“Well, in the morning, hopefully, we’ll see something on that video.”
“Right. I think you and Stacey need to get out to see Colin Smith. I managed to get you an appointment. It wasn’t easy. I wanted to ask him to come in to headquarters, but I know something about the political games these guys play, and I’m damned sure he’d refuse.”
“We’ll speak to him at that meeting. Come hell or high water, somehow. So. All right.” Keenan hesitated again. “So...just let her sleep on my sofa. Until she wakes up?”
“That’s my suggestion.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll leave a note for her there that you suggested that I not wake her and head to bed myself. Be back with you in the morning.”
They ended the call.
He stared at Stacey, raven hair cascading around her face. “Well, Sleeping Beauty,” he murmured, “the boss says I’m to leave you. So, uh...”
Make her more comfortable? Leave her be?
She was still wearing shoes, though. Maybe she’d wake up if he slipped them off. He gingerly slid each low-heeled bootie off her feet. He also gently unclipped her gun holster and removed it from her hip, setting the weapon nearby.
He went and acquired both a pillow and blanket, setting her head on the cushion, covering her with the blanket.
And still, she slept on.
“Well, at least you aren’t hitting me anymore,” he whispered.
The parlor in his apartment was big. He had an entertainment center that faced the sofa and heavy, upholstered armchairs that flanked it. He went over to his desk across the room.
Jackson said to let you sleep. If you wake up first, help yourself to anything you like. Push button for coffee—I always set it up for the next morning.
He read the note over: it should suffice.
With that done, he headed past the kitchen to the bedroom. He was dead-tired, but not so tired that he could go to bed without a shower.
He’d spent hours at the morgue and then on the streets. He had a feeling that Stacey was not going to be happy with herself. She would have wanted a shower, too.
He studiously scrubbed his hair—glad he kept it cropped short—and then his body. He was standing under a spray of deliciously hot water when he heard the first scream.
Screams meant trouble.
He figured it was Stacey, dreaming again or waking up from a dream. But still, he raced out, just managing to grab a towel to wrap around himself.
He had an alarm system and high-impact windows, and he kept the alarm system set and the windows locked. There was no back door.
It had to be Stacey, but he had learned through the years to be prepared at all times. Stacey was sitting up. Her eyes were open, and she was screaming.
“Stacey!”
His shout had no effect.
He realized she was still sleeping. He sat behind her, drawing her against him as he tried his best to wake her gently.
Her scream faded; she went stiff as a board.
Then she went limp, lying in his lap. Her eyes closed and opened, and then snapped into focus on his.
She gasped, a pained sound.
Though he was seldom tongue-tied or at a loss for words, he found himself speaking too quickly. “You fell asleep in the car—dreaming. I couldn’t wake you. I brought you in here. Jackson said to let you sleep. I left you a note—there on the coffee table, right there... I’m sorry. I don’t know how to handle a situation like yours. I’d left you...you started screaming again.”
She winced again, closing her eyes.
When she opened them again, she seemed to realize her position. Lying on the lap of a man still damp from the shower and wearing nothing but a towel.
“Oh, I...I am so sorry!” She struggled slightly to rise, compromising the knot on his towel, apologizing all over again awkwardly as she started to stand, lost her balance and fell on him again, blushing furiously. “Oh, Lord. I am so...sorry!”
“It’s okay.”
“I guess I was so overtired.”
“It’s okay!”
“No, no, you didn’t want an idiot rookie who dreams things.”
She was so distressed—and luckily, not with him. He found himself smiling and trying to assure her again.
“Stacey, you’re fine. Really.” He offered her a dry grin. “Trust me, much worse things have happened to me and probably will again. It’s okay—you’re okay.”
She accepted his words, looking at him with a downcast sigh. She then blinked and looked away, taking a seat a foot away, but still on the sofa.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, fine, thank you. And again, I’m so sorry.”
“Please, quit apologizing. I just wish... I just wish that I’d been able to do something—to stop you from going through such...distress.”
She shook her head. “I need to go through it. It’s...how I see.”
“And you saw something?” he asked. He shifted slightly. He was losing the damned towel again.
She wasn’t paying attention to him, though. “I’m trying to remember now,” she said. “It was...disjointed. And I saw only just a little bit. It will come again, and again.”
He stood, getting a firm grip on his towel. “Excuse me. I’ll get dressed. I’d say that I was going to take you home, but I’m not sure you should be on your own.”
She blinked and looked at him. “I wouldn’t mind going home. I’d love to have a shower. You’re—clean. That must be heaven.” She smiled.
“I have a shower. I mean, not just in my bathroom. The guest room has an en suite.” He hesitated. “Again, I feel like I wasn’t that helpful during your nightmare. But I’m not sure you should be alone.”
“I’ve dealt with this for years,” she said softly. “Anyway, I don’t have any clean clothes.”
“I have clothes—and I believe they’ll fit you fine.”
“Your clothes?” she asked, another half smile curling her lips with skepticism.
“No. Women’s clothing.”
“Oh!” she said, flushing. “Oh, now I’m very sorry. Someone else lives here with you! Or, uh, spends time here with you. I don’t want to interfere—”
“It’s nothing like that. I have some of my mother’s things here. And she’s about your size.”
She stared at him blankly.
“Yes, even I have a mother,” he told her. “I’m one of five kids, and we’re all over the country now. She keeps a few things here, though she spends most of her time with my sister in Chicago—who also has five kids.”
She was just staring at him.
“Hey, quit it. I may be a hard-ass sometimes, but I have a family. And I’m a good uncle, really.”
“I, uh...yeah. Thanks. I can stand myself if I can shower. But your mom’s things—”
“My mom is very attractive and stylish,” he assured her.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” she said, then she grinned.
“What?”
“It’s really cute. I mean, that your mom keeps things here.”
“Right. It’s just adorable,” he said impatiently.
“I’m sorry. I just imagined that...that you’d have...um...a busy personal life.”
“You mean sex life?”
“Uh, yeah.”
She seemed so miserably uncomfortable. He laughed.
“Don’t worry, my life is fine. But I’m sure you know, we’re not the kind of people who easily make real relationships. Just this line of work—and then pausing to chat with the dead now and then—can cause a bit of unease in others. With your dreams, it must be worse for you.”
“Yeah...um, frankly, dating sucks,” she admitted softly.
He nodded. “But I do love my family. And I’m happy to see them whenever possible.”
&nb
sp; “I, uh...then, thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be personal like that. If you wouldn’t mind letting me have something that your mom wouldn’t mind being borrowed... I’ll shower.” She was quiet a moment. “And then, yes, I’d like to stay. In the guest bedroom. I have a feeling that this might continue. And it might be important.”
“Let me get dressed, and I’ll get you a towel and some things.”
He quickly turned, clutching the towel, and hurried to his room. He pulled on pajama pants and a robe, and then, before she could change her mind, he found one of his mother’s nightgowns and robes and looked blankly at the closet for a moment. He saw a pair of tailored black pants and a shirt to match and even a cardigan and laid it all out. He remembered a clean towel and washcloth.
He walked back to the living room. She remained seated on the sofa, deep in consternation.
“Go take your shower. Then you can tell me about it,” he said.
She nodded, rising. “Thanks.” She started down the hall and then turned back. “Seriously, thank you.”
“Sure. It’s just a shower.”
“No, I mean...for understanding. For believing.”
“Well, I’ve yet to hear what went on in your dream.”
She paused, studying him. She seemed very still. Regal, somehow. Her face with her beautifully crafted features was stoic and determined, her head high.
“I saw...the beginning.”
“The beginning.”
“I saw it,” she whispered. “Bits...pieces...”
“Bits and pieces?”
“But I knew I was there. I was where it’s going to happen. But...it was just the beginning. The moments leading to the next murder.”
Six
It was bizarre. Of course, she might be considered bizarre herself, just as the Krewe might be considered bizarre. And maybe it took the bizarre to step in when a case seemed to be just as unusual.
But the strangest thing at the moment, Stacey thought, was the fact that she was sitting on a sofa with Keenan Wallace, and he was in pajama pants and a terry robe. And she was in a T-shirt gown and a robe that belonged to his mother.
And she wasn’t blind. He was an amazing presence. Height did that, and surely, that had to be most of it. But while his height made him appear lean, he had broad shoulders, tight abs and, she was certain, rocks and wire for muscles. Then, there was his face. A good face: his eyes were so intense and a deep blue. Broad forehead, strong jaw. Solid, high cheekbones.
She’d thought he was a total jerk. He’d made little effort to hide his initial distaste with her as a partner. But he was growing on her.
He was studying her—she was supposed to be speaking. She had stopped and was just looking at him. And he was waiting patiently.
“I...um. Anyway, this is the way that it has always worked. My dreams, or nightmares, in the past. I see something, a place usually, and know that something is happening that shouldn’t be happening. Then the dream comes again, and I see a little more, and then each time the dream comes, it moves further into what is happening...or what is going to happen, or what might happen.”
“You weren’t even out of high school that first time, when I was on that case. I saw you then, but you were younger, and it was so briefly. Adam didn’t want you involved with any of it.”
She nodded. “But that wasn’t the first time. My father was a private investigator. When I was about ten there was a double murder made to appear as if they’d been accidents—a doctor and his colleague. The wife of the one victim had been afraid for her husband. I believe he’d been getting threats—threats he thought nothing of but she took seriously. So, on her behalf, my dad started to investigate, following a man named McCarron. He was ostensibly a businessman, in pharmaceuticals, but his businesses were all rather dicey. But it seemed nothing could ever be pinned on him; he was very rich, you see, and had friends who were very rich, politicians, movers and shakers among them. My dad had video of McCarron going into the building where the doctor and the other man died—one supposedly from a fall and the other of a heart attack when he tried to help the first. I was young, and I didn’t know much about the case, and I didn’t see or dream any of that happening. But I did dream about a man coming after my father, breaking into our home office, and nearly killing him and my mother and, who knows, possibly me. The dreams were so bad, so terrifying to me, that my mother insisted on a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist was friends with Adam Harrison. Adam came in and listened to me. Then he, my dad, and the cops set up a sting. It was amazing. McCarron and a lot of people wound up with prison terms.”
“What you have really is a gift,” he told her. “I mean, it can’t feel like that all the time, since your screams are pretty darned blood-curdling. I don’t imagine it feels much like a gift.”
She smiled. “Sometimes, no. But you know what it’s like, in a way. You may not have bizarre dreams about violence that might happen, but you do have friends among the dead. You know what it’s like to be very careful about your behavior in front of others. I’ve heard a few stories from other Krewe members regarding slips they’ve made and people who think they’re out and out crazy.”
“That part of it was okay for me.” He paused a long moment. “I come from a family where it seems to be almost genetic.” He stopped speaking again for a minute and shrugged. “When my father passed away, he came to his own funeral.”
“I’m sorry...um, I guess... Do you still get to see him?”
He shook his head. “He moved on, but he was there for a minute. At the funeral, by his coffin. He was standing by it like any other mourner, looked down at himself as with approval, and turned and took my mother into his arms, telling her not to cry. He said he’d had a beautiful life and he wanted her to be happy. And then he was gone. Seemed like there was a glow of light, and he just disappeared into it. Maybe it was a shift of moonlight on the stained-glass windows of the church.”
“I like to think that there is a light,” she said.
“I guess we all do. I have friends who have said good-bye to others by seeing light as well, so maybe it was light. He was a good guy.”
“He was an agent, too, like your great-great-grandfather Bram?”
He smiled and shook his head. “My dad was a cop. But actually, we do need to see Bram somewhere along the line, see if he knows anything. First thing tomorrow, though, the congressman. Congressman Colin Smith.”
“I like it. He’s going to see us?”
“It’s nice to have people who can pull strings.”
“Good. But...suppose he did want to get rid of Billie Bingham. Would he really slaughter those other women just to get to Billie? And while I may not like his stand on several issues, he makes a very formidable public appearance. He can be quite charming.”
“Charm can cover a hell of a lot,” he said. “But I doubt that he’s that crazy. If he’s involved with this, he has an agenda.” He paused and gently touched her shoulder. “We’re off course. Can you describe the dream?”
“I saw a room. There was a bed in it, and one wall had a hearth.”
“Was it the room that Nan, Candy and their friends share?”
“I don’t know yet. It was hazy.”
“Billie’s room—a room at her mansion? Or even a room at Cindy Hardy’s house?”
“I’m sorry...so far it’s just a vague impression that I’m seeing. And I know that someone is there. I don’t know, can you sense evil?”
“I believe you can, and that everyone has an inner intuition that might warn of danger—or evil, as you say.”
“I know that someone is there who is evil and intends to hurt a woman. I know that the woman is there. She doesn’t know. She’s just moving about, and he’s watching.”
“And you think this is going to be the fifth victim?”
“I’m sure of it,” she whispered.
“Then, while I hate to make you scream in terror, let’s hope you do dream again,” he told her.
He stood up. “Damn, it’s late. And tomorrow is early. It is tomorrow. Don’t forget, if you’re up first—push the Brew button on the coffee.” He started down the hall to his room and then turned back. “Sorry, sorry—there’s a bed in the guest room, as you’ve seen,” he added dryly. “Much more comfortable than the sofa. Unless you prefer the sofa. Anyway, let’s both try to get some sleep.”
He smiled and gave her a wave.
She smiled back. She heard him enter his room, heard the door close.
He wasn’t so bad, after all.
No, not bad at all.
She watched after him, appalled by the way her thoughts were roving. The door would open, he’d rush back out, he’d whisper that she was amazing, forgive him, he shouldn’t be saying such things, he just wanted...
No, no, no, no, she told herself. This is your first case! He’s a work colleague. A respected agent!
She stood and headed down the hall for the guest room, having an absurd idea that she would stop and, with an overwhelming impulse, open the door to his room and run in and tell him...
That he was compelling, and she had been alone far too much, and that she just wanted him to touch her. Hold her.
He had suddenly awakened so much more in her.
It was like being one of those people who was afraid of heights. They were so afraid that they would suddenly walk to the edge of a precipice and just keep going...
No, no, no.
She did have control of herself. She passed his door and hurried the few feet to the next. She opened and closed the door, leaning against it and gasping as if she had just escaped a great danger.
The danger had been herself!
Shaking slightly, she moved toward the bed, pulled down the covers and careened onto it. In minutes, sheer exhaustion took over.
And she was asleep.
She knew the dream was coming.
A protective and unconscious instinct tried to fight it. Somewhere in her sleep, whatever neurons played in her brain knew that the dream must come.
Dreaming Death Page 11