Manhunt

by Carla Cassidy

  What should he do? Should he call her name louder? Shake her? Try to pull her out of it? Or was that dangerous? Was he better off just waiting for it to pass?

  Before he’d made a decision, she uttered a soft moan, then her eyelids fluttered and closed and her knees buckled from beneath her.

  He managed to grab her before she hit the ground. He scooped her up in his arms and fumbled in his pocket for the key that would unlock the back door.

  He got her inside and hesitated in the small back foyer, unsure whether to take her into her private rooms or up to his. The decision was made quickly. He didn’t have a key to get into her private space so he carried her up the flight of stairs to the blue bedroom.

  Gently, he placed her on the bed. She seemed to be unconscious. Should he call a doctor? He looked at the phone on his nightstand, then back at her, unsure what to do. He recognized even in the brief time he’d known her that she was a fairly private person. Should he call somebody or not?

  He had just reached for the phone, deciding he couldn’t sit and watch her so still a minute longer, when she drew a deep breath and her eyes fluttered open.

  She sat up as if jolted by a shock of electricity, then stared at him for a long moment and burst into tears.

  “Hey…hey.” Nick sat on the bed next to her and took her hands in his. “Alyssa, what’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.” She hid her face in her hands, sobs racking her body.

  “It’s all right. There’s nothing to apologize for,” he exclaimed. He wanted to take her in his arms and make her tears stop.

  She had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be sorry or embarrassed about. “Alyssa, please don’t cry…it’s no big deal. You had a little brain glitch, that’s all. It’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  She uncovered her face, her gorgeous dark eyes awash with tears. “I’m not crying for me, Nick. I’m crying for you…for your loss.”

  He frowned, immediately confused. “What are you talking about? What loss?”

  She swiped at her tears and shook her head as if weary. “I’m talking about your wife…Dorrie.”

  Nick froze and stared at her in stunned silence. For a moment all he could hear was the blood as it rushed from his head, the sound filling his ears to the exclusion of everything else.

  He watched as she got up off the bed, tears still staining her cheeks as she apparently waited for whatever his response might be.

  Nick fought through the sudden flood of memories Dorrie’s name had evoked, and with the memories came the rage, a rage that at the moment was directed at the woman who had uttered her name.

  He got off the bed and in two strides stood in front of Alyssa. “How do you know about Dorrie?”

  Her eyes flickered with a hint of fear, but Nick didn’t care. She should be afraid. He didn’t know what her game was, but he intended to get to the bottom of it. “Tell me…tell me, dammit.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “What in the hell do you know about Dorrie?”

  Chapter 5

  She hadn’t wanted to tell him. Alyssa saw the confusion in his eyes, felt the bite of anger through the fingertips that pressed into her shoulders.

  She shouldn’t have said anything, but the new vision had exploded without warning and she’d come out of the darkness filled with pain for Nick and unable to stifle herself before it spewed out of her.

  The pleasure of the day had left her too open, too relaxed, vulnerable to the demons of her visions. Her defenses had been down and she’d paid the price.

  His eyes demanded answers and reluctantly she tried to give them to him. “I saw her…your wife, lying on a bed in a room, and I saw you weeping, crying her name over and over again.” She tried to step back from him, flinching as his fingers bit deeper. Nick…please…you’re hurting me.”

  He immediately loosened his hold but didn’t release her completely. “What do you mean you saw her, saw me? What in the hell are you talking about?”

  His eyes still blazed with anger and his breath was hot on her face. This was not the man she’d seen in her vision. That man had been broken, filled with grief too enormous to bear.

  She broke eye contact with him and stared down at the floor. “I don’t have epilepsy, Nick. I don’t have any kind of petit mal seizures. I…I see things.”

  Although she wasn’t looking at him she could feel his stare on her for a long moment, then his hands dropped from her shoulders. Only when he took a step back from her did she look at him once again.

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  “I have visions.” She drew a deep breath and fought the impulse to worry the ends of her hair, a nervous habit she’d been trying to break.

  “Visions?” He eyed her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

  She released her breath with an audible sigh. She hadn’t wanted to tell him this. It was a part of herself she tried to keep hidden from others, knowing the reactions were usually negative. He’d think her a nut or some sort of mental case like half the people in this town thought. She knew what to expect and faced him with weary resignation.

  “I’m not sure how to explain it to you. I don’t understand it myself. I’ve had visions since I was a child.”

  He sank down to the bed, the anger in his eyes dissipating as bewilderment wrinkled his forehead.

  “Visions? Tell me what you saw just now.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come here…sit down and tell me every detail that you can remember about your vision.”

  Tentatively, she sank down next to him, careful to keep several inches between their bodies even though she knew the possibility of having another vision so quickly was remote.

  She clenched her hands together and attempted to remove herself emotionally from the scene she had just witnessed in her mind.

  “I saw a woman lying on a bed.” She closed her eyes, reaching not for the vision itself, but rather for the memories of the vision. “Blond…her hair is the color of corn silk. She…she is naked…and it’s obvious she’s dead. There’s blood…lots of blood…around her neck…up the wall behind where she is.” The horror of the scene made her stop, swallow hard against the rising emotion that threatened to choke in her throat.

  “Then you’re there,” she continued, “crying her name over and over again…Dorrie…Dorrie. Then I see a headstone…Doreen Marie Mead…and the dates.”

  She opened her eyes and swallowed hard against the tears that once again threatened to fall. Despite her desire to the contrary, the emotions from the scene she’d witnessed swept over her…not her emotions, but his.

  Disbelief turned to shock, shock turned to horror and horror changed to a grief so intense it made her stomach ache.

  She wrapped her arms around her stomach and continued. “I know, Nick…I saw. I know your wife was murdered almost three years ago and I’m sorry…so sorry.”

  Nick still had a stunned look in his eyes…blue eyes she’d never known could appear so dark. She watched and waited for some sort of response from him.

  What she wanted to do was take him in her arms, hold him close and tell him how sorry she was for the incredible loss he’d suffered.

  She wanted to apologize for thinking him some kind of ladies’ man, a shallow flirt, when in fact he’d been a man mourning the tragedy of his wife’s vicious murder.

  “You could have gotten any of this information from reading newspaper accounts or by doing some kind of Internet search,” he said with a touch of belligerence in his voice.

  “That’s true,” she replied evenly. “But I didn’t. I didn’t know anything about your wife until a few minutes ago when the vision swept over me.” She frowned as a new memory of the vision intruded. “There was something else…a strange mark on her chest…it…it looked like the letter M.”

  Nick gasped and jumped off the bed as if he were a bullet shot from a gun. He stared at her, his look one of stunned surprise more than anything else. “How did you know about that? Tha
t piece of information was never released to the press.”

  “I told you. I saw it.” She grabbed a strand of her long hair and twirled it around her finger. “A-tsa-sgi-li. You asked me earlier what it meant when those children yelled the word at me. I told you they were just silly kids, but this is why they call me witch, because of my visions.”

  She raised her chin in a show of defiance. “Half the people in this town think I’m a witch. The other half think I’m just plain weird. So, which group do you fall in?”

  He raked a hand through his dark hair and drew a deep breath. “I don’t think I fall into either group.” Once again he sat down on the bed next to her. “So, what you’re telling me is that you have some form of psychic ability.”

  She didn’t reply but merely shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what I have, I only know that there are times when I see things…things from the past…things from the future…and things that never come to pass. I never know for sure when a vision will appear, don’t know what causes them or how they will affect me. Sometimes I pass out, sometimes I don’t.”

  “Alyssa, I’ve seen a lot of things, met a lot of people in my line of work. I’m not a complete unbeliever.”

  A tremendous weight lifted from her shoulders. “Really?”

  “Really.” He reached out and took one of her hands in his. She tensed, afraid the contact might provoke another horrible image, but nothing happened. “I’m not an unbeliever, but I also have a certain amount of normal skepticism.”

  “I would expect that from anyone,” she said, finding it a little more difficult to concentrate with his warm, strong hand holding hers.

  “These visions of yours…are they always so clear-cut as the one you just told me about…the one about Dorrie?” he asked.

  “No. That one was unusually clear. I don’t always get whole pictures, or see things that make sense. Sometimes I interpret them after whatever the vision portends has already happened.”

  His hand tightened around hers, his gaze holding hers steadily. “It must be frightening for you.”

  Again she felt as if a weight had been removed, as if he truly understood what so many people did not. “It is,” she replied softly. “My grandmother had visions, as well. I lived with her until I was eleven and she told me that people would be afraid of me, or make fun of me or be leery of me. She tried to make me strong. I think she knew what kind of burden this would be.”

  “Surely your aunt and uncle understood,” he replied.

  “Aunt Rita and Uncle Thomas were wonderful, as were Savannah, Breanna and Clay. They didn’t understand the things I saw, but they accepted it just as if I had epilepsy.” She offered him a small smile. “I’m sorry for the lie. I’ve grown accustomed to trying to protect myself.”

  He returned her smile and she felt an enticing warmth stealing through her. “Clay is protective of you, too. When I asked him if you were on medication for your epilepsy, he managed to avoid answering me and not give away your secret.”

  She laughed. “I can’t begin to tell you how many mean, hateful boys Clay beat up for me when we were young.”

  “So, everyone in town knows about your visions?”

  She couldn’t help the rueful smile that crossed her lips. “Nick, this is a middle-size town with a small-town rumor mill. Not everyone knows I have visions, but most people know there’s something odd about me. They’ve either heard whispers or rumors about me that keep them at arm’s length from me. Of course, there are exceptions…like Mary, who works for me, and Tamara, Clay’s new wife, who has become one of my very best friends.”

  She pulled her hand from his, finding the contact far too pleasurable. “I need to go,” she said. She was exhausted, not only from the day’s activities, but also from the stress of the vision and their conversation.

  She stood and he did, as well. “I’ll take care of my own turndown service tonight.”

  “Thanks.” She paused in the doorway. “And thanks, Nick, for not looking at me as if I’m a freak.”

  He reached out and took the strand of hair she’d begun to twist around her fingers. His nearness made her heart skip a beat. Close…too close…and it wasn’t a vision that made her nervous but rather the fact that there was heat radiating from his eyes as he gazed at her.

  “You aren’t a freak. You’re a beautiful woman.” Before she could guess his intention, he leaned forward and placed his lips on hers.

  The action was so unexpected that she didn’t move, didn’t pull away. Her reaction was just as unexpected as an instantaneous fireball exploded in the pit of her stomach.

  His arms wrapped around her as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tentatively touching the tip of hers, then delving deeper.

  For a moment, for just the briefest millisecond in time, Alyssa gave herself to the kiss, to the mastery of his lips plying hers.

  And it was mastery…his lips were soft, but slightly demanding, warm but not threateningly so. His scent surrounded her…the utterly masculine scent of the day spent outside. He smelled like hot sun and wood smoke from the day’s sacred fire and a hint of the cologne she found so pleasing.

  His chest was hard, muscled against her softer breasts, and she wished for more…to feel his naked chest against hers, to feel his mouth tasting every inch of her.

  In that instant the vision she’d had of them for the past month exploded in her mind. Making love with Nick…killing Nick…blood everywhere…his blood—She jerked away from him and stumbled out of the room.

  She was vaguely aware of him calling her name, but she didn’t stop until she’d run down the stairs and locked herself in her own private quarters.

  Her lips still burned from the imprint of his mouth against hers, but the pleasure had turned to horror when the reality of what the kiss might have begun hit home.

  She hadn’t told him about the vision where she made love to him, then killed him.

  She sank down on her beige sofa and rubbed her index finger over her mouth. As crazy as it was, she was slightly superstitious. She was afraid to tell him about the disturbing vision, afraid that by speaking about it out loud it might somehow come true.

  Definitely she didn’t want to kiss Nick, she didn’t want to encourage any kind of a relationship with him. She was afraid somehow by doing so she would set into motion the elements that might make the vision come true.

  “So, the general profile we’re looking at is a male Caucasian probably between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. He’s organized and intelligent and apparently has some knowledge of forensic science, which is why there hasn’t been much physical or transfer evidence found at any of the scenes.” Nick turned from the members of the task team to write the pertinent information on the blackboard behind him.

  “Not only does he seem to have some knowledge of forensic evidence, I think maybe he’s playing games with us, as well,” Clay said.

  “What do you mean?” Nick turned to face Clay. The newlywed looked tired, but throughout the morning he’d been as sharp as ever, apparently not allowing any weariness from the day and night before to affect his thought process.

  “I’ve analyzed the bloody footprint left at the third murder scene. It appears to be a men’s size-twelve sneaker, but that size foot doesn’t correlate with the weight impact of the print.”

  “What does that mean for us dumb grunts?” Simon Collins asked.

  “If I correlate the weight of the impact print, then the man we’re looking for is at least about five foot eight to six feet tall and weighs about a hundred and ten pounds.”

  “A hundred and ten pounds?” Bud frowned thoughtfully. “Then this should be easy…we’re chasing a skeleton.”

  “What I think is that it’s possible we’re dealing with somebody very crafty,” Clay replied.

  “You think the scene was staged?” Nick asked with concern.

  “I think it’s very possible.”

  Damn, Nick thought. The footprint had been the one major piece
of evidence they believed the killer had unintentionally left behind. If it was bogus, left intentionally to throw them off track, then they had next to nothing to go on.

  “I think we need to go back and revisit each crime, reinterview family members, reinvestigate everything we can about the victims. I’ll assign you each a victim. I want to know everything about them…the status of their marriages, their finances, relationships with co-workers. I want to know what they usually ate for breakfast, where they shopped, where they got their haircuts…everything.”

  He paused, waiting for a groan from the three men who had been working the cases before the arrival of his team, but nobody complained. Good. He needed men who would do the work, then do it again, then do it a third time if necessary. “For the next two days or so you’ll get what information you can, then be prepared to give a comprehensive report. There’s a pattern here, but so far we haven’t put our finger on it. Something ties these four men together. We need to find out what it is.”

  He walked over to the corkboard that was decorated with photos of the four victims. “Bud, why don’t you take Greg Maxwell. Simon, you get Sam McClane. John, you take Tim O’Brien, and Tony, you get the latest victim, Jonathon Blackbird. According to the timeline of the murders, and if the killer stays true to that timeline, we’re going to have another victim in the next ten days or so.”

  He gave the men a few minutes to talk among themselves. “Clay, I’d like you to be available tomorrow to go over all the forensic evidence you’ve managed to gather from each scene.”

  Clay nodded. “Unfortunately, that won’t take long.”

  There was obvious frustration in Clay’s voice. Nick knew that kind of frustration. He lived with it every day, every time the name Murphy came into his mind.

  “Okay. I think we’ll knock off for the day.” It was after five and even though Nick knew Clay would work as long as Nick asked him to, Nick hadn’t for gotten the man was a newlywed.

  Besides, he intended to keep him just a few minutes longer after the others had left. He had some questions to ask him. “Clay, could I talk to you a minute?” he asked as the others were leaving the room.