Silent Fall (22 page)

"I don't have that big an imagination."

"When did you become a vegetarian?"

"In my early twenties. I got on this food kick for a while. I thought that if I cut out certain kinds of products I could stop my dreams. It didn't work, but I felt healthier and stronger and more able to deal with the nights, so I just kept it up. However, I do have a weakness for chocolate." She grabbed one of the candy bars and unwrapped it, taking a quick bite of the chocolate-coconut bar. "Mmm, this is one of my favorites."

"I must have read your mind," Dylan said.

She smiled at him, appreciating the light tone. Things had gotten too heavy in the past hour, and they both needed a break.

Dylan sat down in the chair by the table and popped open a can of Coke. He'd barely taken a sip when his cell phone rang. He opened it and read the number. "It's my station."

"Don't answer it."

"I wasn't planning to. But it occurs to me that if I'm not going to use the phone I should get rid of it. I kept it before, thinking Erica might call, but that won't happen now, and I don't want to risk anyone being able to track us through the phone signal. I'll do it tomorrow, when we're on the move again." As he finished speaking the phone started ringing again. "That's my friend Jeff. I'll let it go to voice mail; then I'll turn it off."

Dylan set the phone down on the table. Thirty seconds later it rang again. He checked the number one more time. Then he glanced at his watch. "I know why everyone is calling. The ten-o'clock news just ended."

Catherine's heart skipped a beat. "You think you were on it?"

"I'm guessing yes." He got up and turned on the television set. He flipped through various channels, but there were only a few to choose from, and none was showing the news. He turned off the television and sat back down at the table.

"I wish we knew what was said," Catherine murmured.

Dylan opened up his computer. "I'm glad I brought this along. I can check the Web site for a recap, and if my friends don't reach me by phone I'm sure they'll e-mail." A moment later Dylan let out a low whistle. "Twelve messages—all in the last fifteen minutes."

"Who are they from?" She moved across the room, peering over his shoulder at his in-box.

Dylan clicked on the first message. "This is a reply from Rita, Blake Howard's assistant. I e-mailed her earlier to ask about the Metro Club. Here's what she said: 'Yes, Blake belongs to the Metro Club, but I asked him if he'd be willing to sponsor you and he just laughed. Sorry! Maybe you can find someone else. I just heard that the police want to talk to you about the murder in Golden Gate Park last night. What's going on, Dylan? Are you in trouble?' "

"So, Blake is tied to the Metro Club, Ravino, your father, and Erica," Catherine said, with a surge of excitement.

"Along with a hundred or so other people," Dylan reminded her.

"Yes, but most of them don't dislike you. As far as we know, anyway."

"True. It also appears that the cat is out of the bag about my connection to Erica." Dylan clicked on the next e-mail. "This one is from Julie Bristow; she's the one you met at the station, the fact-checker: 'Hey, Dylan, I had forgotten that Erica Layton was your source in the Ravino story. Now I know why you were so interested in her murder. But what's up with you being named a person of interest? That's ridiculous. I know you didn't do it. And I'll try to help you prove it. What do you need me to do? I have a friend who's a great PI. I'm sure he'd also be willing to help.' "

"Maybe Julie could find out whether Blake Howard and Erica knew each other," Catherine interjected.

"Good idea." Dylan typed in that question and also asked Julie to see if she could find any information on any of Erica's activities for the past two to three weeks. He clicked down to the next e-mail, which was from Ryan, the other fact-checker.

" 'Dude, you're in deep shit. The cops are interviewing everyone at the station. I had to tell them you were here earlier and asking about Erica. Sorry, man. Let me know if I can help.' "

"Maybe the fact that you were asking for information on Erica's murder will make you appear less of a suspect," Catherine said. She could see by Dylan's cynical expression that he wasn't convinced.

"I'm sure they would chalk that up to me covering my ass."

Catherine glanced back at the computer screen. The next message was from his news producer, expressing concern. Three other friends had also sent supportive messages mixed in with questions. The last message was from Mark.

" 'Dylan, the heat is on. Every news station in the city led off with your photo tonight. I don't know where you are, but you'd better stay low. I don't know if this will help, but a PI friend of mine ran Erica's credit cards for me. She made a trip to Seattle, Washington, about four weeks ago. I don't know if that had to do with you, but I thought I'd mention it. She was also in a lot of financial trouble, heavily in debt, and she was about to lose her condo. She needed cash. She may have sold you out to get it. Let me know what else I can do.' "

"Do you think Erica's trip to Seattle is important?" Catherine asked.

"I can't think why it would be. I don't know anyone in Seattle. I wonder if Ravino has a place there. Something to look into. Maybe Mark can check on that, or find out if she met anyone there." Dylan typed in his questions. "I also want Mark to get someone to go over to my grandmother's house and board up the windows," he added.

"If he tells the police we were shot at, perhaps they'll realize you're not the only one they should be interested in."

"You'd think." Dylan pressed send and sat back in his chair. He looked up at Catherine. "I know you're trying to be an optimist. I appreciate it, even if I can't get on board the happy train with you."

"No one has ever called me a happy train before."

He grinned. "That might have been a reach." He let out a sigh and stretched his arms high over his head. "I know there are a dozen things I should do now, but I can't seem to think of one. Help me out, would you?"

"Okay." She moved around behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. She knew he'd been asking for a suggestion, but she had a better idea. His muscles were in tight, hard knots, and she kneaded them gently but firmly, working to release some of the tension. Her own personal story had undoubtedly put some of those knots there. The least she could do was try to get them out.

"You're good," Dylan muttered, closing his eyes, relaxing his neck. "God, I hope you're not planning to stop anytime soon."

She smiled. "Nope. I can keep going. But let's do this right." She released him and stepped back. "Go over to the bed, take your shirt off, and lie down."

He raised his eyebrow at her. "You're quite the boss all of a sudden. What else do you want me to take off?"

"Nothing," she said, enjoying the return of his cocky smile. "At the moment."

His eyes darkened at her amendment. "Round two?"

"Dylan, I just want to give you a massage. If you ask me more questions, that offer will be off the table."

"My lips are sealed." He took off his shirt and lay down on his stomach on the bed. He rested his head on his arms.

For a moment she just stared at him, delighted by the male feast spread out before her. She didn't know where to start. In fact, she didn't know if she should start, because she might not be able to stop.

Dylan raised his head and squinted at her. "What's the holdup?"

"Nothing." She knelt down next to him and put her hands on his shoulders. She rubbed his muscles gently at first, then worked at the hard knots with as much pressure as she could muster. His murmured appreciation sent a charge through her body. She wanted to please him in so many other ways. But this was just a massage, she told herself, nothing more.

Her hands drifted lower as she attacked the kinks in his mid- and lower back. She loved the feel of his body, the power of his muscles just under his skin. He had a great tan, too, a warm honey brown, paling just below the waistband of his jeans. She ran her finger along the edge of that band, feeling a sudden tightness in her own body, a reckless urge to take this massage a little lower.

Dylan's body stiffened as she ran her hands over his very nice ass, kneading his buttocks through his pants. She wanted to ask him to get rid of his jeans, but she didn't think she could be quite that bold. Or maybe she could. She slid her hands under his body, touching the hot, hard length of him. He was as aroused as she was.

And suddenly the massage was over.

Dylan flipped over onto his back. He grabbed her hand and pressed it back to the bulge in his pants. "Don't be shy," he said, his eyes sparkling, encouraging.

She opened the snap and slid down the zipper. She slipped her hand inside, touching him intimately, wrapping her fingers around his flesh. It wasn't enough. She wanted to see him. She wanted to taste him.

She grabbed the waistband of his jeans and jerked his pants down over his hips, his thighs, his calves, and then Dylan kicked them off. For a moment she just stared at him in pleasure and a bit of amazement. He was a powerfully built man, and for the moment he was all hers. Then she leaned over and took him in her mouth, loving him the way she wanted to. He groaned, threading his hands through her hair.

Finally he pulled her head up and grabbed the hem of her shirt, dragging it over her head in one swift motion. He sat up, his hands colliding with hers as they both reached for the clasp on her bra.

She slid the straps off her shoulders as he put his hands on her breasts. Her nipples tingled against his stroking fingers. She was going up in flames, and she was still wearing half her clothes. She pulled at her jeans, struggling to keep his hands on her while she got rid of her pants.

He smiled at her impatience, his mouth seeking hers as they came together on the bed. Then he lay back down, cupping his hands over her hips as he urged her to straddle him. She leaned over and pressed her lips against his mouth as she moved to take him deep within her.

Over and over he thrust into her, sending ripples of pleasure through her body. She felt his heat everywhere, and it warmed her from the inside out. The orgasm hit her in long, rolling waves that left her gasping for breath. When she finally fell back against the pillows she was amazed at how wonderful she felt, how completely and utterly satisfied.

Dylan rolled over onto his side and threw his arm around her waist, pinning her to the mattress. His lips pressed against the side of her neck, and then he whispered in her ear, "I hope you're not thinking about getting out of this bed anytime soon."

"Not for a minute. What about you?"

"I'm very, very . . . comfortable." His hand crept up from her waist, his palm caressing her breast. "Hmm, this is nice."

"I hope you're not thinking about round three, because you wore me out."

"I can wait—a few minutes, anyway." He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes.

Her heart stopped at the look of not only passion but also tenderness. A tiny part of her wanted to call it love, but she would never say the word out loud. She'd already scared him once today.

"Go to sleep, Catherine. I'm not going anywhere."

She smiled at him and closed her eyes, her mind blessedly blank, and for the first time in a long while she felt safe.

Chapter 16

The sand castle had been built to last, with its turrets and towers and the big moat that would protect the prince and the princess inside, and all of their little children. But it was just an illusion. A large wave hit the shore, rolling along the beach until the white waters swirled over the moat, rushing through the doors and windows, drowning everyone inside.

She couldn't get them out. She couldn't save anyone. A surge of overwhelming grief filled her as she stared at the picture on the wall. The sand castle hadn't lasted past that photograph, nor had the happy family that had built it together. They'd drowned in a sea of lies.

The pain in her heart was palpable; the loss of love, of life, rocketed through her, always ending with the stinging sense of betrayal. So many lies had been told, over and over again. She'd deserved the truth. She'd suffered for the truth. But he'd kept it from her.

Now she knew everything. The pieces had come together.

There were no more secrets . . . well, perhaps just one. And soon, very soon, it would come out.

Catherine blinked her eyes open, the female voice ringing through her head. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The motel room was dark, the only light coming from the digital clock by the bed. It was six o'clock in the morning. She'd made it past four forty-four, but still she'd dreamed.

Who was the woman who felt so betrayed, so sad? Dylan's mother? She'd seen her before in a beach setting. It had to be her. Why did the universe keep showing her Dylan's mother? What was the point?

She glanced over at Dylan, sleeping peacefully on his side. He looked so relaxed, so at ease, but she knew it wouldn't last. When he woke up he would be faced with questions and decisions, and she doubted he had any more ideas than she did on how best to proceed. They needed a clue, a new lead.

Sliding out of bed, she gathered her clothes and went into the bathroom. She took a quick shower, got dressed, and returned to the room. Dylan was still fast asleep. Taking a seat in the chair by the window, she pulled the curtain open just enough to let in some of the early morning light. Then she picked up the first of the two journals and began to read.

The opening pages were all about Dylan's birth, the joy his grandmother had felt upon meeting her second grandson. She wrote about how happy Richard and Olivia were with their small but growing family.

The light grew brighter as Catherine read, absorbing the daily details of Dylan's early life like a sponge.

Reading about his family made her feel closer to him. She smiled when she discovered his first word had been
no.
That didn't surprise her. Dylan had probably been born with a strong sense of his own opinion. He'd always known what he wanted, and he'd always gone after it, sometimes at the risk of infuriating his father, but that had all come later, obviously. Certainly there was no mention of any problems in the family in those first few years—at least, none that his grandmother cared to chronicle.

"What are you doing?"

She looked up in surprise to see that Dylan was awake and looking decidedly sexy and grumpy with his shadowy beard and irritated scowl. "I'm just reading."

"You can't leave my past alone, can you?"

"It won't leave me alone." Closing the book, she got up and sat down next to him on the bed. "I think I dreamed about your mother again. The scene was the same, the background of the beach. Someone was building a sand castle. She felt an overwhelming sense of grief, loss, betrayal. Her family had been shattered."

Dylan's pulse pounded in his neck. "The family broke because of her, Catherine. She left. She didn't stay and fight."

"She wasn't as strong as you are."

Dylan dragged a hand through his hair. He let out a breath. "I wasn't strong either. I didn't leave my father. I didn't run away. I stayed until he kicked me out. Maybe she had more guts to go. I don't know anymore. And I don't know why she's in your head."

"I think the answer must lie in the journal somewhere."

He stared at her for a long moment, his scowl deepening. "Ravino's not behind this, is he?"

"I don't feel any connection to him," she admitted. "But I've never met him, so perhaps that's why."

"You've never met my mother, yet she seems to come into your head on a regular basis. Why not Ravino?"

"I can't answer that."

"Well, I can. Because he's not the one. It's my father," Dylan said with a resigned shrug. "It has to be him. This is his plan. Maybe he used Erica because he knew she was my source and that she could easily be bought. He's the one who figured out I was at my grand-mother's house. And he didn't kill me because he wasn't ready to have me die yet. There's something else he wants to do to me. Something else he wants me to know, perhaps."

Catherine listened as Dylan unraveled the twisted threads in his head. She didn't disagree with his assessment of what had happened so far, but she thought he was missing a critical piece; she just didn't know what it was. When he finally wound down she said, "Are you hungry? I read in the hotel brochure that they have a free continental breakfast. I could go down and get some pastries and tea—coffee for you."

"I don't want you to go anywhere without me. It's too dangerous. Let me get dressed. Then we'll go together."

Dylan got out of bed without any hint of self-consciousness and strode to the bathroom. He was about to shut the door when he stuck his head back out. "Next time don't take your shower without me. I had a few dreams of my own last night, and they involved you and me and some very slippery soap."

Her stomach clenched at the image his words created, and she was almost tempted to strip down and take another shower, but he was already closing the door. It was most likely a good thing, though. It was a new day, and they needed to focus on staying alive.

While Dylan showered she returned to reading. She started to skim, impatient with Ruth's retelling of the minutiae of her life. She'd never known anyone to take such careful note of every conversation, every bad moment, every little thing her kids or husband did to make her happy or sad. And yet on the other hand it was nice to have such a close look at the life of a woman who would probably never be able to tell any of her stories again. In her journal those stories would be forever remembered.

As Catherine flipped through a few more pages, an envelope fell out of the book. Her breath caught in her chest. Instinctively she knew that this was what she'd been looking for.

Before she could open it, Dylan walked out of the bathroom with a towel slung around his hips. He stopped, frowning as his gaze settled on the envelope in her hand. "What's that?"

"I'm not sure. I was just about to look."

Dylan's face tightened. He looked like he wanted to snatch the envelope out of her hand and burn it, but he didn't move, and she gave him credit for staring down his fear.

She pulled out a folded piece of paper and a faded photograph. She gazed at the picture first. It was of a bunch of people sitting under a big beach umbrella. There were four kids—two boys, two girls—two women, and a man. She recognized Dylan's mother from her wedding photograph, and, of course, there was Dylan, towheaded and sunburned, holding a red pail and an orange shovel. "It's you and Jake and your mom at the beach, I guess. I don't know who the other people are."

Dylan didn't step forward or make any attempt to look at the photograph. "What does the note say?"

She glanced down at the handwritten words and began to read aloud: " 'Dear Ruth, The summer is flying by. The boys have grown so much you won't recognize them. They love it here. There are lots of kids their age to play with. I must admit I love it, too. I know you think I'm selfish, leaving my husband every summer, but this place is where I feel safe, happy, and the truth is that Richard and I haven't been getting along for years, and recently our relationship has taken a turn for the worse. I want to make him happy, but it seems impossible. He won't talk to me about what he needs, and I can't seem to guess right. I always make him angry. He doesn't think I'm a good mother or a good wife.

" 'The day before we left, he slapped me. He apologized shortly thereafter, but he told me it was my fault for making him so mad, for not doing things right. Maybe it was my fault, but he shouldn't have struck me. I wasn't sure if I should tell you, and perhaps it's wrong to tell you now. He's your son, and I know you love him, but I'm afraid of what he's becoming. He drinks every night and takes sleeping pills. Ambition consumes him. His small failures make him crazy. His anger knows no bounds. He needs help, and I'm hoping he'll listen to you, even if he won't listen to me. Perhaps you can get him to slow down, to talk to someone before it's too late.

" 'Your loving daughter-in-law, Olivia.' "

Catherine looked up at Dylan. A mix of pain and anger filled his eyes. It had been twenty-three years since he'd heard his mother's words. She couldn't imagine how hard it must be to hear them now.

"So she knew he was a bastard, and she still left us alone with him. Mother of the year." He picked up his clothes and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Catherine felt his sense of betrayal as keenly as if it were her own. She read through the short letter again, noting the fact that Richard had hit Olivia. His anger had crossed an unforgivable line. Olivia had run to the beach to lick her wounds, to protect her children, and maybe to give Richard some space.

She looked at the date on the letter. Dylan had told her that his mother left when he was seven years old, just before Christmas and shortly after an illness that had put him in the hospital. This letter must have been from the summer before, a few months prior to her departure. Catherine couldn't help wondering if Olivia had actually left voluntarily. Had something else happened to her? Had Richard's abuse escalated?

Catherine's stomach began to churn as she considered the darker possibilities. If Richard Sanders was behind the recent moves against Dylan, then he wasn't afraid to kill. Had he done it once before? Was that why Olivia had never seen her sons again?

Catherine had just slipped the picture and note back into the envelope when Dylan returned, dressed and primed for battle. She'd seen his game face before, and she knew he was now a man on a mission. No more teasing. No more seductive smiles. He was all business.

"I'm going to check my e-mail," he said briskly. "Then I'll go down and get you some breakfast."

"Dylan, don't you think we should talk about the letter?"

"There's nothing to say."

"There's a lot to say."

He sat down in the chair across from her and opened his laptop. "Even if my mother had a reason to leave, she saved herself and not us."

"Dylan, look at me."

He reluctantly met her gaze. "I don't want to hear about any more of your visions of my mother. Let's just table that for now."

"This isn't a vision; it's an opinion, and I'm going to give it to you, because we said we'd be honest and direct with each other, right?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "Have you ever considered the possibility that your mother disappeared at your father's hands, that she didn't leave of her own accord?"

The color left his face, his eyes darkening. "You think he . . . he killed her? Shit! You think he killed her," he repeated. He got to his feet and paced around the small area. "You think that's why she never came back, never sent a card or a Christmas gift."

She didn't answer, because Dylan needed to talk it through himself.

He stopped pacing. "I didn't think of that. I never in my life thought of that. Why? Why was I such an idiot?"

"You were told a story when you were a little boy, a story I'm sure other relatives in the family confirmed— your grandmother, your aunt, cousins. Everyone thought your mother left voluntarily, didn't they?"

"Because they all believed him, the master manipulator. That's why my mother keeps coming into your mind," he added slowly. "She's dead and she wants justice. She wants you to catch him."

Catherine stared back at him, suddenly feeling as off balance as Dylan did. The link between them had tightened with the new information, the mirror of their lives reflecting back upon each other. Her father had killed her mother. Had his father done the same thing? "Oh, my God," she murmured. "It's all on me again. I can't do it. I couldn't do it before, and I can't do it now."

"Not for your mother, but maybe for mine," Dylan said, following her train of thought. "That's why we're connected."

She knew he was right. Her mother had died twenty-four years ago. His mother had vanished twenty-three years ago. They'd been almost exactly the same age when they'd lost their mothers. But the prospect of trying to get justice for Dylan's mother overwhelmed her.

"You can't depend on me. My dreams are unreliable and cryptic and not at all helpful. And we could be on the wrong track here. Your mother might not be dead. She might be living somewhere else, remarried, with other kids. Maybe she's sitting on a beach right now, digging her toes into the sand, sad that she doesn't have you anymore, but not sure how to fix it. When I see her in my dreams she doesn't plead for me to save her."

"Because she's already dead."

"Or she's not," Catherine argued, not sure whom she was trying to convince, herself or him.

"We have to find out. It's time to go back to San Francisco."

"Your father won't tell us anything more. And if we go back there's a good chance you'll get locked up, and we'll never figure this out. Check your e-mail, Dylan. Maybe Mark or someone has come up with something else for us to think about."

"Julie wrote back," Dylan said a moment later. "She says that Blake took a trip with a woman she thinks might have been Erica. They went to Seattle together." He looked up. "That confirms what Mark told me, but I don't get why she would have gone there with Blake." He paused. "I suppose Blake could be involved, too. He could have known my father through the Metro Club. I have to believe that my father is at the heart of this. And the timing with Jake being out of town plays into that. No one would believe my father is a monster, except for him."