Dark Dreamer (14 page)

“June couldn’t hear me,” she said. “That means she’s not dead yet.”

*

Rowe stood in the vestibule and told herself it was mind over matter. She was sleepless. For hours her mind had been churning with stressful ruminations on her career, and countless questions about the people who had lived in her house a century ago. Now she wanted a cup of tea. All she had to do was walk into the kitchen and boil the kettle.

She turned on the lights and took a few paces, watching her shadow swell across the wall ahead of her. The hallway seemed longer than usual, the kitchen lying in wait like a dozing beast. Rowe reminded herself that the only truly sinister presence in her house was a fax she’d received from her publisher late that afternoon outlining some unattractive legal options. Her feet, in fleece-lined moccasins, followed orders and led her to the kitchen threshold. She stood there, inhaling air of a different character—musty, torpid air.

Walking into the kitchen was like entering a cell. She could feel the resentment of past occupants seeping from the walls. Rowe’s hands were sweaty and her heart began pounding like it needed to escape from her chest and head for the door. Stubbornly, she filled the kettle and set it on the stove, telling herself that stress was the real problem tonight. There were no footsteps in the ballroom, the Widow was not tapping on the turret room door.

She rinsed her favorite teapot, an antique black basalt Wedgwood she’d splurged on after she got her first-ever royalty check. Refusing to look over her shoulder, she spooned tea leaves into the tea ball and wished the water would boil. As the seconds slithered by, she distracted herself by exploring the fridge. Phoebe had baked a pecan pie just before she and Cara left for Quantico, and they’d dropped off the leftovers for Rowe on their way to their airport.

She wiggled the knife drawer open, irritated that she kept forgetting to wax the edges to stop it from sticking. From the quivering knives, she selected a small carver and placed it on the counter. As usual, it tried to move. Irritated to find herself unnerved by this, Rowe slapped her hand down on it.

Dwayne and Earl claimed the counter surface was level and instead there was some kind of malevolent presence guarding the room, clearly nonsense. Rowe had renovated an old house once before. There was no such thing as a straight line or a plumb wall. As for an evil presence—they wished.

The kettle whistled, and she switched her attention to making the tea and putting away dishes she had washed earlier. As she lifted crockery into the cabinet next to the sink, a shiver twitched her spine, and she felt certain she was being stared at. To turn or not to turn? Telling herself she was being ridiculous, she did not look back at the counter where the pie waited, but instead took her time stirring the tea. When finally she turned, mug in hand, she froze.

The carving knife was no longer on the counter. Instead it was several inches above the chipped tile surface, the blade pointing directly at her. Rowe dropped her tea in fright and took a swift sideways step toward the door. The knife catapulted after her, and she plunged out of its path, diving for the floor. The lethal blade struck the wall behind her and embedded itself.

“Fuck. Damn.” Rowe was soaked with wet tea, and a shard of ceramic jutted from her right palm. Above her the half-open knife drawer began rattling violently. Horrified, she scrambled to her feet and shoved it closed, leaning back against it, breathing hard. “Who the fuck are you and what do you want?” she yelled. “Come on, chickenshit. Show yourself.”

She stared around the dingy room. Was this a dream? Her hand throbbed with pain and she pulled out the long shard. Blood dripped from the wound to the floor, blending with the liquid already there to form a reddish pool. Rowe found a kitchen towel and wrapped it around the injury. It wasn’t serious, just painful. At least she was alive.

With trepidation, she yanked the knife from the wall and returned it to the drawer, hurriedly shoving it closed.

“This is my house and you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” she informed the peeling walls.

Fuck this. She was going to bring a team of workmen in here as soon as the worst of winter was over. They could demolish the goddamned room. There were plenty of better locations for a kitchen anyway. Maybe she would convert the huge formal dining room she never used. There was enough space for a state-of-the-art kitchen if she wanted one.

Rowe picked up the pie and crossed the room. Her hand was so sore she was whining. Screw the mess on the floor. She would clean it up tomorrow.

“Your days are numbered, pal,” she announced from the safety of the threshold. “I’m going to take this place apart brick by brick.”

The kitchen gave her the silent treatment. Rowe felt self-conscious all of a sudden, seeing herself as someone else would: a well-known author holding a pie, standing in the doorway of an empty room, talking to herself. And she had thought Phoebe needed professional help.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Let’s start with the eyes, Ms. Golden.” A rangy forensic sketch artist named Colby Boone pinned several computer-generated composites to a whiteboard. They looked like androids.

Phoebe picked out an image. “This one. But his eyes are set deeper and his eyebrows are thicker. It was dark so I’m not sure about his eye color.”

“And a flattop hair cut, you were saying?” Colby’s accent was distinctively Texan. It suited his dark tan and his cowboy shirt and boots.

He wasn’t FBI, Phoebe decided. You didn’t have to be telepathic to figure that out. “Yes, like they have in the army.”

The artist worked quickly, his sun-bleached blond head bent, his pencil darting and weaving over a sketching block. “Compare those beards now, would you, ma’am.”

Phoebe compared the android pictures with her mental snapshot. The computer-generated faces were even-featured on both sides, unlike real people. She plumbed her memory for the tiny details and irregularities that would make the image more true to life.

“The beard is a shade darker than the hair. And something else. His ears are quite small compared with his face and the left one sticks out a lot more than the right.”

“Probably sleeps on that side,” Colby said. “You have a good eye for detail.”

“I’m motivated.”

They worked on the forehead, the nose, the shape of this face. The picture Colby finally placed in front of her was remarkably close to her recollection of the man, and he looked much more like a real person than the computer image.

“Wow.” She examined the sketch carefully. “That’s amazing.”

“Machines still can’t replace the human eye.”

“I guess artists like you are being phased out these days.”

“It depends how good you are.” Eyes the same color as his jeans glinted with humor. “You don’t have to be able to draw a straight line to make one of these computer pictures, and that’s a good thing for small police departments. On a big case, they usually bring in a real artist to work with important witnesses like yourself.”

Phoebe felt a pang of guilt. She didn’t like having to deceive people about who she was. Vernell had told Colby she was a key witness who had seen the suspect in the vicinity of an abduction. It was the truth, in a roundabout way, she supposed.

“You made this very easy for me,” she said. “I think what you do is incredible.”

The Texan gave her a broad smile. “Mighty nice of you to say so.”

The door swung open, and Vernell entered the room with a well-scrubbed young agent Phoebe had never seen. Aware that Vernell had been working since Dr. K called him in the middle of the night, Phoebe was amazed at how fresh he looked. His white shirt was crisp, his conservative maroon tie perfectly pressed, and his suit pristine. He smelled faintly of high-quality aftershave and hair product. Phoebe tried to imagine him in casual clothing and failed.

He picked up the sketch and studied it closely. “This our guy?” he asked her.

“Definitely.”

Vernell handed the sketch to the young agent and told him to scan it and make copies. There was the same leashed excitement about him that Phoebe noticed whenever they found a grave. Today it brimmed closer to the surface, making his dark eyes more intense and his speech rapid. He had mentioned this was his first big case as an S.A.C., Special Agent in Charge. The possibility that June could still be alive had him chomping at the bit to catch the killer red-handed.

“Looks like we’re done here,” he said, thanking Colby and collecting the other sketches they’d done of the van and the house. “If you’d like to come with me, Ms. Golden.”

Phoebe got to her feet and said farewell to the artist. She’d enjoyed their session and appreciated how he had made her comfortable, chatting between times about his ranch and animals. He had even suggested a couple of breeders when she said she wanted a puppy. Phoebe checked the back pocket of her jeans as she accompanied Vernell and his colleague along the drab corridors of the Behavioral Science Unit. She’d made a note of the kennels’ names, just in case Cara suddenly decided they could have a dog after all.

“There’s something we’d like to try,” Vernell said.

Phoebe had known this was coming, having sensed his frustration during the debriefing session after her dream. She had failed to seek out important details like the van registration, the street name, the number on the letterbox.

“You want me to go back?” she asked.

“We can’t wait until you sleep again. If June’s alive, the clock is ticking.” He met her eyes. “We’d like to try hypnosis.”

Phoebe frowned. “I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I’ll do it, but it makes me nervous. What if I can’t wake up or something?”

They turned a corner. Dr. K was standing outside his office, fidgeting like a man who needed to smoke. At the sight of them, he beamed at Phoebe, whom he now treated like a cross between a movie star and his favorite laboratory dog. Apparently he’d heard her last question.

“Don’t worry, my dear Ms. Golden. Nobody leaves my couch thinking they are a frog.” He waved them into his lair. “And when you wake from your trance, I have something for you.” He took a box from his desk top and lifted the lid. “Jeff de Bruges on rue Mouffetard. Who can leave Paris without visiting the markets, hmm?”

The smell of rich chocolate made Phoebe’s mouth water, and she thought instantly of Pavlov’s dogs. Now she knew why Dr. K had asked about her favorite foods during their first interview. Evidently, he thought she would work for treats, too.

“They look delicious,” she said, pondering which one to sample first.

He closed the box before she could decide and placed it on a shelf. “They are all yours whether or not we enjoy success.” He tweaked his bow tie in a self-congratulatory manner. “See. The FBI pays you in chocolate. That is something to tell the grandchildren, no?”

He ushered her into a comfortable armchair, reclined it until she was semi-prone, then clapped his hands. Vernell rolled out a veiled board and parked it opposite her chair. Dr. K angled this so that Phoebe would have to keep her head up to see it, then whipped the cloth away like a magician revealing a dove.

“It’s one of her paintings.” Phoebe smiled. A lake in winter, the water iced over. “It looks so cold.”

“Cold as the Urals,” Dr. K noted in a murky undertone. “Look at that ice. Imagine yourself there. Touch it. Imagine running your hand across it. And listen to this.” He turned on a small cassette.

Phoebe recognized the sound immediately. It was the grandfather clock she’d heard while she lay on June’s bed.

“Yes. You know that clock, don’t you? It’s making you sleepy. Very sleepy.” Dr. K picked up a small brass bell. “Listen carefully. When I ring this bell”—he rang it to illustrate—“you will wake up, and you will remember everything, but it will feel to you like a dream. At all times you will be able to hear me and you will be completely safe. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Phoebe listened to the clock and stared at the lake. Already she could feel her limbs getting heavy.

Part of her wanted to stop right now, get off the chair and go back home to Dark Harbor. But how would that help June? If there was a chance that she was alive and Phoebe could do something to save her, she had no choice. She tuned in to Dr. K’s voice and allowed herself to relax completely. Her eyes felt heavy and she closed them, then found she could not open them again. She was drifting. Colors swirled against her eyelids. The ticking of the clock seemed louder.

“You know where Iris took you,” Dr. K said. “You can remember everything. You can see everything.”

Phoebe gazed down at the world below. Instead of shimmering lights there were cars, buildings, a vast city. Water.

“What do you see?”

“The Capitol. Buildings. Highways.”

“You’re traveling north?”

“Yes.” Ceaseless blue. The sky, the ocean. Phoebe felt vividly content. Floating. Lost. Suspended in a beautiful nowhere. She tried to keep herself on track, but she was drifting farther and farther from the shore. “Iris,” she called. “Iris, please come.”

She could hear the soft, regular march of time. Yet she could feel nothing. Her flesh was no longer flesh. She was made of cloud, prey to the wind, recklessly, terribly alone in a world unraveled into skeins of color spread endlessly across a canvas she could not escape. She called Iris again.