The Last Victim

Come after me, was her immediate, visceral response. Her second thought was, I should have stayed away.

Panic made her chest feel tight.

I need to get out of here. I need to hide.

Then she thought of Bayley Evans, and managed to get a grip. She needs me.

“I’d say there’s a good chance.” Bartoli’s tone was grim.

“You think maybe we should contact the press, explain the situation, ask them not to out her?” The last one to do so, Crane hastily fastened his seat belt with a click as, reaching the closest intersection, Bartoli jetted through it just as the light was changing, drawing an indignant honk from another motorist. The purpose, Charlie figured, was to lose any remaining reporters. The near miss inches from their rear bumper as the emptying-the-beach traffic resumed its stampede toward town made Charlie’s lips purse. Then, looking in the mirror in time to catch the news vans screeching to a stop on the other side of the intersection, she silently gave Bartoli kudos for his maneuver.

“Tell me you’re not actually naïve enough to think that would do any good.” Kaminsky shot Crane a derisive look.

“I think that if they find out who Dr. Stone is, whether because we tell them or through some other means, it’s way too good a story to hope they’ll keep it quiet,” Bartoli intervened. “If the news breaks, we’ll just have to step up our protection efforts. For one thing, Kaminsky, you may need to move into Dr. Stone’s suite with her.”

“I don’t think that would be necessary,” Charlie objected hastily, appalled at the prospect.

“I’m right across the hall,” Kaminsky protested at almost the same time, sounding equally appalled. Breaking off, the two of them exchanged measuring glances in the makeup mirror.

“I feel perfectly safe with Agent Kaminsky across the hall,” Charlie said. “In order to function optimally, I need sufficient rest, and I don’t sleep well unless I have a certain amount of privacy.”

“Anyway, the walls are thin as paper. I can hear everything that goes on in there, believe me,” Kaminsky put in. Once again the two women exchanged measuring looks. Charlie was left wondering what, exactly, Kaminsky had heard. Not Garland; that would be impossible. But maybe her part of their conversation? Well, if it came up, she would just have to claim that she’d been on the phone.

“We’ll see how it goes.” Bartoli didn’t sound convinced.

Kaminsky rolled up the window finally, as they headed south down N.C. 12, also known as Beach Road, toward Nags Head. To the left, the view was simply spectacular: sand dunes, rolling ocean, purpling sky. To the right, colorful, tightly bunched beach communities thi

“Did anybody interview those two persons of interest I found? The ones living in RVs in local campgrounds? Martin Blumenthal and D. L. Jones, who were in a mental hospital and a prison, respectively, for the last fifteen years?” Kaminsky asked.

“I did,” Crane said. “Neither is the right age. Plus, Jones is black, and both have alibis.”

“I knew that was too easy,” Kaminsky responded gloomily.

“Here we are.” Bartoli pulled off into a lushly green enclave marked with a discreet sign a

“Hope you brought your wallet, boss.” Kaminsky’s tone made it clear that she was getting the same sense of this-place-is-way-expensive that Charlie was. Glancing back, Charlie saw Kaminsky was using the tinted window as a makeshift mirror to smooth her hair.

“Crane’s paying.” Bartoli didn’t crack a smile as he flicked a glance at Crane in the rearview mirror, but Charlie could still see his eyes: they twinkled.

“I’m not the one with the Bureau’s Amex,” Crane replied. “Or the expense account.”

“Eat light,” Bartoli ordered, sounding as if he was only partly joking. “I don’t know if you heard, but Uncle Sam’s cracking down on expense accounts these days.”

“Guess I can forget about ordering that bottle of Dom Perignon, then.” Kaminsky’s tone was dry.

“I thought you couldn’t drink alcohol,” Crane said. “What with being a Scientologist and all.”

“You thought wrong,” Kaminsky retorted even as Charlie, upon hearing the other woman’s religious affiliation, experienced an “ah-hah” moment. She was kind of fuzzy on the details, but she was pretty sure Scientologists didn’t believe in psychiatry, which explained a fair amount about Kaminsky’s attitude toward her. “Anyway, just because I was raised as a Scientologist doesn’t make me a Scientologist now. I’m nonpracticing.”

“I don’t think you can do that,” Crane said, as the SUV reached the head of the line at last and pulled to a stop beneath the scarlet canopy.

“You don’t know anything about it,” Kaminsky answered caustically. “And you’re never going to.”

Then the driver’s door and Charlie’s were opened simultaneously by a pair of solicitous valets. As Charlie slid out, she spotted an old man following the couple ahead of them up the stairs. Her eyes widened. Since the man was semi-transparent and being ignored by everyone else, Charlie felt safe in assuming that he was an apparition. She sighed inwardly. Seeing a dead man was par for the course for her, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. Her stomach gave an uneasy rumble, but at least it was only a rumble: the co