In Dreams

by Patricia Rosemoor

  What had she done?

  Horrified, Lucy held Justin close to her and hoped she hadn’t just sentenced him to death.

  14

  PLAGUED WITH GUILT, Lucy couldn’t sleep. Justin didn’t have that problem. Holding her close, he’d passed out and snored softly.

  Then it had begun to rain, reminding her of the third dream—the very next dream to come true if they came in order. In her mind’s eye, she’d seen him coming toward her, then a shot had rung out and he’d dropped to the wet pavement.

  She remained against him as long as she could stand it, then wiggled her way off the bed and got dressed.

  She couldn’t let it happen.

  Desperate, Lucy knew the only way of stopping his dream-death from becoming reality was to stop the murderer.

  It was time to tap into this gift of hers. The gift she’d reluctantly accepted all her life. The gift that had seemed so innocent until she’d met Justin.

  She couldn’t let the man she loved be shot and maybe die.

  Tears gathered in her eyes and she swiped them away with the back of her hand. Crying wouldn’t help anything. She was stronger than that. And she had a power that most women didn’t…that most people didn’t. She simply had to channel it in the right direction.

  Emile Poree had recognized the danger she was in and had told her to do it.

  Gran had told her how.

  Now it was up to her.

  Lucy spread out the photos across the coffee table next to the couch where she would try to fall asleep.

  Cahill…Montgomery…Theresa…

  At first she was only going to concentrate on the men, but then she realized that they might lead her elsewhere if she didn’t include the young woman at the center of the crimes.

  She studied them all carefully, memorizing details of each of their faces. Then she stared at Theresa, Gran’s words echoing through her head.

  Before you go to sleep, concentrate on the question…if your will is strong enough, your dream will give you the answer….

  Her will had to be strong enough to prevent anything from happening to Justin.

  “Tell me what I need to know,” she demanded in a whisper. “What happened to you, Theresa?”

  She silently repeated the question and stared at the photos until they began to blur. Exhausted, she turned off the light, slid down into a prone position on the couch, closed her eyes and concentrated.

  She could see Theresa’s face.

  She could see them all.

  They were burned into her memory.

  What happened to you…what happened to you…what happened to you…?

  The question rolled around and around in her mind before sleep finally claimed her.

  THE RHYTHMIC THUMP-THUMP of music called to her from where she waited in the dark, feeling as if she could affect what might happen next…and yet not.

  Whatever was happening felt different, out of her experience.

  She was aware….

  Thinking she must be back at the sex club, she steeled herself for whatever might come next. If she ran into the killer, surely he would recognize her, maybe try to kill her, too.

  But what choice did she have? She had to take that chance.

  She stepped into the light…flashing lights revealing a club of a different sort. Dancers here wore white-face and elaborate disguises…hair and costumes black or purple or bloodred.

  A Goth club. What the hell was she doing here?

  She swept across the dance floor, looking for a familiar face. The one she caught sight of was totally unexpected.

  “Jenn!”

  But her sister was across the room and obviously couldn’t hear her. She was frowning as she argued with another young Goth.

  This didn’t make sense.

  “Jenn!” she called again, but the music was ear-piercing and her voice was lost in it.

  Frustrated, she fought through the gyrating crowd to get to her sister, but just as she was about to reach her—

  A hand shook her shoulder.

  “Lucy, wake up.”

  Her eyes opened to see Justin staring down at her with an expression of concern.

  She had failed.

  Though she had tried to make her dream go where she wanted, it had gone where it would.

  “Oh, Justin!” she cried, sitting up and throwing her arms around his neck.

  “Bad dream?”

  “Sort of.”

  She shuddered against him. She was so disappointed that she wanted to weep. She’d failed miserably to protect him. What was she going to do?

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he told her, rubbing her back with one hand. “I’m here now.”

  Indeed he was.

  But for how long?

  LUCY SEEMED TO RELAX a little after having some hot tea, which Justin had insisted on fixing for her. Though he wanted to know what had frightened her, he gave her a few minutes of breathing room.

  He finally checked his messages—which paid off with a name and address of Mr. Shoe Fetish Phil Beatty. He scribbled the information down on a pad.

  “Phil Beatty,” Lucy repeated. “What are you going to do with that information?”

  “Give it to Mike.”

  “For which he’ll thank you very much and tell you to butt out again.”

  “Probably. That doesn’t mean I will,” Justin said, joining Lucy, who was pouring herself another cup of tea. He sat on the couch next to her, saying, “So tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Why would you think something is wrong?” she asked, her voice sounding tense.

  “Because you’re not yourself. Because you weren’t in bed next to me when I woke up looking for you.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Talk, Lucy. Until you do, I won’t let you out of here.”

  He was joking, but truth be told, Justin was ready to keep her and not let her go anyway. They hadn’t even known each other for a week, but he felt he knew her better than anyone. Not to mention that he was crazy about her….

  Looking torn, Lucy said, “What if you don’t believe me?” in a tone so quiet she might have been talking to herself.

  He leaned across the counter and took her hand. “Does this have to do with the dream you had?”

  She nodded. “Among others.”

  “Well, we won’t know if I’m a believer until you tell me.”

  Her eyes serious round pools of gray, she gazed at him steadily. “It started right before I met you.”

  “You’re talking about the dream where Sophie was murdered.”

  “No, not that one. After…in the motel…I had another one…about you.”

  “Me? You mean before you met me?” he asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice. He still wasn’t sure what to believe when it came to Lucy’s psychic dreams. “What kind of dream?”

  “What we did here on the floor last night.”

  He relaxed. “An erotic dream?”

  She nodded. “The first of several. What we did upstairs we did in dream number two.”

  “Sounding good to me, chère,” Justin said, grinning at her. “So why are you upset?”

  “The first two dreams have come true. If the third one does…” She shuddered. “That’s why I was trying to stretch my gift. I talked to Gran about it and she said I could do it if only I concentrated hard enough.”

  “Whoa, you’ve lost me here.”

  “Before I went to sleep, I concentrated on photographs of Cahill and Montgomery and Theresa. I wanted to find out what happened to Theresa, so I concentrated on that, made that my focus as I fell asleep. But it didn’t do any good. Instead of seeing what happened to Theresa, I dreamed about my sister Jenn at a Goth club.”

  Though he wanted to laugh, Justin kept it in. Lucy took her dreams seriously and wouldn’t appreciate his being amused by them. “That’s what has you so upset?”

  “Not exactly. I wanted to latch on to something that would help us catch the murderer…and save you
.”

  His grin faded. “Save me from what?”

  “From getting shot. The third dream. I heard a shot ring out and then you dropped to the pavement—”

  “You dreamed someone shot me?”

  She nodded and tears pooled in her eyes. “Because of me.”

  “I prefer the erotic dreams.”

  “You’re not taking me seriously.”

  “I take you very seriously, Lucille.” He moved in closer and stroked the side of her face. “Why don’t we see if we can fulfill the next erotic dream?”

  “Justin, stop.” Lucy squirreled away from him to the end of the couch. “If we don’t find a way to stop it from happening, you’re going to be shot.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “How can you say that after what I just told you?”

  “It was a dream, chère.”

  “It was one of my dreams.”

  “Has every dream you’ve ever had come true?”

  “The psychic dreams have.”

  “How do you know which is which?” he asked. “Maybe this was just a plain old dream, and you were jazzed by the trouble you were in.”

  Her expression turned to one of disbelief. “I thought you believed me. If you didn’t believe me about seeing Sophie murdered in a dream, why did you go along with me?”

  “There were real murderers after you, Lucy. I was there when they tried to kill you.”

  “But you don’t believe I saw Sophie die in a dream?”

  Justin didn’t want to upset her, but he didn’t want to lie to her, either.

  “I’m not sure what to believe when it comes to any of the psychic stuff.”

  “I can’t believe this.” Bounding to her feet, saying, “I thought you were different,” Lucy’s knee knocked knee into the cup, sending tea over the table.

  When she righted the cup and grabbed napkins, he took them from her. “I’ll get this. Sit down and relax.”

  But Lucy backed away from the couch and looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time.

  And not liking what she was seeing.

  “Chère, relax, already, please.” Now he was getting tense. He swabbed at the tea and added, “Let’s talk about this.” Not that he really wanted to.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  When he looked up, Lucy was already at the door. “Hey, where are you going?”

  “Away from you. Believe or don’t believe. I won’t be responsible for you getting shot.”

  Before he could think of a response that would change her mind, she was out the door. Justin bounded up from the couch and went after her, but she kept a step ahead of him. The elevator whirred as it took her down to the ground floor.

  And out of his life?

  DOWN AT STREET LEVEL, Lucy tried to get a taxi, but it was raining, and none were to be found.

  So she jogged over to Charles Street and lucked out. Within minutes, a all-night streetcar crawled up out of the Garden District. A few others rode the line with her to the edge of the French Quarter. Thankfully, when she got off, the rain had let up, and she could walk the rest of the way home.

  How had she been so wrong about Justin? She’d thought he believed her and accepted her, psychic dreams and all. Now it seemed that he was no different than the other men she’d let into her life for brief periods of time. She and Justin were connected by the murders, but once the killer was nailed, he’d probably disappear right out of her life, just like the others had.

  If he was still alive, that was.

  When she was more than halfway through the French Quarter, the rain started up again. She sped up as the mournful sounds of a saxophone drifted through the wet night. Some people were still out, but not many. The late action was over on Bourbon Street. Even a torrent wouldn’t stop the barhoppers who were determined to make every moment in the French Quarter count.

  Lucy could care less that she was soaking. She didn’t even know how she was holding herself together, keeping herself from crying.

  She couldn’t wait for the privacy of her own bedroom.

  When she was within a block from the town house, she heard a splash behind her. Heart thudding, she turned to look. Nothing. Hearing the sound of laughter, then moans, she pressed her hands to her ears and ran.

  Suddenly, she realized this was it—the start of the third dream. She flew down the wet street. She slowed when she neared the courtyard, but her pulse was still racing.

  “Don’t be there,” she prayed, pulling her keys out of her pocket.

  But he was.

  The moment Lucy stepped into the courtyard, she saw Justin, rivulets of rain sheening his face. For a moment, she faltered and stared, tears welling in her eyes once more.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, whirling around, searching the shadows for the man with the gun. “Get out or you’ll be shot!”

  But before Justin could answer, a sharp blast came from behind her, and she turned to see Justin’s body jerk from the impact.

  “No!” Lucy screamed, watching in horror as the man she loved crumpled to the wet flagstone as if in slow motion.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” yelled a man across the street.

  “I’m calling the police!” yelled another.

  Lucy heard this from afar, as if she were disconnected from her body. In the time it took her to get to Justin, she heard the slap-slap of feet running and an engine rev as a car shot down the street.

  “Justin, oh, J-Justin, I tr-tried to warn you,” Lucy sobbed. As she sank to her knees beside him, he moaned, and the knot in her stomach loosened. “You’re alive!”

  Justin opened his eyes, gasped as he tried to suck in some air.

  “Don’t try to talk. You’re alive!” she sobbed, adding, “I’ll get an ambulance.”

  “No, not…wounded,” he said with another gasp and a moan for good measure.

  That stopped her from leaving his side. “What?”

  “Wearing…bulletproof vest,” he gritted out. “Just my…breath…knocked out of me.”

  As the sound of police sirens drew closer and a flashing light pierced the courtyard, a relief like none she’d ever felt before washed through her. She hadn’t killed him, after all. Thankfully, Dana had been right, and Lucy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Justin was all right, and for the moment, that’s all that mattered.

  15

  BEFORE JUSTIN even gave the uniformed officer his statement, he asked that Detective Mike Hebert be called in on the case. Though the detective grumbled about being roused from his bed, he arrived at Lucy’s town house within the half hour.

  After glancing at the officer’s report and bidding the man a good-night, Mike said, “You reported the how and when. What I expect are the whys and wherefores.”

  Wincing when he moved too fast—while the vest might have saved him from being shot, it didn’t save him from a hell of a bruise—Justin said, “It’s all there.”

  “If it were all here, I’m assuming you wouldn’t have gotten me out of bed.”

  Which was true. Justin had wanted another try at getting Mike to cooperate. Surely now he would see that working together would be in everyone’s best interest.

  So he asked, “Does the name Phil Beatty ring any bells for you?”

  “Can’t say that it does.”

  Justin glanced at Lucy, expecting to feel her disapproval, but she hardly seemed aware of what was going on. Apparently she was still freaked by the shooting, and he realized the incident had affected her more negatively than it had him. After expressing her gratitude at finding he was alive, she’d hardly said a word other than answering direct questions.

  Turning back to Mike, Justin said, “Beatty may have been the shooter tonight.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “He’s been involved from the first. He was there when Sophie Delacorte was killed.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because I saw him,” L
ucy said, finally coming to life. “He and his buddy tried to kill me to keep me quiet.”

  “You witnessed the Delacorte woman’s murder?” Mike said, his voice raising a notch.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What then?”

  Justin didn’t say a word. It was up to Lucy to reveal her psychic abilities.

  But she merely said, “Sophie had already been stabbed by the time I got there,” avoiding mentioning the dream altogether. “I saw them standing over her body. The man holding the knife wore a hat, so I never saw his face.”

  “I see,” Mike said. “So you didn’t feel it important enough to tell me that much before?”

  “Lucy would have, but I convinced her otherwise.” Justin’s protective instincts kicked into gear. “I thought she would be safest if we gathered as much information as we could before she came forward. You know you don’t have the resources to keep her safe.”

  Mike looked as if he wanted to spit nails, but he kept his anger under control and focused on Lucy. “I think you need to come to the station so we can get all this down in an official statement.”

  Lucy nodded her agreement, so that’s what they did.

  But once at the station, never once in her story did Lucy admit to having psychic dreams. Considering the way he’d reacted earlier, Justin couldn’t blame her.

  Before they left the station, Mike had all the solid details: how two men had tracked Lucy to bayou country…how Justin had decided to come back to New Orleans to help her…how they’d followed Mr. Shoe Fetish from the club to get his license plate number and therefore his identity.

  In return, Mike merely told them the department computer geek was still working on Theresa’s laptop. He also said he would get someone on Phil Beatty’s trail and that he would have someone stake out Lucy’s place in case Beatty or his pal came back for another try at her.

  By the time they left the station, it was morning and the city was awake.

  Newspaper headlines indicated the woman murdered in the courtyard was Sophie Delacorte, tarot reader. So now the whole city knew.

  Lucy remained reserved over breakfast, but she announced her intention of visiting her parents’ home. “If anyone has the inside track on that political fund-raiser tonight, my mother does.”