Dream Man (28 page)

“They did something to attract this guy’s attention, though. Did they both buy something from the same store within, say, the last month?”

“Not that we can find. It’s hard to say, because the Vinicks evidently paid cash for a lot of things.” Dane wasn’t irritated by Lowery’s questions, though some people would have been, taking it as a suggestion that the local cops hadn’t done a good job. The same questions were bound to come up over and over again, as different people grappled with the problem. There had been a lot of times when he had doggedly gone over the same file time and again, until something clicked and he saw a detail that had been there all along, but just hadn’t registered.

“I’ll get this up to Quantico,” Lowery said. “Two murders in a week isn’t a good sign. If he’s escalating that fast, he’s out of control.”

“I’m hoping it was unusual for him to kill two so close together. Maybe Jackie Sheets was an easy opportunity that he couldn’t resist.”

“Maybe. But if he liked it, he won’t wait long before doing it again.”

“Oh, he likes it,” Dane said bitterly. “He takes his time, plays with them. The son of a bitch loves his work.”

Carroll Janes was sulky. He had been in a sour mood since last Friday night. Jacqueline Sheets hadn’t been as much fun as he had anticipated. The big rush of power he had expected just hadn’t materialized. She had been pathet-ic, just whining and scrambling in circles, rather than making it interesting. And there hadn’t been much press coverage about it either, which really disappointed him. Part of the fun—as it turned out,
most
of the fun—of this last one had been knowing that the cops would go crazy, with two incidences so similar, so close together, and absolutely no clues with which they could work. But evi-dently the cops were more stupid than he had thought, which took even more of the fun out of it. Where was the challenge? Not that they could catch him, but he had thought they would at least have
noticed.

He wasn’t sure what had interfered with his pleasure. Maybe Sheets had just been too soon after the last one. He hadn’t been in the proper state of anticipation, hadn’t drawn out the stalking over several weeks while the tension drew tighter and tighter, until he was at fever pitch, all of his senses almost painfully acute, all of his power focused.

Of course, he would have to try another one to make certain. He hated to waste himself on a disappointment, but it was the only way he could find out. If the next one was as boring, he would know to spend more time on the process and wouldn’t let the apparent ease of a job sucker him into moving too fast, and cheating himself of his pleasure.

Every day at work he waited and watched for the slightest transgression. Which unhappy customer was going to have to pay? After all, to make it a fair test, he would have to act as soon as possible. Marlie felt edgy, restless from an inner tension that just wouldn’t let up. She couldn’t pin down any one reason for it, because there were so many candidates from which to choose. The biggest reason, of course, was dread of the coming weekend. She couldn’t explain to anyone, not even Dane, how she felt after touching the killer’s thoughts during those bloody moments. She didn’t just feel dirty, she felt permanently contaminated by his evil, as if her soul would never be free of the ugliness. More than she had ever wanted anything in her life, she wanted to run, to get far away so she wouldn’t know when he killed again. That relief, unfortunately, was the one thing she couldn’t allow herself, or then she would be truly contaminated by her own cravenness. She had to stay, had to stick it out, for the sake of the two women who had already died, for the others she didn’t know about, for little Dusty… for herself. Then there was Dane. She loved him, but having him around all the time was still disconcerting. She had spent so many years alone that it sometimes startled her to turn around and bump into him. Suddenly there was twice the amount of laundry to do, three times as much food to prepare, schedules to adjust since there was only one bathroom, and very little room in bed. Her life had been totally in control, and now everything had changed.

He knew, of course. Those sharp hazel eyes saw every-thing, though she struggled to hide how unsettled she was. He didn’t just dump all the chores in her lap, as a lot of men would have done; he was accustomed to doing his own laundry and didn’t hesitate to wash a load of clothes. The safe limits of his cooking were heating the contents of cans or slapping a sandwich together, so she did all of the cooking, and he took over the cleanup chores. He did what he could to ease the transition for her, but at the same time he refused to back off and give her more space. He was there; she had to accustom herself to him. She was happy to do so, to have this time with him no matter what his motivation, but it was still unnerving.

She couldn’t escape the coming weekend, couldn’t dis-tract herself. Would the killer strike again? The thought of some other innocent woman being butchered, of herself being sucked into the sickening, evil morass of the killer’s mind, was almost more than she could bear. She tried not to think of it, but it was like being tracked by a mad dog and trying not to think about that, either. With every tick of the clock, the weekend loomed closer, and there was nothing she could do to avoid it. She tried to brace herself to endure, instead, because she was Dane’s only link to the killer. Sooner or later, he would give her a clue to his identity. All she had to do was wait, and endure his killing frenzies without going mad herself. By Thursday, she was so tense that she couldn’t eat the Chinese food Dane had brought for dinner, and she loved Chinese. Her throat was tight, and when she swallowed, the food seemed to form a lump halfway down her esophagus. She didn’t have an appetite anyway, so finally she stopped even making an effort.

As usual, Dane hadn’t missed a trick, though he was making impressive inroads on the food. “Worried?”

he asked.

“How can I not be? The last two weekends haven’t been a picnic.”

“Are you picking up anything from him?” Dane asked the question casually, but the interest behind it was intense.

“I’m uneasy, but it’s
my
feelings, not his.” She rubbed her hands over her arms. “How long will it take the FBI to get a profile on him?”

“I don’t know. We only had two cases, so that may make it harder for them. But they may be able to match the MO to other cases that have been brought to their attention, and that will help.”

“Do you think he’s killed before?” she asked tensely, looking out the back door. She could see Bill trimming the shrubbery at the rear of his lot. Her neighbors lived such nice, ordinary lives; she envied them the boredom of their security.

“Probably. He’s too good at it to be a beginner. It’s likely that he moves around, to keep any one area from becoming too hot for him.”

“So he’s moved here recently?”

“I’d say so.”

“Isn’t there any way you can check on recent arrivals? Wouldn’t the post office have a record? Or maybe you could get a list of new customers from the utility companies.”

“Do you know how many people move to central Florida every year?” he asked. “It would take a helluva lot of time. Still, it’s an idea.”

“You could eliminate all the women, which would cut the list in half.”

“And still leave us with a cast of thousands.” He stood and began clearing the table. “I’ll talk to Bonness about it.”

She knotted her hands together and stared at him. “Do any of the others know about me?”

“You mean, any of the other detectives?”

“Yes.”

“Just Bonness, Trammell, and me. Why?”

“I’ve been worried about it.”

“Again, why?”

“They would talk.” Restlessly she got up and helped him clear the table.

“So?”

“That kind of talk would get to the media. You know how it is.”

“So far, the media doesn’t even know about the killer. I’m surprised, because once we told the mayor, I expected it to be blasted on the six-o’clock news that there’s a serial killer loose in Orlando. No one in city hall can keep a secret. It’ll leak out any day, though.” He began washing their few dishes, and watched her as she paced the kitchen. “Have you had a rough time with the media before?”

She shot him an incredulous look. “Are you kidding?”

“What happened?”

“Which time?” she asked caustically. “The reporters are bad enough, every time a story breaks, with the phone ringing incessantly, and cameras and microphones pushed in my face every time I open the door. But the reporters aren’t the worst of it. They’re just the cause. The worst comes after they’ve done their stories, when the death threats start, and the crackpot evangelists hold prayer meetings in front of my house to drive out Satan, because I obviously do the devil’s work. If it got out this time, I’d probably lose my job. I’ve never been in these circumstances before, because the Institute always supported me. But can you imagine a
bank
tolerating that kind of publicity? A weirdo psychic working in their accounting department! Some of their customers would close out their accounts, afraid I would pry into their business.”

“Wonder what they have to hide,” Dane said, his eyes speculative.

“Nothing, probably. Some people are paranoid enough that they think the ‘authorities,’ whoever that may be, watch everyone and check everything. They won’t fill out their census papers because they think the information will be turned over to the IRS.”

“How do you know?” he asked, sliding the question in as smooth as silk. She glanced at him to find those hazel eyes glittering with amusement.

She choked on a spurt of laughter as she realized where he had led her. “Because I used to be able to read them!
Used
to, Hollister. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Are you sure? Have you tried?”

“Yes, smarty, I’ve tried.”

“When?”

“Last week. I tried to pick
him
up, but couldn’t. I tried to find you. I tried to find Trammell. Nothing. I did finally see you, very briefly, but I couldn’t read anything from you.”

“You saw me.” He didn’t look pleased at the idea. “What was I doing?”

“Watching a ball game and answering the telephone,” she snapped. “It was when I called you the first time. If I hadn’t been so worried and frightened, I doubt if I could have seen you. That never was my strength, anyway.”

He rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the drainer, then dried his hands. “But that was before we became involved. Now, maybe you could do it any time you wanted.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t tried again.”

He turned around and propped against the sink, his arms crossed as he studied her. Marlie stood her ground, but she wasn’t certain what against. He looked grim, and bigger than usual. He had removed his jacket when he’d gotten home with the cartons of takeout Chinese, but still wore his shoulder holster. A chill went through her. He had been with her for a week now, and in that short length of time she had become accustomed to his protectiveness, even to being cosseted. But a week
was
a very short time, and before that they had been adversaries.

In a flash she realized what the problem was. He wanted her, but he didn’t trust her. How could he? He didn’t know her well enough. Wasn’t that a big part of
her
problem, too? They had been propelled together without having time to get to know each other. He was a cop; distrust and suspicion were his stock in trade. He had made love to her, moved in with her, thinking that she had lost most of her psychic abilities. He didn’t at all like the idea that she could check up on him without his knowledge. He wanted to keep himself private, except for the parts he chose to share with her. It hurt, but she couldn’t blame him. She had spent a lot of effort in trying to secure privacy for herself, so she couldn’t decry the same instinct in him.

“Do you want me to apologize for being what I am?” she asked steadily. “Or put my hand on a Bible and swear a sacred oath that I’ll never again try to reach you?”

“You don’t know that you can, except in an emergency.”

She shrugged. “I won’t try it even then, if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t like being spied on,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Then I won’t do it.”

He shoved his hand through his hair. “Damn it,” he said under his breath. “Does it work the other way around? The other time, you were worried about me. But what if you’re the one in trouble? Can you call me, psychically?”

“I can place the call, Detective,” she said sardonically. “But if you don’t have a receiver, you can’t get the signals. But I wouldn’t, anyway.”

“Why not?” He didn’t like that. She could see his temper rising.

“That boundary you just drew. If you don’t want me to cross it for my convenience, I’ll be damned if I’ll cross it for yours.”

“Shit! I don’t believe this.” He closed his eyes and pinched the narrow bridge of his nose. “We’re arguing about something that doesn’t exist. If you can’t contact me any-way, what the hell difference does it make that you wouldn’t even try?”

“You tell me. You’re the one with the problem about it.” She turned around and headed for the living room. She had taken maybe three steps when a hard arm passed around her waist from behind and drew her back against him. She didn’t try to struggle free, but neither did she relax and let him take her weight. She stood stock still, waiting. He had an erection; she could feel it pressing against her bottom. She wasn’t surprised, because in the week they had been together, it seemed as if he had been hard most of the time.

“We aren’t going to get this settled, are we?” His breath was warm against her temple.

“I don’t see how.”

“Then let’s forget about it for now. Want to go for a ride?”

“Where to?”

“My place. I’m curious about what Trammell is doing to it.”

She turned her head to stare incredulously at him. “You mean you don’t know?”

“Nope. He told me to stay away until he’s finished.”

“For heaven’s sake, why? It’s your house.”

“He said that I know as much about decorating as I know about clothes.”