“You want me to send County?”
“I need an ambulance!” I rush to the tub and drop to my knees.
“Stand by.” A quick scratch of static and then. “What’s your twenty?”
I relay the address from memory. Quickly, I set my flashlight on the floor with the beam pointing toward the tub. Jules Rutledge is lying on her back with one hand pressed against her chest, blood flowing between her fingers. The other hand is slung over the side of the tub, fingers twitching. She’s wearing a white nightgown, the front of which is blood soaked. Her eyes are open and on me, blinking. In their depths I see terror and I hate it that she’s afraid, because I don’t think she’s going to survive this.
“There’s an ambulance on the way,” I tell her. “Who did this to you?”
A clawlike hand reaches for me. Fingers grasping air. Eyes beseeching me to help. Panic on a face that already knows it’s too late. Her bloody mouth opens and whispers, “We didn’t … mean for it to … happen.”
I try to pull away, but she clenches my jacket lapel with surprising strength. “Didn’t mean for what to happen?” I ask.
Her lips move. A bubble of red-tinged saliva between them. “Kill … her.”
I stare at her, not sure if I heard correctly, not sure if she’s cognizant of what she just said. I hear gurgling in her chest and throat. Part of me wants to tell her not to speak, to save her strength. But the part of me that is a cop wants her to name the son of a bitch responsible.
“Tell me who did this,” I press.
“… ghost…”
The hand at my lapel falls away. Her body sinks more deeply into the tub. Her head lolls.
“Julia,” I say. “Julia. Stay with me.” But I know it’s too late.
“Goddammit.” I tug a latex glove from a compartment on my belt, slip my right hand into it, and reach over to check her carotid artery for a pulse, but she’s gone. “Shit. Shit.”
“Chief?” Mona’s voice scratches over the radio.
Uneasy with my back to the door, I snatch up my Maglite and get to my feet. “Ten seven nine,” I say, requesting the coroner.
“Ten four.” Another short hiss of static. “You okay?”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I go with, “Suspect at large.”
“Description?”
“No.” I peel off the glove and tuck it into my pocket. “Call BCI and get a CSU out here to the scene. Tell T.J. to set up a perimeter.”
“Copy.”
“Get Glock out here, too.”
“Will do.”
Keeping an eye on the door and the hall beyond, I shift the beam back to the tub. The shower wall is splattered with arterial spray. Julia Rutledge seems to stare at me from within that deathbed. I can’t meet her gaze. The wet-iron stench of blood is stifling in the small space, and my stomach jitters. The urge to leave the room is strong, but I don’t concede to it.
I shift my light to the faucets at her feet and see signs of a struggle. Several long smears of blood mar the tile, as if she’d lashed out with her feet.
“Sheriff’s Department! Sheriff’s Department!”
I startle at the shout, swing my beam to the door. “Back here!”
Another flashlight beam joins mine, and then a Holmes County deputy steps into the bathroom. “Chief?”
I recognize him as Deputy Frank Maloney, and I holster my .38. “I’m okay.”
He averts his beam to avoid blinding me, but there’s enough light for me to see his eyes widen at the sight of the blood before he pulls his cop’s mask into place. “Holy shit.” He takes a step back.
“Coroner’s on the way.” I let out a breath, surprised when it shudders slightly. “Frank, she was alive when I arrived.”
“She ID anyone?”
“I tried, but … I think she was out of it. Said something about a ghost.”
His gaze meets mine, but there’s no hint of a cop’s black humor in them. The hairs on my arms prickle, and for the first time in the course of my career, I feel threatened. Not by some crazy guy with a knife, but by something intangible and dark.
“Aw, hell.” He glances at the body. “You see anyone?”
“No.”
Head bent to his lapel mike, he sends out the code for homicide. “Unknown perpetrator at large.” He motions toward the body. “You know her?”
I nod. “Julia Rutledge.”
He edges closer to the bathtub, sets his beam on the body. “Damn.”
A macabre scene dances in the beams of our flashlights. I can’t help but think that just a few hours ago, Jules Rutledge was a lovely, vibrant woman who seemed to be enjoying her life. Now her mouth sags open, her lower jaw jutting slightly. Her head is cocked to one side, and from where I’m standing, I see a horrific wound high on her chest.
“What’s that?” Maloney points at the wound. “Knife handle?”
Leaning closer, I set my beam on her chest. The fabric of her gown is blood soaked. There’s a slit in the material, evidently from the blade. Something protrudes about half an inch from the wound.
“I don’t think it’s a knife,” I say.