by Linda Howard
“Nothing’s been called in yet.”
More silence. Then he said, “This will prove one way or the other if she’s for real.”
“Yeah. She was in pretty bad shape. I’m at her house, if you need me. Dispatch is going to call if anything’s reported.”
“Okay. If she’s right … shit!”
Yeah, shit. Dane sat there drinking coffee, brooding. If Marlie was right, and the same guy who had murdered Nadine Vinick had done another woman, in the same way, they had big-time trouble. As bad as he had wanted the bastard, he thought he had been looking for a onetimer, he had hoped it was someone who had known Mrs. Vinick. He had thought it had been personal, though he hadn’t been able to find anything to indicate what that would have been. Multiple stab wounds usually meant someone was really pissed at the victim.
But another victim, killed with the same MO, meant they had a psychopath in Orlando. A serial killer. Someone without conscience, someone who acted only according to his own weird rules. Worse, it looked as if he was an intelligent serial killer, taking pains to leave no evidence behind. Serial killers were a real bitch to catch under any circumstances, and a smart one was almost impossible. Look at how long Bundy had killed before he’d finally made a mistake.
He couldn’t do anything but wait. He couldn’t investigate a murder that hadn’t been reported, a body that hadn’t been found. Until a victim turned up, all he had was a vision by a burned-out, trauma-damaged psychic. He believed her, though; his gut believed her, and that was frightening in itself. A cold corner of logic in his brain was still saying “wait and see,” but logic couldn’t dissipate the knot in his stomach.
He knew the terminology. Escalating sexual serial killer. He tried to remember if there had been any unsolved stabbing murders in Orlando before Nadine Vinick, but none came to mind, at least none that resembled it. Either the guy had just recently started murdering his victims, or he had moved in from another city. If a killer moved around, kept the murders spread out over different jurisdictions, cops might never figure out that it was the work of a serial killer because they wouldn’t have the other murders to compare the method to.
If Mrs. Vinick was his first victim, then to have killed again so soon the guy had to have gone totally out of control, and they would soon have a bloodbath in the city. An escalating killer started out slow; there might be months between his victims. Then the killings would start getting closer and closer together, because that was the only way he could get his rocks off, and he wanted it more and more often. Only a week between victims signaled an incipient rampage.
And he couldn’t do anything except wait.
When would the body, if there was a body, most likely be discovered? Maybe the husband worked third shift, like Mr. Vinick. Maybe that was the common denominator, that the husband was gone nights. If so, the discovery would be in the morning, say from six until eight. But if the lady lived alone, it could be a couple of days or longer before anyone missed her enough to check on her. Hell, he’d seen cases where people had been dead for weeks before anyone noticed.
Wait.
He looked at the clock again. Five after two. The coffee was gone, and he drank so much of the stuff that it only worked as long as he was pouring it in. He was tired; his eyelids felt like sandpaper.
He looked at Marlie’s couch, and snorted in dismissal. He was six two, and the couch was five feet. He’d never been into masochism.
He peeked into the one room in the little house that he hadn’t seen, wondering if it was a spare bedroom. It wasn’t. This was where she stored odd pieces of furniture, luggage, boxes of books. It wasn’t as cluttered as the main rooms in his home usually were.
The only bed in the place was the one Marlie was sleeping in. He supposed he could go home, but he didn’t want to leave her alone. The lock on her door was ruined. He didn’t know how long she would sleep, but he intended to be there when she woke.
He hesitated for only the barest second, wondering what she would say if she woke up with him in bed beside her, but then he shrugged and went into her bedroom. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved at all.
He stripped down to his shorts, tossing his clothes over the rocking chair, and placed the pistol on the bedside table. His pager went right beside the pistol. There was only the one table, and Marlie was lying on that side of the bed. Dane scooted her over, then without even a twinge of conscience, slid in beside her and turned off the lamp.
It felt good. Contentment spread through him, a warm antidote to the worry of the last few hours. As big as he was, the double bed felt cramped to him, but even that had its good points because Marlie was so close to him. He put his arms around her, holding her cradled to him with her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Her slight body felt soft and fragile, and her breath moved across his chest with the lightest of touches.
He would be willing to lie awake for the rest of his life, if he could protect her from what she had gone through tonight. She had told him, Officer Ewan had told him, the professor had told him, but until he had seen it with his own eyes, he simply hadn’t realized how traumatic it was for her, how it hurt her, how much it cost her.
What a price she had paid! He knew the toll it took on the human spirit to see so much ugliness, day in and day out. Some cops handled it better than others, but they all paid, and they had only normal sensitivities. What must it have been like for her, feeling everything, all the pain and rage and hate? Losing her empathic ability must have been like being rescued from torture. Now that it was evidently coming back, how must she feel? Trapped? Desperate?
Desire pulsed in his loins; he couldn’t be around her and not want her. But stronger than desire was the need to hold her close and protect her, from the horrors within as well as those without.
He slept until eight, and woke instantly aware that the pager hadn’t beeped at him during the night. Neither had Marlie stirred. She lay limply against his side, her very stillness a gauge of her exhaustion. How long did this stupor normally last?
He showered, figuring she wouldn’t mind the use of her bathroom and towels. Then he shaved, using her razor and swearing when he nicked himself. Then he went into the kitchen and put on another pot of coffee. He was beginning to feel as comfortable in Marlie’s house as he was in his own. While he was waiting for the coffee to brew, he measured the ruined front door for a replacement. He had just finished that when the phone rang.
“Heard anything?” Trammell asked.
“Nothing.”
“What does Marlie say?”
“She hasn’t said anything. She’s been asleep almost since she came out of the vision last night. She managed to tell me what she’d seen, then passed out.”
“I thought about this for hours last night. If it’s a serial killer …”
“We’ve got trouble.”
“Should we tell Bonness what we think?”
“We’d better. After all, he believed Marlie before either of us did. We can’t do anything until the murder is verified, but we should keep him informed.”
“We’re going to feel like fools if no one’s found.”
“I hope so,” Dane said grimly. “I honest to God hope I feel like the biggest fool walking. That would be a hell of a lot better than the alternative.”
Trammell sighed. ’I’ll talk to Bonness,” he volunteered. “How long are you going to be at Marlie’s?”
“I don’t know. At least until she’s capable of functioning on her own. All weekend, the way it looks.”
“Wipes her out, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it.” A thought occurred to him. “And while you’re out and around today, I need you to get a door for me. Marlie’s isn’t very secure.”
*
The voice pulled insistently at her, refusing to let her rest. It was a very patient voice, though relentless. On the far fringes of consciousness she knew that it was familiar, but she couldn’t quite recognize it. She was tired, so tired; she just wanted to sle
ep, to forget. The voice had pulled her from oblivion before. Why didn’t it leave her alone? Fretfully she resisted the disturbance, trying to find the comfort of nothingness again.
“Marlie. Come on, Marlie. Wake up.”
It wasn’t going to stop. She tried to turn away from the noise, but something was holding her down.
“That’s right, honey. Open your eyes.”
Surrender seemed easier; she didn’t have the energy to fight. Her eyelids felt like stone, but she forced them open, and frowned in confusion at the man who was sitting on the bed beside her. His arms were braced on either side of her, holding the sheet tight; that was what was preventing her from moving.
“There you are,” he said softly. “Hi, honey. I was getting worried.”
She couldn’t think; everything was fuzzy. Why was Dane holding her trapped like this? Her confusion must have been on her face, because he smiled and lifted one hand to smooth her tangled hair back from her face. “Everything’s okay. But you’ve been asleep for a long time, and I didn’t know if it was normal or not, so I decided to try to wake you up. It took some doing,” he added wryly.
“What …? Why are you here?” she mumbled, trying to sit up. He sat back, releasing the sheet, and she struggled into an upright position. It took so much effort that she ached. What was wrong? Had she been sick? The flu, maybe; her bones ached so, that could be the explanation. But why was Dane here?
“If I had to make a guess,” he said, his voice pitched to a soothing rumble, “I’d say your need for the john has to be critical. Can you make it there?”
When he mentioned it, she realized that he was exactly right. She nodded and clumsily pushed the sheet away. He stood so she could swing her legs off the bed. She didn’t have many clothes on, she thought weakly as she sat on the edge looking down at her bare limbs, but she just didn’t have the strength to care.
She tried to stand and sank heavily back onto the mattress. Dane bent and lifted her easily in his arms. Her head drooped into the curve of his shoulder and neck, and the position seemed so comfortable that she let it stay there.
She heard the hum of the air conditioner. The air was cold on her bare skin, and the radiant heat of his big body was heavenly as he carried her … somewhere. She closed her eyes.
“No you don’t,” he scolded, putting her on her feet. Her heavy eyelids opened and she saw that she was in her own bathroom. “Make an effort, honey. Now, can you manage by yourself or do you want me to stay in here with you?”
She wasn’t so tired that she couldn’t give him a “get real” look, and he chuckled. “I’m fine,” she said, though she heard the fretful weakness in her own voice. She ignored it. She would manage; she always had.
“Okay, but I’ll be right outside the door. Sing out if you need me.”
She stood swaying in the small room after he had left, staring longingly at the bathtub and wondering if she could stand upright long enough to take a shower. It would be so embarrassing if Dane had to help her, handling her naked body as if she were a helpless infant.
First things first, though. She was very thirsty, but there was a more pressing concern. When that was taken care of, she gulped two glasses of water, then stood with the cool glass pressed against her forehead. Her mind was still so foggy, every thought such an effort. She needed to remember something, she felt the urgency, but couldn’t concentrate long enough to bring it to mind. All she wanted to do was sleep. Blessed sleep. She didn’t want to remember.
She really wanted that shower a lot.
Finally the simplest thing to do was to turn on the water and step under it, clothes and all, so that’s what she did. She deliberately left the water not quite lukewarm, knowing that it would wake her up, not wanting to but accepting the necessity. She stood under the cool spray, her face turned up to catch the full blast, and let the fog dissipate. Let memory return. Let the water overcome and wash away the hot salty tears, the way a flood overcomes and obliterates a trickle.
Until it wasn’t enough and she buried her face in her hands, sobs shaking her body.
“Marlie … ?” The worried, impatient tone changed at once, became quiet and steady. “I know, honey. I know it’s bad. But you’re not alone now. I’ll take care of you.”
The water was turned off, and his strong hands were on her, helping her out of the tub. She stood dripping on the mat, her eyes still closed while tears tracked down her cheeks.
“You’re soaked,” he said, still in that soothing, rocksteady tone. “Let’s get these clothes off—”
“No,” she managed, the word strangled.
“You can’t keep them on.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“Okay. Just open your eyes for me, honey, and tell me that you can manage, and I’ll get some dry clothes for you and leave you to it. But I want to see those eyes before I do.”
She swallowed, and took two deep breaths to control the tears. When she thought she could handle it, she forced herself to open her eyes and look up at him. “I can do it.”
His gaze was piercing as he studied her, then he gave a short nod. “I’ll get your clothes. Tell me what you want.”
She tried to think, but nothing came to mind. “I don’t care. Anything.”
“Anything,” left to his decision, was a pair of panties and her cotton robe. While he waited outside, she stripped off her wet clothes, clumsily dried herself, then dressed in what he had provided. She was rubbing her wet hair with a towel when he decided she had had enough time, and opened the door again.
“Here, I’ll do it,” he said, taking the towel from her and putting down the lid on the toilet for her to sit down. She did, and he carefully blotted all the excess water from her hair, then took the comb and smoothed out all the tangles. She sat there like a child, letting him minister to her, and the small attentions gave her a comfort she’d never had before. Numbly she realized that what he’d said was true: She wasn’t alone this time. Dane was with her. He had been there last night, and he was still there, taking care of her, lending her his strength when she had none.
“What time is it?” she finally asked. Mundane thing, but the small and unimportant were the anchors of life, the constants that held one steady.
“Almost one. You need to eat; come on in the kitchen and I’ll put on a pot of fresh coffee, then fix breakfast for you.”
She remembered his coffee. She gave him an appalled look. “I can do the coffee.”
He accepted the rejection of his coffee with good grace, being used to it. She was coming out of it; she could say anything she wanted about his coffee. She was more alert, though her face was utterly colorless, except for the shadows under her eyes, and tight with strain. He put his arm around her waist to support her as they slowly made their way to the kitchen.
She leaned against the cabinet while she made coffee, then sat and watched Dane competently assemble a meal of toast, bacon, and a scrambled egg. She ate a couple of bites of egg and bacon, and one slice of toast. Dane ate the rest.
When she crumpled, without a word he scooped her onto his lap and held her while she cried.
11
TRAMMELL ARRIVED ABOUT FOUR THAT AFTERNOON, DRIVING A pickup truck he had borrowed, with the replacement door in the truck bed. Dane paused for a moment to savor the incongruity of Trammell driving a truck, then went out to help him unload the door. “Whose truck is it?” he asked.
“Freddie’s husband’s.” They each grabbed one side of the door and slid it off the bed. They didn’t have to ask if anything had been reported; if it had, they both would have heard. Next door, Lou came out on her porch to watch them with open and suspicious interest. Dane took the time to wave to her. She waved back, but frowned disapprovingly. No doubt she had looked out her window first thing this morning and seen his car in Marlie’s driveway; he had undoubtedly besmirched Marlie’s spotless reputation.
“New lady friend?” he i
nquired delicately as they carried the door to the porch.
“Um, no.” Trammell was being unusually reticent, and Dane was instantly suspicious. It wasn’t that Trammell was the kind of guy who regaled the squad room with play-by play details of a hot night, but he was usually forthcoming enough to at least give the lady a name.
“I thought the date was called off”
Trammell cleared his throat. “She came over anyway.”
“Anything I should know about?”
“No. Maybe. But not yet.”
Dane didn’t get to be such a good detective by being stupid. He wondered why Trammell would feel it necessary to protect a woman’s identity, and only two possibilities presented themselves. One: The lady was married. Trammell wasn’t a poacher, though; married women were off limits to him. Two: The lady was a cop. That made sense; it fit. Immediately he began running through names and faces, trying to match them to the voice he’d heard last night. Everything clicked into place like three cherries in a slot machine. Ash blond hair sternly subdued to fit under her patrolman’s cap, a rather austere face, quiet brown eyes. Not beautiful, but deep. She wouldn’t enjoy being the butt of the raucous gossip that squad rooms specialized in, and she wasn’t the kind of woman to be trifled with. “Grace Roeg,” he said.
“Goddammit!” Trammell dropped his end of the door to the porch with a thump, and glared at him.
Dane set his end down with less force. “I’m good,” he said, shrugging. “What can I say?”
“Nothing. Make sure you say absolutely nothing.”
“No problem, but you’re really getting in deep with me. That’s two secrets I have to keep.”
“God. All right. If you feel the need to blab about something, if you just can’t stand the pressure, then tell them about the beer. I can live with that. But keep Grace out of it.”
“Like I said, no problem. I like her; she’s a good cop. I’d spill the beans on you, but I wouldn’t upset her for anything. Watch yourself, though, pal. You could be asking for major trouble. You outrank her.”
“There’s no question of sexual harassment.”