She stared at him for a long, tense moment. "When I was six years old, my mother was murdered, and I was the only witness."
He caught his breath at her words. He'd known it would be bad, but he hadn't expected it to be this bad. "Who did it?"
She drew in a deep breath, her eyes blurring with tears. "They said it was my father."
Chapter 15
Dylan's stomach turned over. "Your father killed your
mother, and you were there?"
"That's what they said."
"Who's they? Tell me what happened. Start at the beginning."
"I don't know the beginning. I don't have any memories from the time I lived with my parents before that night."
"And that night?" he prodded.
"I remember hiding in a closet. There was blood on my feet, as if I'd run through it. I tried to be really small. I didn't want him to find me. But he kept calling my name, and he said he was coming to get me." She drew in a shaky breath. "Later, I think, I was standing in the kitchen in a puddle of blood. I guess he was gone by then, but I don't know how much time had passed. A policeman put a blanket around me and took me out and put me in the back of the squad car. I didn't want to leave my mother. I remember crying that I didn't want to go, that she needed me, and that she was going to make me pancakes for breakfast. I guess I didn't realize she was dead."
The rawness of her story shocked Dylan. He'd covered murders in his job, but this one was different. This one had happened to Catherine, and he could feel her pain. He wanted to tell her to stop, but now that she'd started she seemed determined to keep going. He had to listen, no matter how uncomfortable he was.
"The rest of that night and the next few days are a blur," she continued. "I know I spoke to the police, social workers, a psychiatrist. They all asked what had happened. Had I heard anything? Had I seen anything? Where was my father? Had my parents been fighting? I couldn't tell them anything. I felt frozen."
"God, Catherine." He leaned over and brushed her hair away from her face, then cupped her head with his hand. "You don't have to go on."
"I do. I've never told anyone about that night—not the other kids in foster care, no one."
Dylan didn't know if he wanted to be her confidant. He was terrified of getting closer. But he could see that she desperately needed to unload the burden she'd been carrying for so long. And he would have to take it. He owed her that much. "I'm listening."
"My father had an alibi, a woman who said she was having an affair with him and that he was in her bed the night my mother was killed. The police, however, didn't believe her or my father. My dad had a history of drug abuse, and he'd been in jail two or three times already for assault. He'd worked odd jobs, and every one of those employers said he had an explosive temper. Plus, there had been a nine-one-one call about six months earlier, when my mother said that my father hit her in the face. She decided not to press charges, so nothing happened." Catherine licked her lips. "You have to understand that this is all stuff people told me later. I was only six years old. I didn't know anything about their relationship, or if I did I couldn't remember it. The police and the district attorney did everything they could to get me to name my father as the murderer, but I couldn't remember. I couldn't say he was for sure." A tear trickled down her cheek and she ruthlessly wiped it away.
"Catherine, I'm so sorry," Dylan breathed, rubbing his thumb along her tight jaw.
"They said he beat her and stabbed her with a kitchen knife twenty-seven times," she continued in a cool voice, as if the horror of it no longer touched her, but Dylan knew that it was there with her every single night. "The police said the violence was unspeakable, and perhaps that's why I couldn't speak it. In the end there wasn't enough evidence to put my father in jail— no murder weapon, no DNA, nothing—so he got off. I had been put into foster care while they were investigating him, and after the charges were dismissed I thought he might come and get me, but he didn't. I never saw him again. I asked the social worker once, and she said that they'd lost track of him, and that after enough time went by, if he didn't show up and they still couldn't locate him, they would terminate his parental rights so I could be adopted. Of course, no one wants to adopt a traumatized little girl whose father was probably a murderer, so that was a moot point."
"I don't understand how your father could have gotten away with the crime. He must have left his fingerprints at the scene, and if it was that bloody, that vicious a fight, I'm surprised there wasn't DNA all over the place."
"His fingerprints were in the house, but he lived there, so that didn't make him the killer. Apparently there wasn't any DNA evidence on her body, because I'm sure they would have done something with it if they'd found it. Although it happened twenty-four years ago, and I don't know what kind of tests they had back then."
"So your dreams . . . they're about that night, aren't they?"
"For a long time they were. I always wake up at four forty-four—I think that's when she died. I believe the screams I hear in my head are those of my mother."
He stared at her for a long moment, wondering if he should push any further, but they'd gone this far. "How do you think you managed to escape?"
"No one knows." She met his gaze, haunting shadows in her eyes. "They found my blanket in the back of a closet in the basement laundry room. That's where I must have been hiding. One of the psychiatrists theorized that if my father was high, he might have forgotten about me or just given up when he couldn't find me." She paused, taking in another breath. "For a long time I thought he'd come back and finish the job."
"He's the monster in your nightmares."
Catherine nodded. "Yes, but as I got older the dreams changed. It wasn't about that night anymore. I didn't hear his voice or see my mother's face. I saw other people getting killed. I heard their pleas for help. Maybe because I was tapped into that particular kind of violence, I don't know. But as I told you before, the nightmares often make no sense at all, and I certainly haven't been able to help anyone because of them. I couldn't stop my mother's murder, and I couldn't stop anyone else's." She paused. "There's something else."
"I'm almost afraid to ask."
"My mother had visions, too. That's what one of the neighbors said. She told me that she heard my father say more than once that there were demons inside of her. The neighbor thought maybe he tried to beat the demons out of her."
Dylan felt sick to his stomach at the image her words brought forth, her innocent mother being brutalized by a monster. And Catherine had seen it all. No wonder she was so filled with darkness, so terrified of what the night would bring. She'd been mentally reliving the murder over and over again, racked with guilt that she hadn't been able to get justice for her mother—a woman who was just like her.
"It's not your fault, Catherine. You can't blame yourself for what happened to your mother."
"Everyone says that," she replied, her voice dull, her eyes bleak. "But I know the truth."
"You couldn't have stopped him from killing her. You were a child, little more than a baby."
"I could have told people what I saw. I could have made him pay for what he did. I could have sent him to jail for the rest of his life."
"I doubt that. The testimony of a six-year-old child wouldn't have been enough to convict him, not without other evidence. You weren't a reliable witness. And there's always the possibility that maybe you didn't see anything. Maybe you were hiding the whole time."
"I've told myself that, too. I don't think it's true." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I feel in my heart that I know what happened. But I can't seem to release it. It's trapped inside of me."
"Because it's too horrible to remember, that's why. I'm sorry I made you tell me the story. Don't think about it anymore." He wished he could take back the last fifteen minutes and play them over again. He didn't know what to say now, how to begin to comfort her, so he simply put his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder and they stayed like that for se
veral long minutes.
Finally she lifted her head and pulled away. "I didn't want to bring you into the darkness with me. I thought we could just have sex and live in the moment. I guess it didn't work out that way."
He gave her a smile. "Maybe it was time for you to stop facing the demons alone."
"I tell myself they're not real. The fears are just in my head, created by my own mind. How can I be afraid of myself? No one is trying to kill me—well, no one was trying to kill me before tonight," she amended.
He frowned at the reminder that there was real danger here in the present, danger he had put her in. "I shouldn't have brought you with me."
"It's too late now for regrets." She let out a sigh. "So, go get your soda and I'll get dressed, and we'll focus on your problems instead of mine."
Now that she was telling him to go, perversely he wanted to stay. He wanted to strip off his clothes, crawl back into bed with her, and take another shot at driving the darkness out of her. But he could see by her face that she'd already withdrawn from him, and he wouldn't be getting back into her head or her body anytime soon. He got up and walked over to the door, then paused. "You might not have any regrets, but I do."
"About what?" she asked warily.
"I regret that I ever got out of bed."
"I've never seen anyone get dressed so fast. I think you broke the record. Not much for cuddling, are you?"
"I never have been," he admitted. But it wasn't the cuddling that had made him run; it was the panicked feeling, and the realization that sex with Catherine could never be just sex. And he didn't do complicated. She was absolutely the wrong woman for him. He liked things light and easy, simple, everyone on board with the same game plan. With Catherine everything was raw, deep, and completely unpredictable.
So why wasn't he leaving now? Why wasn't he making it clear that what had happened between them wouldn't happen again? Why was he filled with the desire to ask her for another chance to show that he could stay in bed with her for longer than ten seconds?
"Which is winning?" Catherine asked lightly. "Your head or your body?"
He tipped his head. "I can't hide anything from you, can I?"
"That's what you don't like about me."
"Is it?" he muttered. He turned away. He knew he wasn't fighting his head or his body; he was fighting his heart. But he didn't intend to tell her that. And he hoped to God she wouldn't figure that one out on her own, because if she got past that wall there'd be no stopping her. She'd own him. Hell, maybe she already did.
* * *
Catherine let out a breath as Dylan left the room. For a moment she'd thought he was going to get back into bed with her, and she was disappointed that he hadn't. She'd never felt so uninhibited, so wild, so free of restriction, but look where it had gotten her. A few minutes of mind-blowing sex and she'd confessed her entire sordid life story and scared the man to death. Although he'd been wary even before she'd started talking. He'd felt the bad energy when they were together. That was why he'd jumped out of bed so fast. The connection between them had been too intense. She hadn't been able to hide her true self, and Dylan had seen everything.
She wasn't surprised that he'd almost run. She had the genes of a murderer running through her. She had demons in her head. She saw evil in her dreams. Who would ever choose to be a part of that?
Certainly not Dylan. When this was over, when they found whoever was trying to frame him or kill him, he'd go his way and she'd go hers.
Getting out of bed, she put her clothes back on and straightened the covers. She'd barely glanced at the room when they'd first come in, so caught up had she been in a reckless need to get Dylan naked and inside of her. She'd never felt so swept away, so focused on being with a man. Her body still tingled, and there was a sweet ache between her legs that echoed the not-quite-satisfied need inside her. She wanted to make love to Dylan again, more slowly, taking time to savor every taste, every touch, but that probably wouldn't happen now.
Catherine crossed the room and pulled the edge of the curtain aside so she could see out the window. Their room looked down over the parking lot, and her car was parked where they'd left it. She searched the area for a brown truck, but there were only a few other cars, and none that matched the vehicle Dylan had described. They were hours away from the city. They had to be safe here. But the shooter she'd seen in her head had also been in a motel close to a highway. Who knew just how far away he really was? He certainly hadn't seemed concerned or worried about the fact that he'd lost them. Why was that? Had he revealed some clue in his conversation that she'd missed? She strained to remember, but nothing significant came to mind.
Letting the curtain drop, she took the journals out of her purse and sat down on the bed again. She worked the stubborn knot with her fingers until she finally loosened a strand and the ribbon began to unravel. The books slid apart. She opened the first one, nervous anticipation running through her. Something in this journal was important. She'd felt it before, and she felt it even more now. If Dylan's father was involved, then there had to be a clue here.
She couldn't ignore the parallel between Richard Sanders and her own father. Was that where the connection between herself and Dylan originated? Did she feel empathy toward him because of the violence he'd suffered at the hands of his father? Although his father certainly wasn't a murderer—at least, not so far.
The door opened and Dylan reentered the room with a scowl on his face. "You should have put the chain on after me," he scolded.
"You were coming right back."
"We have to be careful, Catherine. Do I really have to tell you that?"
"No." In truth, she'd been so caught up in her memories and the desire to get dressed before Dylan returned that she'd forgotten to lock the door after him. But she wouldn't do it again. He was right: She needed to stay focused. The stakes were getting higher each day, and it wasn't just Dylan's life on the line; it was her own.
Dylan put two sodas down on the dresser and tossed a couple of bags of chips and two candy bars on the bed. "It's not the most nutritious meal, but if you get hungry you won't starve. You can pretend the Cheetos are carrots."
"I don't have that big an imagination."
"When did you become a vegetarian?"
"In my early twenties. I got on this food kick for a while. I thought that if I cut out certain kinds of products I could stop my dreams. It didn't work, but I felt healthier and stronger and more able to deal with the nights, so I just kept it up. However, I do have a weakness for chocolate." She grabbed one of the candy bars and unwrapped it, taking a quick bite of the chocolate-coconut bar. "Mmm, this is one of my favorites."
"I must have read your mind," Dylan said.
She smiled at him, appreciating the light tone. Things had gotten too heavy in the past hour, and they both needed a break.
Dylan sat down in the chair by the table and popped open a can of Coke. He'd barely taken a sip when his cell phone rang. He opened it and read the number. "It's my station."
"Don't answer it."
"I wasn't planning to. But it occurs to me that if I'm not going to use the phone I should get rid of it. I kept it before, thinking Erica might call, but that won't happen now, and I don't want to risk anyone being able to track us through the phone signal. I'll do it tomorrow, when we're on the move again." As he finished speaking the phone started ringing again. "That's my friend Jeff. I'll let it go to voice mail; then I'll turn it off."
Dylan set the phone down on the table. Thirty seconds later it rang again. He checked the number one more time. Then he glanced at his watch. "I know why everyone is calling. The ten-o'clock news just ended."
Catherine's heart skipped a beat. "You think you were on it?"
"I'm guessing yes." He got up and turned on the television set. He flipped through various channels, but there were only a few to choose from, and none was showing the news. He turned off the television and sat back down at the table.
"I wish we knew
what was said," Catherine murmured.
Dylan opened up his computer. "I'm glad I brought this along. I can check the Web site for a recap, and if my friends don't reach me by phone I'm sure they'll e-mail." A moment later Dylan let out a low whistle. "Twelve messages—all in the last fifteen minutes."
"Who are they from?" She moved across the room, peering over his shoulder at his in-box.
Dylan clicked on the first message. "This is a reply from Rita, Blake Howard's assistant. I e-mailed her earlier to ask about the Metro Club. Here's what she said: 'Yes, Blake belongs to the Metro Club, but I asked him if he'd be willing to sponsor you and he just laughed. Sorry! Maybe you can find someone else. I just heard that the police want to talk to you about the murder in Golden Gate Park last night. What's going on, Dylan? Are you in trouble?' "
"So, Blake is tied to the Metro Club, Ravino, your father, and Erica," Catherine said, with a surge of excitement.
"Along with a hundred or so other people," Dylan reminded her.
"Yes, but most of them don't dislike you. As far as we know, anyway."
"True. It also appears that the cat is out of the bag about my connection to Erica." Dylan clicked on the next e-mail. "This one is from Julie Bristow; she's the one you met at the station, the fact-checker: 'Hey, Dylan, I had forgotten that Erica Layton was your source in the Ravino story. Now I know why you were so interested in her murder. But what's up with you being named a person of interest? That's ridiculous. I know you didn't do it. And I'll try to help you prove it. What do you need me to do? I have a friend who's a great PI. I'm sure he'd also be willing to help.' "
"Maybe Julie could find out whether Blake Howard and Erica knew each other," Catherine interjected.
"Good idea." Dylan typed in that question and also asked Julie to see if she could find any information on any of Erica's activities for the past two to three weeks. He clicked down to the next e-mail, which was from Ryan, the other fact-checker.
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