Page 3 of Darach

The detective looked defeated now. “We won’t know until the coroner reviews all of the autopsy reports, but it appears that you’re right, and the two cases are related. We’ve also found some similarities to unsolved murders in Nova Scotia, Vancouver and Montreal.”

Charlotte’s scalp prickled with cold sweat as her dread deepened. “How many others did he kill?”

“As I said, we won’t know for a while, Ms. Walsh. However, if we can connect him to these cold cases, ah.” He ducked his head. “It’ll be over a hundred.”

In that moment she knew she would die if she stayed here. Nothing will ever stop him.

“I’ll go to France.” If Leona refused to take her in, Charlotte thought, she would live on her savings until she could arrange to work remotely from there. “I brought my passport with me. When can I leave?”

Logan met her gaze. “We’ll take you to the airport as soon as you reserve a flight.”

* * *

Charlotte packed what little she’d brought in her overnight case before pulling on her long black coat. She changed her black trousers for a pair of comfortable jeans, but as she hadn’t packed extra shoes she had to wear the uncomfortable stilettos she’d put on for the funeral. As soon as she got to the airport she could buy a pair of runners for the long trip.

As she braided her hair she considered what she would say to her mother once she reached Paris. She’d already decided against calling in advance; Leona would be more receptive to a surprise visit than a desperate telephone plea for sanctuary. She wouldn’t tell her about the stalker or the murders, either. She’d simply say that she wanted to reconnect and spend some time together after so many years of estrangement.

Mom won’t fall for that. She’ll know the minute you show up on her doorstep that you’re in trouble.

Charlotte collected her messenger bag on the way out of the room, slinging it over her head and across her body; thankfully she’d packed it with her traveling art supplies before leaving the condo. She could buy whatever else she needed for work once she was in Paris.

She stepped out into the hallway, but didn’t see the two cops or Logan. “They must be waiting downstairs in the lobby.”

Charlotte decided against the elevators and went to the stairwell door and opened it, stepping out onto the landing and immediately slipping and falling onto her butt in a dark, wet pool. As pain jolted through her hip a rank, coppery smell made her choke. Beside her one of the cops stared at the ceiling with a befuddled, frozen look; blood from the deep gash around his neck glistened in the light from the overhead dome. Charlotte’s hand shook as she reached out to touch his wrist, but she found no pulse.

This is how I’m going to die tonight.

“There you are,” a low, amused voice said from above her. “Did you think they would keep me away from you, my precious?”

Everything inside Charlotte froze as she looked up at the hooded figure leaning over the railing. She let go of her case as she scrambled to her feet and ran down the stairs, her heart hammering in her chest as shrill laughter and light footsteps followed her. She reached into her pocket for her phone, only to remember she had given it to the cop. As she stumbled on the steps she saw handprints in blood on the railings, and then the limp body of the other cop sprawled on the second floor landing. She stopped, hoping he was only injured, but when she turned him onto his back she saw his throat had been slashed as well.

“I only want one thing from you, Charlotte,” the killer said as he leisurely walked down the stairs. “Stop running away from me, or more people will die.” He chuckled. “Well, that’s not exactly true. After all this time I really can’t stop myself. If you give me what I want, perhaps I will not hunt as often, and fewer people will die.”

She made it to the first floor landing, and darted through the door, only to find herself outside at the back of the hotel. A long alley stood between her and the front of the building, but a man was slowly trudging toward her. She ran to him, gasping with relief when she saw it was Detective Logan.

“He’s here, the stalker,” she said as she ran up to him, and then abruptly stopped as she saw the knife sticking out of his chest. “Oh, no, no.”

“Leave me.” Logan grabbed her arm and pushed her behind him before he dropped to his knees. “Go.”

Charlotte dragged him behind a stack of wooden crates, and then looked over as the hooded figure came out of the stairwell door. She couldn’t pull the knife out of Logan’s chest; she knew he would bleed to death if she did. If she ran the killer would attack her from behind, and probably cut her throat.

“Do you have a gun?” she whispered, crouching over him. She didn’t know how to shoot, but maybe the threat of one would hold off the killer.

Logan shook his head. “He took it.” As he spoke some blood dribbled from his mouth. “Ms. Walsh, you have to run.”

“I’m not going to leave you.” Charlotte closed her eyes to recall her memory of the alley way. Thanks to a strange quirk of her brain she could remember images perfectly after seeing them only once. A high wall closed off the end of the alley by the stairs; the only way out was toward the front of the building. If she stayed in the shadows–

“Are you still trying to hide from me?” A hand took hold of the messenger bag strap and used it to yank her up. “You should know you can’t do that, my precious.” A vicious tug on her braid jerked her head back. “A hunter always knows where to find his prey.” He dragged her away from the crates, flinging her into the brick on the other side of the alley.

Charlotte managed to get her hands up before she slammed into the wall, but her head snapped forward and something sharp stabbed into her forehead. Pain exploded inside her skull as warm, wet blood streaked down her face. Her vision grayed, but she staggered around, facing the hooded killer. For a moment it looked as if there were two of him.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she demanded, bracing her shoulders against the wall and wiping the blood dripping into her eye. “I don’t know you. I’ve never done anything to you.”

He pulled off his gloves and slapped her, and a hot streak of pain sliced across her cheek. Breath made acrid by booze blasted in her face as he leaned closer.

“You know why, Charlotte. You painted that lovely portrait of Prince Ross’s cursed sword in the hands of that hideous chieftain. I looked, but I couldn’t find it in your house or at that sassy little slut’s place.” His fingers trailed through the blood on her cheek before he grabbed her jaw. “What have you done with the sain?”

The unwashed smell of his body made Charlotte almost gag. She glanced down at his hand, and the strange, streaked mark on the back of it. “I don’t know what you mean. What’s a sain?”