Chapter 14
Dylan sped down the street, relieved that that last bullet hadn't hit him or Catherine. He took the turn with a squeal of tires, and as the car straightened out, he glanced in the rearview mirror for headlights. Sure enough, there they were. Was it the shooter or just a random car? He couldn't afford to make the wrong decision. He hit the gas hard again.
Catherine started to wipe the glass off her seat.
"Stay down," he told her tersely. "I think he's following us."
"Can you see him?"
"There's a car, looks like a small truck." Dylan turned right, then left, trying to elude their pursuer, but the vehicle clung to his tail. He saw the silhouette of a man with a cap on his head, but he couldn't get any more detail than that.
Finally he reached the Pacific Coast Highway, a stretch of road that ran along the ocean. There would be more traffic, more cars, which he hoped would prevent the man from taking another shot. Dylan headed north, moving in and out of the lanes as he tried to lose the truck. He passed the Cliff House perched on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, winding his way through the tree-lined roads of the Presidio, finally ending on the approach to the Golden Gate Bridge. There was no way to turn off, and with the bustling traffic on the bridge, Dylan decided leaving San Francisco was his best bet anyway. With the merging of lanes the small truck appeared to be a dozen cars behind them now.
As he left the bridge, reaching the four-lane freeway once again, Dylan pressed the accelerator, hoping to use his small lead to his advantage. With the burst of speed the wind ripped through the missing window, thundering loudly through the car. He glanced over at Catherine, still huddled on the floor. Her head rested on her arms, which were pressed against the edge of the seat. Her hair covered her face, so he couldn't see her expression, but he could see her body shake with each breath she took. He wanted to tell her she could get up now, they were safe, but the area on this side of the bridge was surrounded by empty rolling hills, and if the truck caught up to them now it was possible the shooter would take another drive-by shot. He didn't want Catherine in the line of fire.
For miles he drove, constantly checking the mirror, searching for some sign of the truck. It seemed to have vanished. He wanted to relax, but he couldn't. To date every move he'd thought was the right one had turned out to be wrong. If he'd stayed in Tahoe instead of running back to San Francisco, he wouldn't have been in town when Erica was killed and would have been absolved of the crime. Instead he'd played into the killer's hands. He'd helped to set himself up. What a fool he'd been.
So now what? What was coming next?
Catherine lifted her head, wiped off the remains of the glass from the leather cushion, and climbed back onto the front seat. She let out a weary sigh as she stretched her cramped legs as best she could in the small space. Then she leaned back against the headrest, letting the wind from the broken window blow through her hair.
In the shadows of the night her pale face stood out in sharp relief. Her eyes were huge, wide and scared, but her chin was up, her arms crossed in an almost defiant posture. She wasn't going to quit on him. He could count on her.
The realization hit him hard. He was almost afraid to believe it. Other than Jake, he'd never let himself depend on anyone, and here he was counting on Catherine to stick with him. She certainly didn't have to. She had no obligation to him. She had nothing to gain and everything to lose. But still she'd stayed. Even now she was quiet, going along for the ride, not demanding to be let out at the nearest police precinct.
He was surprised by her loyalty, not sure how to handle it. Did he even want such a commitment from her? What would she expect in return?
Too much, probably. She'd want everything. And he couldn't offer her that. He was broken inside. He didn't admit that often, not even to himself, but Catherine deserved a whole man, one who hadn't been damaged by his past. She deserved that. She'd had it rough herself, and although he didn't know the extent of her pain, he knew it ran deep.
The next few minutes flew by in silence. He had no words at the moment, and apparently neither did she. They were running for their lives from an enemy they couldn't name. He'd always been able to name the bad guy in every story that he'd covered, from wars to kidnappings to murders, but this time was different.
The problem was, he had no idea how to identify the people in the game, and the farther away he ran, the farther he got from all the players. But he was afraid to stop. So one mile ran into another. He hoped that with distance would come clarity and a chance to regroup and make a plan that would put them on the offensive. Unfortunately the gas gauge on the car told him he was running on empty. He took the next exit. The last thing he wanted to do was run out of gas and end up stranded on the side of the highway.
"Why are you getting off?" Catherine asked in alarm, darting a quick look over her shoulder.
"We're almost out of gas. I haven't seen any sign of the truck in the last hour. I think we lost him at the bridge."
"Are you sure?"
The need in her eyes demanded only one response. "I'm sure. It will be okay, Catherine. We're safe now."
"I know you're humoring me."
"I expected you would," he said with a weary smile.
"Where are we?"
"Sonoma County, wine country. I saw a sign for Cloverdale, so we're about an hour or so north of San Francisco."
Dylan pulled into a gas station and turned off the car. His pulse quickened as he opened the door. In the next few minutes they would be extremely vulnerable to any other cars entering the station. He hoped he'd truly lost their tail.
He got out of the car, headed over to the cashier in the minimart, and laid down two twenties. Returning to the car, he inserted the hose into the tank and drew in a deep breath as he gathered himself together. Adrenaline still ran rampant through his body, making it difficult for him to focus. But that was what he needed to do—concentrate and think of a way to save them both.
While the gas was pumping he grabbed the window wiper and walked around to Catherine's side of the car. He scraped away the remaining pieces of glass from the window frame, careful not to get them on her.
"If you hadn't told me to get down, I could have been killed," she said, drawing his gaze to her thankful blue eyes.
"But you got down, and you're all right," he told her, sensing that she needed the confirmation.
"Because of you." She paused. "You're bleeding."
He glanced down at his arm. "Just a scratch from the glass."
"You were lucky the bullet didn't hit you."
"I know."
"If you hadn't taken charge I'd probably still be huddled in the hallway of your grandmother's house, not knowing what to do."
"I doubt that. You were already getting your purse, looking for an escape route. You like to sell yourself short, but I've seen you in action. I know you've got guts."
She gave him a watery smile. "You're being really nice to me."
"Well, don't thank me by crying," he said sharply. "I hate it when women cry."
Catherine shook her head, blinking back her tears. "I never cry. I'm a tough girl."
"You are definitely that." He leaned in the window and kissed her on the lips, thinking he was doing it for her, to give her comfort, to make her feel better, but in truth he was the one who needed the connection, who needed her power, her strength—the strength she so often didn't see in herself. Her lips were soft and sweet under his. He forced himself to pull away, battling a desire to forget about everything and just lose himself in her kiss for the next few hours, days, or weeks.
"I think it's done—the gas," Catherine said, interrupting his thoughts.
He started, realizing he'd been staring at her like an idiot. "Right." Moving back around the car, he took out the hose and replaced the cap. Before returning to the car he took another look around, not seeing any sign of the truck. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel.
"Where are we going now?" Catherine
asked, an expectant look in her eyes.
"We have to find somewhere to stay tonight—a motel, I guess. We need to figure out their next move," he said as he turned the key in the ignition.
"Don't you mean our next move?"
"I think it's fairly obvious that they're in control of this game," he said, hating to admit it.
"Only it's not a game." Catherine paused. "We should be dead, Dylan. Why aren't we?"
The question had been running around his brain for the last sixty miles. The shooter had played with them, torturing them with anticipation as he decided which window to shoot out next. At any point he could have come in through one of the broken windows and taken them out, but he hadn't. There was only one reason why.
"We weren't supposed to die," Dylan said as he let out the clutch and pulled away from the pumps.
"Why didn't anyone come out of their house to investigate the noise? Or call the police?" Catherine asked. "I don't understand. Didn't anyone hear the windows breaking? The noise was really loud. The whole house shook."
"There must have been a silencer on the gun. I never heard a gunshot, just the glass breaking. It might have sounded louder to us because we were inside. The neighbors are also elderly, probably hard of hearing, and who knows if they were even home."
"I guess," Catherine said doubtfully. "I just can't believe that we could get shot at in the middle of a residential neighborhood and no one would come to our aid."
"People don't like to get involved. As to why we're not dead, I think the shooter wanted us to know that he could get to us, that he was close by, waiting, watching. It was a show of power, and perhaps also a warning."
"About what?"
That was what he didn't know. If Ravino was behind the attack, what was the purpose of the scare tactics? It wasn't as if Dylan could stop doing something. He wasn't continuing to investigate Ravino's case. Everything he'd come up with, he'd already turned over to the cops. And the trial would continue whether Dylan was dead or alive. Which brought him back to a more personal motive: a desire to see him scared and on the run.
In some ways he was sorry he'd left the house, but he'd had Catherine to think about, not to mention the fact that he wasn't egotistical or stupid enough to think he could win against a man with a gun and the advantage of darkness and surprise. He would have to wait for another chance to fight. It would come. This game wasn't close to being over.
"I think the shots were meant to keep us guessing," he said aloud. "To knock us off balance, give us something else to think about besides who killed Erica."
"It worked."
"Yes, it did." Dylan paused at the light, then turned onto the freeway, heading in the northbound direction.
It couldn't hurt to put a few more miles between themselves and the city. He didn't just have the shooter to worry about, but also the police. Although surely having the windows in his grandmother's house shot out would work in his favor and would prove that someone was trying to set him up or was at least involved.
Why hadn't the person orchestrating the setup realized that? Was it a mistake? Had they finally gotten a break? Or had the plan changed?
"I wonder how they found us," Catherine mused. "I hate to bring up your father again, but when we left his house, someone was watching us from the window."
"And we were in my grandmother's car. If my father saw the car then it wouldn't take much for him to figure out where I was," Dylan said, finishing her thought. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. As much as he'd prefer to believe it was Ravino or even Blake Howard plotting against him, his father's name kept cropping back up. Who else would have been able to figure out where they were? "Well, I have to give the old man credit: If this is his work, he's doing a damn good job. And it would be just like him to want me to suffer before I died."
"It's just one theory, Dylan."
He glanced over at her. "You don't think it's him? You just pointed the finger in his direction."
She shrugged. "I know I did, but it doesn't feel quite right to me."
"Then who do you think it is?"
Catherine thought for a moment. "Someone with a really sick mind. Twisted. Dark. Obsessed."
"You just described my father."
"Really? Always?"
He hated that she was questioning his judgment. She sounded like all the other adults who'd acted as if he were crazy when he dared to mention that things weren't good at home. "I can't believe you doubt me." He couldn't keep the accusation of betrayal from his voice. "I thought you were connected to me. I thought you and I had this psychic link that was honest and true."
"Oh, Dylan, I don't doubt you," she said, the words coming out in a burst of emotion. "Honestly, I don't. I shouldn't have said that. I was just comparing the man we met earlier today to the man I saw in his wedding photo. I was wondering if something had happened to change him. That's all. I know he hurt you badly. I believe what you told me."
"Forget it," he said quickly, brushing off her apology.
"No, I'm not going to forget it. I lived some of what you did, and I know what it's like to feel alone, as if you're in some parallel universe that no one else can see. They think they know your life, but they don't. You're living in hell, but they think it's heaven. Look at me, Dylan."
He cast her a quick glance, seeing the plea in her eyes. Maybe she did understand. Maybe she did get him after all. "I don't know if my father became a monster after my mother left, or if he was always that way," he said. "Since Jake and I were the only people who actually saw the monster, I'll never know. My grandmother, my aunt, my cousins—they didn't see my father for what he was, or at least they were never
willing to admit it."
"Are Jake's memories the same as yours?"
"Not exactly," Dylan replied, looking back at the road. "Jake used to say that he thought the divorce made my father bitter and angry, but not all divorced men abuse their kids because they're unhappy. That comes from some other place in the soul."
"Yes, a dark place," she agreed. "Some people are sick, evil."
He had a feeling she wasn't talking about his father anymore. "You can't get Erica's killer out of your mind, can you?"
"I'm trying."
He knew she didn't want to go back to the moment when she'd glimpsed the killer's thoughts, but he felt compelled to take her there. "When you were in the killer's head, did you think you were tapping into the actual shooter, or the person who ordered the hit? Because I think we're dealing with two people."
"The shooter—I was in his head," Catherine answered with certainty. "I saw what he saw. I felt his satisfaction."
"And did you get the sense that he was working for someone else?"
"No, not from anything he thought, but I agree with you that there have to be two people. I just think that at the moment he kills he enjoys it. He's good at it. It's what he does. It's his life."
Catherine's words drew a chill across his body. Dylan glanced over at her profile, seeing the renewed tension in her face. He was sorry he'd brought up the subject. "Don't think about it anymore."
"It's difficult not to. I feel as if there's some clue right in front of me that I'm missing. If I am connected to the shooter, why don't I know who he's working for?"
"Because he didn't give you a clue in his thoughts." Dylan paused, then said, "I'm surprised you didn't sense him tonight, didn't pick up on any vibes that he was watching the house."
She stiffened in her seat. "I did feel uneasy. I thought it was just because it was getting dark. I shrugged it off."
"You shrugged it off," he echoed in surprise. "You can do that? I thought the visions overtook you."
"It was more a feeling than a vision, and I was distracted because I was eager to read the last two journals. I turned on the lamp, thinking I would banish the shadows, and then the window shattered. The shooter must have seen me in the upstairs bedroom. Perhaps he was waiting for the lights to come on, so he could figure out where we were."
"Oh, these," she said, pulling the two books out of her purse. "They're your grandmother's diaries. I had them in my hand when the shooting started. I never put them down."
"What's in them?"
"Actually, I haven't read these books yet, but your grandmother kept journals her entire life. I spent the afternoon reading about her childhood, her family, first love, that sort of thing. I was just getting to the part where you were born when I found these last two books, but I couldn't get them open, and then the window blew, and you know the rest."
Dylan swallowed back a sudden knot of discomfort in his throat. He didn't want to know what his grandmother had written.
"Maybe the journals will give us some insight into your father," Catherine added. "You might find out what your grandmother really thought about your father."
"That he was a prince, no doubt," Dylan said cynically. "She didn't see him as an abusive bully, that's for sure."
"But she did see him as spoiled. She wrote at great length about how saddened she was by the miscarriages she suffered between her daughter Eleanor's birth and your father's birth, and how much she wanted a son. She said that when Richard was born, she couldn't stop herself from spoiling him rotten. She knew it was wrong, but she wanted to give him the world. The older he got, the more he took. She worried when your parents married. She wasn't sure if your mother would be strong enough to handle him." Catherine drew in a breath. "After reading it all, I wonder why your father picked your mother. They were so different. He was an ambitious businessman eager to rise to the top. She was a kindergarten teacher with ordinary parents. What made them want each other?"
"Hell if I know." Dylan put up a hand as Catherine opened her mouth again. He felt a desperate need to stop her from saying another word. "I don't want to hear any more, Catherine."
"Dylan, I know you don't think the past is important, but—"
Silent Fall Page 21
