The Beginning (56 page)

“What?”

“Sherlock, I'm outta here. I'm not about to take advantage of a nightmare. You're vulnerable and afraid and I happen to be convenient. But you don't need me now. You're okay, right?”

She didn't say a word. He thought he'd been punched in the gut when he felt her tears against his chest.

He hauled her on top of him, and kissed her. All light, feathery kisses, and between the kisses he was saying, “Don't cry. I'm trying to be noble. It's a battle and I'm losing. You've got to help me with this. I want you a whole lot, but this isn't the way, surely. Actually, I want you whole again, I just said it wrong. Does that make any sense to you?”

Her palm smoothed over his thigh, upward. She said against his ear, “That must be what it is then.”

He didn't know what she was talking about. All he was thinking about was kissing her.

“I've got to stop,” he said between another round of kisses, “or if I don't, then I'm going to be on top of you and that nightgown is going to end up on the floor.”

She lurched away from him, taking him completely by surprise. “Let me be plain about this,” she said, smiling down at him. He wanted to weep until he realized what she was doing. “Let me be straightforward. I don't want you to have any doubts where I stand on this.”

He watched her pull the gown over her head and throw it across the room. She was sitting over him, naked, staring down at him, and she looked defiant and determined.

Oddly enough, it calmed him. He wanted to put his hands on her, but no, not just yet. “What do you want me to do, Sherlock?”

“I want to make love with you, that is, if you'll make an exception for me.”

“I've made an exception for you since I kicked you into the bushes in Hogan's Alley. Why do you look scared to death if you're so certain about all this?”

“I'm not scared. It's just the morning light.”

“Yeah, right.” But he was more than willing to believe it.

She had lovely breasts, all high and smooth and round, just the right size for his hands, his mouth, any other part of him that wanted to touch her there. And he wanted to. He couldn't remember ever wanting anything so much in his life.

Then he remembered that he'd wanted more than anything to be an FBI agent. That sure put a crimp in things.

Nah. In the scheme of things, that had been very shortsighted of him. This woman sitting naked on top of him was, he figured, about the most important milestone in his life. She was what was real, what was urgent, more urgent to him than anything else in his life. He wanted her, right now, he wanted all of her. Slowly, he lifted his right hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her breast.

She drew back, as if surprised.

He cupped her breasts in his palms. Lovely, a perfect fit. Again, she flinched.

“What's wrong? You don't like me holding you?”

“Dillon, I should tell you something.”

He couldn't take his eyes off her, but he did manage to drop his hands, for the moment, although his fingers itched like mad. But he knew he had to pay attention. Something wasn't quite right here. Now he was looking at her ribs, at her stomach, at the smooth expanse of thigh.

“Dillon?”

“Yes? Keep talking, I'll try to pay attention, but I can't help but look at you, Sherlock. You're really quite nice to look at.”

She sucked in her breath, then blurted it out. “I've only done this once. When I was nineteen. It was in the backseat of Bobby Wellman's yellow Jaguar. It was really cramped and no fun at all. Actually it was messy and horrible, but I was philosophical about it, really. After all, it was the backseat of a car. But then, well, after Belinda's death, I couldn't stand to have any men around me.”

“Once? In your whole life? In a Jaguar? Surely not an XJ6? That would be practically impossible.”

“That's the truth, but Bobby managed somehow. It wasn't at all pleasant, as I said, and I didn't realize how bony he was, all knees and elbows, even his chin was sharp. I guess if anybody was looking, they'd have laughed their heads off. Bobby loved that car. I remember that the leather was really smooth and slick because he was always oiling it. Then he'd leer and say he used his mother's extra-virgin olive oil.”

“What a jerk. Now that I think back on it, I did something similar to that when I was seventeen and eighteen. But you're twenty-seven, Sherlock.”

“Yes. When I was nineteen, after Belinda was murdered, I shut down. I've never even been interested in another man since that time with Bobby. Not even remotely. Until you. Do you mind?”

“I don't think so. Never Douglas, then?”

“No. Once, a couple of weeks ago, he kissed me, but that's all there was to it. No, it's just you.”

“Just me.” That sounded incredibly fine. Actually, he thought, as he eased her down on top of him, if he didn't suffer from sensory overload first, he would give her pleasure if it killed him.

And when she cried out, her back arching, her fists on his shoulders, he knew that he was the luckiest man on the earth.

He wanted to bring her pleasure again, but he knew he simply couldn't take it any longer. “Sherlock,” he said. Looking into her eyes he came into her fast and deep, his powerful arms shaking with his effort to control himself, to keep his weight off her.

When she came again he let himself go.

And it was just fine, all of it.

 

“LACEY,
close your eyes, that's right, and lean your head back. Let your shoulders drop. Good. No, don't stiffen up. Now, breathe very deeply. Deeper, let go. Good. Yes, that's fine.”

Dr. Lauren Bowers, a conservative congresswoman from Maryland and one of the best hypnotists Savich knew, raised her head and grinned at him. “People like Agent Sherlock here,” she said in her normal tone of voice, “are usually the easiest to get under. Once you get past her defenses, she's an open book, all the pages ruffling in the wind; that sharp brain of hers invites you right in. Now, Savich, you've written down your questions.”

She took the sheet of paper from him and scanned it. “Did I ever tell you you are really quite good? Of course you know you are; you've been trained by the best.”

Dr. Bowers turned back to the young woman who looked flaccid and pale, as if something had been sapping her from deep inside for far too long a time.

“Lacey? Can you hear me?”

“Of course, Dr. Bowers. I'm not deaf.”

Dr. Bowers laughed. “That's very good. Now, I want you to go back, Lacey, back to the last time you saw Belinda. Do you remember when that was?”

“It was April thirteenth, three days before Belinda was killed.” Lacey suddenly lurched forward, then flopped back. She was shaking her head frantically, back and forth. “No!”

“Lacey, it's all right. Just breathe in deeply.”

“I want Dillon.”

Without pause, he was lightly stroking her hand. “I'm here, Sherlock. I won't leave you. Let's go back together, all right? You're going to have to do something for me. You're going to have to paint that day to me in words, so I can see it as you see it. Can you do that? Can you tell me where you are? What you see?”

Her expression changed, softening, and incredibly, she looked like a girl again, a teenager. She sighed, then smiled. “It's very sunny, crisp and cool, a low fog swirling in over and through the Golden Gate Bridge. I love days like that, watching the sailboats on the Bay, seeing the Marin Headlands through open patches in the fog, all bleak and barren, but still green from the winter rains.”

Dr. Bowers nodded to Savich to keep going. He said in his low, deep voice, “What are you doing?”

“I'm sitting out on the deck off the living room.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. My mother's in her room napping. My father is at the courthouse. He is prosecuting a big drug case, and he wants to make sure the defense is sticking to the sitting judge's gag order. He said if they weren't, he was going to skin them alive.”

“Where is Belinda?”

Her mouth tightened, her eyebrows drew together. She wasn't smiling anymore. She started to shake her head, back and forth.

“It's okay,” Savich said easily. “Where is Douglas?”

“I thought he was at work.”

“But he wasn't?”

“No, he's here, in the house. He is with Belinda, upstairs in their suite. They're out on the balcony above me.”

“What are they doing?”

For an instant she looked incredibly angry, then her face smoothed out and her voice was smooth, unworried. “They're making love.”

He hadn't expected that. “You understand what's happening, right? It doesn't freak you out?”

“No. It's embarrassing. Douglas is saying lots of really dirty things.”

“Then what happened?”

“Belinda cries out.”

“Is she having a climax?”

“I don't think so. She rolls off the chaise onto the brick balcony. I hear her crying, then she stops.”

“Why?”

“Douglas tells her that if she cries anymore someone might hear her and he won't like that at all. In fact, if she keeps whining, he just might throw her off the balcony.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing. Belinda's quiet. After a few minutes, they make love again. Douglas tells her she'd better moan because if she doesn't moan, he won't believe she really loves him. She moans really loudly then and he says more really dirty things to her. He keeps telling her that she owes him, owes him but good.”

“Do you know what he means by that?”

She shook her head.

“What happened then?”

“Douglas goes out, and I go to their bedroom and call out her name. She wants me to go away but I refuse. I walk in. She's standing in the middle of the room, naked. She grabs for her jeans and puts them in front of her. I ask her if Douglas hit her and she says no, that's ridiculous. Douglas wouldn't hit anybody. But I don't believe her. I think I saw a bruise below her ribs when she raised her hand to wave me away. But I don't leave. I can't.”

“Had this happened before, to your knowledge?”

She was shaking her head. “Oh no. I'm certain. I thought they loved each other. Douglas was always so light and caressing with her, so tender. They were always laughing and hugging, kissing when they didn't think anyone was looking. But not now. She can't stand up straight. I want to kill him. But she says no, if anyone kills him it'll be her. She tells me to go away, that she doesn't want to see me, I'm a pain in the butt. She had a miscarriage that night.”

“You never told anyone about this? Not even the police after she was murdered?”

She didn't say anything. She was frowning again. “She must have had a miscarriage because Douglas hit her. I'd forgotten all about that.” Suddenly, her eyes opened and she stared blankly ahead of her. She looked bewildered, then frightened. He began to massage her hand, closing his fingers over hers. “It's all right, Sherlock. I'm here. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

She started to cry. She stared at him, made no sound, but tears streaked down her pale cheeks. Her lips were chapped.

Dr. Bowers wiped the tears away with a Kleenex. “Now, Lacey, that's enough. I want you to wake up now. I'm going to count to three. On three, you'll be awake, smile at Dillon here, and remember everything we talked about.”

On three, Sherlock, her eyes still open, came back into herself. “Why am I crying?”

She rubbed her fingers over her eyes. “Oh, I remember now. It was—”

“It's okay,” Savich said, pulled her against him, and began stroking his big hands up and down her back. “You don't have to talk about it right this minute.”

She grew very still in his arms. Her heart was against his. He could feel the slow, steady beat. He kissed her hair. “You okay?”

She nodded against his shoulder. “I miss Belinda so much. She was more my mother than our real mother was. Our real mother stayed in her room all the time. She loved to eat Godiva chocolates. And she was so beautiful—both Belinda and my mother. I was the plain one, but neither of them held it against me; well, maybe Belinda didn't like me so much when I was older. I don't know why.

“I know Douglas had never hit her before; she told me he hadn't. I asked her why he'd hit her this time, why he'd humiliated her.”

“What'd she say?”

“She wouldn't tell me. She stood there, shaking her head. She told me I wouldn't understand. That it had nothing to do with me, that I was to forget it.

“I was confused, then angry. I told her I was nineteen, that I wasn't a kid anymore, that I could play the piano and she couldn't. She laughed at that, but it hurt her rib to laugh, so she stopped really fast. She told me to forget this, that it wasn't important in the scheme of things. She told me to go away. I went to Napa Valley with some friends. I never saw Belinda again.”

“How did you know that Belinda had a miscarriage?”

“I don't remember. Someone must have told me. But no one seemed to know about it. It isn't in the medical reports or the autopsy report. I don't remember.”

“But somehow you followed her through the warehouse, followed her to her death, saw everything she saw, felt her terror, felt her die.”

Dr. Bowers looked as if she wanted to leap on Savich, but he shook his head. Sherlock was stiff now, withdrawn from him, but he didn't say anything more, just held her, rocking her slightly, back and forth.

“How could I have possibly been there? It doesn't make any sense. I was in St. Helena when my father called me. I left San Francisco that very day I'd spoken to Belinda.”

“What did your father say when he called you?”

“He said that Belinda had been killed by the String Killer. He told me to come home. I went. There wasn't anything more.”

“Did your father tell you about her miscarriage?”

“I don't remember.”

“When did you have the first dream?”

“Six weeks later. He was stalking me, and I knew he was there, only there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't get away from him. I yelled at him, ‘Why are you here? What do you want?' He didn't say anything. He just kept coming closer and closer. I knew he would hit me on the head but it didn't matter. I couldn't get away from him. I felt helpless, and I was. He was right there, over me. The dream ended.”

“When did you come to realize that he picked women because they cursed and put down their husbands?”

“The dreams got longer, more detailed. Later, he told me, told me over and over. That began maybe three months later. He said in my ear just after he struck me, ‘You're a filthy-mouthed little bitch, aren't you? You curse and say all those bad things you shouldn't be saying and you blame your husband and call him bad names. I've got to punish you.'

“I'll never forget that, never. The dreams continued, got more and more involved until the one last night when I woke up just the instant before he killed me. I honestly don't know how much effect the profiling papers influenced me, and all my studies. There was a lot of gruesome stuff in the courses and I thought about him all the time, read all the big-city newspapers, studied other serial killers. But I don't understand where this dream came from.”