Chapter 37
Driving home, Nikki tried to scrub the image of Naomi Kittle’s dead body from her mind.
But she couldn’t. Nor could she erase the memory of Jamison’s car screeching to a stop in the lane before he jumped out, leaving the BMW running while he ran headlong into the clearing.
He’d ignored warnings from the deputies and sped to the sanctuary, where he’d viewed the horrible, gut-ripping scene of his wife’s macabre death.
Even though she’d both secured an interview and Jamison’s agreement that she could publish the story of the discovery of Naomi’s body once he’d told his children, Nikki felt hollow inside.
The old, pre-motherhood Nikki Gillette would have been elated at the prospect of an exclusive interview with Jamison Kittle, the husband of the latest victim of the Savannah Slasher.
But the new, maternal Nikki was fighting a losing battle with empathy and grief for the loss of a wife and mother.
As she drove toward the city, the lights of Savannah glowing in the distance, she couldn’t help but remember the middle Kittle daughter Shana’s pale, tortured face during Jamison’s briefing with the press.
Now the little girl and her sisters were mother less, and their unfettered joy of childhood, their feeling of safety within their family, was shattered forever.
“And now you spend your time writing about man’s brutality to man. You make your living off the pain of others.” Westin Stark’s accusation still stung.
But tonight she had a job to do.
She pulled into the driveway, and Arlo whined to get out of the rental.
“Okay, okay, I think I owe you a treat, or maybe a thousand,” she said, thinking of how the dog had raced to her rescue.
How far Arlo had come in the past few weeks.
From a snarling, fearful beast who had threatened her to a snarling, brave animal ready to sacrifice himself for her.
“Come on, now, hero dog,” she said, once she’d parked.
Arlo bounded out of the car and ran to the back door, whining and scratching to get inside.
Lily hurried down the stairs as Nikki set her purse on the side counter, then found the pre-offered dog treat, not only for Arlo, but a patiently waiting Mikado as well.
“It’s really Naomi?” Lily asked, swallowing.
“Unfortunately.”
“God, what’s happening around here?”
“That’s what Pierce is trying to piece together.” Nikki grabbed a glass and filled it with water at the sink. “How’re the girls?”
“Asleep, thank God. But it’s all over the news. Not Naomi’s name, of course. I got that when Pierce called to check on Chloe. But … dear God.”
“I know.”
“You found her?”
“Yeah.” Nikki took a long swallow from her glass. “Awful,” she admitted, then filled Lily in on the details. “Look, I need to write this story and submit it, so we’ll catch up later.”
“Sure. But, oh, sweet Jesus.” Lily collapsed on the couch and wrapped herself in a blanket. “This is … obscene.”
“Amen.” Nikki hurried up the stairs and took a minute to check on Chloe, who, as Lily had said, lay deep in slumber. In a onesie decorated with pink llamas, her hair a mop of curls, she looked peaceful, serene, and safe.
She pressed a kiss to her soft cheek as Mikado crept into the room and curled up next to Chloe’s bed.
“Sleep well, angel,” Nikki whispered before heading up to her office and finding Arlo already in his bed, eyes trained on the door.
His tail thumped as she gave him a quick pet, then settled into her chair.
She had a story to write and then a companion piece on Naomi.
Fink, she thought, would be satisfied, even if the articles would have her byline without any credit given to Metzger. As she wrote, she gave out the details she was allowed by the police, but thought of those she couldn’t acknowledge. At least not yet.
She’d stayed at the scene long enough to hear that the stone held in Naomi’s hand had been etched with the number 11, just like the other three rocks, in Arabic and Hebrew, the numbers darkened presumably by blood. But this was information she couldn’t share with the public.
Yet.
Until it was her exclusive story.
Or was leaked, she thought sourly.
Even so, she didn’t feel that same sense of accomplishment, that satisfaction of discovering something that turned the case around.
Not for the first time, she wondered if she were losing her edge.
If she should hang up her journalism degree before she became lackluster, uninspired, and lazy like Norm Metzger.
Or maybe just write books about crimes others had solved.
Would that be enough?
What about podcasting? That seemed to be a thing, and she could do a twist on crime solving, here from the comfort of her own home.
For now, though, she sent her story digitally to Fink, who would look it over, approve it, most likely, and it would be on the Sentinel’s website before the actual newspaper was published.
That way Fink was satisfied. They could break the story online, and other outlets would pick it up, but the Sentinel and Nikki would get the credit.
Later, the actual print edition would land on subscribers’ doorsteps.
The industry was changing.
Nikki should change with it. Again, she said, “Adapt or die.” It seemed to be her mantra these days.
Once she submitted her story, she leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms over her head, but that reminded her of Naomi’s outstretched arms and the stone clasped in her fingers, so she dropped her arms. But her mind was still spinning.
Eleven.
What was the significance of the number cut into the stone?
She scratched notes to herself on a legal pad.
Billy Huber, with the number nine.
Mavis Greenlee, a five.
Jeanne LaRoux, number one.
And now Naomi Kittle, eleven.
Obviously, the numbers were significant to the killer. They meant something, but what?
She scribbled them down in the order of the deaths: 5, 9, 1, 11.
Not in normal numerical order. All odd numbers.
Were they some kind of sequence?
A code?
She switched them around. Reversed the numbers and couldn’t help but wonder if there were other victims, as yet unfound, who’d been assigned other digits.
Why in Arabic and Hebrew?
What was the significance of that?
Again she wrote the symbols on her notepad, this time in Hebrew.
But they meant nothing to her.
And yet, the killer had ensured that the Hebrew numbers were included. Why?
“Come on, Nikki, figure it out.” She googled the numbers, switched them around, looked up sequences of odd numbers.
And came up with nothing.
“Damn it.”
In frustration, she threw her pen onto the desk. It clattered on the desktop and rolled off and across the floor to the bookcase.
Startled, Arlo lifted his head and gave a soft “woof.”
“It’s all right, buddy,” she said. She gave him a quick pat, then retrieved the pen and straightened, hearing her spine pop in the process.
She noticed the Bible on the third shelf of the case, at eye level.
Leather-bound and worn, it had once belonged to her grandmother.
The old woman had spent a half an hour every morning, sipping tea on her veranda or in her living-room easy chair, reading verses aloud, her own way of meditation.
Nikki ran her fingers over the soft spine.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to spend some time with God’s word,” the older woman had told her.
Grannie had always smelled of perfume and cinnamon, and some of Nikki’s most cherished memories were of standing on a stool in the kitchen at the counter and learning how to roll out the thinnest and flakiest of piecrusts.
Grannie had always whistled softly under her breath as she’d constructed her incredible peach or pecan pies, while crimping the edges or creating a latticework top.
As she’d worked, she’d allowed Nikki and Lily to bake their own individual pies in tiny aluminum tins.
The boys were invited to partake as well, but Andrew had never been interested, and Kyle gave up when he was around seven, when he discovered he’d rather play baseball or catch toads.
At least, that’s how Nikki remembered it now.
She also recalled that Grannie would never allow her to taste one bite of her concoction without a prayer of thanks or a Bible verse being whispered.
That was the rule. No matter how good her pie smelled after it was removed from the oven, or how hungry Nikki claimed to be, Grannie insisted a thankful prayer be sent straight to heaven and to God.
“Remember, Nicole, always be thankful. And respectful. And remember your Bible verses,” Grannie had told her time and time again.
She recalled one time in her grandmother’s kitchen when, waiting for the pies to cool, her grandmother had stared out the window to the pasture, where the horses were grazing.
She’d been unhappy with Nikki that morning as she’d caught her taking Lily’s favorite doll and hiding it in her room.
Nikki had lied about taking the Barbie, and Grannie had caught her in the lie.
Grannie said, “You know, if you would just live by the Golden Rule, Nicole, or … wait, better yet, the Ten Commandments, because they’re actually written in the Bible, you would be a better person and have a more fulfilling life.”
Nikki hadn’t responded, but Grannie had persisted. “Why don’t you recite those commandments?”