Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (64 page)

—He moved silently through the house. The television was blaring, masking his presence. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the woman who sat with her back to him while she watched an old movie, and contempt filled him. She was so easy. He walked forward, taking his time, enjoying the suspense. The flickering light from the television glinted on the slim, curved blade of the knife in his hand—

A grunting, animal sound tore from deep in her chest as Marlie tried to scream, tried to send a desperate warning through her closed throat. God, oh God. She whimpered, fighting the covers as she tried to throw herself out of bed. The vision was so real that she expected to see him coming at her out of the darkness, silver blade gleaming.

—He stood right behind her, looking down at her. The stupid bitch had no idea he was there. He liked that. Maybe he’d just stand here until the end of the movie, and all the time she’d never know—

She scrambled out of bed and fell, caught by the sheet tangled around her legs. She fought her way free of the sheet and stumbled to her feet, lurching wildly from side to side as she staggered for the door. Panic blinded her, froze her brain—no, it was dark, the lights were off. She careened into the wall, and the hard impact steadied her, somehow. She groped for the light switch, but it wasn’t there.

—This was boring. Smiling, he reached out to touch her neck—

Marlie stumbled into another wall, a wall that wasn’t supposed to be there. She stood there, trembling, totally disoriented. Where was she?

Headlights from a passing car briefly illuminated the room. The living room. How had she gotten in here? She remembered trying to get to the bedroom door, but not reaching it. But at least now she knew where a light was.

She almost knocked the lamp over as she fumbled with
the switch, and the sudden bright flare of light momentarily blinded her. The phone. The phone was right there, on the table.

His number. What was his number, damn it? She couldn’t remember, couldn’t think—the redial button. Had she called anyone since that night? She didn’t know, didn’t care. It would reach someone. She lifted the receiver, banging it painfully against her temple as she tried to hold it in place with a violently trembling hand, and punched what she hoped was the redial button. Her vision was blurring, and she wasn’t certain.

The first ring buzzed in her ear. She closed her eyes, fighting to remain within herself.

The second ring. Hurry. Please, hurry hurry hurry.

The third ring cut off in midbuzz, and a deep, sleepy, grouchy voice said, “Hollister.”

“D-Dane.” Her voice was thin, wavering out of control.

“Marlie?” All sleepiness was gone. “Marlie, what’s wrong?”

She tried to speak and couldn’t; her throat was too tight. She took deep, gulping breaths.

“Marlie, goddammit, say something!” He was yelling at her now.

It was coming. She couldn’t fight it off any longer. The trembling was convulsive, the light fading as her vision went. She made a desperate effort, screaming, and her voice was only a whisper. “He’s . . . doing it . . . again.”

H
E COULDN
’
T GET HER TO
say anything else, though the line was still open. Dane scrambled into his clothes and shoved his sockless feet into running shoes. He grabbed his shoulder holster, with the Beretta in it, but didn’t take the time to slip it on. Barely a minute after answering the telephone, he was on his way out the door.

His heart was slamming painfully against his ribs. What had she said? Her last sentence had been so faint, he could barely hear; something about doing it again.

It didn’t matter what she had said. Her panic had reached through the phone line to him, as real as if he could see it. She was in trouble, serious trouble.

It was raining lightly, just enough to slick the streets and make him keep the wipers on. He couldn’t drive as fast as he wanted, but he was still going too fast for the road conditions. The sense of urgency kept his foot on the accelerator. He merely slowed down for stop signs, and halted at red lights only until there was a break in traffic.

An accident on the expressway forced him to cut across
the median, backtrack, and take another route, wasting valuable time. Almost twenty minutes had passed when he pulled into Marlie’s driveway. Her car was in its customary place, and a light was on in the living room. He didn’t bother with the two shallow steps, but leaped onto the porch with a single bound and knocked on the door.

“Marlie? It’s Dane. Open up.”

The silence inside was absolute, as complete as it had been that afternoon at the Vinick house, as if no living creature were inside. Dane’s blood chilled, and his voice was hoarse as he called her again, banging on the door with his fist.

There were no windowpanes in this door to break, and he didn’t take the time to go around back and check out the kitchen door. He backed up and lashed out with his foot. Four kicks broke the lock and splintered the frame, and the door flew open to crash against the wall. He knew he should take his time, not rush in without knowing the situation, but fear was greater than caution and he hurled himself through the opening, the Beretta in his hand.

“Marlie!”

She was just sitting there on the couch, in a pool of light from the lamp, like a statue in a niche. Her eyes were open, fixed and unseeing. She was utterly still, utterly white, and for an agonized moment he stopped breathing. The pain was like a fist, clenched around his heart.

Then he remembered what Officer Ewan had said, that at first he had thought she was dead, and he started breathing again, managed to move, though the fear hadn’t released its icy hold on him. He laid the pistol aside and knelt on the floor in front of the couch, picked up one of her hands from her lap and held it against his chest while he put two fingers on her fragile wrist, pressing and finding the reassuring throb of her pulse. It was slow but steady. Her skin was cool, but the warmth of life lay just under the surface chill.

“Marlie,” he said again, much calmer now. There was still no response.

Carefully he looked her over, then examined the surroundings. There was no sign of struggle, and no injuries that he could see. She seemed fine, physically.

The phone receiver was lying beside her on the couch, a beeping noise coming from it. He picked it up and replaced it in the cradle.

He swallowed as he realized what must have happened. She had had another vision, might even still be locked in it. What was it this time? Another murder? God knows, with drugs and street gangs, it was a wonder she didn’t spend most of her time in a catatonic state. Did she ever pick up on the good stuff, on happy times, on people playing with their kids or groaning at a dumb joke? How could she function, if she was overloaded with all the shit in people’s lives?

She was wearing only a thin tank top and panties, and her legs felt chilled to his touch. He got up and closed the ruined door, then went into her bedroom in search of a blanket. The small room, like every other room he’d seen in her house, was cozy and soothing. She had made the house her retreat, her barricade against the world. He stood in the middle of it and looked around, getting to know her in little ways. The covers on the double bed were twisted and half on the floor; she had evidently been in bed when the vision had started, and the condition of the covers was a measure of her agitation.

There was a crocheted throw lying across a rocking chair. He picked it up and returned to the living room, where he draped it over her, tucking the folds around her bare arms and legs. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved even a centimeter, except for the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

He didn’t know what else to do, except wait. He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee; she might not need it when she came out of this, but he sure as hell did.

He sat on the couch beside her, watching her. Her expression was as blank and empty as that of the statue she had reminded him of earlier. There was no awareness in her;
her eyes were open, but she was either unconscious or . . . gone, somehow.

He studied her oblivious face. Seen in profile, there was an otherworldly purity to her features that he hadn’t noticed before. When she was awake, the sharpness of her tongue and the cool intelligence in those bottomless blue eyes took most of his attention. Most, but not all. If she had been awake, he sure wouldn’t have put a cover over her half-naked body. He looked at the tender curve of her lips, remembering how they had felt, how she had tasted. Her shape was all feminine daintiness, soft, lithe curves that made his entire body feel hot, and his skin too tight.

Ten minutes had ticked by. The mechanical thumping and spitting in the kitchen had stopped, indicating that the coffee had finished brewing.

He fetched a cup of coffee, then resumed his seat beside Marlie and placed the cup on the lamp table. Very gently he lifted her, and settled her on his lap.

“Marlie. Can you wake up now? Come on, honey, wake up.” He stroked her face, then grasped her shoulder and shook her.

She made a little sound, not quite a whimper, and her lashes fluttered.

“Come back to me, Marlie. It’s Dane. Wake up and tell me what happened.” Her head lolled against his shoulder. He cradled her with his supporting arm and rubbed his free hand over her upper arm and shoulder, feeling the cool, sleek skin under his hard palm. He shook her again, but not hard, only enough to jar her. Her eyes were closed now, which seemed to him at least more natural, as if she were sleeping.

“Marlie!” He made his voice sharp. “Wake up and talk to me, damn it!”

She moaned and tried to push away from him, but her hand fell heavily to her lap as if she couldn’t quite control it. She drew several jerky breaths, and her lashes lifted, then closed again, the effort beyond her.

“Marlie, look at me.” He deliberately said her name, calling her from the far reaches of darkness, back toward the light.

Someone was insistently calling her name. Marlie’s exhausted mind latched on to the familiarity, like a drowning person desperately clutching at a life ring. It gave her a center, a sense of identity in the swirling fog of nightmare. The voice was far away at first, but then came closer and closer, until it was right over her head. Reality seeped back, though there was something very
un
real about it. It felt as if she was lying against someone, as if arms were around her, and the sensation was so alien that it confused her. She didn’t allow people to hold her; the mental intrusion, strengthened by physical contact, was just too disrupting. But someone
had
held her, a dim memory insisted. Oh, yes. Dane. Gently bullying, stubborn, refusing to listen to her . . . Of course. Dane.

She forced her heavy eyelids to lift, and found herself staring at that roughhewn face, the hazel eyes dark with worry. His heart thumped steadily against her, a comforting rhythm that made her want to curl against him. The heat of his big body was under her, around her, chasing away the bone-deep chill. Why was she so cold?

Hazily she looked around. She was in her living room. But why was Dane here, and why was she on his lap? Why was she so tired? She had expected him to call, but he hadn’t, and she had gone to bed—

She had called him. She stiffened, memory returning in a flood of awful details that she would have given anything not to recall. Her exhausted mind struggled to cope.

“Dane.” She clutched his shirt, fingers twisting in the material.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, smoothing back her hair. “I’m here. You had another vision, didn’t you? What was it about this time? Just take your time, settle down. Do you want some coffee? Will that help?”

He was holding a cup of coffee to her lips, and she sipped
it, hoping the caffeine would buy her a few extra minutes. She had to get her thoughts ordered, tell him as much as she could, but the coffee was the worst she had ever tasted, and with a grimace she turned her head away when he tried to get her to drink again.

“He did it again,” she said, the words slurred a little.

“Who did?” he asked absently, trying to get her to drink a little more coffee. She turned her head away from the cup.

“Him.
He killed another woman tonight.” The trembling had started again, shaking her from the inside out.

He tensed. She could feel his muscles coiling beneath her. “The same one who killed Nadine Vinick?” he asked carefully.

“Yes. I knew he was out there, looking . . . I felt him, just a hint, the night I called you.” She forced the words out in a tumble, trying to get it all said.

“That’s what scared you?”

She nodded, her head barely moving in the hollow of his shoulder.

Holding her securely against him, Dane picked up the telephone and called central dispatch. He identified himself and said, “Has a stabbing murder of a woman been called in?”

“No, it’s been pretty quiet for a Friday night. Guess the rain’s put a damper on things. You know something we don’t?”