Dancing in the Dark

by Dee Davis

  They'd found another woman.

  And this time it wasn't a stranger.

  Sara stopped at the light, her car idling to the beat of the radio, Toni Price's “Call of My Heart” helping her to lighten her mood. It was hard to see the good side of anything after the interview with the Moores. Life's abrupt turns seemed to blindside the best of people at the worst of times.

  But then maybe that's what it was all about. Dodging and turning. Trying to make the best of whatever life gave you. She'd always been somewhat of an optimist, and even with all that had happened, she still couldn't quell the hope that there was a silver lining out there somewhere.

  She laughed at herself, and turned up the music, wondering when she'd become a philosopher. Traffic surged forward as the light changed, and her thoughts turned to Eric. It had all seemed so right in the dark of the night. But here she was in the harsh Texas sunlight wondering what exactly had happened between them.

  He'd said they were in it for the duration, but then she'd woken up alone. Intellectually, she knew he'd probably needed to get to work, but in her heart there was a glimmer of doubt, the niggling worry that she'd misread the signs, asked for more than he could give.

  The truth was she needed to talk to him, to hear his voice, to know that last night had meant as much to him as it had to her.

  As if on cue her cell phone rang, and her heart did a little flutter step. She turned off the radio and clicked on the phone. “Hello.”

  Music filled the car, at first confusing her, then sending shards of ice stabbing through her. The song was an old one, but she recognized it immediately. It had been a favorite of Tom's, the lyrics taking on new meaning as they rang out from the phone.

  “I'm checking all you do, from a to z. So, darling, just be wise, keep your eyes on me …”

  She pulled into a parking lot, afraid that she wouldn't be able to drive, and with shaking fingers fumbled to disconnect the call. But before she could find the button, a tinny voice replaced the music, the automaton quality doing nothing to lessen the impact of the words.

  Molly was dead.

  Chapter 21

  Sara fought for breath, finally locating the phone's disconnect button. Her heart felt as if it was cracking through her chest. She hit the brakes, shifted to park, and beat on the steering wheel, anger combining with terror, the phone still clutched in her hand. The caller was gone, the phone disconnected, but it didn't matter. His voice rang through her ears, over and over again.

  Molly is dead, Molly is dead, Molly is—dead. The word reverberated in her head, taunting her. Frightening her. She wanted to scream, to throw something. To drive her car through the Jiffy Mart. But none of that would help Molly.

  She needed to find her friend. To prove the caller wrong.

  She ground the key in the ignition, and it was several seconds before she realized the car was already running. Slamming it into gear, she drove out of the parking lot, heading for Molly's house, already dialing Eric's number at the precinct, praying that he was there.

  The number rang for what seemed an eternity and was finally picked up by the switchboard. From there she was transferred to another detective. With a minimum of words she explained herself, trying to convey the urgency of the situation. He urged her to come into the station, but she refused, disconnecting the phone as she swerved onto Molly's street.

  There were police cars everywhere, several with lights still flashing, an ambulance blocking the front drive. Her stomach tightened until she was certain it was going to implode, nausea clawing at her throat, the bile bitter. The caller had been telling the truth.

  Molly was dead.

  Sobbing now, she pulled the car to the curb and killed the engine, already opening the door. With a single motion she was out of the car and running across the lawn, imagining the worst. Pushing past an officer, she stopped in the entry hall, her stomach almost giving up the battle.

  There was blood splattered across the wall by the window, the pattern lacy and grotesque. The room was a wreck, as if Molly had fought her attacker, her blood staining the carpet and sofa as well as the wall. Dead roses were strewn everywhere, their fading color garish against the white room, a macabre punctuation of the horror that had happened here.

  Sara swallowed a scream, her hand crammed into her mouth as if to manually keep it from emerging. A tech was lifting a body onto a stretcher, the telltale red hair a stake right through her heart.

  She started to move, but before she could take a step, strong hands closed around her. She fought at first, blind to reality, seeing nothing but Molly's bloody body, hearing nothing but the taunting voice, but finally the tenor of the voice sank in, the sound an anchor amid madness.

  Eric.

  Eric was here. In the house. He'd know what to do. She swung around into his arms, burying her face in his chest, wanting nothing more than to wake up from the nightmare.

  “She's alive, Sara. Molly's alive.”

  At first the words made no sense, and then they hit home with a clarity that brought relief. “He said she was dead.” The words came out on a whisper. “The bastard said she was dead.”

  Eric's voice was gentle, his hand stroking her hair. “Who said it, Sara?”

  “I don't know. He called me.” Sara struggled for breath.“He told me she was dead.” She pushed away from him, swiveling around to look at the stretcher, to reassure herself that Eric was right.

  A tech was holding an IV, and another was checking for vitals, their pace frenetic as they worked to stabilize Molly for transport. Sara slipped from Eric's grasp, moving forward, intent on reaching her friend.

  But she slid to a stop a few feet away, her horrified gaze locked on Molly, her knees buckling, the world spinning into a nauseous blur of crimson and white. She felt Eric's hands, heard his voice, but couldn't understand the words.

  All she could see was Molly's face, two bloody gashes where she'd once had eyes.

  Eric knelt beside Sara, grateful to see that some of her color had returned. She sat on Molly's front porch in a rattan rocker, clutching his hand as if it were a lifeline. She hadn't said anything since he'd ushered her out here, away from the gruesome sight of Molly's butchered eyes.

  Rage boiled inside him, tempered with helplessness. He wanted to make it right somehow. To pull Sara into his arms and promise that her friend would be okay. But he knew it was an empty promise. Molly's condition was critical. She'd lost a lot of blood. It was anyone's guess if she'd survive.

  Sara whimpered, almost as if she shared his thoughts, and the idea cut at his heart, the pain almost physical. In an instant, with a phone call, the game had changed. It had become personal. And Eric wasn't going to rest until the bastard was behind bars.

  “The ambulance just left.” Tony strode onto the porch, his expression mirroring Eric's anger. “She's hanging in there. But just barely.”

  Sara's head shot up, her eyes locking on Tony. “Where are they taking her?”

  “St. David's.”

  “I need to go. I need to be with her.” Sara struggled to stand, faltered, then used Eric to lever herself up.

  He rose, too, sliding an arm around her. “You're not in any condition to drive. Officer Jenkins can take you.” He nodded to a uniform standing discreetly by the shrubbery. “He'll watch out for you.”

  She lifted her head, confusion awash in her eyes. “Aren't you coming?”

  Regretful, he shook his head. “Right now I'm needed here. I'll come as soon as I can, though.”

  She nodded, started toward Jenkins, then stopped, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I want you to find him, Eric.” Her eyes cleared, and hardened. “And when you do, I want you to make him pay.”

  He nodded, then bent his head to brush a kiss across her forehead. “We'll get through this, Sara. All of us. Together.” He stressed the last word, and she nodded again, then turned to go.

  He watched her walk away, his heart twisting inside him, the pain in her voice etched inside it. P
ulling in a deep breath, he forced his mind back to business, calling on all his years of experience to do it. “Any idea what Molly's chances are?”

  “They're not saying,” Tony said as they walked back into the house. “But I wouldn't think they're good. She's not conscious and she's lost a hell of a lot of blood. The tech said it probably happened this morning. He can't be certain, of course, until they run more tests. But at least it's a starting point.”

  “And a change in pattern. Night to day. Question is whether there's a specific reason or if it's just happenstance.” Eric's gaze swept the room. “There's a randomness here that's different from the other scenes. It's almost as if this one wasn't planned. Molly wasn't tied up. And, at least from the look of things, I'd say she fought like hell.”

  “Still, there are similarities. He took a trophy. And it looks like he at least tried to rape her.” Tony waved his hand toward a theatrical award that lay in pieces on the floor, the tip bent and bloody. “And there was music.”

  “Except that the boom box was turned off.”

  “Maybe there was a technical malfunction.” Tony shrugged.

  “No way.” Eric shook his head. “Everything this guy does has meaning. Everything. The techs find anything?”

  “They're still working. So far they've found some fibers, but that's about it. No fingerprints. And no weapon.”

  “Wouldn't want it to be easy.” Eric rubbed the bridge of his nose, a headache threatening, the perfect companion to his aching ribs.

  “This is a new touch.” Tony bent and picked up a rose petal. “They found more of them in Molly's trash. Forensics is going to compare them to the petals found at Sara's office. There was no sign of the card.”

  “If the flowers are the same, then maybe it explains the escalation of violence.”

  “How do you figure?” Tony let the petal fall, and they both watched as it wafted to the floor.

  “According to Sara, it was Molly who suggested throwing out the flowers. And it was Molly who actually took them away.”

  “So, what, you think the killer was pissed because Molly threw out the flowers?” Tony frowned, his mind already considering the possibility.

  “No, I think it's Sara he's angry with. She's the one who rejected the flowers. Molly's just another surrogate. Considering she helped Sara dispose of the roses, an apropos one, but still a substitute for the real thing.”

  “All that assuming that the killer and Sara's stalker are the same.”

  “I think the fact that he called to tell her about Molly makes it pretty damn certain. If the roses are a match, I'd say we're dead-on.” The sick feeling was back in the pit of his stomach.

  “Nice to see you back in action, D'Angelo.” Claire Dennison walked through the doorway, stepping carefully around the trophy. “I should have known a little car wreck wouldn't keep you from a scene. Vic's alive?”

  “Yeah. Barely.” Eric struggled to push his personal feelings aside. This was still a case, and he fully intended to work it. Now more than ever, he wanted to find the bastard.

  “Sounds like she was lucky.” Claire knelt by the marker where Molly had lain, scrutinizing the bloodstain.

  “Depends on how you look at it, I guess.” Tony shrugged. “She's lost her sight for certain, and there's no telling what else the bastard took from her.”

  “She obviously has a strong will to survive. That'll carry her a long way. This where they found her?”

  Eric nodded.

  “It's not where she was hurt.” Claire lifted a strand of what looked to be carpet thread and dropped it into an envelope.

  “How can you tell?” Tony asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  “Blood pattern.” She stood up, her eyes scanning the room. “See over there? It's almost a spray.” She pointed at a wall near a ladder-back chair. “I'm betting the perp did his worst over there.”

  Tony walked over to the chair, leaning over to examine it. “You're right. There's blood on the caning.”

  “Along with everything else in the room,” Eric said, walking over to have a look at the chair himself. “Anything unique in the pattern here?”

  “Possibly.” Claire joined them, her gaze thoughtful. “See the spatter behind the chair? According to the EMT folks, the perp cut her eyes out, right?”

  Tony and Eric nodded almost in unison.

  “Right. Well, this stain,” she pointed at the wall, “is consistent with that. Along with the pattern here.” She lowered her hand to point at the seat. The edges of the seat were spattered, but the center was unmarked, as if something had covered it.

  Molly.

  “I need to verify it all, of course. See how the evidence lines up. But I'd say your girl was here. And most likely left to bleed out.”

  “But she moved.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what?” Tony sputtered. “The guy had an attack of conscience? That doesn't seem likely.”

  “No.” Eric said, shaking his head, his eyes meeting Claire's. “She crawled.”

  “As amazing as it sounds, it looks like that's exactly what she did. Could be she was heading for the phone.” Claire nodded at the cordless on the coffee table. “You know who called it in?”

  “Dispatch got it from 911,” Tony said. “We've got people checking the recording now.”

  “Well, there was blood on the phone and it was found beside her, so it seems probable that it was her. Either way, her movement probably saved her life. The position of her body acted as a tourniquet of sorts, slowed the blood flow.” She scanned the room again, her professional gaze missing nothing. “Whatever the hell's going on here, I'd say things are definitely heating up.”

  Sara sat in the surgical waiting room, her back pressed into a corner. Even with Officer Jenkins at the door, she didn't feel safe. The vague threat of a serial killer had mor-phed into something far more immediate. Hitting so close to home, she almost felt like he was here somewhere, watching her.

  She'd tracked down Molly's mother. Diana Parker was in London on business, and wouldn't be able to arrive in Austin until late tomorrow. Never particularly close to her daughter, Diana had nevertheless been concerned about Molly, and consulted with doctors to make decisions until she arrived. Until then, Sara was to hold down the fort.

  Sara, however, wasn't so certain she wanted the responsibility. But Molly was her closest friend, and she'd do what had to be done. But it would be nice to have reinforcements. Bess and Ryan were on the way, but in the meantime, except for Jenkins, she was alone.

  Automatically, she glanced over at the doorway. Jenkins wasn't much more than a kid, with a fresh-scrubbed face that was at odds with the gun in his holster. Still, he represented safety. And she knew that it came from Eric. If he couldn't be with her, he'd at least sent someone in his stead.

  It wasn't exactly the same. But the gesture meant a lot. And in light of the phone call, there could be no doubt that it was necessary.

  Molly was in surgery, and probably would be for hours to come. She'd suffered massive internal injury in addition to the loss of her eyes. Sara fought against a gag, the image of Molly's ravaged face clear in her mind.

  The doctors hadn't been very forthcoming, only saying that Molly's odds weren't good. But Sara had hope. Her friend was alive, and that had to count for something.

  She tipped back her head, rubbing her temples, her thoughts turning to Eric. He'd been worried about her. And angry. She'd seen it in the hard steel of his eyes, the possessive glint confirming his feelings for her in a way that words never could.

  She wanted to reassure him, to tell him that she was fine. But it would be a lie. She wasn't fine at all. Her friend was in there fighting for her life, and some sicko was out there laughing at them all.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, wishing for Eric, needing to feel his arms around her, to know that as long as he held her, nothing more could happen, that she was safe.

  As if in answer to her plea, Jenkins ste
pped back, and someone stepped through the doorway. And in less than a heartbeat, she was across the room, stopping short when she realized it was Jack, not Eric.

  “Thank God you're all right.” He reached for her hands, his eyes telegraphing his relief.

  “I'm fine.” She wasn't, of course, but it was the easiest response. “How'd you know I was here?”

  “Ryan, actually. He called to tell me about Molly.”

  She nodded. “She's in surgery.”

  “I know. I talked to the nurse. It doesn't sound good.”

  “Molly's a fighter.” She'd said those words so many times. Now if only they were true.

  “Listen, Sara,” Jack lowered his eyes, his gaze not quite meeting hers, “there's something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Can't it wait?” She couldn't see how anything he had to say could be more important than Molly.

  “No. It's important, and I need you to hear it from me.”

  “All right.” She wasn't certain she could handle anything more, but she loved Jack, and because of that she was willing to listen. “Tell me.”

  “I was at the police station earlier today. Your friend D'Angelo believes his car's malfunction was intentional.”

  “You're saying someone deliberately tried to kill Eric?” The breath whooshed out of her throat, her heart constricting as she considered the implications.

  Jack nodded, his expression somber. “Apparently he thought I might be responsible. That's why I was at the station. He had some questions, and quite honestly, there was some pretty damning evidence. I can see why he'd have suspected me.”

  “But he doesn't anymore.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Jack shook his head. “Come sit over here.” He shot a telling look at Officer Jenkins and pulled her over to the far corner of the room, lowering his voice to a whisper.

  She sat down, meeting his troubled gaze. “I don't understand any of this, Jack. Why would Eric believe you tried to kill him?”