“After that?”
“Then we’ll see. After we speak with Billy Huber’s daughter. She’s the one who called the department to check on her dad. In themeantime, the dog has to be removed from the property so we can investigate the house and yard.” He motioned toward the fenced area that included Huber’s cottage. “We’ll be back in the morning to check out the house.”
Nikki said, “Okay, then. I’ll come with you.”
For once, he didn’t argue.
Chapter 3
Sol Augustin stood, barefoot, on the very ground where Billy Huber had lost his life. It was still dark, a few hours before dawn, and she was alone, had ignored his posted warnings and the yellow band of crime-scene tape as she’d parked near the gate and walked to this low-country farm.
The area where he’d lain was clearly marked near the barn, the grass flattened and part of the chalk line still visible.
She wanted to feel his death, to sense what he’d seen, to witness, in her mind’s eye, how he’d died. She needed to experience his last moments on earth.
And she didn’t want anyone to know that she was here or what she was doing. Especially not anyone from the police department.
No one would understand.
This she knew from past experience.
But she’d covered her tracks and, gratefully, had slipped onto the property unseen. Where she could be one with the dead.
Who was this dead man, and who had killed him so violently?
She took in a deep breath and heard the soft, plaintive hoot of an owl over the creak of an ancient weather vane as it turned in the breeze. She felt the dampness of the earth beneath the soles of her feet and the moisture in the air. Could smell the decay and rust.
There was clutter all around.
Man-made objects that the dead man found dear. She’d caught sight of them in the beam of her flashlight as she’d walked into this barnyard. A rusting, curved arm of a carnival ride—the octopus, she thought. It stretched from one of the sheds to the fence, where rolls of chicken wire and collections of bottles were piled near the toppling frame of a beehive.
Treasures.
Sol slid out of her simple cotton shift, where the white fabric had contrasted with her mocha-colored skin, the coloring she’d inherited from her Haitian mother. Her eyes, too, were large over high cheekbones, but were more green than brown, thanks to her white, missionary father.
It was their combination of genes, island native and deeply super-naturalistic Christian, that had given her the gift that was sometimes a blessing and oftentimes a curse. But it was a gift that she used to her advantage, as she was doing now.
With the dress pooling around her, she closed her eyes.
Whispered a prayer to the gods of the earth and sky, hoping to reach him.
Come to me.
William Jasper Huber, come to me.
She waited and drew in a long breath, smelling the grass and pines. The cool Georgia night surrounded her.
Somewhere, not too far off, a creek babbled.
She felt the flutter of a bat’s wings as it darted overhead, chasing insects. She imagined the ruffling of the Spanish moss in the live oaks that rimmed the property, sensed the presence of a rabbit moving through the tall grass … but she needed more, and waited for the deceased to bridge the chasm between the living world and the dead.
“Come to me,” she called aloud, hoping his spirit would find her, would cross over, and looked into the shadows of the surrounding trees.
She closed her eyes.
There was an occlusion.
Too many voices.