by Kylie Brant
Michele rolled over on her back, still in the grip of the bitter memories. Things had continued that way until she had dreamed of Tommy Hacknow. A little boy in the next town had been reported missing, and Michele dreamed about a boy facedown in a pond, tangled in some weeds. Only eleven years old, she had known what she had to do. She just hadn’t recognized the publicity that her disclosure would bring.
She had marched into the sheriff’s office one afternoon after school had let out for the day. She had demanded to talk to the sheriff, and she told him about her dream. He hadn’t believed her, of course, especially when Michele had admitted she didn’t even know the boy. But she had been able to describe him and his approximate location. She went home confident that the sheriff would check it out and no one would be the wiser. After all, she hadn’t told anyone else, had she? The sheriff wouldn’t tell; he had promised.
He had promised, she remembered sickly, as a lone tear rolled down her cheek. But neither of them had reckoned with the deputy the sheriff had told. He repeated the story all over town, especially after they found the body exactly where Michele had told them they would.
Bill had been enraged, she remembered with a shiver. Even Sabrina hadn’t been able to stop him. He had dragged Michele to the woodshed and locked the door. Michele remembered lying in a heap watching him unroll the strap he used to sharpen his razors. She could still hear the whistle it made when it came through the air, feel the agonizing cut of its sharp surface as it made contact. Still hear her own screams, feel the blood run freely down her open flesh . . .
Her heart was hammering in her chest, just as it always did when she relived the memory. Sabrina had broken down the door with the ax from the woodpile, and then Bill had started on her. Michele didn’t remember the trip to town, stumbling down the mountain paths, her mother half carrying her, both of them bloody and weary and out of their heads with pain.
The sheriff had found them, Michele remembered. She would never forget the look on his face when he picked her up and she stared up at him and whispered, “You lied.”
It was probably guilt that made him take them all the way to Charleston to the hospital. He’d put them in contact with a church that had helped them, given them enough money to board a bus and travel north. To Philadelphia. To freedom.
Michele wiped away the tears that had appeared at the memory. They’d been lucky arriving here. There were other churches waiting to help them, and they had made it. Sabrina had found a job, they’d gotten a small apartment and slowly the wounds had begun to heal. Michele didn’t think her mother would ever get over the guilt of not finding a way out sooner— for both of them.
But Michele had learned a valuable lesson that night. Whatever it was that caused her dreams was not normal. Other people didn’t have it, nor did they trust it. She had put up with enough ostracism from her peers to eagerly agree when her mother told her that she must not under any circumstances tell another soul about the dreams. And she never had.
Until Connor McLain.
Chapter 7
Connor winced at the hearty greeting and accompanying slam of his office door. He opened one bloodshot eye to recognize Cruz and groaned aloud. Just what he needed on this of all mornings, Cruz’s unfailing cheerfulness.
He perused his good-natured friend sourly. After Michele had left, he had gone back inside the restaurant and tried to drink them out of tequila. His headache today was proof of his attempt, if not his success.
“Connor, old boy, you look like hell,” clucked the other man. He rolled a chair closer and dropped down in it, propping his feet on the edge of Connor’s desk and eyed him quizzically. “Don’t tell me you went out to tie one on and didn’t even invite me?”
“You definitely would have made a crowd.”
“Oh, a date!” Cruz crowed. He leaned forward with a grin. “Who was it, Connor? Marta, that little Latino spitfire who can salsa? Or was it Jill, the airline stewardess?” At Connor’s pained expression, a new thought struck Cruz. “Don’t tell me it was someone new? You met someone and didn’t even bring her here to introduce her to Uncle Cruz? Shame on you.”
“It wasn’t a date,” Connor was goaded into revealing. “At least, not exactly.”
“Do tell. And what is a ‘not exactly’ date?” quizzed Cruz, his handsome bronzed face alight with amusement. “I may want to try one sometime. No, wait, don’t tell me.” He held up a hand as he started to guess. “It starts with you drinking as much as you can, am I close?”
For not the first time in their friendship, Connor gave serious consideration to strangling his friend. Or shooting him. “Yeah, you’re a real riot,” he noted sourly. “What the hell do you want, anyway?”
The other man whistled tunelessly. “You are in a good mood, aren’t you? That must mean you also struck out on your ‘not exactly’ date. How many times do I have to offer, Connor? If you need some lessons in putting women in the mood, all you have to do is ask.”
The command Connor gave him would have been anatomically impossible even for a contortionist. He ground his teeth at the sound of his friend’s laughter. Only the knowledge that he had given Cruz an equally hard time on more than one occasion and probably would again made this visit bearable.
After Cruz seemed to have recovered from his mirth, Connor growled, “Do you have any particular reason for coming in here and annoying me? Outside of your need for amusement, I mean? I’ve got work to do.”
“I just came in to prove I did my job. You know, on Michele Easton. You wanted a more in-depth check on her. This is it.” He nodded to the sheaf of papers he handed over to Connor. When his friend didn’t immediately reach out and take them, he dropped them on the desktop.
Connor stared at the papers as if they would bite him. His gaze rose to his partner’s. “I told you to hold off on this.”
Cruz frowned. “You did tell me to concentrate on the investigation. But the inquiries I had made were already in the works. When the information came in anyway, I figured you would want to see it. Well,” he said, as Connor made no move toward the papers, “aren’t you even interested? I can assure you it’s worth reading.”
He swallowed and looked down at the papers on his desk. Michele’s name seemed to scream up from the top sheet. He didn’t know how to explain his reluctance to read the file. Except that he was already convinced that Michele wasn’t personally involved in the kidnappings. And after her accusations last night, he was especially loath to dig further into her background.
Then he hardened his heart. For God’s sake, he was acting like a lovesick fool. This was his job, and he wasn’t going to let Michele’s feelings stop him from doing it. Besides, he was curious. After their conversation he would very much like to see which of them was more accurate in their assessment of her.
He picked up the file decisively. As he read the pages, Cruz left and came back shortly with two steaming cups of coffee. He placed one on Connor’s desk, but he took no notice of it. Cruz settled back in his seat to wait.
Connor felt stunned as he kept turning the pages like an automaton. Everything Michele had told him had been true. But she had left so much unsaid. Like the fact that she had probably been abused for years by a stepfather who was more than a little unbalanced. That she and her mother had fled for their lives. That far from being raised in the lap of luxury, they had only some church organizations to thank for not joining the ranks of the homeless at one point. He read the last page slowly, then reread it. He lifted his eyes slowly to Cruz, who was blissfully sipping his coffee.
“Where in the world did you come up with this information?” He demanded, his voice tight as he indicated the last page of the report.
Cruz looked smug. “It wasn’t easy, my friend,” he said. “To say that the people in those parts are closemouthed is putting it mildly. But I got lucky.”
“Do tell.”
“Yep. I was on the phone to the sheriff’s office and got hold of some deputy who had been on the force a
t the time Michele and her mother left West Virginia. He was quite verbose on the subject. In fact, he said it was the ‘dangedest thing’ he ever did see,” Cruz quoted with an accent. “According to him, Michele and her mother were lucky they got out when they did. Bill Strought wasn’t the only one in town being spooked by her dreams.”
Connor felt a chill run down his back. It wasn’t that he’d been so wrong about her upbringing. Her disclosures last night had revealed his error. No, it was the last fact that Cruz had alluded to that made the shiver of unease skate up and down his spine. This report verified that Michele Easton had a long history of these dreams. And that they’d proved accurate on more than one occasion.
He rose agitatedly from his chair to pace across the small office. This was nonsense, he told himself sternly. A bunch of superstitious hillbillies had read a lot more into it than there actually was. But it would explain how she knew about the jacket, an inner voice reminded him slyly.
Cruz said as much. Connor wheeled on him. “Don’t tell me you believe that psychic crap?”
The other man shrugged. “Although there’s not much I don’t know about women, my friend—” the words were delivered with a grin and a wink“—I admit there are a few gaps in my knowledge of science. I don’t see why you’re so dead set against believing her. What can it hurt to check out what she tells us?”
“Anything we obtained from her wouldn’t be admissible in court, you know that. Besides, what has she told us besides the fact that the children are being held in what might be,” he stressed, “an abandoned building? Do you know how many buildings that would encompass in Philadelphia?” Cruz’s grimace indicated that he could guess. “We don’t have the kind of manpower to check them all out. Even assuming it’s in Philadelphia. And assuming she’s even right.” He didn’t reveal the content of Michele’s more recent dream. He was definitely not in the mood to discuss that scene with his friend.
“Let’s just assume, for the sake of argument—” Cruz held up his hand to stem Connor’s words “—just suppose Michele is correct about the children being alive. She told you they’re all being held together, right?” Without waiting for an agreement, he went on. “So if they are still alive, what’s the motive of the kidnapper?”
Connor sighed but went along with his friend. They’d been worrying this same question ever since the case started. “Ransom’s out. There still have been no demands, no attempts to contact the families.”
“We can discount murder if Michele is right about what she dreamed.”
“A big if,” Connor muttered.
“But no bodies have been found, so she could be right,” Cruz reasoned.
“Possibly.”
“What’s left?”
“Pedophilia? Child pornography?” Connor suggested distastefully.
Cruz grimaced. “God, I hope not.” The two men were gloomily silent for several minutes. Trying to attach reasons to the bizarre happenings was one of the most frustrating aspects of the case.
Finally Cruz spoke again. “Well, if we’re ever going to answer that question, I’d better get back to work, and you can get back to your hangover. And, hey, this report should certainly clear Michele as a suspect, even in your mind. Right?” He didn’t wait for Connor’s answer before he went on. “So there’d be no hint of impropriety if I asked her out, would there?”
Connor glared at his friend. “Stay the hell away from her.”
Cruz looked taken aback. “That’s being a little hard-nosed, even for you. I don’t see the harm in my asking. . .” A light obviously went on for him. “Of course.” He leaned forward, snapped his fingers. “Michele Easton was your ‘not exactly’ a date last night. Why didn’t you just say so?”
“Because there’s nothing to say. I spoke with her last night, that’s all.”
“Is she the reason you decided to drink yourself under the table?” inquired Cruz. “Or was that a way to console yourself when she turned you down?”
“For the last time, I do not have anything going with Michele Easton. You should know better than anyone else that she’s not my type.”
“Yep, tall, gorgeous brunettes have always been my type, not yours,” replied Cruz, pretending to misunderstand his friend. “Let me get this straight. She’s no longer a suspect, she’s the reason you tied one on last night, and she’s not your type, but you’re warning me to stay away from her.” He cocked an eyebrow at his friend, who was by now glowering at him. “Did I get it all?”
“You have exactly two seconds to get the hell out of my office,” crooned Connor dangerously.
“I’m going, I’m going.” Cruz affected a hurt tone as he unwound his tall figure from the chair and ambled to the door. With one hand on the knob, he turned around and said, “Oh, and Connor . . . ? Let me know when it would be all right for me to ask her out, okay?” He ducked just in time to avoid the file of papers that hurtled through the air toward his head.
* * *
Michele stared across the dinner table at James Ryan and smiled in reply to one of his quips. Instead of finding a time during the day to discuss the Howard boy with him, she’d agreed to dinner this evening. She’d insisted to herself that it would be a business meeting, and that she wouldn’t allow James to put off the original reason for their dinner. And she had enjoyed their discussion. Michele sometimes forgot how pleasant it could be to exchange methods and strategies with a colleague, how energizing the sharing of ideas could be.
James was a perfect dinner companion, she mused, as she studied him surreptitiously. Similar experiences in their jobs meant that they had enough in common to be at ease with each other. He was a charming man with an old-world manner that was subtly flattering to a woman. She could be utterly relaxed with him and not worry about having to be on her guard, constantly matching wits with him the way she did with Connor McLain.
Heat rose in her cheeks at the thought. She’d managed to keep thoughts of him at bay all day. She had, she insisted. Because to think of him was to embroil herself all over again in that strange emotional quagmire she felt each time he came to mind. He was as different from James as it was possible for a man to be. Where James was cultured, refined, polished, Connor was crass, rude and arrogant. Where James was a gentleman, Connor . . . Well, Connor simply was not.
Why, then, she thought despairingly, as James signaled the waiter to bring the check, did James not elicit even a fraction of the interest Connor held for her? If she had to become emotionally entangled with someone, why couldn’t it at least be with a person she understood, one who shared her values and trusted her on some level?
She wrestled with those questions all the way home, unaware of the concerned glances James was sending her way. The simple truth, she finally admitted with an inner sigh, was that for whatever reason James did not interest her at all on a more personal level and the lieutenant did.
Connor scared her to death emotionally. He’d already gotten closer to her in some ways than any other person besides her mother. And she was petrified to let him even closer, to open herself up to the kind of hurt he was sure to bring her. Two people could not be more different than they were. Physical attraction was not enough to build a relationship on, and that was all they shared, wasn’t it?
“Michele?”
Her head snapped around at James’s faintly chagrined tone. “Yes?”
“We’re at your house.”
Michele turned, stunned to see that they were in her driveway. She turned sheepish eyes back to the man at her side. “I guess the trip home was like riding with a zombie.”
“Not quite that bad,” James disavowed gallantly. “But I could certainly guess you had something on your mind. Why don’t you invite me in for coffee, and we can talk about whatever it is.”
She hesitated for a moment, a refusal on her lips. The last thing she wanted to discuss with James Ryan was her strange feelings for Connor McLain. But she reconsidered after a moment. Although she still had no intention of telli
ng James who she’d been thinking of, conversing with him was preferable to focusing on the thoughts that had been troubling her.
“I will never understand,” James said as they strolled up the sidewalk to her house, “why you insist on living in such an awful neighborhood. Surely you could find a more suitable place, perhaps in one of the condominiums springing up along our skyline daily.”
“This neighborhood isn’t awful,” Michele said defensively. “It has character. Where else could I enjoy having half a house to myself, with an upstairs and a downstairs?” Michele’s home was in what had at one time been a single family dwelling. It had been converted to a duplex years ago. “Right now I don’t even have neighbors, so I feel like I have the whole place to myself. Besides, most of those beloved condos of yours don’t allow pets. With my fenced-in backyard, Sammy can even be outdoors some of the time.”
James fleeting grimace was his only answer, and Michele sighed silently. She knew he had an aversion to animals. She unlocked the front door and prepared to step in front of James to protect him from Sammy’s usual welcome.
“That’s odd,” Michele murmured, looking this way and that around the room.
“What?” asked James politely as he entered her small living room and sat down.
“Oh, Sammy usually greets me at the door, but this makes the second night he’s been hiding somewhere when I’ve gotten home.” She shrugged and managed a smile. It was also the second night she had come home to an uncanny feeling of a presence in her apartment. Connor McLain’s aura certainly was tenacious, she thought grimly as she went to brew some coffee.
As she reentered the living room with the two cups, James patted the couch next to him invitingly. “Come sit down, Michele.” She obeyed, handing him the cup. He sipped from it, then set it down on the table in front of him. Turning to face her, he said, “Why don’t you tell me what was bothering you in the car this evening?”
