“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nikki said and gathered her things.
Tonight, she thought, had turned out to be a bust.
She called Pierce on the way home and was surprised that he actually picked up.
“Anything new?” she asked.
“No. We’re tracking Naomi’s car now. All we know is that it crossed the state line and was caught on camera heading into Georgia, toward Savannah, but then we lost contact.”
“You don’t know where she was heading?”
“She was on the road leading to their home,” he said, as Nikki slowed for a corner and thought about the map she’d just viewed. Naomi, on her way back, would pass right by Knox Quinlan’s place.
But she really believed Knox had no idea that Naomi had gone missing when he’d shown up at the riding school.
As she drove, she caught a glimpse of a car behind her in the rearview, then noticed that when she turned, it followed, taking the same route. No big deal. Savannah was a good-sized city, and there was a lot of traffic on this Friday night. She took another corner and saw the car, a silver SUV, take the same turn seconds later.
Don’t let your imagination get the better of you.
Two more turns, and she seemed to have lost the tail, or, more likely, the silver vehicle hadn’t been following her. Still, her nerves were a little jangled. After all, there was a serial killer out there somewhere, some sicko who killed his victims by smashing their skulls, cutting their throats, and leaving a polished stone as his mark.
Who? she wondered.
But more importantly, why?
That was the question. Assuming the victims were not random, that they’d ticked off the killer somehow, there had to be a connection. By no conscious thought, she drove away from Forsyth Park and her home and past Whitefield Square, where, even in the darkness, she spied the live oaks and blooming azaleas surrounding the square’s intricate Victorian gazebo.
She kept driving, toward the outskirts of town, where she found herself face-to-face with the All Christian Church complex, the place where the bully/pastor Westin Stark held services. The church itself looked as if it had existed for two hundred years. White, with a tall steeple, sharply pitched roof, tracery windows, and wide doubledoors, it stood on one side of an expansive parking area. Across the lot, a large, low fellowship hall had been constructed more recently.
She drove past slowly and observed the parsonage, a cozy cottage connected to the back of the church by a covered breezeway. While a porch light had been left on, only a single lamp glowed from within the small house.
Though she had no real reason to snoop around the place, she couldn’t resist. Parking down the street a bit, she locked the car and walked back to the church and parsonage.
All the while, she had the uneasy feeling that she was being watched.
The little whispery sensation felt like insect legs tiptoeing across her shoulders.
Your imagination.
That’s all. First, you thought you were being followed, and now you think someone’s watching you. But there’s no one here. No car parked in the carport or driveway, only one light on in the house. And you know Westin Stark is at the pub.
But, a second voice in her mind argued,does he live alone? Is he married? Have a live-in partner or even a housekeeper?
She paused.
If so, though, no vehicle.
Unless they share a car.
She tried to talk herself out of her paranoia, for that’s what it was, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that hidden eyes were observing her. Silently. Almost stalking her. Edging around the house, she kept checking the windows, but no dark figure loomed, no ghostly apparition appeared.
Nothing.
And yet …
Just to make certain that no one was home, that she wouldn’t be caught prying, she stepped onto the porch. While a moth beat itself against the weak porch light, she heard the dulcet tones of an old-fashioned doorbell sound melodically from inside.
Immediately, a cacophony of barking erupted.