by Rebecca York
Jack nodded, wishing he were free to take his friend's advice. Clearing his throat, he asked, "So, uh, what do you think about beings we can't see, beings we can't imagine? Beings who live in a place that isn't our world. Another dimension. Or another universe. Another—" He stopped, unable to finish the thought.
"Why do you bring up another universe?"
"The dreams start differently for Kathryn than they do for me. She describes a gray place where she can hardly see, hardly feel the ground under her feet, hardly breathe. She knows she'll die if she stays there. And to put the icing on the cake, there's something there—watching her." He shuddered.
"Something?"
"She calls it a presence. Too bad neither one of us has the terminology to describe it."
"So, are you thinking the two of you are being stalked by a creature from another dimension? Actually, it's as workable a theory as anything else. Maybe angels are creatures from another dimension. Maybe devils. Things men admire or fear. Things they can't express any other way."
"So why would a being from this other place be screwing with people from this world?"
Ross shrugged. "Hell if I know. If that's what it is, then I guess you have to figure it out."
Jack grimaced. "Yeah. The easy part. I guess we have to leave that for later. Let's start with dead bodies in the woods."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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THEY CHECKED IN at the park gate and got a combination that would unlock the chain across the road after hours. Then Jack drove to the East View parking area, where there were still a few cars.
After climbing out and stretching, he looked toward the hill above the parking lot. It was broader than he'd pictured. "More ground to cover than I remembered."
"Let's walk around up there a little," Ross suggested. "I don't think someone would bury a body within fifty yards of the parking area. So we can start above that level."
"Yeah. Kathryn entered the scene near the path," he said. "She wasn't sure how far she walked. But she knew it was to the left."
They started walking back and forth, their eyes on the ground. After half an hour, Jack began to think that he'd been overoptimistic about discovering anything. But he kept going, because he'd brought Ross all the way out here—and he wasn't going to give up until his friend called it quits.
Another fifteen minutes passed, and the sun began to set. Jack's hopes were almost extinguished. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack.
When he opened his mouth to speak, he saw that Ross had stopped and was sniffing the air. Then he moved toward a patch of ground that didn't look much different from the rest of the area. "Here," he said.
"A body?"
"Something dead. Underground. I can tell you better after it gets dark."
"You're going to change?"
"Yeah. But I prefer to do it in private." He hesitated a beat. "You're not going to freak out on me, are you?"
"I think I can keep it together," Jack answered, with more bravado than he was feeling.
"We won't be able to talk, of course."
Jack nodded. Of course the wolf couldn't talk.
He thrust his hands into his pockets, feeling a chill travel over his skin as he watched his friend disappear into the woods. He'd established a bond of trust with Ross, a bond that went deeper than he'd realized.
He wasn't sure how long he waited. He only knew that the light was almost gone when a gray wolf stepped carefully from behind a tree.
He was a magnificent animal. Large and proud and beautifully marked. Still, Jack felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle as keen yellow eyes regarded him. It was one thing to know that Ross Marshall was a werewolf. It was quite another thing to stand face to face in the woods with an animal that could tear him to shreds.
"So, let's go hunting," he said.
It was eerie to see the wolf nod, then move forward to sniff the ground where Ross had said a grave was located.
Jack switched on the large flashlight he'd brought, watching the animal paw up some of the leaves.
Picking up a stick in his mouth, he turned his head and jabbed it at the dirt.
Jack came forward to anchor the marker more firmly in the soil—which was loose and easy to probe, as though it had been turned recently.
When he finished, he looked toward the wolf again. The animal had lifted his head and was sniffing the air once more, before moving to another location not far from the grave. Again he pawed up leaves, then turned his head toward Jack, who moved forward to meet him.
"Another grave?" he asked.
The wolf nodded, as Jack found a second stick and probed the dirt. Again, it was not packed down.
The wolf was already moving in a rough circle around the general area. Once more, he stopped and pawed.
"More?"
The animal confirmed the question with a nod. By the time he was finished, he had indicated five separate locations, and Jack had marked them all with sticks.
The wolf stopped, making eye contact once more.
"You think that's all?" Jack asked.
The animal nodded, then trotted away in the direction from which he'd come. Minutes later, Ross Marshall emerged from the woods, tucking his shirt into his jeans. "I make five graves," he said.
"That's more than I expected. The captain sent me off to investigate three previous missing person cases. Plus the recent one."
"Somebody's been busy."
"And he likes this burial ground. Which is one of the few patterns I've picked up. Before this, there was almost nothing to connect the cases. A woman who looked nothing like DeYoung. A boy. And a young man. I can't even be sure these are all his victims."
"But you can be sure Heather DeYoung is here."
Jack's head snapped around. "You're sure?"
"You gave me that tee shirt. Her scent is here."
"Okay. Good. Well, not good. I'm sorry she's dead. But at least I've got something to run with."
He gave Ross a direct look. "Thanks for helping me."
"You looked a little spooked, at first. But it worked out."
Jack laughed. "Well, think how you'd feel if I opened a door to another universe and a fallen angel came riding through on a fire-breathing dragon."
"When you put it that way, I can see your point. But you've got to admit that one little wolf doesn't equal a fallen angel and a fire-breathing dragon."
"Some people would think so."
They started back to the parking lot. "So, now I need to notify the Frederick County cops that I think I've got a graveyard from a serial killer in Montgomery County. Although, as I said, we can't be sure who else is buried here. And we can't be sure if the perp lives near his victims or is traveling down to our area from up here." He thought for a moment. "On top of that, I've got to think of a good reason why I came up here. The best solution would be if we could have found something of DeYoung's up there in the woods."
Ross gave him a penetrating look. "You're thinking of planting evidence?"
Jack sighed. "Yeah, listen to me! But that would give me something concrete to start with—rather than a psychic dream from Kathryn Reynolds. And we know the damn bodies are here."
"Do it any way you want. Remember, before that killer scooped up Megan, I refused to tell you how I got my information. You were willing to work with me. Some detectives weren't quite so happy about it."
Jack nodded, remembering his conversation with one of Ross's former police contacts. The man had been sure he was guilty of murder, but he hadn't been able to prove it.
Thinking about that made him feel edgy. He'd given Kathryn a rationale for using Ross as a source of information on this. But he knew he needed more than his friend's testimony.
His mood hadn't improved forty-five minutes later as he turned in at the Park and Ride and thanked Ross again.
Ross had stopped asking questions, electing to remain silent during most of the ride. Now he said, "Are you okay?"
Jack cut t
he engine and sat with his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, feeling that he needed to anchor himself down—although he wasn't quite sure what that meant. "Not exactly," he said slowly.
"You want me to ride back home with you?"
"You think I need baby-sitting?" Jack asked, more sharply than he'd intended.
"I wouldn't put it that way," Ross answered easily.
Jack made an effort to relax. "Sorry, I'm sort of preoccupied. I'm not very good company right now. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what happened."
"Yeah, I understand." Ross studied him for a moment, as if debating whether to let him drive himself home. "Just be sure to call."
"Of course."
Jack watched Ross climb out of the unmarked and return to his SUV, feeling relieved to be alone. The relief lasted only a few minutes. Once he was back on the road, the tension gripped him again. He couldn't stop thinking about ancient myths and creatures of the night, and what you did to escape when you thought some supernatural force had you in its talons.
SIMON stood in the hallway, breathing deeply. He felt the blood pumping in his veins, felt his excitement building. Excitement he would turn into destructive energy. But along with the power, he felt raw nerves poking through his skin like a mass of small spikes.
He hated to admit the last part. There was no reason to worry, he told himself. He had prepared carefully. He knew he was in control of the ceremony. Still, he felt those sharp little wounds in his skin. Self-inflicted wounds, he told himself.
Mentally, he went over the preparations he'd made. The protective circle was in place—except for the break in the line where he would enter it.
And his victim was ready, too. Laid out on the table. Lightly sedated. But the guy wasn't going to stay that way. For this ceremony, Simon wanted him awake. Wanted him to know what was happening to him, and what would happen. This time, the victim's pain and fear were an important part of the process.
A tall candelabra stood on a table beside the door. It was an antique that he'd bought at an auction of furnishings from a Catholic church. The irony had always warmed him when he thought about how the priests would react if they knew what he was doing with their precious artifact.
Sitting beside the candelabra was a box of old-fashioned matches. Simon struck one, then touched it to the wick of a taper, watching the small flame flicker to life. Swiftly he lit the rest of the candles, then drew in a deep breath and let it out before opening the door and stepping into the ceremonial chamber.
It was a sacred place. Sacred to him. Not a church, but a space he had created where his purposes could be achieved.
The candles flickered, and he felt a cold wind moving his hair and the fabric of his pants.
A curse sprang to his lips.
Ayindral was here. Watching. Somehow, he was here, in this world.
Well, there was nothing the bastard could do, he assured himself as he stepped into the room and set down the candelabra. With a hand that shook slightly, he picked up the strips of tanned animal skin that would complete the circle. Stepping inside the protective line, he knelt and swiftly completed the defensive perimeter. Then he stood, and walked to the man strapped down on the table.
JACK kept his gaze focused on the road as he headed back toward Montgomery County. He tried to give all his attention to simply driving himself back home, but the need to escape clawed inside his chest like a wild animal desperate for freedom. Escape from what? He didn't even know.
He told himself to calm down. And as they had so many times during the past few days, he found his thoughts turning to Kathryn. He knew he'd made a decision. He was going to stop by her house and get a piece of Heather's jewelry. It was a good solution to the problem—a piece of evidence that he could say he'd found at a burial ground—but it also made him feel slightly queasy. He'd always been a straight-arrow cop. Now he was getting ready to turn himself into Mark Furman.
He thought about calling Emily and telling her he was going to be later than he'd expected. But how late? He didn't want to think about how long he might stay at Kathryn's and what he might do there.
He grimaced. No matter where his thoughts strayed, they kept coming back to her. To making love with her.
KATHRYN stood in her kitchen, her heart thumping in her chest. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she grabbed a mug from the shelf, filled it with water, and dropped in a bag of green tea. With shaking hands, she set the mug in the microwave. The turntable began to move, and a spark arced off the rim of the cup.
"Oh, shit!" she exclaimed, pushing the Off button. She'd grabbed a mug with a gold rim, and the metallic paint had set off a reaction inside the microwave.
The machine stopped, and with shaking hands, she opened the door and pulled out the mug, cradling it in her palms as she looked down, unseeing, at the cold water and wet tea bag.
She felt a terrible tightness in her chest, and an almost palpable vibration in the air around her.
"Jack?" she whispered. "Jack?"
He didn't answer, of course. He wasn't here. Yet she felt connected to him—as though an invisible wire were tugging at her, pulling her closer.
This was like the dreams. Only she was awake, the way she had been when she'd heard the dog barking. Then she hadn't understood what was happening. Now she knew she was waiting for some dire event.
With eyes squeezed tightly shut, she stood very still, barely breathing, trying desperately to make the connection with Jack stronger. So she could warn him? Be with him?
She didn't know her specific goal. She only knew that she had to get closer to him.
All at once, she could see him. He was in his car. Driving down a narrow road, coming to her.
Or was it all her imagination? Was she seeing him in his car because she ached for him to be with her?
She stood in the middle of the kitchen, gripping the mug, telling herself that everything was going to be all right—even when she knew it was a lie.
THE traffic on Route 270 was heavy, and Jack decided to turn off onto a secondary road.
As he negotiated a turn, he heard a man scream.
What? It sounded like the guy was in the car with him. His gaze bounced to the passenger seat. Nobody was there, of course.
But he couldn't stop himself from craning his neck to look in the back of the car.
The scream of pain was followed by a plea. "Jesus Christ, don't do that!"
"Ah, you're awake" another man said, his voice crackling with excitement. "I want you conscious for the ceremony."
Jack blinked, shifted lanes rapidly as the honk of a car horn brought his attention back to the road. The other driver shook his fist at him as he sped past—then shot into his lane and hit the brakes.
Jack hit his own brakes, narrowly avoiding rear-ending the son of a bitch.
The other car sped away. He thought about pulling out his flasher and giving chase, then forgot about the idea as another high-pitched scream of pain filled the car.
"No! Stop! For God's sake, stop."
This time, he thought he recognized the voice. Jesus! It was Gary Swinton!
"Swinton?" he called out, knowing in some part of his mind that the man wasn't in the car.
All he heard now was the chanting of words—smoothly flowing words in some language he didn't understand. They rolled on, filling his head.
The road in front of him dimmed, and he saw a room—a room draped in black, lit by flickering candles.
The scene was sharp and clear. As sharp as the dream with Kathryn. Sharper than reality. Swinton lay naked, strapped to a wooden table, his body slick with sweat, his face contorted with pain and fear. Another man leaned over him—naked to the waist, wearing black trousers in some thin, slinky material. His back was crisscrossed by scars. One hand gripped the edge of the table where Swinton lay. The other hovered over the naked man, holding a candle in an elaborate candlestick, tipping it to the side so that hot wax dropped on the man's midsection. Overlaying the scene
was the sound of a voice, chanting smoothly, relentlessly.
Jack had the sensation of standing in back of the chanting man, staring at his blond hair, carefully combed over a bald spot. Though he strained to change the angle of the picture, he couldn't see the man's face.
He forgot where he was, what he was doing. All his attention was focused on the scene in the dark chamber as the hand slowly brought the candle lower. The strangeness and the horror of the scene riveted him.
"Jack! Jack!" Kathryn's voice pierced the bubble around him, and the danger to himself came back in a sharp zing of awareness. Abruptly, his attention snapped back to his own reality—to the car he was driving. He felt his right front tire bite into gravel. He was on the shoulder, and he yanked desperately at the wheel.
But it was already too late. The road curved in the wrong direction, and he shot off the highway. He whipped across a patch of weeds, then down a sharp incline.
There was no question of steering. He rode the vehicle down the hill like a runaway locomotive. The car struck an obstruction he couldn't see, then skidded and rolled over, so that his head hit the column at the edge of the windshield.
That was the last thing he remembered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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THE MUG IN Kathryn's hand crashed to the kitchen floor, the shattering of crockery mingling with the scream that tore from her throat.
"Oh, God, Jack! No!"
She saw the wild plunge of the car, saw the vehicle turn over. But she couldn't see inside, didn't know what had happened to Jack.
For long moments she couldn't move. Then, carefully, she stepped around the broken crockery and headed for the phone.
She didn't even know whom she was going to call until she had picked up the phone number Jack had left her. With wooden fingers, she punched in the numbers.
After several rings, a woman answered.
"Hello." In the background, a baby was crying.