided to turn in her resignation.
She’d told herself she needed R and R, though the inactivity about drove her out of her mind.
She’d never been one to sit still for long.
Athletic and curious to a fault, intrigued by any kind of mystery, she couldn’t stand lying at home with her feet up, trying to occupy her mind with watching television, scrolling through the Internet, or reading on a chaise by a pool.
She needed action. Excitement. Mental stimulation.
Crossword puzzles, Sudoku, knitting, and the like were all fine and good, but just not enough.
Nonetheless, she’d gritted her teeth, forced herself to slow down, and indulged herself in crime dramas streaming on television, listening to true-crime podcasts, and expanding her cooking repertoire, as well as spending more time with her sister Lily and niece Ophelia, “Phee,” and yes, even her mother.
During the nine months of her pregnancy, Nikki had done everything by the book, and voilà, Chloe had been born without any complications.
So worth it, but could she do it again? She wasn’t sure.
Pierce was pressuring her about a sibling for their daughter, but Nikki wasn’t convinced they needed to add another baby into the mix.
For the moment, she was repeating the mantra “One and done.” It sounded good right now, though she wasn’t one to say “never.”
Now, Pierce bent over the high chair and kissed the top of his daughter’s head. Chloe turned her face upward, big eyes bright, apple cheeks creasing as she giggled. “Daddy!”
“That’s me.” And despite the fact that she had milk smeared all over her face, he picked her up from the chair and hugged her. “Who’s my girl?”
Her green eyes twinkled. “Mama your girl.”
“That’s right, imp, she is, but who’s my other girl?”
“Mikado,” she said, teasing, showing off her baby teeth, wrinkling her nose in pride at her joke.
Pierce pointed out, “Mikado’s a boy.”
“Like you!”
“Exactly. And, silly, it’s you. You’re my girl.” He gave her a squeeze, and she tossed back her head and laughed gleefully.
“You my boy!” she said.
“You got that right, but right now your boy has to head to the office.”