by Rebecca York
"Jack," she murmured aloud. She hadn't met him in the dream. Had he been there? In some other part of the woods? Had he missed the main event? Or, this time, had it been only her dream?
Pushing herself up in bed, she bent her knees and then circled them with her arms, holding tight.
Lord, now what? What, exactly, had she seen?
She still wasn't sure. But she knew she had to discuss it with Jack. She'd been given a clue. A piece of evidence.
Her sense of purpose deflated somewhat when she swung her head to the right and looked at the clock. The green numbers on the display said three fifty-six.
He wouldn't want her to call him now. Probably he'd be annoyed. And what could she tell him? That she'd seen a transparent man bury a transparent body, and she didn't even know where.
But could she figure it out? What did she know about the place? As she often did when she was thinking about a project, she walked to the window, pulled up some slats in the blind, and stared out. At first she saw nothing of the actual view. Then something outside caught her attention. There was a car parked across from her house.
It wasn't a car she recognized from the neighborhood. Standing in the darkened room, she stared at it, wondering if someone could be inside.
What a notion! Who would be sitting in a car at night on the street?
She tried to dismiss the idea. But it stayed wedged in her mind. With jerky steps she crossed the room and switched on the nightstand lamp. Seconds later, she heard an engine start. By the time she returned to the window, the vehicle was gliding away into the night.
She watched until the taillights disappeared into the distance. It was so much like the dream that goose bumps bloomed on her skin. Yet it wasn't the same car. The shape had been different. At least she thought so. The one outside had been smaller—sportier.
More important, it hadn't been a ghost image. It had been real and solid. And it was impossible for her to dismiss the idea that someone had been out there watching her. Or watching for Heather to come home.
She hated to grasp at that explanation. But it was the one she preferred, under the circumstances.
With a sigh, she turned away from the window and hurried down the hall to the living room. More than ever, she needed to talk to Jack. But she wasn't going to use the car as an excuse. She was going to come to him with something.
During the time it took for the computer to boot up, she paced back and forth across the floor, stopping to pull aside the curtains to look out. The car had not returned, but that didn't give her the expected sense of relief.
After establishing a link to the Internet, she went directly to one of her favorite search engines, then hesitated as she considered what to ask for.
The woods hadn't been a specific place she recognized. But they'd had the look of the local area. Either Maryland or perhaps nearby Virginia or Pennsylvania. Somewhere rural with mountains and rocky soil. The path and the parking lot made her think she'd been in a state park. Or maybe a national park?
Making a decision, she typed in "Maryland" and "parks." A long list of references appeared on the screen. But as she scrolled down through the entries and tried some of the web sites, nothing seemed right.
Over the next half-hour, she looked through more information on parks, seeing nothing that struck a chord with her.
Leaning back in her chair, she contemplated the nighttime scene. She'd seen two signs. One had been near a path and referred to a mountain summit over a thousand feet high. The number had been in her mind when she'd awakened. Now she knew she should have written it down.
Well, what about the other sign? It had said East View parking lot.
Trying another combination of key words, she typed in "Maryland," "mountain," "East View." Again, she spent a frustrating half-hour and found nothing.
Damn!
She looked at her watch. It was now seven in the morning. Early. But she couldn't make herself wait any longer.
She'd wanted to come to Jack with something concrete. But she wasn't going to get it. So she might as well call, she decided, as she went into the kitchen to find his card, then reached for the phone and dialed.
"Hello."
The person who answered was a woman, and Kathryn felt her throat constrict—until she remembered that he had a live-in housekeeper.
"Hello?" the woman asked again.
She cleared her throat. "This… this is Kathryn Reynolds. Detective Thornton came to my house to ask me some questions about a missing person case."
At that moment a thought leaped into her mind—a thought she hadn't considered before. She'd seen a man burying a body. Oh, Lord, could it have been Heather? She tried to reject that idea. But now it had lodged in her brain.
"Just one moment. I'll see if he's available."
"Thank you."
She waited with her pulse pounding in her ears, wondering if calling him at home had been a good idea.
Then she heard his voice, and she sighed out his name. "Jack."
"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked, sounding like he might care about what happened to her.
"Something's happened. There… there was a car outside my house last night," she heard herself blurt, when that wasn't what she'd called about at all. "I turned on the light, and he went away," she added quickly. "But… but there's something else. Another dream."
"Oh?"
"I… I don't want to talk about it over the phone. Can you come over?"
"Yes. Give me a few minutes to make sure the kids are all set."
She let out the breath she'd been holding. She'd thought he might protest. But he was coming over.
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Thank you." As she hung up, she swept her hand through her hair. She'd been up half the night. She probably looked like hell.
The good news was that she didn't have to sit around stewing, waiting for him. She had time to change her clothes, brush her teeth, and wash her face. She was just putting on a little bit of lip gloss when she heard the doorbell and rushed to answer it.
She almost threw the door open, but she had enough sense to check the peephole and see that it was him.
When she opened the door, he was standing with his arms stiffly at his sides. The look on his face made her throat thicken. The last time they'd been together, he'd pulled her into his arms. This time she could see he was determined not to lose control of the situation.
"Come in." She stepped aside, and he followed.
"Do you want some coffee?"
"Do you have some made?"
"No, but I could use a cup."
There was an unacknowledged intimacy to the encounter. He'd come over to talk about the case. But there was no way to deny the undercurrent of sexuality vibrating in the air. Or to dispel the feeling of familiarity that came from his standing in her living room.
She hurried into the kitchen and filled the automatic coffeepot with water.
"I've got several kinds of coffee," she said over her shoulder. "Kenya. Kona. Jamaica Blue Mountain."
He laughed. "Are you trying to put Starbucks out of business?"
"No. I figure coffee is safer than a lot of other vices."
"Me, too," he answered, and they were both silent as they noted they had something in common besides wanting to jump each other's bones.
She made herself busy, then turned to get the sugar and found him leaning comfortably against the counter, watching her.
Their gazes locked, and she knew how easy it would be to end up in each other's arms again. But she was pretty sure he wasn't going to start anything. And if he could manage it, so could she.
"You're lucky you have someone to take care of your kids," she said.
"Mm hmm."
"Do they take their lunch to school?"
"The school sends out a menu for the week. It depends on what they're having. They love pizza. Macaroni and cheese is another matter."
"Oh," she said, wondering if the conversation cou
ld get any more inane.
Finally, the coffee was ready. She took hers with milk and sugar. He took just milk.
When they'd carried their mugs to the table and sat down, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankles.
He looked relaxed, but in the time they'd spent together, she'd learned to read him—perhaps because she was so focused on him—and she could see the tension simmering below his calm surface. She wanted to reach out and cover his hand with hers. Just to make contact with him, she told herself, knowing it was only part of the truth. Since the moment she'd met this man, she'd wanted… everything he could give her. But she wasn't going to beg. Instead, she kept her hands to herself by clamping them around her mug.
"Someone was watching your house?" he asked.
She gave a small nod. "At least I think so. I can't be sure. All I know is that he was out there. He left when I turned on a light."
"He? You saw him?"
"No. I was just making an assumption."
"I'll arrange to have a patrol car drive by periodically."
"Thanks." She cleared her throat. "You think it has something to do with Heather?… Or that fishing line across the door frame?"
"I don't know. But I'll find out."
She clung to the reassurance in his voice.
"Thanks," she repeated. Then added, "I wouldn't have seen him—except that I woke up after another dream."
"Was I there?"
She laughed. "I wish you had been."
The comment generated another moment of silence during which they sipped their coffee.
"Tell me what happened," he said.
"It started like the last one. I was in that gray place where you can't breathe."
"What gray place?"
"It doesn't start that way for you?"
"No."
"Oh, goody. It's just me. I come awake in…" She stopped, swallowed. "An awful place. It's like a land of fog." She shuddered as she remembered it. "Not a land where people can live. I can't catch my breath. I feel like I'm drowning, but I'm not underwater." She gave an involuntary gasp. When he reached across the table and laid his hand over hers, she turned her palm up and knit her fingers with his. They sat that way, his hand anchoring her to him.
"It's cold," she whispered. "And creepy. And… and there's… something watching me." She heard her voice rise at the end.
"Something?"
"A… a…" She clamped his hand more tightly, unable to speak above a whisper. "I don't know what. But it spoke to me this time."
His eyes widened. "What did it say?"
She gulped, suddenly fighting back tears. "That I should bring you something."
His eyes never left her. "It… this thing referred to me? By name?"
She thought back, trying to reconstruct what had happened. Unable to meet his gaze, she whispered, "I was scared. Terrified. I was… I called out to you. He… it… told me you weren't there. But I should bring you something."
Despite her best efforts, the tears leaked out now. She clutched his hand, clutched at her emotions, struggling to rein them in as she heard him swear under his breath.
"I… I'm sorry…" she managed.
He let go of her hand, came around the table, and pulled her out of the chair. Cradling her in his arms, he crossed the room and settled on the sofa, holding her and rocking her while she tried to get control of herself.
His hand smoothed her hair as he murmured soft, indistinct words, and she imagined that he might comfort his daughter this way.
She let herself melt against him, letting his strong arms and the masculine scent of his body envelop her. The feeling of safety and closeness helped. By slow degrees she got control of herself. Pushing away from him, she stood, swaying slightly on rubbery legs. When he reached to steady her, she moved to the desk and pulled a tissue from the box.
Feeling more in control, she came back to the living room area. But she didn't trust herself to sit by him again—not without reaching for him. So she settled in one of the easy chairs.
"I didn't even get to the good part," she said.
"Which is?"
"In this dream, I saw a man bury a body. At least, that's what I think I saw. And I think that's what I'm supposed to bring you. Information."
"Okay."
"Only I don't know where I saw this scene. It's in the woods. Somewhere in Maryland—or maybe a nearby state. But I can't figure out where."
"Okay," he said again. "Let's start from the beginning. You were in a place where you couldn't see, and you couldn't breathe. And something spoke to you?"
"Yes." She remembered another detail and added, "Then… then I saw the magic wand." His narrow-eyed look had her hurrying on. "It was like the wand on my desk." She stood and crossed the room again, picking up the object in question from beside the computer.
When she held it out, he took it, turned it upside down, and watched the shapes and the blue liquid swirl. "It's just a toy. Isn't it?"
"I always thought so. But it was in the dream. Much bigger. A guidepost—showing me the way out of that terrible place."
"And then?"
"Then I was in the woods. At a mountain. I saw a trail and stone steps and a sign that said Summit. There was a number, over a thousand feet." She watched him write that down.
"It was a park. I'm sure of that. Only I did a web search of parks. And I can't find anything about it," she said in frustration.
"Tell me what else you know."
She gulped. "The man. He… he wasn't solid. He was like a ghost. It's hard to describe. I saw him in the woods. Saw what he was doing. But I could see through him. He had something wrapped up—something that looked like a body. He dug a hole, put it in. Covered it over, spread leaves around over the fresh soil. Oak leaves."
He kept writing. "Have you seen him before?"
"I… I'm not sure. Maybe there was something familiar about him."
He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Could it have been Gary Swinton?"
She considered the question. "I don't know. But I don't think so."
"What happened after he buried the body?"
"He started down the hill. To a parking lot. His was the only car; I guess because it was at night. I don't know what kind of car. Something with an odd-looking shape."
"A car you've seen before?" he asked, apparently still trying to tie the incident to present reality. "The car that was outside your house?"
"I don't know!" Helplessly, she shook her head. "In the dream, the car was like a ghost, too. Hard to see. The license plate wasn't lighted. I ran after him. But he got away." She stopped, took a breath, then let it out. "What do you think it means that he was like a ghost?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe that what you were seeing wasn't real?"
"It was real!"
"Okay." He thought for a moment. "Then maybe it happened at a different time. You were seeing something that had already happened. Or was going to happen."
She considered that. "I didn't think of that! Where did you get that idea?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. I'm just trying to come up with an explanation. What happened next?"
"I walked across the parking lot, and I saw a sign. It said East View parking lot."
She watched his eyes brighten.
"Yeah?"
"Do you know where it was?"
"Maybe. Can I use your computer?"
"Of course. Do you want me to get on-line?"
"Yes."
After she'd brought back the connection to the web, he typed in the URL of a search engine. Not the one she'd used, she noted. He didn't start with the information she'd given him. Instead, he typed in the name of a place: Sugarloaf Mountain. There were hundreds of references—some to places in Maryland, others, farther north.
But he zeroed in on a site that included Sugarloaf Mountain, Frederick County, Maryland. The text said the summit was 1282 feet high. When she saw the number, she was pretty sure it w
as right.
"Why couldn't I find it?" she asked, her fists clenched.
"It's privately owned," Jack said, pointing to the screen. "That's why it wasn't under 'parks.' "
"But how did you know?"
"I've taken my kids there. It's not a bad hike to the summit. Have you been there before?"
"No. Never."
"But you went there in your dream. Apparently you didn't make the place up. How far were you from the path leading up from the parking lot, do you think?"
She cast her mind back. "I wasn't keeping track. It could have been fifty feet. A hundred. But I know it was to the left as you face the parking lot. Through the woods."
She watched him write that down. "So you think what happened to me was 'real.' I mean—that I saw something important?"
"I'm going on that assumption."
She felt goose bumps pepper her arms, and rubbed them vigorously with her palms. "And some strange being who lives in a place of gray mist wanted me to see it—and to tell you about it?"
His face was hard now. "That's one explanation. There are others I can think of."
"Like what?"
"I'd rather not start spouting theories."
He'd spouted theories earlier. Now he was uptight again. She sighed. "Okay, then. Why me? Why us? And what is that thing I sense in the mist?"
"Damned if I know!"
"Are you giving up the theory that I'm a witch?"
"I'll hold that in reserve."
"Is that supposed to be a joke?"
He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I wish I knew. Have you ever had a… uh… mystical experience before?"
"Never!"
He studied her as if he were trying to decide whether she was telling the truth.
Breaking into his thoughts, she asked, "So now what? Do we go out there, and I try to find the place?"
"No."
"But…"
"Think about it! How would I write it up? You reported Heather DeYoung missing. Now you're saying you know where she's buried."
"Heather!" she gasped. She'd been half-thinking that the body was Heather, but she hadn't allowed the speculation to get very far. "You think it's her?"
"Unless this is totally unconnected. Don't you think it's more reasonable to assume that it's all tied up together?"
"Yes," she managed.