by Rebecca York
"You seen Gary Swinton recently?" he asked.
"Who wants to know?" the old man asked.
"The police," Jack answered, showing his badge and ID through the crack in the door.
The super peered at the credentials through thick glasses. "You're from Montgomery County. You don't got no jurisdiction here."
"Actually I do. I'm pursuing a lead in a missing person case. Can I have your name, sir?"
The old guy blinked. "I'm Barry Wagner. Who's missing?"
"Heather DeYoung," Jack answered, showing a copy of the photograph Kathryn had given him. "Have you seen her around here?"
"I seen her here with him."
"Recently?"
Wagner thought about it. "A couple weeks ago, maybe. I don't keep track of stuff like that."
"Swinton left work early, saying he was sick. But he doesn't answer his door. I'd like to get in there."
The super thought that over, then decided to cooperate.
As they walked slowly upstairs, Jack asked, "How big is the apartment?"
"Living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. You want me to come in with you?"
"No. Just open the door. I'll lock up when I'm finished."
The door yielded easily to Wagner's key. "Swinton?" Jack called out as he entered. "Gary?"
There was no answer. As he stepped into the living room, he saw immediately that there was one trait the occupant and DeYoung had in common. They were both slobs. But Swinton outdid her by a factor of ten. The cheap, faux wood coffee table and end tables were littered with discarded fast-food containers.
The kitchen was similar. Food splatters had dried on the counters. The sink was loaded with dirty dishes.
He made a quick stop at the bathroom, wrinkling his nose. Apparently Swinton couldn't aim straight when he peed.
He had trouble picturing a nice young woman in this environment. Someone who lived downstairs from Kathryn. Without warning, his thoughts switched from DeYoung to her landlady. He'd banished Kathryn from his consciousness for the past few hours. Now awareness of her came rolling back like water pouring from an earthquake-damaged dam.
His whole body went rigid, and he squeezed his eyes closed, struggling to wipe her image from his mind. It did no good. He saw her as she had looked in the dream—when they'd been making love. Her red hair a cloud of flames around her head. Her green eyes heavy-lidded. Her lips swollen from his kisses.
He remembered pulling down her bodice and exposing her gorgeous breasts. Creamy breasts with coral tips. He was instantly hard. Instantly angry with himself for allowing the reaction to sneak up on him.
Like a drowning man snatching at a lifeline, he focused on the anger, inch by inch dragging himself under control.
"Fuck!" The expletive tore from his lips. In the next moment he was laughing. Fuck. Yeah, that was what he wanted to do. With Kathryn Reynolds.
He pictured himself leaving Swinton's squalid apartment, driving to her house. Pounding on the door. She would see him and come into his arms. Ten seconds after that, they would be tangled together on her Oriental rug.
With a low sound of denial, he cut off the fantasy, thinking that he'd gone through so many emotional changes in the past few minutes that his head was spinning—and his cock was twanging like the neck of a banjo.
For several moments, he stood in the hallway, assuring himself that he was in control of his mind and body. He knew he was just telling himself what he wanted to hear. Never in his life had he been more out of control—more surprised by what he found himself thinking and doing.
When he felt as if he could attend to his job, he stepped into the bedroom, wondering if he was going to find a dead man.
The room was empty. He found a rumpled bed, open dresser drawers. A mixture of more or less clean and dirty clothing littered the floor. It looked like the place had been searched. Or like Swinton had cleared out in a hurry. Jack cursed. If Granger hadn't held him up, would he have gotten here in time to catch Swinton? Or somebody else still here?
On the other side of the bed, Jack stopped short. He'd almost stepped into a vinyl suitcase that lay open on the floor. He could see knit shirts, jeans, underwear thrown inside. More evidence that Swinton had been packing. It looked like he'd abandoned the effort. Or somebody had interrupted him. Stooping down, he saw dark spatters on some of the fabric. Blood?
What the hell had happened here? Reaching for his cell phone, he began to dial the D.C. police.
AFTER the morning's exertions, Simon had changed into his black silk pants and a comfortable black shirt. Stroking his fingers over the smooth fabric, he walked with his characteristic measured steps to the butler's pantry, where he contemplated the rows of wine bottles, each one stored at the proper angle to keep the cork moist.
In cultivating his comfortable lifestyle, he'd introduced himself to the finer things in life. One of those was wine. Over the past few years he'd attended wine tastings so that he had the proper appreciation for the output of the world's wineries. On the whole, he preferred European vintages. But there were some decent products from South Africa—and even some from the Napa Valley.
He'd already considered several bottles and settled on the Georges Duboeuf. Beaujolais-Villages Nouveau.
He'd allowed the wine to breathe for half an hour. Now, from one of the cherrywood upper cabinets, he brought out a long-stemmed red wineglass. After pouring some of the wine into the glass, he held it up to admire the ruby color. Next he swirled the red liquid gently in the glass, then inhaled the bouquet. Finally he took a small, appreciative sip.
There was nothing like a good glass of new Beaujolais, he thought as he took the glass with him into the library and settled into his favorite chair.
Things were shaping up very nicely. Tomorrow he'd call the police department and report Thornton's indiscretion with Reynolds. That should do wonders for the cop's reputation.
Then there were the plans for the upcoming ceremony. It was something he hadn't tried before, but he had worked out the basics. Now he had to settle on some of the protocols he was going to use. This ritual must be perfect. Did he need a protective circle, for example? On the face of it, he thought not. But omitting it might be a mistake—if the demon was hovering nearby, ready to interfere.
For just a moment, a shiver slithered over his skin. He sat up straighter, firmed his jaw. He was in the fight of his life. But there were ways to defeat the demon.
And in the end, Ayindral would be the slave of a great magician named Simon Gwynn.
He had no doubt of that. And no doubt about using his skills to kill the cop—Jack Thornton—now that he had the essential ingredient for such an important ceremony.
Tomorrow evening, he would send his psychic power outward in a dark, destructive wave that would catch Jack Thornton by surprise, sweeping him along and drowning him in its awesome force.
The time frame was short, since he must work quickly to remove the cop before he could go after Reynolds—and use her to enslave Ayindral.
Usually he would have taken at least a week to purify himself. There were many roads to purification. Fasting or restricting food. Abstaining from sexual gratification. Even the old Native American technique of a sweat bath. Some modern magicians might even have denied themselves the wine. But wine was a common ingredient in many rituals. Rituals of the church. And rituals of black magic as well.
More important, he had found that one glass helped relax him.
Taking a sip, he began reading through the section on astral projection in the Rituals of the Golden Dawn.
KATHRYN spent the afternoon working on a brochure for a group medical practice in Bethesda, a team of women doctors and other professionals who provided a variety of services to female patients. There were several gynecologists and internists in the group, along with an acupuncturist, a doctor of homeopathic medicine, a chiropractor, a plastic surgeon, and a specialist in laser skin treatments.
They'd gotten a glowing report on her from anot
her client and had asked her to design a brochure that gave a comprehensive overview of their practice, along with selected details of each specialty. She'd been enthusiastic about the commission, so she'd done some preliminary layouts before finishing up the assignment for Sunrise Realty.
The previous work gave her something to start with, thank God. Because most of what she'd done today was sit at the computer and move sentences and phrases around on the screen while she went over every word—every touch—she and Jack Thornton had exchanged.
When she caught herself thinking about driving past his house to see where he lived, she felt the air solidify in her lungs.
What was wrong with her? Was she planning to stalk the man if he wouldn't agree to make love with her? The idea that she would do something so… outrageous repelled her. And frightened her.
Pushing her chair away from the computer, she stood up, clenching and unclenching her hands. Finally, she found her walking shoes, put them on, and pounded down the steps. An hourlong walk around the neighborhood would help settle her down.
It was getting dark when she arrived back home. Although she wasn't very hungry, she did fix a little dinner, some cottage cheese plopped onto salad greens and topped with a little bottled blue cheese dressing.
After that she took a shower. Then there was no excuse to stay up. Rummaging in her dresser drawer, she found one of her favorite tee shirts and pulled it on. It was light green, with a mountain meadow of bright wildflowers spread across the front.
Climbing into bed, she looked at the collection of literature on her nightstand. She was in the middle of a romance novel that she'd been enjoying. But she hadn't picked it up in days. Instead, she reached for a gardening book with plenty of pictures.
Ten minutes later, when she felt her attention wandering, she turned off the light and eased down under the covers. For a time she enjoyed some blessed oblivion. Then, like the night before, a dream seized her by the throat. She tried to scream. But no sound made it past her lips. Once again, she was in a strange, gray, formless place where no human being could live.
It was as bad as the first time. Instantly she was cold as death. And engulfed by swirling gray mist that clouded her vision and turned to water in her lungs when she tried to take a breath.
There was no color in the gray mist. No sound. No solid ground beneath her feet. She'd escaped from this place once. Or maybe she'd been allowed to escape. Now she stumbled forward again, her feet sinking into the spongy goop.
Was Jack here, too? Was he waiting for her again?
When she tried to call his name, only a wheezing sound came out.
Jack. Jack. Please help me, her mind screamed.
He didn't answer. Yet words seemed to form in her head.
He isn't here. He isn't here. He isn't here. The statement echoed and reverberated directly in her brain. You must bring him something. Bring him something. Bring him something.
No one had spoken aloud. Yet she knew the commands came from the huge, indefinite bulk she'd sensed before. Not a person. Not an animal. Some otherworldly being she didn't understand.
But one thing she knew: It could grab her anytime it wanted. Shake the life out of her body. Still, determination kept her stumbling forward, trying to escape.
Ahead of her, through the gray fog, she saw a tall clear column filled with swirling blue liquid with shiny stars and moons shooting upward, then falling back through the hollow tube.
It was the magic wand, she realized with a spurt of astonishment. Only a hundred times bigger, the action inside more violent. And it was standing there like a guidepost—glowing in the fog.
She staggered toward it, stretching out her hands. For less than a second she thought she felt the smooth plastic surface. Then it was gone. And all at once, she was free. One moment she was in the gray, terrifying place. In the next, she was standing in a dark woods.
She stood with her heart pounding, dragging in gulps of pure, clean air. Her shoulder brushed a tree trunk, and she reached out to press her palm against the rough bark, anchoring herself to something solid.
Last time, when she'd escaped from the place of terror, she'd stumbled into an Alma-Tadema painting. This time was different. She was in a nighttime woods—dark and shadowy but visible in the silver radiance of the moonlight filtering down through the branches above her.
A light wind riffled the foliage overhead, and when she dragged in a breath, she caught forest scents. Heard an owl hooting far away. Closer by, she caught the scurrying of tiny feet in the underbrush.
Now what? Was Jack here? Was he looking for her?
Her heart leaped at the prospect of seeing him again. Then she dismissed the sense of anticipation with a wry laugh. She'd bet he wasn't looking for her. If he was here, he'd probably be running in the opposite direction.
Trying to put him out of her mind, she cast her gaze down to see what she was wearing. She was dressed in the light green flowered tee shirt she'd worn to bed. Now the shirt topped brown stretch pants and the walking shoes she'd worn this afternoon.
It was chilly, and she wrapped her arms around her shoulders, rubbing the goose bumps that had risen on her skin.
This was just a dream, she reminded herself. Yet she knew it was like the last time—more than a dream.
Firming her lips, she began to move through the woods. Dry leaves scrunched under her feet as she made her way forward. In some places she had to detour around large outcroppings of rock. In other spots, brambles tore at her pants.
After tromping through the underbrush for several minutes, she came to a wide trail where the ground was covered with wood chips. It led upward for several yards, then changed to a short flight of stone steps.
She stared at the pathway, thinking how different this scene was from the last dream. It was less static. More like a real place—like the real world. But where? Beyond the steps was a rustic sign, summit 1,282 feet.
Well, she was on some mountain, obviously. She could take the path upward. Instead, she kept moving through the trees, avoiding the worst patches of underbrush and the huge rocks. Ahead of her she saw a flicker of movement and went very still. Someone else was here—coming through the trees.
Jack?
Her pulse started to pound. She'd met him in the picture dream. She longed to meet him again—in another dream—where all the controls of the real world were removed. This time… This time they would make love.
His name hovered on her lips. But something stopped her from calling out to him. Moving from tree to tree, she made her way closer. When she finally saw her dream companion clearly, she struggled to hold back a gasp. He was a ghostly form, almost transparent, so that when she stared straight at him, she saw right through his body.
His head whirled around, and he looked toward the tree trunk that partially hid her.
She froze in place, wishing she could turn invisible. Or was that almost true? When he looked at her, was she like him—ghostly and transparent?
For long moments, he seemed to be staring directly at her hiding place, and she was afraid to move, afraid to breathe.
Finally, he gave a little shrug and turned back to what he was doing—digging a hole in the ground, working fast, the dirt flying. Then he picked up a plastic-wrapped bundle from the ground, a bundle that looked about five and a half feet long and perhaps a couple of feet wide.
She made a low sound of distress as she saw the shape. It looked like a body! Or some misshapen rug.
As she watched, he dumped the bundle unceremoniously into the hole he'd dug, then began to shovel the earth back in place. He was working fast, breathing hard.
He finished by smoothing out the dirt, then gathering up armloads of dry leaves and scattering them over the fresh-turned ground. For a moment he stood looking at his handiwork. Then he turned and started rapidly down the hill, paralleling the path.
She stayed in back of him, running to keep up. But he had a head start, and he was fast. Beyond the trees, she saw an
open area that resolved itself into a blacktop parking lot. By the time she arrived, he was already pulling away—in a car that appeared to her as indistinct and ghostly as the man who was driving it.
She had never paid much attention to the make and model of cars. Now she was too far away to see any of the ghostly insignia. There was no light over the license plate, so she couldn't see that either. Three red taillights mocked her as the car braked, after pulling out of its parking space, and sped away.
She stifled a sob, frustrated that she had no way of knowing who he was. She tried to tell herself that it didn't matter. That he was just some construct of her imagination. That he hadn't really been there at all. But she couldn't fool herself.
She didn't know why he was transparent as mist. But she knew this dream had something important in common with the last one. It wasn't random. She had been brought here for a purpose.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to figure out what she should do. Then she remembered the voice she'd heard at the start of the dream. You must bring him something. Bring him something. Bring him something.
Bring him something!
In the darkness, she stumbled down the hill to the parking lot. At this hour of the night, it was empty. But at the far end, she could see another sign.
Quickly, she strode across the blacktop and walked around to the far side, so that she could see the legend. She had only moments to read the words. Then, the scene around her began to fade.
With an almost physical desperation she tried to hold on to the dream. But it slipped through her fingers. And she was alone in the dark. In her own bed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
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EAST VIEW PARKING lot.
Kathryn's eyes blinked open as she pressed her head against the pillows, bearing down to assure herself that she was back at home and not in the woods.