I stayed by the armrest and watched her lean the crutches against the wall on her other side. Then she carefully probed her knee brace with her fingers.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s felt worse.”
The sweater slipped off her shoulder again. I moved to fix it for the second time but she caught my hand before I could. We locked eyes.
“As long as we’re in each other’s lives, I’m happy.”
The words had made me feel lighter than wax paper. It had been all too easy to switch my brain off and do exactly what I wanted to do, regardless of the consequences. But I didn’t regret it. And her secretive smile made me think she would’ve been happy to stay out there with me all afternoon if the vision hadn’t interrupted us. I entwined my fingers with hers and gently squeezed.
◆◆◆
The dock at the Ballard Mill Marina was a long stretch of wood with sailboats, fishing boats, and small yachts anchored along either side. My hands were fisted in the pockets of my jacket, my shoulders hunched against the icy wind coming off the water. Behind me was a stretch of yellow tape and two officers, a thin barrier keeping onlookers and reporters away.
Uncle Victor interrogated the dock worker who had found the body; he watched the woman over the top of his sunglasses, pen poised above his battered notebook, forehead creased as she gave her testimony. The coroner, Dr. Ochoa, waited patiently by the yacht named Lou’s Wonder while Vanessa Burkley helped a second dock worker reel the anchor up out of the water.
I clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. I could still hear the victim’s pleading, like the echo of a voice on the wind. I could still see the tears and snot running down his face, the questions he’d blubbered that had gone unanswered. The killer had bound the man to the anchor and watched as it was submerged. I’d gotten a glimpse of the killer’s reflection on the surface of the water. A compact man of medium height and lean build, dressed in dark clothes, wearing a red and yellow Chinese opera mask under the hood of his sweater. I didn’t know how much it would help us but it was better than nothing.
“The owner of the yacht is a Mr. Ernest Dulaney,” Uncle Vic said as he came to stand beside me. “He is—was one of Mr. Ward’s bodyguards.” He raised his eyebrows at the yacht and I had to wonder if he was as suspicious as I was. There was no way Mr. Dulaney had purchased this yacht with his bodyguard salary alone. He must’ve been up to something shady. But that wasn’t important right now.
“The killer is getting ballsy,” I said. “Getting closer and closer to the mayor.”
The body emerged from the water with a splash. His skin had a sick waxy quality and a bluish tint. His eyes were foggy, staring forever at nothing, but it felt like he was looking right at me. I turned to fully face my uncle.
“There still hasn’t been an official threat made to the mayor or his wife; no demands, no explanations, nothing. No one is taking the credit for these murders.” Flipping his notebook closed, my uncle frowned at Mr. Dulaney’s corpse. “I’ve had video conferences with the other politicians running for senator, even had our profiler at the precinct put together a psych evaluation for each one. None of them seem capable of something like this. My gut tells me this isn’t political.” He pocketed his notebook and pen to run a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m starting to think Mr. Ward’s first instinct was the right one.”
“Still haven’t heard anything about that BOLO Vanessa put out?” I asked.
Uncle Victor shook his head. “Mr. Ward’s ‘old friends’ haven’t left a trail anyone could follow. We’ll be lucky if we ever find them.”
“Would the mayor be willing to try and contact them, maybe set up a meeting?”
“I don’t see how he could. He said they’d lost touch years ago.” He scrubbed at his face with the palm of his hand, widening his eyes in a way that closely resembled a yawn. “There has to be something I can do, something I haven’t considered. An angle, a pattern, a possible lead I’m not seeing…”
For the first time in a long time, I stepped back and took a good look at him. My uncle’s hair was unkempt. The sun made the stubble on his cheeks turn white. He looked haggard, defeated, old. It bothered me.
“Maybe you should back off for a bit. Rest. Clear your head. Let Vanessa take the lead.”
My uncle smiled wearily. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m all right, son. Don’t worry about me.” He nodded at Vanessa when she waved us over. “Let’s see what we can learn from the body.”
Vanessa must’ve dismissed the dock worker who had helped her haul the body onto the yacht because it was just her and the coroner standing on the deck. Dr. Ochoa knelt by her satchel of supplies and pulled on some synthetic gloves. The wind caught her dark hair, tugged it across her face. She smiled at me as we approached. “The floor is yours, Mr. Campbell.”
The bite in the air turned just a little bit fiercer as I knelt next to Mr. Dulaney. I closed my eyes and reached out to the slim traces of Death, hoping to see something I might’ve missed in the original vision. In the past, the killer had been careful not to leave behind anything that would reveal his identity, but he wasn’t perfect; he had to slip up sometime.
As I was thrown back into Mr. Dulaney’s final moments, I surveyed the world through the killer’s eyes. I ignored the victim’s sniveling face and instead searched his surroundings. The deck of the yacht, the water, the dock, the lamps posted at
