"Didn't anyone else in the family try to step in and help you get away from your father?"
"Everyone looked the other way, and Richard Sanders knew how to hit where it wouldn't show. Besides that, he's a rich, socially connected, well-educated man. No one would ever believe he'd use a belt on his kid. I tried to tell a teacher once. She called my father in for a meeting. He said I was a pathological liar. The next thing I knew I was in detention. I didn't bother telling anyone after that."
"I can see why you wouldn't," she agreed.
There was no shock in her voice, just sadness and a weary acceptance, reminding him that Catherine was no stranger to abuse. She'd probably seen worse in her days in the foster-care system. He couldn't help wondering again what her story was, but he doubted she'd tell him. She was as private as he was—as he
usually
was, he silently amended. Around her he was becoming quite the talker.
"I don't know why I told you all that," he said aloud, giving her a quick look. "I don't usually."
"Because you needed to. Don't worry; your secret is safe with me."
"It's not a secret; it's just a part of my life that's over—at least, I thought it was over."
Was it possible that his father was responsible for his latest problems? They hadn't talked in over a year, and that brief conversation had occurred only because they'd happened to pass each other in a restaurant, and Richard hadn't wanted to look bad by snubbing his son in front of his longtime friends.
They lived separate lives now. Jake hadn't even invited their father to his wedding. Neither Jake nor Dylan considered their family to be anyone but the two of them, except their grandmother, when she was lucid enough to know she had grandsons, which was rare these days. And now Jake had his own family in Sarah and their daughter, Caitlyn. He was moving on, and that was the way it was supposed to be. Perhaps this was the perfect time for his father to strike. With Jake away, there was no one to step in and help Dylan, no one else who would point a finger in his father's direction.
"What happened to your mother?" Catherine asked, interrupting his thoughts. "You told me she left when you were a kid, but where is she now?"
"I have no idea. I haven't seen her since I was seven years old. She left us a note saying she was sorry, but she didn't really like being a mother, and she thought we'd be better off with Richard. She never came back to see us, and her name was taboo in my father's household. If I said her name aloud I'd definitely get a beating. So I kept my mouth shut."
"And you never tried to find her?" Catherine asked.
He heard the curious note in her voice and knew it didn't make sense that he'd spent the past decade searching for the truth about other people's lives while ignoring his own. "I've thought about it," he muttered. "That's as far as I've gone."
"Why? You have resources, connections. Why haven't you tried?"
A dozen good reasons crossed his mind, but he spoke the one that was the truth, the plain, simple, unvarnished truth. "Because she left me. She didn't want me or care to know what happened to me. Why should I care about her?" For some reason he couldn't seem to lie to Catherine, although his painful words made him sound like a complete wimp.
"That makes sense."
"It might make sense, but it's a chickenshit way to think," he said, annoyed at himself.
"You're not a coward."
"Aren't I? I'm afraid to find the mother who left me twenty-three years ago. That sounds cowardly to me."
"What does Jake say?"
"He accepts that she's gone. He thinks my father made life difficult for her, and that she had to leave in order to survive. He remembers our parents fighting all the time, and my mother crying. He's far more accepting than I am."
"It seems strange that she wouldn't have taken you with her when she left your dad. She must have known what kind of man she was married to, especially if they were arguing a lot."
"That's what I can't forgive her for," Dylan admitted. "She should have taken us with her."
"Maybe she couldn't. Your father sounds like a bully and a very strong man. She might not have been able to stand up to him."
"He was all that. And to be fair, it's possible he told her she could go, but she wasn't taking us. Although I can't understand why he would have fought to keep me or Jake. He didn't care about being a father any more than she wanted to be a mother. They were two people who should never have had kids." He paused. "It probably would have hurt his reputation too much to lose his family. His standing in the community means everything to him. I'm sure he must have told his friends that my mother was psychotic or something. Hell, maybe he told 'em he put her away in a psychiatric hospital. I doubt he would have ever admitted to anyone that she left him."
"Then he wouldn't set you up for murder," Catherine said. "It wouldn't look good to have his son in jail."
"Exactly. I told you it's not him. But you asked me who hated me enough to want to torture me, and his was the first and only name that popped into my head. So it has to be someone else, most likely Ravino."
"Right."
A few minutes of silence passed between them. Dylan glanced over at Catherine. She stared out the window, lost in thought. He wondered what she was thinking about now, what had drawn the tiny frown lines around the corners of her eyes. She was such a soft person, with beautiful skin, tender lips. There wasn't a hard thing about her. She was all heart and emotion. Once in a while he saw hints of a weary, cynical side, but she still never came off as cold and ruthless, just a little sad at times—like now. He wished he could take away her sadness, carry the burden of her past that she seemed to shoulder like a weary soldier, but he didn't know where the pain came from, and she didn't want to tell him.
Never mind that he'd shared his life story; she was still keeping hers close to the vest. When this was all over, he would find out what she was hiding. He was going to make her talk to him, and maybe there would be some way he could help her. He would definitely owe her.
Catherine suddenly turned her head and caught him staring. A flash of awareness sparked in her eyes, and he felt an immediate response—that damn connection between them that she constantly spoke of. It was definitely there. He felt as if she'd cast a spell over him— not that he believed in spells, but she had some sort of crazy power over him. When he wasn't thinking about saving his ass, he couldn't stop thinking about her and how much he wanted to explore her mouth, kiss the curve of her neck, cup her breasts with his hands, and watch her eyes darken with pleasure.
The way they were darkening now. He was either transparent as hell, or she really could read his mind. It was probably a little of both.
"You should be watching the road," Catherine said.
"You're a lot more interesting than the road."
"So are you."
Damn.
Why did she have to admit that? He had to fight to drag his gaze away from hers and concentrate on driving. "You should learn how to lie," he said a moment later, inwardly battling a reckless urge to pull onto the shoulder and see just what else she'd admit to wanting.
"I know how to lie," Catherine replied. "In fact, I can be very good at it."
"How is that possible? You show every damn emotion the second you feel it."
"That's because I'm not trying to hide from you, but I can if you want."
He frowned at her challenging and honest words and knew that was the last thing he wanted. His recent relationships had been filled with games and innuendos and miscommunication, no one saying what they meant, no one acting on their true feelings, no one really trying to make the other person happy. He'd been living a fairly selfish life in regards to women, he thought, experiencing a moment of self-clarity. He'd rationalized by telling himself that if everyone had a good time, what was the harm? But his current situation reminded him that life was short and filled with unexpected events, and he shouldn't be wasting so much time being with people he didn't care about. Not that he cared about Catherine. They'd spent only a few days together, but the odd thing was, he felt as if he knew her better than people he'd spent months with.
"I used to hide what I was feeling," Catherine continued. "Growing up the way I did, I learned that showing tears or letting people know I cared made me weak, vulnerable. I had to fit in. I didn't have a choice. It was sink or swim. I had to be tough. And I had to lie— sometimes to save my life, which I was more than willing to do. But I'm an adult now, and I don't have to pretend anymore. And I guess I've gotten a little rusty at lying."
"You had it rough as a kid."
"Something we have in common."
"I have a feeling your past was worse than mine, but you're not going to tell me, are you?"
"Not now, but I won't say never. As soon as I challenge the universe by making such proclamations, fate usually steps in and shows me how wrong I am to think I can control my destiny," she added lightly.
"I don't believe in fate or destiny. We make our lives what they are. I hate it when people say they must have run out of gas for a reason, as if every little thing that happens in their life is part of some orchestrated plan. Maybe the reason they ran out of gas is because they forgot to fill up the tank."
"I don't think that every little moment in our lives is planned. We make choices that lead to actions and consequences. But I do believe in a higher power; call it God or fate or destiny or whatever. I feel it in my heart and in my head. I'm tuned in to the universe, and you're not, because you're still under the illusion that you're going to control everything."
"Obviously I'm not controlling this situation," he retorted.
"Maybe that's what you're supposed to learn."
"Oh, shit, don't start talking like that. This is not about me learning some lesson."
"It might be. Look, Dylan, I know you don't believe in things you can't see, but how can I not when I see things other people are experiencing? When I feel emotions that aren't mine, when I know what's going to happen before it happens?"
Dylan shook his head. "I can't explain you—or much of anything these days. Maybe it's all a cosmic joke. But I think the universe has some very human helpers, and those are the people I intend to find."
He had barely finished speaking when his cell phone rang. He picked it up from the console, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the number. "Shit!"
"Who is it?"
"Someone is calling me from my apartment, and the only person in the world besides myself who has a key to my place is Jake, and he's in Hawaii. I hope he didn't hear about this mess I'm in and come home. But why would he go to my house?"
Realizing he'd find out more if he just answered the phone, Dylan punched a button and said, "Hello?"
There was a long silence, but he could hear some-one's quick, short breaths on the other end of the line. "Who is this, and what the hell are you doing in my apartment?"
"It's me," a woman said.
His heart turned over at the familiar voice. "Erica?" he breathed. "What's going on? What are you trying to do to me?"
"I made a horrible mistake, Dylan. Someone is trying to kill me."
"You made it look like was trying to kill you."
"I had to. I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice."
"Why are you doing this, Erica? Is it Ravino? Does he have some hold over you?"
She didn't answer.
"Erica, talk to me. Whatever trouble you're in, I can help you fix it."
"Oh, God, I have to go," she said, dropping her voice to a hush. "I think someone is coming. I didn't think he'd find me here."
"Who? Erica, dammit, tell me who."
But it was too late. She'd hung up the phone. He couldn't believe he'd lost her again.
"Erica is at your house?" Catherine asked in surprise.
"Yes. She said someone was coming. And then she hung up. She said she was sorry. But she wouldn't say why she was doing it. Fuck!" He hit the redial over and over again, but Erica didn't answer.
"At least we know she's still alive," Catherine offered. "That's something."
"For now," he said grimly. "She said someone was trying to kill her, and that he'd found her again."
Chapter 7
Catherine began to feel uneasy the closer they got to San Francisco. By the time Dylan drove through the tollbooth at the Bay Bridge just before five o'clock that afternoon, every nerve in her body was on edge. The bay seemed to reflect her mood, the dark blue waves shimmering with whitecaps, the result of a strong wind and a bank of cool gray fog sliding in over the far end of the city.
She'd never been to San Francisco, so she didn't know why she had the sense of homecoming. She'd seen photographs of Alcatraz, the island prison in the middle of the bay, as well as pictures of the city, with its downtown skyscrapers, steep hills, and famous cable cars. But that didn't explain the conviction that she'd seen these sights before and that she'd driven across this bridge, heading into the city.
Her mental turmoil grew more chaotic with each passing mile. She gripped the armrest, feeling a desperate need to steady herself. But she couldn't find her center. Dizziness assailed her, and images began to flash through her mind. Her body went from hot to cold. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to get rid of the sense that she was in terrible danger, but she couldn't stop the terror ripping through her.
"You're shaking. What's wrong?" Dylan asked.
His voice barely registered over the sound of rushing water in her head.
"Catherine," he said in a demanding tone. "What the hell is going on with you?"
"Something bad is happening." It was the same feeling she'd had in the woods, the sense that she was being chased, that she needed to run faster or she wouldn't be able to get away."
"Try to think of something else," Dylan ordered.
"I . . . I can't," she said, her teeth rattling with cold chills.
"Tell me about your art class. Are you still teaching?"
She knew he was trying to change the subject, but the mention of art only drew vivid slashes of color through her mind. She saw black and red again, then a streak of blue, a flash of gold. She felt something hit her chest, and she reached for her neck, wondering why she could feel a chain against her skin when there was nothing there.
"Catherine, answer me," Dylan said. "You have to talk to me. I can't stop the car on the bridge just because you're freaking out. Tell me about your classes."
"They're over until the summer session starts next month," she said tightly. "Oh, God, I can't stand this." She closed her eyes, overwhelmed.
"Don't fight it. Let it in. Tell me what's happening."
"No." She shook her head as she tried desperately to protect herself from the onslaught of emotions.
"What do you see?" Dylan demanded.
"Grass. Trees. A building."
Something that looked like a dome appeared in ront o her eyes. A bunch o birds squawked and flew o a pond, as i something evil was coming.
"What kind of building?" "Arches. Almost like a royal palace or something."
She saw a pillar in ront o her. She tried to squeeze behind it. Her heart was pounding against her chest. ootsteps drew closer.
"What else?"
She couldn't speak. she said anything he would find her. She had to stay silent, utterly, utterly still. A shadow ell across the ground. She could hear him breathing.
"Catherine, snap out of it."
Dylan's voice shook her out of the moment, and as his hand came down on her leg her eyes flew open. She realized they were no longer on the bridge. Dylan had pulled off at the first exit and stopped the car on a side street. He was half turned in his seat, his eyes filled with concern.
"What is going on with you?" he asked.
She stared at him blankly, his words a blur in her head. Gradually she became aware of her surroundings, cars passing on the street, pedestrians in the crosswalk, the buzz of traffic on the nearby bridge. She wasn't in a dark park, hiding behind a pillar; she was here in the car with Dylan.
"Catherine," Dylan prodded impatiently. "Talk."
"I think I'm connecting with Erica again," she said slowly. "She's here in the city and someone is chasing her."
"Tell me something I don't know," Dylan said in frustration.
"He's very close to finding her."
"Catherine, you have to be more specific. What exactly did you see?"
"A grassy area, water." She thought harder. "A building with a big dome, tall pillars."
His gaze narrowed. "There are a couple of places like that in the city. One is the Palace of Fine Arts; another is the Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park. It would help to know which one."
"I've never been here before. I've never seen either of those buildings."
"Maybe in a picture. They're well-known tourist attractions."
"I saw the location in my head, not a photograph."
"So which one?"
Blowing out a sigh, she opened her purse and pulled out a memo pad and a pen. Without any more thought, she began to draw. She didn't know what would come out of her head—if it would be as unintelligible as most of her pictures or if it would tell them where Erica was.
In seconds a rough image appeared: a building with tall columns, a dome, a patio, a grassy area surrounding a pond, some sort of waterfall spray, and a flock of birds. She'd shaded one particularly large bird in heavy black—a hawk or a raven perhaps, undeniably a predator—and somewhere hidden behind the pillars was the prey, the shadow of a woman.
She handed Dylan the pad with a shaky hand.
He studied it for a moment and then said, "I think that's the Palace of Fine Arts." He restarted the car. "We might as well check it out. It's by the Golden Gate Bridge and more important, not far from my apartment. If you are somehow channeling Erica, it would make sense that she would be in that area."
"You're starting to believe me," she said, somewhat amazed by the idea.
"I'm not sure I'd go that far, but the Palace is as good a place to start as any other."
* * *
Dylan drove across town as quickly as he could, but it was slow going, since the streets were crowded with commuters getting off work. He bypassed the downtown area and sped along the Embarcadero, which edged the various piers and boat docks bordering the bay.
Every now and then he glanced in Catherine's direction. She seemed calmer now, studying the sights with a quiet eye. He had to admit he was relieved. She'd scared the shit out of him when she'd started shaking and sweating as if she were in some sort of trance. The cynical side of him wanted to say she was just acting, making the whole thing up, but if that were the case, she was a hell of a good actress. And in view of their recent discussion about lying, he doubted she was conning him. So, if she wasn't pretending, then maybe she did have some sort of odd telepathy going on with Erica. Whatever—he was in no position to judge or analyze or push her away.
Not that he wanted to push her away. In fact, for a second there he'd been tempted to yank her into his arms. Somehow he'd fought the temptation to touch her, and that was a good thing. Catherine was like a hot wire: If he got too close he would get shocked. But still he couldn't help wondering what it would be like to be inside all that passion and turmoil and energy. Would he feel what she felt? Would he see what she saw? He'd never considered sex any kind of mystical experience, but he had a feeling that with Catherine it would be out of this world.
Clearing his throat, he turned on the radio, needing something to break the silence and the tension rapidly building inside him. He searched for a news station, grateful to hear mundane topics like street closures for Sunday's open-air market and the latest weather and traffic. Being home made him feel stronger, more confident, almost normal. San Francisco was his town. He was playing on his turf now.
"This is a beautiful city," Catherine murmured. "I love the hills and the bay."
"That doesn't surprise me. You live by the beach. You must have an affinity for the water."
"I do, especially the ocean. It just keeps coming in, day after day. There's something comforting about the predictability. You grew up here, right?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I've lived here most of my life, except for the couple of years I spent across the bay with Jake and the three years I was in Sacramento when I first got out of school. For a while I wasn't sure I would come back. In some ways I felt like San Francisco was my father's town, but I decided not to let his presence prevent me from accepting a great job."
"What's that over there?" Catherine asked, pointing to a nearby pier lined with dozens of shops and restaurants as well as street performers and exhibits.
"That's Pier Thirty-nine. It's a tourist attraction: cafés, boutiques, a merry-go-round in the middle. Next to the pier is the Blue and Gold ferry that takes people out on the bay and over to Alcatraz. And coming up on your right is Fisherman's Wharf, one of the city's most famous landmarks. If we had time we could stop and get some crab. They have some of the best seafood in the world right here."
"Sounds good. Maybe after we find Erica we can celebrate."
"I like the way you say
when,
not
i.
"
"I'm trying to be optimistic."
"But you're not, are you?"
"I'll feel better when we get to that building."
"It's not far." He stopped at a red light. "You know, I used to ride my bike down here when I was a kid. I hated being at home, so I'd stay out as late as possible, especially on the weekends, when my father would be around. I even learned how to juggle and walk on stilts so I could make some money."
Her eyes widened. "You put out your hat and did a little act?"
"When I was fourteen," he said with a short laugh. "Hey, I was good. The tourists loved me, especially the girls. I made some bucks."
"I'll bet you did. What did you do with all the cash?"
"Saved it for when my dad kicked me out. I knew it would happen. It was inevitable. In fact, it was a relief. Once I got out of his house I felt like a weight had slipped off of me. I was finally free."
"Did your father ever remarry?"
"No, but there were various women in his life over the years. He didn't bring them around the house much. I don't know if he was afraid we'd embarrass him or if he just wanted to keep us separate. In retrospect, I think that was it. He didn't want anyone to see the man he was at home, just the man he was at work and out at parties—the big man. Last year he started seeing a new woman; Rachel Montgomery is her name. I only know that because they've been on the society page of the newspaper a few times. And when I went by the house a few months ago, the housekeeper, Mrs. Rogers, told me that Rachel had moved into the house, so maybe she's the one for him."
"Would that bother you?"
"I don't care one way or the other. Although I hope he treats her decently." Dylan paused as the dome of the Palace of Fine Arts came into view. "Look familiar?" he asked, pointing down the street.
Catherine started and straightened in her seat. "I think that's it."
"Do you feel Erica again?" he asked, not quite sure how to phrase the question.
"No, but I never know when it's going to hit me. It comes when I least expect it. And frankly not usually in the daytime." She took a deep breath. "I'm almost afraid to let my mind wander. I'm not sure what I'll see or if I'll be able to handle it."
"You can do it. You're strong. And if you're really connecting with Erica, then you might be able to save her life."
"I'll do what I can, Dylan. I can't make any promises."
"I never ask for promises, Catherine."
"You wouldn't. Because that way no one disappoints you."
Her sharp words hit home. She was right—again.
Dylan pulled into a parking spot near the grassy field next to the dome. There were a few tourists lingering in the area, including a couple and their young son, who was dipping a toy fishing pole in and out of the lake that ran along one side of the rotunda. The Palace of Fine Arts, with its Greek and Roman architecture, had been built in the nineteen hundreds for the Pan Pacific Expo but now housed the Exploratorium. The beautiful grounds, the sloping lawn, the serene lagoon, the old rotunda with its dome and towering columns were also often used for wedding ceremonies. Dylan had watched two of his friends get married here last year. He could hardly believe he was back now trying to find the woman framing him for murder.
Catherine zipped up her sweater as they got out of the car. The fog was moving farther inland, the thick mist sliding over the top of the building, blocking out the last of the afternoon sun.
"This is definitely the place I saw in my head," Catherine murmured, taking in their surroundings.
He put a hand on her back as he scanned the perimeter. "Let's check it out."
They walked quickly to the rotunda. Once under the dome Catherine paused to look at each of the columns. After a moment's hesitation she crossed to one of them, putting her hand on the cool stone. She took another step and then slid her body into the narrow space between the column and the building. She slipped back out a second later, her breath coming short and fast. "Erica was here, hiding behind that pillar."
"There are people around. Who would try to kill her here?" Dylan pondered. "It's too public."
Catherine stared back at him for a long moment. "Something fell. I remember pulling on a chain around my neck, and . . ." Her voice drifted off as her gaze turned downward.
Dylan saw what she saw a second later: a tiny gold cross lying on the ground, almost hidden in the dark shadows. He recognized it immediately, and his heart skipped a beat. "This is Erica's. She was here." He couldn't keep the amazement out of his voice. He hadn't realized how strong his doubts about Catherine had been until this moment. Erica had been here, and Catherine had somehow seen it in her head. He'd wanted indisputable proof of her telepathy, and now he had it, because he couldn't think of any other way Catherine could have put Erica in this location. He gazed back at Catherine's face and saw the fire burning in her cheeks, the glittering light in her eyes. "Where is Erica now?"