Raw with regret.
She was too late—but how could that be? It had never happened before.
She was
So . . . what did it mean?
Had God given her a unique directive? Perhaps, this time, He wanted something aberrant, something other than a total destruction of evil about to corrupt.
As silent as a wraith, Gaby walked away from the car toward the riverbank, awaiting guidance with each step. The heels of her boots sank into the loamy soil. Weeds prickled her ankles. Mosquitoes thought her a feast and dined on her flesh with gusto.
Gaby searched the riverbank, the rocks, the washed-up tree limbs, swirling moss and reeds . . .
Oh God. She went stock-still. She’d seen plenty of dead, massacred bodies.
She’d done the massacring herself.
But this . . . this was different.
The body—a bloated, waterlogged sponge on the shoreline—wasn’t dead by her hand. Someone had killed, and dumped the body, and God sent her to . . . what?
Find a murderer?
Maybe before more murders took place?
Okay, fine. But then, why the awful, wracking pain? Why the urgency?
From a distance, Gaby could tell that the body had been in the river for the better part of a day. There was nothing urgent in a rotting corpse.
Unless it was someone she’d recognize.
Vision narrowing, Gaby stared at the white body while a litany raced around her mind.
She calmed herself and studied what she could see—a rounded hip, a mutilated breast.
Not a man, but a woman.
The stench of decayed fish and humid refuse burned Gaby’s nostrils as she inhaled, exhaled, breathed in again.
Feet leaden with dread, Gaby crept closer. Long slimy fingers of green sea moss teased over the carious body, impelled on each lapping wave, tickling, receding, rolling in and over it again, and again.
Trepidation took a toll. Gaby forced the approach, and the human form became more distinguishable. Arms. Legs.
Open, unseeing eyes.
The torso and thighs were badly cut. All over. Long, thin slices made with a very sharp blade.
A blade not unlike her own.
Carver? Was the bastard sending her a message? Had he killed an innocent woman because he couldn’t kill Gaby?
Mottled bruises almost disguised the features of the deceased, but Gaby recognized her.
Not just any woman, but a woman she knew.
One of the hookers.
An . . . acquaintance, but not really a friend.
Blinking hard and fast, Gaby forced herself to stay there, to take it all in.
Could Carver have done this?
And if so, why?
If not Carver, then . . . the problem multiplied exponentially.
Long bleached hair swam on the constantly moving surface of the river, catching on reeds, hiding tiny fish that pecked at the rotting flesh.
Gaby sniffed, remembering how the other hookers had told the woman that her hair was over-bleached, that it felt like straw. Now, floating around the victim, the hair looked so soft.
A cloudy film covered the open eyes, but Gaby could see that they were dark brown. It was an odd combination, one she wouldn’t forget.
She sniffed again, tasting the atrocity of the scene before her. Lucy. Poor, poor Lucy. Her death had been gruesome. Given the shape of the corpse, she’d suffered, a lot.
Gaby went from gasping in upset, to straightening tall and strong with restorative outrage. Somehow, some way, she’d find out who did this, and regardless if it was Carver or not, she would avenge Lucy.
That’s why God had sent her here, she was sure. To let her know. To make her aware.
To put her on guard and to prepare her to act.
Gaby said a final farewell to the woman she hadn’t known well, but had pitied all the same. She didn’t touch the body. She didn’t dare.
Her insides clenched and her guts gnarled. She looked around, but this particular section of river was far from picturesque. There were no riverboats, no fancy hotels or restaurants.
Along the shore, remnants of fishing excursions remained: rotted carp heads, a broken reel, foam cups, and a broken lawn chair. Farther out, empty railroad tracks led to nowhere that she could see. In the distance, tall stacks from a factory billowed thick white smoke in the darkening sky.
There was no place for someone to hide, but then, at this deserted location, secrecy wouldn’t be necessary.
Had the body been dumped here, or had it floated here?
For one of the very few times in her life, Gaby wished for the impossible—she wished for company.
She wanted Luther. He’d know what to do.
That made her snort. Luther would take her into custody first, and ask questions later.
Mind made up, Gaby backed away from the grisly scene. Hating herself and her necessary choices that, at this particular moment, felt cowardly, she went to her car. Sitting inside the open door, she removed her boots and checked the soles for any evidence of dirt or debris.
Once they were clean, she started the engine and drove in the opposite direction from the motel where she resided. It’d be safer for her to take care of business in a different part of town.
She found a self-serve carwash and took infinite care in cleaning her shambles of a vehicle, making sure all river mud or indigenous weeds had been removed. There was no one around to see her, no one to later identify her.
The moon crowned the black sky, again reminding her that she was supposed to meet Luther. Now, there was no reason to rush. He’d be too busy to concern himself with her.
On a dark, dangerous stretch of road, Gaby stopped at a pay phone. She called the police station and reported the body, giving the sparest of details, and disguising her voice.
When the officer started to ask questions, she hung up and quickly drove away. Taking her time, she coasted through the slums, making note of children still at play, drug exchanges, a few fights.
By the time she parked the Falcon in the lot, the night dwellers had crawled out like cockroaches, crowding every corner, watching every movement for an advantage over another.
During Gaby’s walk toward the motel, a tall black man hailed her, offering her pills, needles, or whatever else she might need.
Burning with hatred, sick over Lucy’s fate, Gaby fixed her gaze on his, letting him feel what she felt. He backed up several steps, spewed a few vicious insults her way, and loped off. Someone laughed. Another person screamed.
Gaby kept walking. There were people who deserved to suffer, and she sensed this was one of those people.
Dreading it, steeped in guilt, Gaby approached the front of the motel. She had lost one of them when she’d made it her duty to keep them safe. She’d failed.
And Lucy had suffered because of it.
As one set of whores exited the motel, several others went in. They stayed busy hustling for johns, harassing those who turned them down, all in all faking an enjoyment that Gaby knew they couldn’t feel.
