The Beginning

by Catherine Coulter

  He got under the covers with her, lay on his back, and pulled her against him. She settled her face on his shoulder, her hand on his bare chest. He pulled the covers as high as her ears.

  She was stiff. “It’s okay,” he said, hugged her against him hard, then eased up. “You want to tell me about it?”

  He felt her jerk, her breath fan over his skin. She was still afraid. He waited. He began to stroke her back—long, even strokes. Finally, she said, “It was a nightmare, a stupid nightmare. Talking about Belinda probably brought it on again.”

  “What do you mean ‘again’? You’ve had this dream before?”

  She was quiet for a very long time. At least she wasn’t shuddering anymore. He was hoping she’d keep talking. Getting her to open up was turning out to be one of his toughest assignments. And he was beginning to seriously doubt his strategy for calming her down. In the silence he noticed how uneven his own breathing had become. He began breathing deeply. “Tell me about the dream, Sherlock.”

  It was near dark, she was cocooned in blankets against him, she was safe, her mind wasn’t on alert, and so she said, her breath warm and light against his skin, “I was the one in the warehouse, or I was with Belinda, or somehow a part of her. I don’t know. But in the dream it’s as if I’m the one who was there, I was the one in his maze, the one he was supposed to kill, not Belinda. Then I went through the whole thing in Boston. I truly believed it would bring me full circle, but it didn’t.”

  “I’m not understanding all of this.”

  “No wonder. Sometimes I think I’m mad.”

  “Talk to me.” He kissed the top of her head. It wasn’t a good move. “Talk to me,” he said again, his voice lower this time, deeper, because he was aware of her woman’s body against him, aware of her scent, aware of her hair on his shoulder, tickling his cheek.

  “Every time I’ve had the dream in the past, it’s gone a bit further. He hasn’t yet killed me, but this time I woke up just as he raised the knife.”

  He waited, held her, and waited. He could feel her tensing, feel her heart speeding up. “Say it, just say it, Sherlock. What is it?”

  “I know, Dillon, I know that when that knife comes down I’ll die.”

  It was no longer dark in the bedroom. It was a soft pearly gray, yet dark enough so that it was still two people sharing confidences in the night. He knew she had to tell him all of it now or she might never tell him. She was vulnerable now. He didn’t know how much longer it would last. Probably not long.

  “The dream began just after Belinda was murdered?”

  “Yes. I’ve thought about it and thought about it over the years. It’s as I said before—if I’m not the one who’s there, then it’s as if I’m actually following her same path, feeling the terror she felt.” Her fingers clutched the hair on his chest and he jerked a bit.

  “Sorry, Dillon. Oh my, you’re not wearing any clothes. I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized before.”

  “It’s all right. I’m wearing boxer shorts. Ignore it. How long since you’ve had the nightmare?”

  “Well over a year. This time I went through it all the way to the center of the maze and he was there, only it was so dark I couldn’t see him, but I saw the silver arc of his knife. Then I screamed and it woke me up.”

  “Do you think what you did in Boston brought the dream back?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  He was silent for a moment, then said very quietly, “So this was why you were so sure exactly what Marlin was going to do. It wasn’t the Profilers’ reports, it wasn’t all the study you’ve done during the past seven years, all the thought you’ve given to it. You knew every step. Because of the dream, you knew each move to make, each move he would make.”

  “Yes. But it still doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

  “Not at this moment, but it will sooner or later.”

  “I have studied him. The Profilers had it right—he hates women who curse, and that’s why he cuts out their tongues. What they couldn’t have been certain about was that the women also bad-mouthed their husbands. But I knew it was true. That’s why I had to be the bait—I knew exactly how to get him to come after me, I knew which buttons to push. He didn’t have to doubt for a second that I was the best candidate for punishment around.

  “But there was a difference that I realized now. In my dream, when the murderer raised the knife, it wasn’t the same way that Marlin raised his knife in the center of the maze in Boston. It wasn’t so vicious in the dream. It was as if he—”

  “As if what?”

  “As if he wasn’t really serious, but I knew he was and I was scared to death. I’m sorry. That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

  He thought about that a moment, then said, “But in Boston, you’d put him on the defensive. He wasn’t facing a terrified, helpless woman. That could make the difference.” He tightened his arm around her again. “Listen to me. Even if that dream does continue on some night in the future, even if he does stick a knife into you, you can’t die. It’s only a dream. You’ve got to believe that. As real as it seems, it still isn’t. It never will be.”

  She shuddered, then was quiet against him. Her hand had been fisted on his chest. He’d managed to ignore it, but now her hand was lower, nearly to his belly. His breathing speeded up.

  “What do you think it all means?”

  He thought about that a long time. It took him longer than usual because he was hard, his heart was pounding fast and strong, and he was having a good deal of difficulty concentrating. His brain no longer had any control. He wanted to pull that beautiful soft peach nightgown over her head and—

  “I don’t know. It’s almost as if you have some connection with Belinda. No, that sounds like psychic nonsense. But regardless, there’s got to be something there. Something that happened that you don’t remember. Don’t you think?”

  Her hand was now a fist on his belly. “I don’t know. What could have happened? Why wouldn’t I remember? I was never hurt at that time. No trauma or head wound of any kind.”

  He laid his own hand over hers, pressing down until her fingers splayed over him, her palm soft and flat against his flesh. “Just relax. Everything will be all right. I know a woman who could help take you back to what really happened. There’s got to be something from seven years ago, something that triggered this, something you’ve blocked out that’s resurfacing. Yes, if anyone can get to the bottom of this, she can. But don’t worry about it anymore right now.”

  “You really think she’ll help us?”

  “I really think so. Since this all started, I knew there was something you were keeping from me. You promise this is all of it?”

  “Yes.” The terror was gone. She didn’t even care that this woman he was talking about was probably a shrink. She could see him in the dull morning light; she could feel the strength of him, the deep smooth muscles, the texture of his flesh. She didn’t feel anything remotely close to terror now. She felt something she didn’t think she’d ever felt in her life. The feel of him beneath her palm, beneath her fingers, it made her so alive her body was thrumming with the power of it.

  “Dillon?”

  “Hmmm?” He didn’t know if he had any more words available to him. His brain was all in his groin, need for her was raging through him, making him shake, and it took everything in him to keep control.

  “I feel really warm, but warmer in some places than in others. My shoulders feel really cool, but not other parts of me, like my chest.”

  She was seducing him? No, that couldn’t be right. He prayed that it was, then cursed himself. He had to get out of there. He should be back in his own bedroom, with two doors closed between them. He cleared his throat. “Talking would help, but if you can’t talk, then I’ll go back to my own room. That would be the smart thing to do. Going back to my room this very instant would be the very smartest thing to do.”

  “I know.” She sighed deeply, leaned her face into his shoulder, and light
ly bit him. She then licked where she’d bitten. “You’re probably right. But I have to tell you those warmer places have gotten even warmer. Hot nearly.”

  “Sherlock, stop now. This isn’t good. I knew it wasn’t good when I got in bed with you. Now I know it’s maybe one of the stupidest things I’ve done in a good long while.” He thought if he moved now, he was in for seven years of bad luck, because he’d crack into a billion pieces, just like a mirror.

  She pulled her hand away from beneath his. He sucked in his breath in disappointment. “I’m sorry. Ollie told me you didn’t ever get involved with your people.”

  Why had Ollie told her that? He had dated Hannah before she’d joined the Unit, but then he’d called a halt when she’d come on board. Well, yeah, at least at one time Ollie had been right. Actually, until an hour ago, he would have bet the farm on it. Maybe even ten minutes ago he would have bet a second farm on it. “No, I don’t get involved with any of my people. At least I haven’t. It seems that’s shot now, though. And don’t say you’re sorry again. If you do, I’ll do something unsuave.”

  “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.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  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 breath
e 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.”