Parker And The Gypsy

by Susan Carroll

  But Mike had grown up a kid of the streets and dark alleys. Shunted between hotel rooms and foster homes, never any place to call his own. Losing his mother at the tender age of six. And his father....

  Sara shivered, understanding what had first put the dull light of mistrust and cynicism in Mike’s warm cocoa eyes, the remembered pain and scars he’d tried to bury so deeply.

  It made Sara long to seek him out, wherever he was, and just hold him, that great tall, gruff man. Cradle him in her arms. To make everything all right, to heal, to give comfort.

  But comfort was the last thing a man like Mike would want from her, Sara thought sadly. He wasn’t the sort to ever admit he needed anyone, not even if he was dying of thirst in the desert and she stood at his elbow with a glass of water. And it didn’t matter, either, that each time he kissed her, she felt all lit up, like skyrockets and pinwheels were exploding in the sky. Because Mike would never see them.

  “Only gunpowder and matches, angel,” he would likely drawl. “They must be having fireworks in the next county.”

  No, any relationship between her and Mike Parker seemed utterly hopeless. If fate had decreed their meeting, then this was one time that fate had made a mistake.

  Sara needed to stop tormenting herself about the man. Forget him, forget her dreams, forget the desires he aroused in her and try to go back to sleep.

  But between the storm and the turbulence of her own emotions, that was an impossibility. Tossing and turning in frustration, she peered toward her nightstand to see what time it was. But the face of her alarm clock had gone silent and dark. She flicked the switch of her bedside lamp and nothing happened.

  “Oh, no, not another power failure,” she grumbled. Well, that put an end to her usual method of coaxing herself back to sleep by reading a book. Unless she went rummaging for her emergency supply of candles. But if the only alternative meant lying on her back, staring into the dark and trying not to think about Mike, she really didn’t have much choice.

  Untangling her legs from the hem of her cotton, anklelength nightgown, she climbed out of bed and minced carefully toward the hall.

  The apartment behind her New Age shop was small, consisting only of one bedroom with a bath, the kitchen, and a sitting room that served as both office and the place where she did her psychic readings. Making her way into the kitchen, Sara opened drawers, rummaging around until she found matches and a large wax candle. Propping it in a glass holder, she coaxed the wick to light.

  The magnificent bursts of thunder and lightning had stopped, leaving only the rain beating drearily against her windows. No other sound intruded upon the isolation of her apartment except for... Sara tensed, coming suddenly alert, listening. Except for someone hammering against a door. Her door to be precise. The front door leading into her shop.

  But who in the world would be trying to get into her store at this hour of the night, in the middle of a thunderstorm, for heaven’s sake? She tried to convince herself she’d just imagined it when the insistent knocking came again.

  Nervously she picked up the candle and crept out of the kitchen, tiptoeing through the sitting room and past the beaded curtains that led into her store.

  She never realized it before but the shop was an eerie place at night. The light from her candle flickered over crystals glinting mysteriously in the glass cabinet. The feathered dream catcher swayed overhead and dragon incense burners winked at her with fiery red eyes.

  When the knocking thundered louder this time, she nearly leapt on top the cash register counter. Glancing toward the door, she could just make out the shape of a man silhouetted behind the glass, large and threatening. She fought a strong urge to douse the candle and bolt back to the security of her apartment.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she admonished herself. “It’s probably only someone from the power company or—or one of the neighbors.”

  The fussy little antique dealer from next door often came stomping over when there was a power failure, as though Mr. Peavine suspected Sara of practicing some strange mystic rites that drained off all the electricity.

  Holding aloft the candle as though it were a talisman to ward off evil, she forced herself forward. The sign on her door pronouncing her shop closed shielded the man’s features, but as Sara drew closer, she could tell it wasn’t Mr. Peavine. The man appeared too tall, his shoulders too broad.

  A sudden hope flared inside of Sara, every bit as irrational as her fear had been. She had no reason to suppose, to even dare to think that it could possibly be....

  Her fingers trembled as she reached for the door, but as soon as she touched the handle, she knew.

  “Michael,” she cried. Setting the candle holder down on top of a display case, she fumbled with the lock and flung wide the door, just as he was raising his fist to knock again. Her breath snagged in her throat.

  Swallowed by the darkness and pouring rain, he sheltered beneath her store front’s narrow ledge, her huge mechanical eye weeping copious tears down over his trench coat and the fedora pulled low over his eyes. The tough, rough, hard-edged detective. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of her dream.

  Her heart turned over but her joy at his unexpected appearance was quickly tempered by remembrance of the way she’d last seen him. Seen too much of him. Visions of Mike driving down Main Street, naked, danced through her head and Sara flushed. She couldn’t have felt more guilty than if the police had suddenly turned up at her door—the thought police.

  “Michael.” She breathed his name again. “What—what are you doing here?”

  “Getting wet.” He appeared soaked through and his hat had lost some of its dash, the brim wilting a little in the rain. “You gonna let me in, angel, or what?”

  “Oh—oh, yes, of course.” Sara stepped nervously aside as Mike brushed past her, seeming to bring with him a storm of wind and rain. Sara could feel the tension rumbling off him like claps of thunder.

  “Dammit, Sara,” he growled, slamming the door closed behind him. “Do you always fling your door wide open that way in the middle of the night? What if it had been an ax murderer?”

  “It wasn’t an ax murderer. It was you.”

  “And how could you tell that? It’s black as pitch outside.”

  “I could tell,” Sara said stubbornly, almost defying him to ask her how.

  He didn’t, turning to grumble at her door instead. “Cheap lock,” he said. “I could pick it in two seconds flat. And no security system of any kind. Not even a damned alarm.”

  “I don’t need an alarm. My shop usually isn’t invaded in the middle of the night by surly detectives wearing trench coats.”

  “It’s not a trench coat,” Mike snapped. “Only a raincoat. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s pouring buckets outside.” Jerking off his hat, he slicked damp strands of hair out of his eyes.

  Sara might have been taken aback by his angry tone, but she was sensing something behind all the bluster. Something ... lost and uncertain. Whatever had brought the brash Mike Parker to her doorstep tonight, the man wasn’t quite as sure of himself as usual.

  “So what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Wrong? Nothing.” He shrugged. “But I promised to let you know what happened with Mr. Kiefer.”

  “You spoke with him?”

  “No-o-o, not exactly.” He rubbed the moisture from his chin like a man testing his face to see if he needed a shave. Which he did. His jaw was shadowed with rough stubble, only adding to his Humphrey Bogart look. “I found Kiefer’s place, but he wasn’t there. His grandson said the old man took off for a spell, fishing, but the kid had no idea where. It’ll probably be a couple more weeks before I can talk to Kiefer. This case is turning out to be damned frustrating.”

  But it wasn’t the case that made Mike seem so drained, so edgy tonight. Something else was going on behind those deep brown eyes. It took all Sara’s willpower to not probe more deeply.

  “Anyhow, that’s about it for now,” he concluded. �
�Sorry to disturb you so late. Detectives keep such odd hours, we tend to forget that the rest of the world is usually in...bed.”

  Mike’s lashes drifted down as he took in the details of her nightgown. The garment was certainly demure enough—white cotton, swirling down to her ankles, flowing sleeves that covered her arms, the shirred bodice exposing not a hint of cleavage.

  But for a moment, Mike looked at her with a raw hunger, a depth of longing that seemed to reach inside of her, stirring her own desires, touching the most intimate part of her heart and soul.

  Averting his eyes, he backed off, saying, “Uh...anyhow, I—I better be going.”

  He probably should. But as he shifted a step toward the door, Sara cried out, “Oh, no. Please don’t.”

  “But it is late and I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “It’s all right. I like being bothered.” She flushed. “I—I mean as long as you’re here, you might as well take off your trench coat and dry out a little.”

  “It’s not a trench coat.” Mike waved his hat in an impatient gesture and almost knocked several glass cannisters off one of the counters. He frowned, as though for the first time noticing the absence of light. Locating the switch near the door, he flicked it futilely several times.

  “Power out?” he demanded.

  “It always happens here during storms.”

  Mike eyed the candle askance. “You got something against flashlights?”

  “Yes, batteries. I always forget to replace them.” She snatched up the taper and used it to light several other of the large, scented candles from her display case. She hardly knew why she did so except out of an inexplicable sense of desperation. Give Mike enough light and maybe he wouldn’t just vanish again, back into the dark and the rain.

  He hadn’t moved out of the shadows by the doorway, but she could feel the weight of his eyes on her. Turning back to him, she asked softly, “So what really brought you here tonight, Michael?”

  “I just got done telling you—”

  “No. You didn’t come all the way out here in a storm only to tell me about not being able to talk to Mr. Kiefer.”

  Mike stood there for a moment, fingering the brim of his hat. “And I guess with the power out, I can hardly get you to believe that I was just passing through town and happened to notice your lights on.”

  “No, Michael.”

  “Well, the truth is...” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking mighty uncomfortable. “Dammit! The truth is you’ve been in my head again.”

  He knew! Sara gave a guilty start, whipping her arms behind her back as though caught with her hands full of his stolen memories. She started to babble out an apology when Mike went on. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all day.”

  “Oh.” Sara breathed, realizing he hadn’t meant what she’d thought.

  He drifted closer until he stood inside her ring of candlelight. “You’ve even been wandering into my dreams, angel.” Mike used his forefinger to give her nose a gentle admonishing tap. “Earlier tonight, I dreamed we were locked together in my office. How’s that for a hoot? Pretty crazy, huh?”

  “Completely,” Sara said, but her voice lacked conviction. No, it couldn’t be, she told herself. He couldn’t possibly have had the same...

  “And you were wearing this sexy black dress and nylons with seams up the back,” Mike continued.

  “And you?” Sara asked weakly. “You—you weren’t by any chance wearing your trench coat, were you?”

  “It’s not a trench coat.” Mike frowned down at her. “But yes, I was.”

  “And—and the only light in your office came from the neon sign across the street. And you pulled me into your arms—”

  “And you knocked my hat off and buried your fingers in my hair.”

  “You kissed me and—and then we...” Sara faltered.

  Their eyes met and Mike’s widened in alarm. Sara didn’t blame him. She felt thoroughly shaken herself.

  “Oh, hell!” Mike groaned. But he made a valiant effort at recovery. “It’s a coincidence. Just a coincidence. We probably both watch the same old detective movies.”

  “I never watch any.”

  “So you’re saying we’re even starting to share each other’s dreams now? What does that mean, Sara?”

  “I don’t know,” Sara said, but she was beginning to have her suspicions about the nature of this powerful link between her and Mike. An idea that she feared he would never accept. One that even stunned herself.

  She bit down on her lower lip, trying to puzzle it through. “But wait. We couldn’t have been sharing dreams because I was the only one asleep. You were out on the road somewhere...” Sara trailed off as Mike shook his head at her.

  “I pulled over for a while because of the storm. I was so damn tired, I nodded off behind the wheel and—” Mike left the rest of his explanation dangling, but there was no need for him to finish.

  She was certain Mike would go bolting for the door, and she wouldn’t have blamed him one bit. But instead, he rubbed his jaw, asking almost too casually, “So—uh. What’d you think of the dream? The part where we were kissing, I mean.”

  Sara’s face flamed. “It—it was good. Very good,” she confessed shyly. Then a chill swept through her. “That is until it all changed and I found myself in the alley.”

  Mike’s face went ashen. “Oh, no. You...you didn’t dream that part, too?”

  Sara nodded, unable to repress a shiver. “I was lost and couldn’t find you, Michael, and when I did ... he was there. The man with the silvery gray hair. And his knife. He... It was horrible, terrifying.”

  “Oh, God!” Mike paced off a few agitated steps, then froze, whipping about to stare at her, his eyes narrowed with deep suspicion. “Wait a minute. How’d you know about the color of his hair? That’s never in the dreams. He’s always in the shadows.”

  “Well, I—I—” Sara stammered.

  Mike strode forward and seized her shoulders in a bruising grip. “You really have been in my head again, haven’t you?”

  Caught. There was nothing she could do but nod miserably.

  “Dammit, Sara. You promised me.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I thought I could. But then you kissed me and—I’m sorry, Michael,” she whispered.

  He released her and said acidly, “So what color undershorts was I wearing this time?”

  “None. I—I mean none that I was aware of.”

  “So you managed to strip me naked at last. And what else did you see besides my bare butt, Sara?”

  Nothing. Nothing at all, she wanted to say. But she’d never been good at deception.

  “I saw the man who attacked you when you were a little boy. His face.”

  “What about his face?” Mike demanded.

  “It looked familiar somehow. Like—like yours. Only older, harder.”

  “Not a very flattering comparison, angel.” Mike’s jaw tightened into a knot. “I always did worry about the physical resemblance, wondering if I was going to end up the same as my old man some day.”

  “Oh, no. You never could....”

  “Never could what, doll?” Mike sneered. “Wind up looking like the kind of guy who could plan the murder of his own son?”

  Sara winced. She’d guessed the truth about Mike’s father from her vision, but it was so much worse somehow hearing him say it flat out that way, his face a cold, hard, bitter mask.

  She wished she could think of something to say to him, to take away the pain of her intrusion, to take away even more. That night in the alley. The scar that disfigured his shoulder, the memories that poisoned his mind.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she whispered, the inadequacy of the words weighing heavy on her heart, bringing tears stinging to her eyes.

  Mike watched her in stony silence for a moment, then his anger slowly dissolved. He made a helpless gesture in her direction.

  “No, don’t do that, angel. It’s not worth crying over.” He jammed hi
s hands into his pockets, his eyes darkening with some inner struggle. A deep, tired sigh escaped him. “Well, hell. Since you’ve already found out this much, I guess you might as well hear the rest of it.”

  “Oh, no, Michael.” Sara swiped furiously at her eyes. “I never wanted to force you to share your memories with me.”

  “It’s okay. It’s really not that big of a deal. I don’t know why I’ve always been so touchy about discussing my old man with anyone.”

  Maybe because the memories hurt too much, Sara thought. No matter how Mike tried to shrug and pretend they didn’t. But maybe, just maybe he’d carried the pain around buried deep inside him for far too long.

  Sara held herself very quiet and still, patiently waiting while Mike roved about her shop, fidgeting with things on the counters as though searching for someplace, some way to begin. He paused before an incense burner shaped like a dragon with scales of iridescent green, purple and gold, a creature more whimsical than fierce looking.

  Mike ran one finger along its outstretched wings and gave a smile that was more of a grimace. “I guess my old man was a lot like this fellow here. A lot of flash and color, but when it came down to it, full of hot air. He had a million dreams, all of them involving ways to get rich quick with as little work as possible.

  “After my mother died, he dragged me up and down the coast pursuing his schemes. Schemes that weren’t always especially ... honest. He landed himself in jail for brief spells and I did time in foster homes. But my dad always managed to convince some judge to hand me back over to him. That was one thing Robert Parker was real good at—conning people into believing he was sorry, that he was going to go straight this time.”

  From the bitterness in Mike’s voice, the disillusionment in his eyes, Sara wondered how many times during his boyhood Mike had been conned into believing the same thing.

  “Anyhow,” he went on, “by the time I was twelve, I pretty much had my hands full trying to keep him out of more trouble. I was worried he’d be sent up for good the next time.