While She Was Sleeping

by Diane Pershing

She pushed him away and sat down on the edge of the couch. Shaking her head, she looked down at her lap. “No, it’s not necessary. Just a dream, that’s all. Promise.”

  “But, look Carly—” he scratched his head “—you talked about not killing someone—what did you mean?”

  Her body seemed to freeze for a second, then she lifted and dropped her shoulders in a shrug. “Did I?”

  She didn’t raise her head, didn’t make eye contact with him. She was hiding again, but at least she seemed more awake, more in control now, no longer a candidate for the emergency room.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he said firmly, and his tone brooked no argument, “you’re going to the doctor.” He crouched down again and took her hand. It lay limp and cold in his, as though the life had drained out of it. He took both her hands and rubbed them between his, trying to give her the warmth she so obviously needed. “Hear me? Tomorrow morning. End of discussion. You’re going to have to trust me, Carly.”

  Images, fast, terrifying images swept through Carly’s mind and pulled her toward some unknown void. Still, somehow she managed to hear him through the mists in her brain.

  Trust him.

  But she was so cold. And disoriented. Her mind kept leaping from one subject to the next.

  Richard had been there... Someone else had killed Demeter, but she’d seen him die... Death.

  Nina was dead.

  Could Richard be a murderer?

  There had been another voice... A man. She knew that voice....

  The man at the airport. He’d been on the yacht.

  “Amanda,” the crying man kept calling her. He thought she was Amanda. She looked like Amanda. She had been made to look like Amanda. Like Nina.

  Nina was dead. Oh, Lord, how that hurt.

  Trust him, Nick had said.

  Could she? With superhuman effort she tried to focus on that very question, tried to imagine trusting him. Telling him, all of it—the dream...

  No, not a dream, this had been a flashback, a memory. She’d been on a chair, Demeter had been killed by someone—Richard? No, not Richard, Richard had told her to run.

  Carly was not a murderer... But Nina was dead. It was more than she could handle.

  “I’m so scared.”

  She wasn’t aware she’d said it out loud until she felt the cushions dip as Nick lowered himself onto the couch. He leaned over, the upper part of his body covering hers as he drew her into his arms, engulfing her. She’d wanted that, wanted it so badly earlier, and now he was here, offering shelter. The heat from his body warmed her, made the shivering and shaking slow down.

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  Tell him. Part of her wanted to. Let him help you. He was one of the good guys, he wasn’t her father, not a brutal cop. Nick was here and he offered a broad shoulder and a clear head. He’d been so kind to her. She wasn’t used to such kindness from men.

  Her mind shifted in a new direction. “What happened to Richard?” Again, she hadn’t been aware she’d said it out loud until she felt Nick stiffen.

  “Don’t tell me you’re worried about him?”

  “Only because he was on—” But she could not go on. Nick would take her to the police and they would have her and she would be locked up, put in a cell, with no way out.

  No way out....

  In that instant she was six years old again, sitting at the dinner table with her parents and her sister. Her father was smiling, his eyes glittering with his latest triumph. Down at the station they’d managed to “misplace” some evidence that might have cleared the man they were holding. They’d railroaded him into a confession, so now they had enough to file charges. He was a loser anyway, her father had told them, so who cared? Why look for the bird in the bush, he’d said with a laugh, when we have the bird in the hand? Wasted energy, he’d called it.

  A primitive wave of fear washed over her. She would be locked up, again. Would Nina be there with her? She was so little. Someone else would have the key and she wouldn’t be able to get out. This time she would die.

  No. her tired brain insisted. Stop this. Carly wasn’t six years old anymore. She was an adult. And she wanted to tell Nick... But she couldn’t tell Nick. So she said nothing, just lay back down on the couch and turned onto her side, away from him.

  She felt him ease his body onto the couch, so that it lay side by side with hers. She stiffened for the briefest moment when Nick’s arms enfolded her. Then she stopped fighting and gratefully let herself be enveloped by him. Oh, Lord, he was so large, his embrace so all-encompassing. How she needed this. For a few moments, Carly lost herself in him, wishing she could curl up somewhere inside that large, strong, warm body and seek oblivion from everything.

  His arms held her fast. “I’m all right now,” she mumbled sleepily. “Really. It was just a dream.”

  “Good. Go to sleep. I’m not leaving you.”

  But he would. She had secrets, so many secrets that she must keep from him if she was to save her own life. And to protect him. She’d come to care for him. Yes, even in the middle of this horrifying ordeal, she knew her feeling for him was strong. Perhaps too strong.

  Her brain was on overload. Too many thoughts, too many questions. And then she stopped thinking at all.

  Monday morning

  Fear sucked the breath from her lungs as she awoke. She was trapped, a prisoner. She was suffocating; she couldn’t get any air.

  Then some of the weight crushing her shifted and reality intervened. It was Nick, stirring in his sleep, she realized. He was lying half on top of her on the couch. The tension ebbed away; she even smiled. It was Nick’s heavy, warm body keeping her safe, not some half-remembered demon crushing the life out of her. And she was having trouble breathing because her face was buried in the back of the couch. Shifting her head slightly, Carly allowed oxygen into her lungs.

  Lie still for a moment, she told herself. Let your heart slow to its normal rhythm. She breathed deeply, several times. In, out, in, out, as she’d learned to do when the panic hit her. It worked. Her head was clearer now.

  Last night, she’d remembered so much more—especially that she was not responsible for killing another human being. Thank heaven for that, she thought.

  Now she had to think, to plan. She had to stop feeling so lacking in control. Action was what was needed now, not passivity, if she was to get to the bottom of this mystery.

  But first, she had to get to the bathroom.

  She wished she didn’t have to disturb Nick, but he was pretty firmly planted. She pushed her elbow into his ribs. “Nick?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Could you move?”

  His hand did just that, moved up from her waist to cup one breast possessively. “Too early,” he mumbled, his thumb tracing her nipple. Even as her flesh hardened, she could feel his arousal against the back of her thighs, felt it growing as the seconds ticked on. Even in sleep, she thought with wonder, he wanted her.

  “Nick.” She put her hand over his and withdrew it from her body. “Nick, I have to get up.”

  She felt him stir again, and suddenly the weight of him was gone. Behind her, a loud thump was followed by a muttered expletive.

  She turned over, her stiff body protesting the movement. Nick lay on the floor between the coffee table and the couch. Rubbing the back of his head, he slanted her a puzzled, groggy gaze. “What happened?”

  She just had to smile. He looked so grumpy, so offended to be taken by surprise this way. His hair stuck up in black spikes, his eyes were heavy with interrupted sleep. A faint beard shadowed his chin and jawline. The rest of him, covered only by his briefs, was tanned and strong, the stuff dreams were made of. He was all man.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked. “You fell off the couch.”

  He rubbed the back of his head again, then shook it. As he sat up, he shouldered the coffee table away. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He blinked a couple of times, then awarene
ss dawned. Swiping his hand over his face, he said, “Hey. The hell with me. Are you all right? You had a pretty rough night.” There was such concern in his question that a lump of emotion gathered in the back of her throat. He cared about her, too, although the whole thing was a miracle to her.

  She nodded. “Much better this morning, thank you. I want to call Richard and Margie again. I’m really worried.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He rose, offering his hand.

  Why in hell did she keep talking about Richard? Nick wondered. She seemed concerned about the man’s welfare, not angry, the way she should be. Richard had been the one who’d slipped her the drugs, after all.

  Maybe she was more hung up on her ex than she knew or admitted to herself. No, he thought quickly. Not after what she’d told him about her marriage. This wasn’t about being hung up on him. But she was still connected to him, in some mysterious way, and Nick didn’t like it.

  She accepted his hand and stood, making sure to smooth down the man’s T-shirt she wore, so it covered her thighs. Still modest, he noted. Still the lady.

  He dropped her hand. “Sure you’re okay? You were pretty scared.” Hell, scared was hardly the word. She’d been terrified. She seemed calmer this morning, more in control, but it was hard to forget the screams, the moans of despair of a few short hours ago. “No more bad dreams?”

  She smiled briefly. “Not that I remember.”

  He stared after her as she hurried off toward his bedroom. As he heard the bathroom door shut, he stretched his arms over his head, groaning as creaking muscles protested. Why the hell hadn’t he carried her into his bed instead of making the effort to balance on that narrow couch all night?

  Not to mention the effort of pretty much keeping his hands to himself. It had been a trial, a night-long one. It sure hadn’t been easy, but he’d made up his mind. Several times during the night, with her soft, rounded flesh thrust against him, he wished he hadn’t.

  Hey, he told himself. Time to stop dwelling on body parts and get down to business. He shook his head to clear it once again, then went to the small desk by the window and pulled out his address book. After looking up Neil Mishkin’s phone number, he put in a call. His service answered. Dr. Mishkin would be in at ten, the operator told him crisply, one hour from now. Nick left word that he would be bringing someone in to see him about eleven, and that it was important.

  As soon as Carly came out of the bathroom, he went in himself while she made her phone calls. He made an appearance ten minutes later, showered and dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Carly was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the phone.

  “Any luck?”

  She looked at him with a puzzled frown. “Richard’s still not home. Margie got held up at customs and has bad jet lag, but she promised to go to his place and check up on him, then call me back. She’s also going to call my boss and tell him I’ll be out sick for a few days.”

  “You’re staying?” Elation roared through him so swiftly, he was caught off guard. But he kept his tone casual. “I thought you wanted to get home.”

  “I don’t feel right doing that.” Her smile was sheepish. “It would be...running away.”

  She wasn’t leaving, not yet. He would have more time with her.

  Cut it out, he warned himself. This changed nothing.

  “Good,” he said. “If Margie or Richard calls while we’re gone, my answering machine will pick it up.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “First I’m buying us breakfast, then we go to the doctor.” He walked over to her, grabbed her elbow and helped her out of her chair. Steering her toward the bedroom, he said, “It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and we could both use some fresh air. I’ve already showered. Your turn.”

  “Still giving orders, aren’t you?” she said with a smile.

  “You got it.”

  While Carly was in the bathroom, he spent several minutes on vigorous knee exercises. When she returned to the living room, she was wearing the purple sweats again. “We need to get you some clothes,” he said.

  “I have a closetful back in Hull.”

  “I thought you weren’t planning to go back.”

  “Well, not yet, but eventually.”

  Of course, he reminded himself, of course she would go back. Eventually. “Well as far as I’m concerned, you’re not going back to Hull until we know how you got here. And I don’t want to hear any arguments, okay?”

  “Excuse me?” Her look was a combination of surprise and resentment.

  He had to grin; even he wondered where that little piece of caveman chest-pounding had come from. “I’ll put that differently.” With one arm across his waist, he offered a mock bow, then rose. “Today, Ms. Terry, you and I are going to make every attempt to understand what happened to you. I have a few ideas that I’d like to discuss with you over scrambled eggs.” He grinned. “How does that grab you? Better?”

  Her answering smile was reluctant. “Better. You have possibilities, Mr. Holmes. Definite possibilities.”

  It was a beautiful, breezy morning, with just a hint of autumn in the air. Sun, ocean, gulls, boats. The smells, the sounds of a busy boardwalk. As he and Carly strode toward the docks, Nick realized he loved it here on the marina—it felt more like home than anyplace he’d ever lived.

  As they passed Con’s Bait Shop, Nick felt the back of his neck tighten. That was where his cop’s sixth sense usually made itself felt and he’d learned to trust it. He grabbed Carly’s hand, then turned casually as though to murmur something to her. The reflective flash from a pair of sunglasses caught the corner of his eye. He whipped around, just in time to see a form dart behind the small shack.

  “What is it?” Carly asked.

  “I think we’re being followed.” Her hand tensed in his and he squeezed it. “Keep walking. Act naturally, Carly.”

  The wind picked up as they walked along some more. Nick pointed to something nonexistent and steered them around the corner of an old warehouse, now being refurbished into a nightclub. Once there, he pushed her up against the wall, shielding her with his body, and focused his attention on the direction they’d just come from.

  A small man sporting sunglasses and a baseball cap rounded the corner. He wore white tennis shoes, a pair of chinos and a short-sleeved plaid shirt, buttoned all the way to his neck. The moment he saw Nick and Carly, he ducked his head and turned on his heel in one movement, and sped off.

  “Stay here,” Nick ordered.

  Carly was not about to stay anywhere. As soon as Nick took off, so did she, wishing she had something other than rubber thongs on her feet. By the time she turned the corner, Nick was yards ahead of her, ahead of him was a blur running for its life. Carly squinted as she ran, trying to make out more details, but it was hopeless.

  She saw Nick’s hand reach toward his waistline. Then he must have realized he didn’t have his gun because he sped up even more, yelling, “Hey, you! Stop!”

  But the man kept on going. Nick turned into another alleyway and she followed him. She did not want to be alone.

  They rounded one more corner. Now they were on the dock itself. Hundreds of boat masts bobbed in the water of the harbor, their spires reaching high into the sky. Nick was leaning against a wooden signpost, rubbing his knee and cursing.

  The man they’d been chasing was nowhere in sight.

  “Damn knee,” Nick said as Carly caught up to him. She could tell he was in pain by the effort he was making not to give in to it. His eyes were closed and his jaw was tight, as though he was gritting his teeth.

  “You’re hurt,” she said.

  He ignored her. “Did you see where he went?”

  “No.”

  “He just disappeared on me.” He struggled for breath. “The little weasel must run marathons.”

  Carly, too, was panting pretty hard. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

  “Nah. Mad.”

  “Please stand back,” someone shouted. “P
lease stand back.”

  Nick looked up toward the sound, which came from farther south along the harbor. Fifty yards away, a small crowd gathered at the edge of a boat slip. Blue lights atop a sheriffs department patrol boat flashed, while a loud voice told onlookers to keep back.

  “Looks like an accident,” Nick said, his natural policeman’s curiosity aroused. “Let’s check it out.”

  Carly hung back. “I’ll stay here.”

  “Come on.” Nick grabbed her hand again, shook his leg one more time to make sure his knee would function and headed toward the boat slip. When he and Carly got there, he pushed his way through to the front of the crowd. At the edge of the slip, two men in scuba gear were hunched over a lifeless form.

  The uniformed officer urging the onlookers to keep on their side of the taped-off area was someone Nick recognized. “Hey, Kuzinski,” he called out.

  The blond, crew-cutted policeman looked up at the sound of his name. “Nick? What are you doing here?”

  “Happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  A Harbor Patrol vessel chugged in next to the first boat. By now, the scuba divers had given up and the body lay on the dock, facedown. Carly seemed strangely fascinated by the sight. Nick wondered if it was a good idea for her to look. It was obvious the floater was dead, and, as a civilian, she wouldn’t have seen a dead body before. But, he figured, she was a grown-up.

  “So, what’s up?” he asked Kuzinski.

  The patrolman jerked a thumb toward the harbor. “Some woman saw a hand rising out of the water and screamed bloody murder. We just got here. Coroner’s on his way.”

  “Oh. Any idea who it is?”

  “Nothing so far. It’s a man, white, probably in his thirties. He’s still in one piece, so he hasn’t been down there too long.”

  Nick felt Carly release his hand, then she edged closer to the tape and bent over, squinting, as though studying the body. “Any connection to the Demeter thing?” Nick asked. “His yacht’s over at pier 44.”

  Kuzinski shrugged. “Possible. The homicide guys’ll know something.”

  Nick was about to caution Carly about getting too close, but at that moment one of the scuba divers rolled the body onto its back while the other placed a tarp over the still form. Carly put her hand over her mouth in horror. She began to fall back, but before she hit the ground, Nick was there, lifting her in his arms.