The Beginning (55 page)

Lots of laughter. And a lot of faces looking hard at Big John Bullock.

“No more questions, folks. Talk to you later.”

A commercial came on for Bud Light.

She felt Savich behind her. She said quietly, “I'm going back to Boston. I've got to see Marlin Jones again.”

“They won't let you see him, Sherlock.”

“I've got to try.” She turned slowly and looked up at him. “You see that, don't you? I've got to try. I can't just sit around waiting for some maniac to come after me again. If you tell them to let me in, they will.”

“He's not the maniac who's after you now. Besides, you go talk to him again, and it could all come out that Belinda was your sister.”

“No, I wouldn't tell him any of that. I wouldn't tell anyone about that.”

“It's still a risk. Trust me on this: You can't begin to imagine what the media would do if they found out you were the sister of one of the murdered women and finding Marlin has been your obsession for seven years. You think the way I said it sounds hard. Wait until the media got hold of it. Big John would certainly squawk about entrapment then.

“I think a more worthwhile trip would be to San Francisco. Why don't I call the San Francisco office and have a couple of agents go talk to Douglas, your father, and your mother?”

She shook her head.

“As for Marlin, maybe, after you've rested a couple of days. Look, it's Sunday. I want you to take it easy until Tuesday. You promise?”

She stroked the gold chenille afghan. “I guess I could use a good night's sleep.”

“Two days, Sherlock. I want your promise that you'll lie low for two days. Then we'll talk about it.”

She was silent, and he felt a good dollop of anger.

“You're an FBI agent, Sherlock. That means you do what I tell you to do. You carry out assignments that I instruct you to carry out. You don't go surfing any wave that catches your fancy. You got that?”

“You're nearly yelling. How could I not get it?”

He stepped forward, then stopped. “I've got a nice guest room upstairs. I also packed you a suitcase. It's still in the trunk of the car. I'll take you up, then bring it in.”

She didn't think about her underwear until she was standing in the Victorian bathroom with its highly polished walnut floor, its claw-feet tub, pedestal washbowl, and plush pale yellow Egyptian towels with small flowers on them. She'd stripped down to her bra and panties, turned and seen herself in the mirror and stared. He'd picked out the softest peach silk set she owned. What had he thought when he picked them out of the drawer? Without thinking, she ran her hand over her belly, the silk smooth and slithery against her palm. What had he thought? No, she wouldn't think about that.

They were just a bra and drawers, no matter how exquisite, how potentially sexy. He probably hadn't even thought a thing, just grabbed them up. She loved pretty underwear. This set she'd bought herself for her last birthday. So expensive. Soft and flimsy and wicked. She took off the bra and rubbed the smooth lace against her cheek. She hadn't worn it in months. Dillon had picked it out.

“Sherlock.”

She quickly wrapped a towel around herself and looked around the bathroom door. He was standing in the middle of the bedroom, a suitcase in his hand.

“On the bed, please, Dillon.”

He thought she looked beyond tired. He probably should have left her at the hospital, tied to the hospital bed. He looked again. He'd never before realized a towel could look so sexy wrapped around someone. “You need any help?”

That made her smile. “No, sir. I can brush my teeth without you holding my arm up.”

“Then I'll see you in the morning. There's no reason for you to wake up early. Sleep in. When you wake up, holler, and I'll bring you breakfast. Don't forget, Sherlock, you promised to stay put.”

She hadn't, but she nodded. “Thank you, Dillon.”

“Oh, another thing. I need to run a couple of errands tomorrow morning. While I'm gone, I want you to leave the doors locked and don't open up for anybody; I don't care who anyone says they are. There's lots of food, even some pesto left over for you. You don't need to go out. You open it only for me, you got that?”

“I got that.”

“Your SIG is downstairs in my office. Your Lady Colt is in the drawer by your bed. Now, let me decide what we'll do about this mess. I'll tell you tomorrow.”

“What are your errands?”

He frowned at her. “Not your business. I won't be gone more than a couple of hours.”

“Would you sing me a couple of lines before you go?”

“You want something down-home?”

“Yeah, real down-home.”

His rich deep baritone filled the room, sounding really twangy this time.
“She ain't Rose but she ain't bad. She ain't easy, but she can be had. So am I when she whispers in my ear. She ain't Rose, and Rose ain't here.”

“Who's Rose?”

He grinned at her, gave her a salute, then left, closing her bedroom door behind him.

It was dawn when he shot straight up in his bed. He hit the floor running when another scream rent the silence.

 

SHE
was wheezing, her arms wrapped around herself. She struggled to sit up in bed.

“Sherlock. You're awake? What's wrong?”

She was still sucking air into her lungs. It was as if someone had tried to suffocate her. He sat down beside her and pulled her against him. He began rubbing her back. “It's all right now. Did you have a nightmare?”

Slowly, so very slowly, her breathing began to steady, but it still hurt to breathe, as if someone had clouted her in the ribs. She couldn't talk yet, didn't want to talk. “That's it, relax. I'm here. Nothing's going to hurt you, nothing.”

Her face was buried in his shoulder, her arms limp at her sides. Then, suddenly, she put her arms around his back and held on tight.

“Yeah, I'm real and I'm solid and I'm mean. No one's going to hurt you. It's okay.”

He could feel her harsh breathing against his flesh, then she said, “Yes, I know. I'm all right now.”

He tried to pull away from her but she still held on tight. He could feel her shivering. “It's really okay, Sherlock,” he said again. “I'm not going anywhere. You can let go now.”

“I don't think I want to. Give me a few more minutes.” She tightened her grip around him.

She was still shivering. “Sorry, but I seem to have packed you the wrong kind of nightgown. You must be freezing.”

“You're a man. You picked it out because it's sexy and sheer, like my underwear.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you could be right. It feels really soft and nice. Sorry, but my hormones must have gotten the better of me. Listen now. Let me go, Sherlock, and lie back.”

If anything, she gripped him tighter.

He laughed. “I promise you everything's okay now. Listen, you've got to let me go. Come on now.”

“No.”

He laughed again. He sounded like he was in pain. “Okay, tell you what. I'm cold too. Why don't we both lie back and I'll keep holding you until we both warm up.”

He knew it wasn't a good idea, but he was worried about her. Truth be told, he didn't want to think about his motives. He was wearing boxer shorts, nothing else. No, this was definitely not a good idea.

He got under the covers with her, lay on his back, and pulled her against him. She settled her face on his shoulder, her hand on his bare chest. He pulled the covers as high as her ears.

She was stiff. “It's okay,” he said, hugged her against him hard, then eased up. “You want to tell me about it?”

He felt her jerk, her breath fan over his skin. She was still afraid. He waited. He began to stroke her back—long, even strokes. Finally, she said, “It was a nightmare, a stupid nightmare. Talking about Belinda probably brought it on again.”

“What do you mean ‘again'? You've had this dream before?”

She was quiet for a very long time. At least she wasn't shuddering anymore. He was hoping she'd keep talking. Getting her to open up was turning out to be one of his toughest assignments. And he was beginning to seriously doubt his strategy for calming her down. In the silence he noticed how uneven his own breathing had become. He began breathing deeply. “Tell me about the dream, Sherlock.”

It was near dark, she was cocooned in blankets against him, she was safe, her mind wasn't on alert, and so she said, her breath warm and light against his skin, “I was the one in the warehouse, or I was with Belinda, or somehow a part of her. I don't know. But in the dream it's as if I'm the one who was there, I was the one in his maze, the one he was supposed to kill, not Belinda. Then I went through the whole thing in Boston. I truly believed it would bring me full circle, but it didn't.”

“I'm not understanding all of this.”

“No wonder. Sometimes I think I'm mad.”

“Talk to me.” He kissed the top of her head. It wasn't a good move. “Talk to me,” he said again, his voice lower this time, deeper, because he was aware of her woman's body against him, aware of her scent, aware of her hair on his shoulder, tickling his cheek.

“Every time I've had the dream in the past, it's gone a bit further. He hasn't yet killed me, but this time I woke up just as he raised the knife.”

He waited, held her, and waited. He could feel her tensing, feel her heart speeding up. “Say it, just say it, Sherlock. What is it?”

“I know, Dillon, I know that when that knife comes down I'll die.”

It was no longer dark in the bedroom. It was a soft pearly gray, yet dark enough so that it was still two people sharing confidences in the night. He knew she had to tell him all of it now or she might never tell him. She was vulnerable now. He didn't know how much longer it would last. Probably not long.

“The dream began just after Belinda was murdered?”

“Yes. I've thought about it and thought about it over the years. It's as I said before—if I'm not the one who's there, then it's as if I'm actually following her same path, feeling the terror she felt.” Her fingers clutched the hair on his chest and he jerked a bit.

“Sorry, Dillon. Oh my, you're not wearing any clothes. I'm sorry. I hadn't realized before.”

“It's all right. I'm wearing boxer shorts. Ignore it. How long since you've had the nightmare?”

“Well over a year. This time I went through it all the way to the center of the maze and he was there, only it was so dark I couldn't see him, but I saw the silver arc of his knife. Then I screamed and it woke me up.”

“Do you think what you did in Boston brought the dream back?”

“I don't know. Probably.”

He was silent for a moment, then said very quietly, “So this was why you were so sure exactly what Marlin was going to do. It wasn't the Profilers' reports, it wasn't all the study you've done during the past seven years, all the thought you've given to it. You knew every step. Because of the dream, you knew each move to make, each move he would make.”

“Yes. But it still doesn't make any sense, does it?”

“Not at this moment, but it will sooner or later.”

“I have studied him. The Profilers had it right—he hates women who curse, and that's why he cuts out their tongues. What they couldn't have been certain about was that the women also bad-mouthed their husbands. But I knew it was true. That's why I had to be the bait—I knew exactly how to get him to come after me, I knew which buttons to push. He didn't have to doubt for a second that I was the best candidate for punishment around.

“But there was a difference that I realized now. In my dream, when the murderer raised the knife, it wasn't the same way that Marlin raised his knife in the center of the maze in Boston. It wasn't so vicious in the dream. It was as if he—”

“As if what?”

“As if he wasn't really serious, but I knew he was and I was scared to death. I'm sorry. That doesn't make a lick of sense.”

He thought about that a moment, then said, “But in Boston, you'd put him on the defensive. He wasn't facing a terrified, helpless woman. That could make the difference.” He tightened his arm around her again. “Listen to me. Even if that dream does continue on some night in the future, even if he does stick a knife into you, you can't die. It's only a dream. You've got to believe that. As real as it seems, it still isn't. It never will be.”

She shuddered, then was quiet against him. Her hand had been fisted on his chest. He'd managed to ignore it, but now her hand was lower, nearly to his belly. His breathing speeded up.

“What do you think it all means?”

He thought about that a long time. It took him longer than usual because he was hard, his heart was pounding fast and strong, and he was having a good deal of difficulty concentrating. His brain no longer had any control. He wanted to pull that beautiful soft peach nightgown over her head and—

“I don't know. It's almost as if you have some connection with Belinda. No, that sounds like psychic nonsense. But regardless, there's got to be something there. Something that happened that you don't remember. Don't you think?”

Her hand was now a fist on his belly. “I don't know. What could have happened? Why wouldn't I remember? I was never hurt at that time. No trauma or head wound of any kind.”

He laid his own hand over hers, pressing down until her fingers splayed over him, her palm soft and flat against his flesh. “Just relax. Everything will be all right. I know a woman who could help take you back to what really happened. There's got to be something from seven years ago, something that triggered this, something you've blocked out that's resurfacing. Yes, if anyone can get to the bottom of this, she can. But don't worry about it anymore right now.”

“You really think she'll help us?”

“I really think so. Since this all started, I knew there was something you were keeping from me. You promise this is all of it?”

“Yes.” The terror was gone. She didn't even care that this woman he was talking about was probably a shrink. She could see him in the dull morning light; she could feel the strength of him, the deep smooth muscles, the texture of his flesh. She didn't feel anything remotely close to terror now. She felt something she didn't think she'd ever felt in her life. The feel of him beneath her palm, beneath her fingers, it made her so alive her body was thrumming with the power of it.

“Dillon?”

“Hmmm?” He didn't know if he had any more words available to him. His brain was all in his groin, need for her was raging through him, making him shake, and it took everything in him to keep control.

“I feel really warm, but warmer in some places than in others. My shoulders feel really cool, but not other parts of me, like my chest.”

She was seducing him? No, that couldn't be right. He prayed that it was, then cursed himself. He had to get out of there. He should be back in his own bedroom, with two doors closed between them. He cleared his throat. “Talking would help, but if you can't talk, then I'll go back to my own room. That would be the smart thing to do. Going back to my room this very instant would be the very smartest thing to do.”

“I know.” She sighed deeply, leaned her face into his shoulder, and lightly bit him. She then licked where she'd bitten. “You're probably right. But I have to tell you those warmer places have gotten even warmer. Hot nearly.”

“Sherlock, stop now. This isn't good. I knew it wasn't good when I got in bed with you. Now I know it's maybe one of the stupidest things I've done in a good long while.” He thought if he moved now, he was in for seven years of bad luck, because he'd crack into a billion pieces, just like a mirror.

She pulled her hand away from beneath his. He sucked in his breath in disappointment. “I'm sorry. Ollie told me you didn't ever get involved with your people.”

Why had Ollie told her that? He had dated Hannah before she'd joined the Unit, but then he'd called a halt when she'd come on board. Well, yeah, at least at one time Ollie had been right. Actually, until an hour ago, he would have bet the farm on it. Maybe even ten minutes ago he would have bet a second farm on it. “No, I don't get involved with any of my people. At least I haven't. It seems that's shot now, though. And don't say you're sorry again. If you do, I'll do something unsuave.”