It took him a while to reach the lodge. He hadn't realized how far they'd walked the night before. Erica had obviously wanted to get him far enough away from the property so that no one would find him. Still, luring him out to the woods and leaving him there half-drugged didn't seem like a complete plan to him. There had to be more.
He realized what that more was when he saw two police cars in front of the lodge. Something had happened. Picking up the pace, he jogged up the front steps, a multitude of fears running through his head. He'd lost a dozen hours or more, and he had no idea whether Jake and Sarah had gotten off on their honeymoon. Had they wondered where he'd gone? Had they worried about him, called the cops? Or, God forbid, had something happened to them? Was that why the police were here?
As he entered the lobby he saw a uniformed police officer and a man in a dark gray suit standing by the reception desk. They were talking to the manager of the lodge while half a dozen employees looked on. One of those employees was the bartender who'd served him drinks the night before. When their gazes met, the bartender lifted his hand, pointing to Dylan.
"That's him," the bartender said. "That's the guy I saw leaving the bar with her last night."
Erica. This had to do with Erica.
"What's happened?" Dylan asked.
The man wearing the suit walked toward him. He appeared to be in his early forties, with light brown hair and a receding hairline. His tie hung loose around his neck, as if he spent a lot of time tugging on it, and his ruddy complexion bore testament to a man who lived outside as much as in. At the flash of his badge, Dylan's gut tightened.
"I'm Detective Richardson with the Washoe County Sheriff's Department," he said. "And you are ...?"
"Dylan Sanders. What's going on?"
"We're checking on the welfare of one of the guests, Ms. Erica Layton. Do you know her?"
His heart skipped a beat. "Yes. I know her. What happened to her?"
"That's what we're trying to find out. The bartender who worked the wedding reception last night said he saw Ms. Layton at the bar with you, and that you left together. Is that correct?"
The detective's gaze ran down his body, and Dylan was suddenly very aware of his appearance, the dirt on his shirt, the pine needles sticking to his sleeves. He resisted the urge to draw more attention to himself by shaking them off. "That's right," he muttered.
"When did you last see Ms. Layton?" the detective asked.
"Last night about seven thirty."
"Where were you?"
"In the woods. Erica and I took a walk. She said she wanted to speak to me."
"About what? Do you have a relationship with Ms. Layton?"
"Not exactly." Dylan hesitated, his brain beginning to work again. He didn't like the speculative gleam in the detective's eyes or the direction of his questions. "Why are you asking?"
"As I said, we're concerned about Ms. Layton's whereabouts. Did you accompany her to her cabin last night?"
"No. The last time I saw her was in the woods."
"Where she wanted to speak to you about what?"
"We worked together on a story I did several months ago. I'm a news reporter for KTSF Channel Three in San Francisco. I assumed she wanted to talk to me about that," Dylan replied. He had no intention of discussing his personal relationship with Erica until the detective told him what was going on.
"So Ms. Layton was a guest at your brother's wedding?"
"No, she wasn't a guest. She apparently came to Tahoe to speak to me."
"You said you assumed she wanted to talk about the story you did together, but that wasn't her purpose, was it?"
"I'm not sure. We never actually got around to having a conversation."
"Why not?"
"She left."
"Did you argue? Was Ms. Layton upset?"
Dylan frowned. He didn't know what the hell had happened to Erica, but there must be some evidence of something, or the police wouldn't have been called and the detective wouldn't be interrogating him as if he were the prime suspect in a murder investigation. His pulse jumped at the thought. Was Erica dead?
No, the detective had said he was concerned about her welfare. That meant she was missing, not dead.
"Where did you go after Ms. Layton left you?" Detective Richardson continued.
As a reporter, Dylan had worked with the police on several occasions, and he knew it would be best to tell the truth, but his mind jerked ahead to what his explanation would sound like, and he knew it wouldn't be good. But what choice did he have? Lying would only delay the inevitable revelation of the truth.
The nearby elevator opened with the ring of a bell. Dylan was surprised to see Catherine step out. She wore a pair of blue jeans and an oversize cream-colored sweater. Her reddish blond hair was swept back in a loose ponytail. She stopped abruptly when she saw the police officer, her expression a mix of relief and wariness.
"Mr. Sanders?" Detective Richardson prodded. "I'm going to need you to answer my questions. Where did
you go after Ms. Layton left?"
"Nowhere."
"Excuse me?"
"I have to back up," Dylan said, realizing he needed to explain what had happened.
"All right." The detective folded his arms across his chest as he waited for Dylan to continue.
Dylan looked away from Catherine. He needed to focus on one problematic woman at a time. "Erica approached me in the bar. As I said, we'd worked together on a story a few months ago. I was surprised to see her at my brother's wedding, because we haven't had any contact in weeks. She handed me a glass of champagne and told me she needed to talk to me, but she didn't want to do it in the bar because it was too loud and too public, so we took a walk along the path that runs in front of the lodge. After a few minutes I started feeling ill, dizzy, as if I were drunk or drugged. But Erica kept walking, leading me deeper into the woods. I became disoriented. I didn't know how far we'd gone. I stumbled, and that's the last thing I remember until I woke up about fifteen minutes ago, and I came straight back here. I believe Erica slipped something into my drink."
"Hold on. You're saying that Ms. Layton drugged you? Why would she do that?" the detective asked, tilting his head to one side, his brown eyes sharp and thoughtful. "I thought you were friends."
"I thought we were, too. I don't know why she would drug me. I vaguely recall her saying something
to me about not having a choice, but the rest is a blur."
"That's quite a story," the detective said skeptically.
"It's the truth. That's what happened."
"So Ms. Layton was angry with you."
"I don't think I said she was angry."
"Didn't you?" the detective countered. "Why else would she slip something into your drink? That doesn't sound very friendly to me."
"She did not appear angry or upset when she approached me in the bar. The only emotion she exhibited was nervousness," he added, remembering how jittery Erica had been.
"Your relationship wasn't just business, was it, Mr. Sanders?"
Dylan licked his lips, feeling as if a noose were being pulled around his neck. He needed time to think, but he doubted the detective would give it to him. "Do I need to get a lawyer?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
"Look, I was drugged. I don't know what happened to Erica—if, in fact, anything did happen to her. If you don't believe me I'll get a drug test," he said impulsively. He needed to prove his innocence, and this was the perfect way to do it. "I'll get one right now."
"You'd be willing to do that?"
"Absolutely. I don't have anything to hide."
"If you didn't have something to hide, I doubt you'd be asking for your lawyer," the detective said with a wry twist to his lips. He paused for another second and then nodded. "I'll send one of our deputies with you to the local hospital. He can set up the tests. Excuse me for a minute."
Dylan let out a breath as the detective went to confer with the deputy. He hoped he hadn't made a mistak
e by agreeing to take a drug test, but he couldn't think of a better way to prove he had been incapable of hurting anyone. Turning his head, he saw Catherine watching him from across the lobby. He walked over to join her.
"Are you okay?" she asked with concern. "You have dirt in your hair, and you look like you've been up all night."
He ran his fingers through his hair, creating a shower of needles on the carpet. "Obviously I'm not all right. What do you know about Erica?"
"Was she the woman at the bar?"
"Don't play dumb, Catherine. You know something is going on. That's why you're down here. And you predicted Erica's arrival, remember?"
"Of course I remember. I never forget my visions," she said, her blue gaze meeting his. "I knew her face, but I didn't know her name."
"Didn't you?" he challenged. "You said we were all connected. Why do I get the feeling you're setting me up?"
"Why would I do that? You're Jake's brother, Sarah's brother-in-law. Sarah would kill me if I tried to hurt you." Her eyes narrowed. "Besides, what reason could I possibly have for wanting to set you up for something? I barely know you."
He couldn't think of a reason; he just knew he didn't completely trust her. "If you knew Erica would cause trouble for me, why did you take off yesterday? Why didn't you stick around to help me?"
"It wasn't my business, and you seemed to know her. I certainly didn't expect her to drug you and drag you off to the woods, if that's what happened. I heard what you told the detective," she added. "You weren't talking all that quietly. I'm sure everyone heard your story."
"Well, it's not a secret," he said with annoyance, although now he wished he'd spoken to the detective in a more private setting. The lodge employees were all looking at him with extreme speculation.
Catherine's gaze darted around the room as if she were waiting for something else to happen. Did she know what was coming? Had she seen something else?
He'd never believed in psychics or visions, and certainly Catherine's prediction that two women would enter his life and cause problems was vague enough to come true at just about any time. After all, a lot of women came into his life. But it did bother him that Catherine had identified Erica as the woman she'd seen in her vision, especially now that Erica was missing. Had it been just a lucky guess? Had Catherine seen Erica come up to him at the bar and decided to tell him that was the woman from her vision to make it look as if she really were a psychic? Or was there something to her supposed visions?
"So what's going to happen next?" he asked. "Since you seem to have an insight into the future that the rest of us don't have."
"Obviously you don't believe that I do," she snapped back. "I don't know why I came down here."
"Why did you? Or are you going to claim you were just headed for breakfast?"
She hesitated. "I was worried about you. I saw the cop car from my room. I knew something was up."
"And you decided I was the one in trouble?"
"I had a bad feeling."
"Sure you did," he said wearily. "You can never give me a straight answer, can you?"
"That is a straight answer. I work off my instincts, Dylan. But you have bigger problems to worry about than why I'm here."
"You can say that again." He let out a sigh. "I wish I knew what happened to Erica, why the police were called."
"They arrived a little over an hour ago," Catherine said.
"That long? What were you doing up so early?"
"I couldn't sleep."
He could tell by her short answer that she had bitten off the rest of what she wanted to say, which probably had something to do with her bad feeling.
"I tried calling your room," she added, "but you didn't answer."
"Because I was unconscious in the woods, which won't be easy to prove without a witness. That's why I need a blood test to confirm that I was drugged." He shifted his weight, feeling restless and pissed off. He didn't like being taken unawares, and someone was definitely setting him up for something. "What happened with Jake and Sarah? Did they get off okay? Did they wonder where I was?"
"Sarah asked if I'd seen you, and I mentioned that you'd been having drinks at the bar with a woman. Jake laughed and said you always got lucky at weddings. I guess he thought you were having a good time somewhere."
"Lucky . . . yeah, I feel real lucky right now. But I'm glad they left. I don't want Jake involved in my problems." The last thing Dylan would do was ruin Jake and Sarah's honeymoon. He was glad they were safely away from this mess. He straightened as the detective and a uniformed police officer walked back to them.
"Deputy Barnes will accompany you to the hospital," the detective said. "And we'll talk later, when we have the results of your tests. I hope you don't have any plans to leave the area."
"I was going to return to San Francisco today," Dylan replied.
"I'd appreciate it if you'd stay in town until we have a chance to speak again. We're going to search the woods, but we may need your help pinpointing your last location with Ms. Layton."
The detective's voice was friendly, but there was steel in his words. If Dylan didn't agree to remain in the area, he suspected the detective would find a way to keep him here.
"All right. I'll stick around until we can clear this up." "Good. Now tell me again where you went last night after you left the bar."
"We took the path in front of the lodge, and when it ended we went into the woods. We wound in and out of the trees, and when I woke up this morning I was about ten feet away from the edge of a rocky cliff."
"Could you find it again?"
"I don't know," Dylan admitted, knowing his answer wasn't going to help his cause. "I could try, but when I woke up I was still dazed, and I made a couple of wrong turns on my way back here, so it wasn't like I took a straight shot back."
"All right. We'll see what we can find. And we'll talk when you return from the hospital." Detective Richardson turned his attention to Catherine. "May I ask your name, ma'am?"
Catherine gave him a startled look, appearing not at all pleased to be brought into the conversation. "Uh, it's Catherine Hilliard," she said, stumbling a bit.
"How are you acquainted with Mr. Sanders?" "My friend married his brother yesterday." "So you were at the wedding?" "Yes." "Did you speak to a Ms. Erica Layton?" "I don't know the name," Catherine replied. "Ms. Layton left the bar with Mr. Sanders," the detec
tive said. "We're concerned about her welfare, and we need to find her as soon as possible."
"I saw Dylan speaking with a woman at the bar, but I didn't see them leave, and I wasn't introduced to her," Catherine said.
There was an edge to her voice, but Dylan admired her short, succinct answers. Most people rambled on when questioned by the police. But Catherine wasn't giving away any more than she was asked. Nor did she appear eager to help the authorities. In fact, she looked like she was ready to bolt.
Why was she so nervous? Did she have something to hide?
"Thanks for your help." The detective gave Dylan another speculative look. "I'll speak to you later, Mr. Sanders. Deputy Barnes is waiting out front. He'll give you a ride."
As the detective left, Dylan turned to Catherine and said on impulse, "Come with me to the hospital."
"What? Why?" she asked in surprise. "You don't need me for that."
"I could use a friend."
"We're not exactly friends," she reminded him. "In fact, a minute ago you were accusing me of being involved in the trouble you're in."
"I didn't mean it," he said quickly. He didn't know why he wanted to keep Catherine near, but he did. "You're the closest thing I have to an ally, and maybe you can help me figure out what's going on."
Her lips turned down in a frown, and her eyes were more than a little reluctant when she uttered the words, "I guess I could."
"Good, let's go," Dylan said, grabbing her hand before she could have a second thought.
But as they left the lodge, heading toward the squad car, Catherine's
steps began to falter. She stopped walking completely and pulled her hand out of his.
He glanced back at her, alarmed to see how pale her face had become. "What's wrong?"
"I can't get in that car," she said, putting up a hand as if to ward him off.
"The deputy is just giving us a ride. It's not a big deal."
"No, I can't. I'll meet you there." She shook her head as she backed away from him. "I can't get into that car, Dylan. Don't try to make me."
"Are you having another vision?" he demanded. "Is the car going to crash? What? What do you see?"
"I see blood, lots and lots of blood, and a little girl standing in the middle of it."
He drew in a sharp breath. "Catherine, what are you talking about?"
His question went unanswered as she turned and ran back toward the lodge. She'd been spooked by something, but a little girl in blood? What the hell . . . ?
"What happened to your friend?" the deputy asked as he opened the back door of the car for Dylan.
"She'll meet us there."
"Looks like you're on your own then."
"Yeah," Dylan muttered as he slid into the backseat.
It wasn't the first time he'd been on his own, nor was it the first time he'd been in a police car. That momentous occasion had occurred when he was seventeen years old. Back then he'd had Jake to bail him out. Back then he'd been a stupid, reckless kid. Back then he'd always known exactly what crime he'd committed. This time he was in the dark.
He had no idea what Erica had wanted with him, and the only person besides her who might be able to shed any light on the matter had just run away.
Chapter 3
As Catherine jogged around the front corner of the lodge, she paused to catch her breath. She shouldn't have left Dylan, but she couldn't face getting into a police car again. She could still taste the panic bubbling up in her throat and feel the beads of sweat dotting her forehead. The past she'd thought was years behind her was rushing back like a freight train intent on running her down. Why? Why now?
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