Silent Fall (6 page)

"Tough, I do. Answer the question."

Catherine frowned, obviously annoyed by the order, but after a moment she said, "I think it's a face, but I'm surprised you can see it."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do." He gave the portrait several more minutes of consideration, feeling something tickling the back of his brain, some tiny detail that he recognized but couldn't quite figure out. And then it hit him— what appeared to be a tiny gold cross in the center of the chaos of colors. "Erica wore a cross on a necklace," he said, pointing to the tiny gold lines. "I remember thinking that it was an odd choice for a woman who didn't seem to be the religious type." He gazed at Catherine and saw the answer in her eyes. "This is Erica, isn't it?"

"It could be, I guess."

His pulse began to race. "You're not guessing at all. You know it's her."

"I think it is," she admitted. "But usually I don't recognize the faces that I paint. They're strangers. They're not people I think I've ever seen, or if I saw them I didn't notice them. But they all feel like they're calling out to me. As if they're afraid and I'm the only one who can save them. But how can I save them when I don't know who they are?"

He heard the despair in her voice, and even though he didn't completely understand what she was saying, he could see that she was very disturbed by the fact that she couldn't seem to make her visions or her dreams work to help anyone. "This might be your breakthrough. If it's Erica, then you can help her."

"I don't know."

"Don't doubt yourself."

"I can't help it. I've been living with these nightmares for a long time. I don't want to be this way, you know. All my life I just wanted to be normal. But that's not going to happen. So most of the time I try not to look too closely at anything."

"And does that work for you?"

She made a face at him. "Obviously not. Well, let me rephrase that. It works in the daylight, but at night, when my subconscious takes over, I have no control. I'm just along for the ride."

"That must make for some exciting nights."

"That I don't remember in the morning. All I'm left with is another gruesome picture."

"No one is completely normal, Catherine. Everyone is a little crazy. Trust me; I know. I've covered a lot of crazies in my life. On the scale of nutty, you're not so bad."

"You're just trying to make me feel better."

"I'm trying to make you see that just because you paint your nightmares doesn't mean that you're out of your mind."

"The only difference is that I think my nightmares might be real . . . actually happening in the world. It's difficult to explain, but sometimes I feel like I'm inside the head of someone who is really . . . evil. It scares the hell out of me. For a long time I was afraid that I was sleepwalking, that I was leaving the house and killing people in my dreams. When I was younger I even set up barricades so I could make sure in the morning that I hadn't left."

"And you hadn't," he said, sure that she didn't have a mean bone in her body.

"No, but I still felt like a witness to something I couldn't remember. I used to read the newspapers in the morning after my dreams, wondering if I'd see news of some murder that would trigger a memory in my mind, but there was never anything that seemed familiar."

He wanted to tell her that that was because her dreams weren't real. But she'd probably just interpret that as another slam, and he sensed it wouldn't take much to drive her away. Right now she was the only ally he had. "Why do you think you drew Erica's face, especially the cross? Did you notice it last night when you saw her at the bar?"

"Not consciously." She pressed a hand to her temple, as if he were giving her a headache. "Can we stop talking about this?"

"How often do the nightmares come?"

She sighed. "You're very stubborn."

"So I've been told."

"It depends. Usually when I get them they go on for a couple of days or sometimes weeks. Then they just stop. It seems that the more in touch I am with the people around me, the more likely I am to have the nightmares. It's as if I open up some emotional transmitter and I can't filter out the bad from the good."

"When did they start this last time?"

She bit down on her bottom lip. "The night after I had the vision about you. The nightmares have been getting worse the last two months, intensifying every night. And this is the first picture where I've ever recognized the face. It must mean something."

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling as if he were getting off track. He wasn't going to find the answers to Erica's disappearance in a painting or in Catherine's dreams. He had to get real. "I'm going to call my lawyer." He needed to bring an objective party into the mix, and his longtime friend Mark Singer was a damn good criminal attorney. He would know the best course of action to take.

"That's a good idea," Catherine said with relief, lifting the painting off the easel.

"What are you doing with that?"

"Putting it away. I don't like looking at it." She slipped the painting into a large portfolio and blew out a breath of relief.

Dylan wished he could set aside his problems as easily. "Mark," he said as his attorney picked up the phone, "I'm in a hell of a lot of trouble."

Chapter 5

While Dylan spoke to his attorney, Catherine tidied up her paints. She felt restless and a little short of breath. Dylan took up a lot of emotional and physical space, and she was so attuned to him that she sensed the tension in his body as if it were her own.

A part of her really wanted to walk away from him, but the fact that she'd drawn Erica's face and that maybe, just maybe, this time she had a chance to actually help someone in her vision made it impossible for her to consider leaving.

Although she had to wonder why she was supposed to help the woman who had drugged Dylan and left him out in the woods all night. Was Erica the victim or the villain? Was she good or was she evil?

As Catherine remembered the fear that had gripped her when she'd looked into Erica's cabin, she suspected that Erica had gotten herself caught in the very trap she was supposed to be setting for Dylan. Catherine felt fairly certain that someone had been watching Erica last night. But who and why? And was Erica really in trouble? Or was her disappearance just part of the plan to set Dylan up?

Catherine glanced over at Dylan as he ended his call. "What did your attorney say?"

"Mark will call the sheriff's office and see what he can find out," Dylan said. "Hopefully they'll give him more information than they gave me. In the meantime I'd like to take a shower. Do you mind? I've been in these clothes way too long."

"Help yourself."

"Would you answer my phone if it rings? I think it will take Mark a while to call back, but I don't want to miss him. His name is Mark Singer."

"Sure," she said, relieved when Dylan grabbed his clothes and entered the bathroom. She needed to catch her breath, figure out what she could do to help, and she could think more clearly with Dylan out of the room.

Returning to the window, she took a moment to absorb the gorgeous view of the mountains and lake. She'd planned to stay in the area and paint for a few days. At least, that was what she'd told herself. Perhaps deep down she'd known all along that she would stay in Tahoe because of Dylan. She'd never admit it aloud, but she hadn't been able to get him out of her head since she'd met him two months earlier. He'd been a prominent star in her daydreams, and painting his portrait had done little to banish him from her mind. She'd told herself it was just a foolish crush or infatuation or an inconvenient attraction, and that it would go away with time, but so far that hadn't happened. When she'd seen him at the wedding, standing next to his brother, looking so ruggedly appealing, her heart had skipped a beat. And it had shocked her to feel that gut-clenching desire. It had also scared her a little.

That was the real reason she'd left Dylan alone with Erica. She'd welcomed the other woman's presence as a good interruption, an opportunity to excuse herself and put some distance between herself and the man she couldn't forget. She knew Dylan wasn't right for her in so many ways.

But perhaps if she hadn't let fear run her off, Dylan wouldn't be in the mess he was in now. Not that she could have possibly anticipated the current turn of events.

As she gazed down at the entrance to the lodge, she saw several men gathering there. They looked like some sort of search-and-rescue team that had come from the woods. They conversed for a few minutes and then got into two separate vehicles and drove away. Obviously they hadn't found Erica, but had they found anything else?

More worry settled in the pit of Catherine's stomach as she let her gaze drift out over the lake, wondering what secrets were hidden in its depths.

As she watched the shimmering blue water it seemed to grow more turbulent, whitecaps and waves developing, shattering its peaceful beauty. The sun disappeared. Dark clouds covered the horizon. Shadows turned the tall trees into terrifying shapes. Shaken, she turned away.

She'd never had nightmares in the daytime before. Was the monster getting closer?

* * *

A man parked his car in front of a convenience store just outside Tahoe City and pulled out his cell phone. He was supposed to have reported in several hours ago, but he'd spent half the night searching the woods for that damn woman. He didn't know how she'd gotten away from him, but he would find her, and he would finish the job.

His call was answered on the third ring.

"She got away," he said shortly, hating to admit it, but there was no escaping the facts.

"How did that happen?"

The stone-cold voice reminded him that there was no excuse for failure. "You said she wouldn't be expecting me, that she would be taken by surprise, but she was ready," he complained. "She jumped me before I was halfway through the door."

"You were sloppy to let her hear you coming. I thought you were supposed to be the best."

"I am the best, and next time I'll plan the hit my way." He enjoyed turning the blame around; it took the bad taste of failure out of his mouth and softened the pain in the back of his head where the woman had nailed him with the iron poker from the fireplace. He intended to pay her back for that. Now that he knew what a wildcat she was, it would make the eventual taking that much sweeter. There was nothing like killing a woman. Every time he did it he felt an intense rush of satisfaction, better than sex, better than any

thing.

"Does anyone know you were there?"

The question drew him back to the present.

"Of course not. I never leave anything behind." Once he'd come to terms with the fact that the woman had escaped, he'd gone back to the cabin and cleaned up his own blood so as not to mix it with the evidence planted in the cabin. Then he'd wiped off the poker and, to be extra careful, had tossed it into the lake. No one could trace it back to him. And no one would ever know he'd been anywhere near the lodge.

"Where is she now?"

"I have a good idea," he said. "Don't worry; I'll find her."

"And you'll kill her as planned. She can't live past tomorrow. You understand that, don't you?"

He understood, all right. If he didn't succeed, not only would he not get his money, he would probably end up dead himself. Kill or be killed. It was the way he'd lived his entire life. And murder . . . well, it was the one thing he was really good at.

Erica Layton would die, but he wouldn't be the one to pay for it. Sometimes life was sweet.

* * *

Dylan was tempted to linger in the shower. The hot spray eased the tension in his neck and shoulders, but he forced himself to turn off the water. He didn't have time to waste. The trap was tightening around him, and he needed to find a way out fast. He wondered if this was how Joseph Ravino had felt when he'd realized Dylan was onto him, when he'd seen the house of lies he'd built begin to crumble. Which also begged the question, was that the purpose for this game—payback?

It would be Ravino's style to use Erica, the very woman who'd betrayed him, to set up someone else. It would be poetic justice. And Erica could be bought— there was no doubt about that. Or she could have been threatened or blackmailed. Erica certainly wouldn't want to end up dead, the way Ravino's wife had. With the senator's connections, even from prison he could be calling the shots. Dylan just needed to figure out the next move before Ravino or Erica made it.

After getting out of the shower, Dylan dried off with a thick terry-cloth towel and threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It felt good to get out of his suit and back into his normal clothes. His head felt lighter, too. The fuzziness from the drugs was finally wearing off. He was ready to attack the problem head-on.

When he reentered the bedroom Catherine was standing in front of the easel, staring at a blank canvas, a paintbrush in her hand, yet she seemed in no hurry to actually use it. The midday sun streamed through the window, adding a shine to the red highlights in her blond hair, accentuating the curves of her body, her full breasts and the soft sway of her hips.

He felt an unmistakable tingle of desire shoot down his spine that he immediately tried to quell, but his thoughts were already running amok. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to strip off her clothes and trace those curves with his hands and with his mouth. He wanted to see her blue eyes darken with need. He wanted to taste her lips. He wanted to unleash the passion that was brimming inside of her. He'd seen it in her eyes and heard it in her voice.

Catherine was a bundle of intense emotions, and usually he avoided emotional women as if they had the plague, but there was something so intriguing about her that he was tempted to throw caution to the wind. It was a reckless, dangerous attraction that he had for her. He knew that, and he had to push it away. Catherine was far too complicated a woman to get involved with. He couldn't afford to make this any more personal than it already was.

So he counted to ten, took a couple of deep breaths, and tried to get a grip on himself.

Catherine turned her head and caught him staring. Her eyes widened as she read his expression, and he couldn't help wondering how much he was giving away—probably too much. Not that it would take a rocket scientist to figure out what he was thinking, and he already knew Catherine was very perceptive.

"What are you doing?" he asked quickly, hoping to distract her.

"What? Oh." She looked down at the brush in her hand. "I thought I would try to paint, to force something out of my subconscious, but big surprise—nothing happened." She set her brush down. "Your attorney didn't call."

"Well, I'm going to operate on the idea that no news is good news for the moment. I'm sure Mark will be in touch as soon as he knows something." Pulling his laptop out of its case, Dylan set it on the desk. Opening the lid, he hit the power button and waited for it to boot up. "I was thinking in the shower that if Joseph Ravino is behind this frame, he could have easily had one of his people get to Erica and in turn to me."

"So you believe this is about revenge?"

"It sure as hell feels like it. Ravino's friends and family believe I helped send an innocent man to jail by televising inflammatory news reports and fabricating my stories. I didn't, by the way. I got a lot of hate mail right after his arrest." Dylan sat down in the chair. "The man is not only a senator; he's also a philanthropist—oh, yeah, and a murderer."

"That's an odd combination."

"Not if you consider that they're all roles involving power. He's an interesting man, Ravino. He started a cutting-edge software company about fifteen years ago, made a bundle in the stock market. Then he married into blue blood. His wife Deborah's family could trace their roots back to the
Mayflower.
Her family was also twice as rich as Ravino was. The two became a power couple. They were on every society guest list. And once Ravino became a state senator, his personality and his ego got even bigger. I think he began to believe in his own invincibility. He didn't think anyone could touch him. He could have everything exactly the way he wanted."

"Why would he risk it all by killing his wife?"

"For money, perhaps. Ravino's financial holdings took a hit when the stock market collapsed, so he needed Deborah's money, as well as her wifely support for his political goals. Maybe she threatened to divorce him.

She knew about his affairs. She had photographic evidence of the senator and Erica together, and she told Erica she would use it if she had to. She had the weapons to destroy his career. He couldn't let that happen." "Wouldn't she also destroy herself in the process?"

"Not if she intended to use her weapons only to keep him in the marriage. She might not have anticipated that he would try to kill her."

"Back up a little and tell me more about the murder case," Catherine said as she crossed the room to sit down on a corner of the bed near the desk. "How did you first get involved in it? And what were the details?"

"About a year ago Deborah Ravino was found dead in her very expensive home on Nob Hill in San Francisco. It was believed at first that she accidentally killed herself by quadrupling her Botox injections, which caused muscle paralysis not only in her face but also in her respiratory system. She basically suffocated herself."

"Death by Botox?" Catherine asked, a smile tugging at her lips. "Tell me that wasn't your lead."

"It was," he admitted. "It was too juicy to resist."

"Why would a doctor allow her to have too many injections?"

"Her doctor didn't. Apparently Mrs. Ravino was buying self-injection kits off the Internet because her doctor refused to give her any more, and she was obsessed with her looks."

"It wasn't her who bought the kit, but the senator," Catherine guessed. "Right?"

"That has not yet been proven. Her credit card was used for the purchase. And the only fingerprints found on the syringe were Deborah's. The senator gave a painfully touching interview about his wife's obsession with her looks, remarking how he had always loved her for more than her beauty. I didn't buy the accidental-death explanation, so I looked deeper."

"So you started digging in someone else's sandbox and pissed everyone off. Why am I not surprised?"

He tipped his head in acknowledgment of her point. "That's my job. It doesn't always make me popular, but it does make me good."

"Go on with the story."

"Senator Ravino played the grieving widower very well. He was photographed going to church every Sunday with his elderly parents and his sister and brother-in-law and their kids. He was also seen down at a homeless shelter, serving up soup to the poor. There was something about the guy that didn't feel right to me. He was too good to be true, you know what I mean?"

"I think I do."

"So I started looking into everything about him. I checked out the Metro Club, where he allegedly spent the evening while his wife was killing herself with Botox. The Metro Club is an exclusive and very private men's club in San Francisco that has been around since the early nineteen hundreds, a place where men can be men, discuss politics, et cetera. The club also has a back room where the gentlemen, as they like to call themselves, can spend some time with some very attractive female hostesses. I knew I had to get in there and see what it was all about. Unfortunately you have to be a member to gain access, and I wasn't."