Silent Fall

by Barbara Freethy

  Catherine didn't need to look to remember what lines she'd drawn. Dylan was right: She'd remembered more details than she usually did, thick trees and bushes, a shadow of a figure crouched in front of a wall, hiding, fearful. Her heart began to beat faster as reality set in. "I think Erica is in trouble. I heard her screaming."

  "Are you sure it was her? You said before that you've had nightmares off and on for most of your life and that you always hear screaming."

  "This one was different. Usually I wake up at four forty-four."

  "Why?"

  "It's just when it usually happens," she said, not willing to tell him exactly what the hour meant to her. It had nothing to do with him, so he didn't need to know.

  Dylan glanced at the clock. "That's not for another two hours. What else do you remember from your dream?"

  "Someone was chasing me. I ran into a wall. He kept coming. I could taste the fear in my mouth." She gazed into Dylan's eyes. "Erica is the figure in the drawing. She's trapped."

  "In a park, right now, as we speak?" he asked.

  "I can't say for sure if it's now, but it was dark in my dream. And the park was spooking her. She realized how isolated she was."

  "There are a dozen parks in the city."

  "It was big. She was running for a while. She went off the path. The trees were tall and the bushes scratched her arms. She thought she could hide."

  Dylan dragged a hand through his hair. "I've got to go to the park."

  "You just said you don't know which one."

  "The biggest one is Golden Gate Park. It's in the heart of the city, and there are several buildings there."

  Catherine didn't want him to leave. She didn't want him to run into the danger that surrounded Erica, but she knew she couldn't stop him. Dylan was a man of action, and even though Erica had wrecked his life, he would still risk his to save her.

  "Tell me if there were any other identifying features in your dream, like tennis courts, a lake, paddleboats, a rose garden.... Damn, what else is in that park?"

  She thought for a moment, but the images were gone from her mind. "Dylan, I think it's too late."

  He met her gaze head-on. "Don't say that. Don't tell me Erica is dead. I'm going to look for her." He jogged out of the room. In a few minutes he would be on his way. She had to go with him.

  Jumping out of bed, she threw a long sweater over her camisole top and pajama bottoms and slipped her feet into her tennis shoes, then hurried down the stairs. Dylan had put on a sweatshirt and was digging through a desk in the hall.

  "What are you looking for?"

  He answered by holding up a flashlight. He tested it, and the beam danced off the floor. "Still works. You're coming with me?"

  "We're partners. We have to stick together."

  "Then let's go."

  As they approached his grandmother's car, Catherine took a wary look around. It was the middle of the night and very, very quiet. There was no movement anywhere on the block, no sign of someone sitting in a car watching them. It didn't appear that anyone knew where they were, at least, not yet anyway.

  Once inside she quickly locked the doors as Dylan started the engine. She hoped they'd be in time to help Erica. Maybe her vision was of the future, not of the past. That was certainly possible. She tried to hang on to the positive thought, admiring the way Dylan didn't let anything keep him from his goal. He was determined to succeed. Failure was not an option.

  She'd grown used to failure, accustomed to disappointment. She hadn't realized until now how low her expectations for herself and others had sunk. But Dylan was setting the bar a little higher, and she was eager to keep up with him.

  It was past three thirty in the morning now, and there was little traffic on the city streets. Her nightmare had happened almost an hour ago. Had the dream come in real time? She hoped not.

  They entered the park off the Pacific Coast Highway, turning in past an old windmill. As Dylan drove through the twisting streets, Catherine was struck by how enormous Golden Gate Park was. It ran for several miles and encompassed hundreds of acres. There was a stadium, two lakes, a Japanese tea garden, a museum, tennis courts, and a carousel—how on earth could they find Erica? She could be anywhere.

  The trees, the shrubs, the plants—they all felt so familiar, but Catherine couldn't bring herself to pinpoint one area over another. They drove for fifteen minutes without speaking a word, each scanning the grounds on their side of the car. They passed several homeless people, some sleeping under the trees, others wandering along the road.

  "I don't think I'd want to be here on my own," Catherine murmured.

  "Maybe that's why you felt Erica's fear. She could have been afraid of her surroundings, not whoever is trying to get to her."

  "That could have been it." Catherine certainly felt uncomfortable now, and she was in a car with the doors locked and Dylan by her side. "This place is creepy. It's dark and deserted. Why would she come here?"

  "Hell if I know. If she thought someone was trying to kill her, she should have gone to the police."

  Dylan slowed down as a man stumbled across the road in front of him. He wore a baseball cap, and a backpack hung from one shoulder. Catherine flashed back on her dream.

  "I saw him," she said. "He scared her. She ran from him."

  "This guy?" Dylan asked. "Are you sure?"

  He stopped the car as they watched the man sit down on the side of the road and take a swig out of a bottle. A moment later he lay down on his back. Catherine didn't know if he'd passed out or was just resting. Certainly the man seemed oblivious to the fact that they were watching him.

  "What should we do?" she asked, her nerves tingling. She didn't know why she felt so scared, but she really wanted to get out of the park. "Let's go back to the house."

  "We haven't found Erica yet. If you saw this guy in your dream, then maybe she's nearby."

  "What do you want to do? She was in the bushes. We might not be able to see her from the road."

  "You said she was up against a building."

  "There are lots of buildings."

  Dylan shot her a puzzled look. "Why are you trying to get me out of here?"

  "I'm scared," she admitted.

  "I won't let anything happen to you. Don't worry. I'll keep you safe."

  She wanted to have faith in him, but the need to leave bubbled up inside her. She tried to breathe through her panic as Dylan continued down the road. A moment later the dome of the Conservatory of Flowers came into view. It reminded her of the other dome at the Palace of Fine Arts. Why had Erica chosen to hide herself in these tourist locations? Surely she would have known that the areas would be deserted at night. She must not have had a choice. She couldn't go home. Whoever was after her knew where she lived. She'd already been to Dylan's place and the person had found her there. Whoever was tracking her was very, very good.

  Catherine shivered as goose bumps ran down her arms. A second later they saw two police cars, strobe lights turning, and an ambulance. A man pushing a shopping cart stood by the side of the road, watching the activity in the bushes.

  Catherine felt suddenly short of breath. In the distance she saw the wall of the museum. She'd been here before—in her dream.

  Dylan stopped the car.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, grabbing his arm.

  "Getting some information." He rolled down his window. "Hey, buddy," he called to the man. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and waved it at the guy. "I've got a question."

  The man ambled over to the car, pushing his cart. His clothes were ragged and worn, and he appeared to have a bunch of recyclable bottles in his cart.

  "What do you want?" The man stopped a few feet from the car, giving them a suspicious look.

  "What's happening?" Dylan waved his twenty in the air.

  "There's a dead girl in there," the man said, his eyes on the money.

  "Oh, God," Catherine whispered. "Give him the twenty and let's go."

&
nbsp; "Can you describe her?" Dylan asked, ignoring her hand on his arm.

  The man gave a noncommittal shrug.

  "Dylan, give him the money," she repeated forcefully. "Just do it. Please. And then get us out of here."

  Dylan hesitated, then handed the twenty over to the man. "Catherine, I know you're upset, but I have to find out if that's Erica," he said, driving slowly away from the scene. "I'll just park and get out—"

  "Dylan, think for a minute," she said, cutting him off. "If you go back there and identify Erica, they're going to want to know who you are. How do you think it will look when they find out you were under suspicion of having killed Erica in Tahoe, and now you happen to show up in the middle of the night right after she's actually been killed?"

  "This should prove I didn't do it. It happened here."

  "Where you are." She saw her words sink into his brain.

  "Damn. I should have thought of that," he muttered.

  "Yes."

  He hit the gas and drove quickly around the next corner. "I'm usually the logical one. Thanks for saving my ass."

  She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight with the certainty that Erica had been killed just a few yards away from them. They were too late. Her vision had been in real time. For the first time in her life she'd tried to chase the nightmare and she'd failed. She might as well have stayed home, hiding her head under the covers. Or maybe if they'd left earlier, right away, if she hadn't taken the time to stop and draw the park . . .

  "It's not your fault," Dylan said.

  She shook her head and stared out the window, on the verge of breaking down.

  "It might not have been her," Dylan added. "There were lots of homeless people in the park. It could have been someone else."

  "It wasn't. Oh, God." Another vision was coming into her head, and she didn't want to look. But she couldn't push it away.

  One red high heel lay abandoned on the wet grass. The other shoe was still strapped to her foot. Her red toenail polish mixed with the blood dripping down her bare leg. The short dress was hitched up to her hips. The spaghetti straps fell halfway down her arms. Brown hair framed the lifeless, bloodless face, her dark eyes still stamped with the horror of death.

  Along with the image came an odd sense of satisfaction, victory, the taste of success. It was a job well-done.

  She wasn't in Erica's head anymore. She was in his. She was looking through the eyes of a killer. And she knew he wasn't done yet.

  Chapter 11

  "Stop!" Catherine screamed. Dylan hit the brake so quickly she would have struck

  the windshield if she hadn't been wearing her seat belt. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded. She tugged off her seat belt, jumped out of the car,

  and made it to the edge of the bushes before she threw up. A moment later she felt Dylan's hand on her back as she got rid of the evil, sick taste in her mouth the only way she knew how.

  "Are you all right?" he asked when she was done.

  She wiped her mouth with the edge of her sleeve, more than a little embarrassed. "I'm okay. I wish you hadn't seen that."

  "I've seen worse." "We can go now." "Catherine—" "I just want to get out of here." Maybe if she left the

  park she could put some distance between herself and

  him.

  Dylan kept his hand on her shoulder as he walked her back to the car. Within minutes they were exiting the park. Catherine blew out a breath of relief at the sight of storefronts and apartment buildings.

  "I'm sorry about that," she muttered, afraid to look at Dylan. "And utterly humiliated."

  "Don't be. You were thinking about Erica, weren't you?"

  She didn't know how to answer the question. She couldn't tell him what she'd seen. It was too horrible, and what was worse was how she'd envisioned the scene.

  "I don't want to believe it's her," Dylan continued. "If I'd seen her with my own eyes, maybe I could, but right now it just seems impossible. It's unimaginable that she's dead."

  "Yeah, I know," she said. But she had seen Erica, and the woman's image was indelibly imprinted on Cather-ine's brain. She didn't know if she would ever forget Erica's face. Why hadn't she been able to find her before her death? Why hadn't her visions brought her to the park earlier? Catherine felt so angry, so frustrated, so helpless . . . and so dirty. The stench of evil still lingered in her senses. She'd been in his head. She'd felt his joy. God, he was sick. And maybe so was she.

  She dug her fingernails into her thighs, feeling the sharp sting of pain. She wanted that pain. She wanted to punish herself or him. Someone deserved to hurt. Someone besides Erica.

  Dylan grabbed her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. He held on tight until they pulled up in front of his grandmother's house. Then he finally let go. They made it into the house without incident, but Catherine couldn't forget the fleeting thought that had run through the killer's mind—that it was time to move on to the next target. Was that target Dylan? Was the danger about to come closer?

  Dylan turned on the light in the hall and set the flashlight on the table. Catherine walked into the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the tap. It would be dawn soon, a new day, time to start over—again. She couldn't wait to see the sunrise. Maybe everything would be different in the morning. Perhaps she just thought she was awake when in fact she was in the grip of another nightmare.

  But Dylan felt real as he came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. He rested his chin on her head. "Can I help?" he asked.

  She shook her head, her throat too tight to speak.

  "Let me try." He forced her to turn around, but he didn't let go of her, his hands sliding to her hips. "I could distract you. I have a couple of ideas."

  The thought was more than a little tempting, but she felt too . . . dirty. "I need to take a shower."

  "What's wrong, Catherine?" His sharp gaze bored into hers. "I'm not as good as you are at reading minds, so you'll have to fill me in."

  "I can't tell you."

  "Well, now you have to tell me, because I can't stand secrets."

  She should have known better than to wave that red flag in front of Dylan.

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead. She closed her eyes and wished things were simpler between them. "Don't." She tried to pull away, but he had her trapped between him and the kitchen counter.

  "Then talk."

  "I saw Erica's body on the ground. The blood from a bullet hole in her forehead dripped down her body. I think he shot her in the heart, too."

  He drew in a quick breath. "You saw that in your mind? No wonder you got sick."

  "It wasn't just the sight of her," she said, knowing she had to finish it. Dylan needed to know all of it. "I was in his head, the killer's head. I felt his satisfaction at the success of his job. I felt his evil run through me." She was afraid to look into Dylan's eyes, terrified she would see contempt or dislike or revulsion. But he was quiet for so long she finally had to lift her gaze to his. His eyes were thoughtful, speculative, but not condemning. "You don't believe me, do you?" she asked. "After everything I've told you, you still think I'm conning you?" Anger took the place of embarrassment. "How can you think that?"

  "Whoa, slow down. You're hitting me with way too many things at once."

  She tried to push past him, but his grip on her tightened. "I believe you, okay?"

  "You're just saying that."

  "I never just say anything," he told her. "You should know that about me by now."

  "And you should know that I don't lie."

  "I do know that. It's hard for me to accept your extrasensory abilities, but I'm trying."

  "It doesn't matter if you accept them or not. I'm the one who has to live with them."

  "You're not evil," he said.

  "No, I'm just crazy."

  "So am I."

  "Hardly. You're normal and almost damn perfect."

  "You are rattled if you're calling me perfect now."

  "I just wish
the visions would let me help someone. It's so frustrating to see people die, and I can't stop anything from happening. Why can't I be tuned in to nice people instead of murderers?" As she asked the question, she realized she knew the answer, and before she could hide her expression Dylan's gaze narrowed.

  "You know, don't you?" he said. "You said the visions started when you were a little girl, and the only thing I know about that little girl is that at one point she was surrounded by blood and then taken away in a police cruiser."

  "I can't go there, not now. I need to get some sleep, and so do you. It will be morning in a few hours, and God only knows what's coming next." She slipped from his embrace.

  "You won't always be able to run from me, Catherine."

  His words came after her, but she didn't stop moving until she'd reached the upstairs bedroom. She shut the door and sat down on the bed, trembling from the force of her emotions. Dylan didn't know it, but by running away she'd just done him a huge favor. She might not be able to protect the people in her visions, but she could protect Dylan. The last thing he needed was to get sucked into her nightmare.

  * * *

  "It's done. She's dead," the man said as he kicked his feet onto the coffee table in front of him and leaned back against the couch. He could hear waves crashing on the beach not far from his motel room. The steady beat echoed the now calm thump of his heart. It had been only a short while, but already he missed the adrenaline rush. He could still see her face, her eyes widening with the realization that she was about to die. He wished he could have taken a little longer with her, but she wasn't a pleasure kill. She was a job—a job he'd done well. "The police have already found the body," he continued. "It should be on the news tomorrow."

  "It took you long enough."

  "I got the job done. That's all that matters."

  "Half the job. There's still more to come."

  Another murder? He wasn't surprised. The plan had always been fluid. As long as he got paid he didn't care how many other people died. And he'd always liked San Francisco. Not that he stayed anywhere long. He'd lived in too many towns to count, and had been called by a lot of different names. The man he'd once been had vanished years ago, and he didn't miss him one bit.