by Rebecca York
"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Ross asked.
She thought about that. With his unqualified defense of Jack and his kindness toward her, this man had earned her trust in a very short time—unlike Captain Granger, who had earned her instant dislike. Keeping her voice low, she said, "Jack told you what's been happening to us? That we've… shared a dream? That I dreamed about going up to Sugarloaf and seeing the man burying the bodies? Only I guess it wasn't happening at the same time that I was there. It was something that was going to happen. Or had happened."
"Had happened," Ross supplied.
"You don't have any trouble with any of this weird stuff?"
"What did Jack tell you about me?"
"Not much. You're his good friend. You have extraordinary detective skills. And I guess you have some secret that you don't talk about much."
"Yeah." He hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice so that she had to lean forward to hear him. "The ER waiting room isn't the place to talk about my background. Let's just say that my mind is open to stuff that other people might consider over the top. So when Jack talked about the two of you having the same dream, I didn't dismiss it as paranoid psychotic ravings."
"I'm glad to hear that. Did you have any insights for Jack?"
"Nothing of any immediate help."
She glanced toward the group at the other end of the room and saw Mrs. Anderson looking at her as she spoke to Granger. She would have liked to know what the woman was saying. It couldn't be anything good.
"I'd better go," she said to Ross.
"I'll meet you here in the morning."
"Yes. Thanks." Turning, she started for the door, keeping her gaze focused straight ahead. She'd been on the verge of tears before the captain had walked in. And she'd kept herself together in the face of his interrogation.
Now she was close to breaking down again. She wanted to talk to Jack. And if not Jack, Ross. He had some things to explain to her. Like how he'd gotten Heather's circle pin. But she couldn't ask him now.
The cold reality of the conversation with Ross and Granger began to sink in as she stepped into the parking lot. Heather was dead. And Jack—
Jack was beyond her reach. By the time she got to her car, tears were streaking down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, then made an effort to get control of herself so she could see to drive.
All the way home, she kept thinking about her relationship with Jack. She'd come rushing down to the hospital like she had a right to be there. But seeing his family had made her realize how badly she was kidding herself. He had a son and a daughter who were his first responsibility. What part could she play in that life? She and Jack had been drawn together by circumstances neither of them understood. From the first moment they'd laid eyes on each other, there had been a wild, out-of-control sexual pull between them.
Jack didn't think that meant anything beyond the physical—because some outside force had pushed them together. She could understand his point of view, although it wasn't true for her. What she felt for Jack went a lot deeper then sexual compulsion, but she couldn't expect—or demand—the same from him.
Telling herself the truth only deepened her misery.
By the time she turned onto her street, she was sobbing. She pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and hunched over the wheel, struggling to calm herself.
Kathryn! Someone called her name. Not aloud. The voice resounded inside her skull.
Raising her head, she looked around, not knowing what to expect—until a noise behind her had her whirling in her seat and craning her neck so she could see in back of her.
She stared in confusion when she saw that a car had pulled in front of her driveway, blocking her in.
She gasped when she recognized the angular shape. She still didn't know the make and model, but she was almost certain it was the car she had seen up at Sugar-loaf Mountain. The car that had been driven by the man who'd buried Heather's body.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
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IN THE LIGHT from the streetlamp, she saw the car door open. A man climbed out and jogged toward her.
Something was in his hand. As he drew closer, she saw it was a gun pointed toward her.
Her heart blocking her windpipe, she acted instinctively, twisting the key in the ignition.
When the engine roared to life, she threw the car into Drive, spinning the wheel as she came around in a tight circle across the grass. The vehicle clipped an azalea as she crossed the lawn, sank into the grass, then mowed down a flower bed. But she didn't slow down. Crossing the sidewalk, she bumped down the curb onto the street, not bothering to turn on the headlights.
When she risked a quick glance in the rearview mirror, she saw the man was running toward his car. Seconds later, his vehicle lurched after her.
Desperate to escape, she took the corner on two wheels, driving through the night with her headlights off.
Twin beams came toward her out of the darkness.
When the driver spotted her, he honked, but she ignored him.
Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, and she saw lights behind her. Was it the guy? Or somebody else? In the darkness, she couldn't tell.
Teeth clenched, she made a quick turn at the next block, then another turn, and another, weaving through the neighborhood like a drunken snake, thankful that she knew the twists and turns so well.
She kept glancing back. The lights had disappeared, and as far as she could tell, there was nobody following. But she didn't allow herself to relax. He could have turned off his headlights, too. And he could be coming up on her fast. A sob welled in her throat. As long as she was in the neighborhood, she wasn't safe.
When she reached Route 28, she was forced to turn on her lights or risk an accident. Hands gripping the wheel, she eased into the stream of traffic, watching the rearview mirror as closely as the road in front of her.
She didn't see the familiar shape of the car. But she still didn't feel safe. She headed for Rockville Pike, driving toward Bethesda. After several miles, she turned in at one of the well-lighted, busy shopping centers that lined the Pike, then used the off-road exit connecting it to the next strip mall.
In the second parking lot, she pulled up to the curb and sat with the engine running in case she had to make a quick getaway.
To stop herself from shaking, she wrapped her hands around the wheel. Reality was finally sinking in. The men who had buried Heather had been parked on the street, waiting for her to come home. And he'd probably been there last night, too, in a different car.
She tried to figure out what to do, but after everything that had happened, her brain felt almost too numb to function. First she'd seen Jack's car crash. Then she'd rushed to the hospital. After a few minutes with him, she'd had to deal with both Mrs. Anderson and Captain Granger. Then she'd gone home, and the man who had killed Heather had almost gotten her.
The logical thing was to call the police. But she couldn't bring herself to do that, not after her interview with the captain. He hadn't bothered to hide his anger with Jack—and her, too, she was pretty sure.
If she started talking to the cops, there was no way to keep Jack out of it. And when she started trying to explain all the weird stuff that had happened to the two of them, she was going to sound demented. Which wasn't going to do Jack any good—or her, either. So the best thing was not to get started.
Did her reasoning make sense? She couldn't be sure. She only knew she couldn't go to the police. Not now. Not until she could consult Jack. And there was no chance of that until he was better.
Then what?
Ross's face swam before her. Ross would help her, but his phone number was at home, and she couldn't risk going back there.
A sob welled in her throat, and she knew that she was on the edge of hysteria. Pressing back against the headrest, she took several shallow breaths, ordering herself not to come apart.
When she was feeling a little calmer, she
exited onto the Pike once more and drove toward D.C.—until she spotted the low profile of a motel on her side of the road.
After pulling under the lobby entrance canopy, she looked in back of her again. The guy wasn't there.
She knew if the killer had followed her, getting a room would be a dangerous idea. But she was almost certain she'd lost him. Since he didn't know where she was, spending the night here would be a lot safer than going back home. In the morning she'd figure out what to do. Right now, all she wanted was to feel safe.
She was deciding which credit card to use, when her mind canceled the decision. You could trace people through their credit card transactions. Which meant that she should pay in cash.
Luckily, she was prepared for that eventuality. Long ago, after Gran's purse had been stolen, she'd tucked emergency money—three fifty-dollar bills—under the floor mat of her car. Before getting out, she found the money, then went inside and rented a room for the night. The place was one of those two-story motels where you registered, then drove to your room. So she didn't have to explain why she was arriving without any luggage.
After locking the door, setting the chain, and tipping a chair back under the doorknob, she looked around the room. It wasn't anything fancy, but it wasn't too bad. At least the blue spread, curtains, and carpeting looked clean.
But the air was cold, and she suddenly felt chilled to the bone. Shivering violently, she crossed to the bathroom, and turned on the shower with a shaky hand.
She stayed under the hot water for a long time, using the soap and shampoo provided by the management. Finally, feeling better, she got out and dried herself, then put her tee shirt back on. After using the hair dryer mounted above the light switch, she washed out her underwear and hung it on a towel rack.
By the time she was finished, she was so worn out that she could barely move. She'd been going to see if she could get Ross's number from information. But now it didn't seem worth the effort. If she'd been thinking clearly, she might have decided she was being compelled to go to bed. But coherent thought had been washed away with the hot water. She could only stagger across the room, turn off the lights, and crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin like an animal seeking refuge in its burrow.
She was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. And there was almost no opportunity to rest. Almost at once, she was in the strange, airless land where humans had no place.
The fear was still there, nipping at her heels. But this time it was less, because she knew where safety lay. The huge incarnation of the magic wand was shining in the distance. She staggered toward it, gasping as she reached the milestone, then broke free of the thick fog.
As soon as she stepped into untainted air, she knew where she was. Not Sugarloaf Mountain, thank the Lord. Instead, she was back in the Alma-Tadema painting. Well, not exactly. It was the landscape of the painting. Only now the brilliant midday sunlight was gone—replaced by the softer light of early evening.
And she wasn't alone.
A man dressed in faded jeans and a dark tee shirt was standing at the edge of the marble structure, staring out to sea, his hands stuffed into his front pockets. She saw him only from the back, but she knew who it was.
"Jack!"
He turned, and a smile of welcome broke out on his face. A relaxed, open smile that was achingly new to her.
"Kathryn. I was hoping you'd come."
She walked swiftly toward him, stopping a few feet away, thinking that she was going to show him she wasn't controlled by passion—that the two of them could have a conversation without grabbing each other.
Hours ago, when she'd seen him in the hospital, his face had been bruised, one eye swollen closed. His arm in a sling.
That image faded as she stared at him. He looked as he had before he'd left for Sugarloaf. Well, not exactly the same. He looked happier, more relaxed than she'd ever seen him. He wasn't in his persona of Jack Thornton, police detective. He was off duty. At ease.
As she took him in, she saw him doing the same with her. For the first time, her focus shifted away from him. She looked down at her own garb and saw that she was wearing only the tee shirt that she'd put on in the motel. It was a long tee shirt, skimming her hips, but much too revealing to be wearing out here in the open.
His warm look told her that keeping their hands off each other might not be so easy.
"I was going to say 'We have to stop meeting this way,' " she managed.
"You mean just when I've decided it's a good idea?"
"A good idea," she breathed, trying to keep her tone light, but he must have seen something on her face that disturbed him. And she recalled that he was excellent at reading people.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "I mean, beyond the usual problems?"
"What… uh… do you remember before this?"
She watched his thoughts turn inward, watched his features cloud, knew the moment when comprehension dawned. "Oh, Christ!" he exclaimed. "I went off the road." He gripped her arm. "What happened to me? Am I dead? Is this heaven?"
Her throat clogged. "Heaven? I hope not. If this is heaven, then we're both here. And I didn't think he got me."
His hand tightened on her flesh. "You don't think who got you?"
"I… I shouldn't have said that."
"Yeah, but you did. What happened to you?"
"The man I saw in my last dream. He was waiting for me when I got home from the hospital. When I pulled into the driveway, he blocked me in. At least I'm pretty sure it was him."
"Shit!"
"It's okay. I drove around him. I… I got away. Then I went to a motel on the Pike."
"You're sure he didn't follow you?" he demanded. "You checked?"
"Yes. I'm fine."
"Thank God for that." His face contorted. "But when you wake up, I don't think I'm in any kind of shape to protect you." His expression clouded. "My car turned over. What happened to me?"
"You have a concussion. And a dislocated shoulder."
"Oh, shit."
"You're going to be okay."
"Yeah, well, I've screwed things up pretty good. I'm not going to be on active duty anytime soon. Damn! I was driving to your house. To get something of DeYoung's—to salt up there at the grave site." He stopped, cursed again, his expression contrite. "Sorry, that's a wonderful way to tell you that your friend is dead."
She reached for his hand, knit her fingers with his. "Ross told me. He… he already got something of Heather's. A pin. He showed it to Captain Granger."
"Granger! You talked to Granger?"
"He came to the hospital. He was… pretty hostile."
"I'll bet." He shook his head. "Something's going on with him. I can't figure it out. He asked me to try and connect the missing person cases. Then somehow he decided it was my idea."
She stared at him. "That's… weird."
"My thoughts exactly."
It was a strange discussion. They were both talking quickly, exchanging information as though it were perfectly normal to be meeting in a dream. But then, for them, it was!
"There is some good news," she told him. "You were right about William Strong. He doesn't exist, so… uh… Granger couldn't write you up."
"That's something, anyway."
They discussed the captain for a few more minutes, coming to no real conclusions. Yet she felt the tightness inside her chest easing. All too often, she had felt she and Jack were antagonists. Now, they were trying to figure things out together.
"How did you hook up with Ross?" he asked.
"I called him and asked him to meet me at the hospital."
"You called him?"
She gave a small nod. "I… I saw the accident. Like a… a vision. I saw you go off the road."
His reaction was more matter-of-fact than she might have expected. "Just like I saw the ceremony."
"What ceremony?"
He grimaced. "I saw two men in a room hung with black curtains, and one of them…" He stopped. "You don't
want to hear about this."
"I think I have to." Her fingers clamped on his. "Jack, we're in this together. We're tied together by this thing. You understand that, don't you."
"Yeah. I understand it." His grip tightened on hers. "I was just trying to skip the gory details. But, okay. One man was wearing black trousers and standing over another man, strapped naked to a table. The one in the trousers was torturing the one who was strapped down."
She felt her throat close, understanding why Jack had wanted to hold the information back. He gathered her to him, cupping the back of her head and pulling her face against his shoulder.
When a shudder went through her, he pulled her closer, then leaned back against the wall and took her with him.
She stayed in his arms for only a few moments. Then, struggling to show him that she wasn't going to go to pieces, she eased away and pressed her shoulders against the opposite wall. "Did you see his face?" she asked.
"Which one?"
"Either."
"The man with the black pants had his back to me. All I saw was a network of scars on his skin and a bald spot at the back of his blond hair. The man on the table was Gary Swinton."
"Oh, my God! Swinton? You're sure?"
"I interviewed him a couple of days ago. He was hiding something, but I didn't know what. I went to talk to him again after you gave me that paper with the acid, but he'd left work. When I got to his apartment in D.C., it looked like he'd been packing—then gotten interrupted. There was blood in his suitcase."
"Oh, Lord!"
"What I'm thinking is that he helped Black Trousers capture your friend."
"Black Trousers?"
"That's what I'm calling the guy whose face I couldn't see. My guess now is that Swinton drugged her. Probably he got her used to doing drugs with him, so she wasn't worried about what was happening."
She sucked in a sharp breath.
"Swinton must have worked out some deal with the other guy to be paid for his services. Then it turned sour. Maybe Black Trousers was angry that I was investigating Swinton."
The thought of The Swine handing over Heather for money turned her stomach. "Unfortunately, that sounds like something he might do."