"What do you mean you lived alone for five years? You didn't live alone before that?"
"Your FBI training in action. Very good. I was married once upon a time."
"Somehow I can't see you married. You seem so self-sufficient. Are you divorced?"
"No, Claire didn't divorce me. She died of leukemia." "I'm sorry, Dillon."
"It's been even more than five years now. I'm just sorry that Claire never got to live in this wonderful house. She died three months before my grandmother." "How long were you together?"
"Four years. She was only twenty-seven when she died. It was strange what happened. She'd just read that old book by Erich Segal-Love Story. She was diagnosed with leukemia just weeks later. There was a certain irony in that, I suppose, only I didn't recognize it for a very long time. I've watched the movie several times over the years. Claire's death wasn't serene and poignantly tragic like the young wife's death in the movie or the book, believe me. She fought with everything in her. It just wasn't enough. Nothing was enough."
Jesus, he hadn't spoken of Claire this much since her death. It rocked him. He rose abruptly and walked over to the fireplace, leaning his shoulders against the mantel. "I'm sorry." "Yes."
"Do you still miss her?"
He looked toward one of his grandmother's paintings, given to him on his graduation from MIT, an acrylic of a bent old man haggling in a French market, in the small village near Cannes where his grandmother had lived for several years back in the sixties. Then he looked at Lacey, his expression faintly puzzled. "It's odd, but you know, I can't quite picture Claire's face in my mind anymore. It's all blurry and faded, like a very old photograph. I know the pain is there, but it's soft now, far away, and I can't really grasp it. Yes, I miss her. Sometimes I'll still look up from reading a book and start to say something to her, or expect her to yell at me when I go nuts over a football play. She was an ice skater. Very good, but she never made the cut to the Olympics."
"That's how Belinda is now to me. At first I never wanted the pain to lessen, but it did anyway, without my permission. It's almost as if Belinda wanted me to let her go. When I see a photo of her now, it seems like she was someone I knew and loved in another place, another time, maybe the person who loved her was another me as well. Sometimes when I'm in a crowd, I think I hear her call out to me. She's never there, of course."
He swallowed, feeling tears of bittersweet memory he hadn't felt in years. Maybe the tears were for both of them.
Her eyes were clear and calm as she said, "You know, I'd fight too. Never would I go quietly into that good night, just sort of winking out and isn't that too bad, and wasn't she a nice person? No, I'd be kicking and yelling all the way."
He laughed, then immediately sobered. Guilt because he'd spoken about Claire, then laughed? Suddenly, he laughed again. "I would too. Thanks, Sherlock."
She just smiled at him. "My head doesn't hurt anymore. One of those magic pills?"
"Yeah. Now, would you like to watch the news while I clean up the kitchen?"
"No dessert?"
"You didn't clean your plate and you're demanding dessert?"
"Dessert's for a completely different stomach compartment, and my dessert compartment is empty. I know I smelled cheesecake."
She ate his New York cheesecake while he cleaned up the dishes. She watched the national news. More trouble in China. More trouble in the Middle East. More wiping out of Kurds, only which Kurds? They were as divided a group as were all the countries surrounding them. Then, suddenly, there was Big
John Bullock, Marlin Jones's lawyer, full of bluff and good nature for the reporters, flinging out answers as they pursued him from the Boston courthouse to his huge black limousine.
"Will Marlin Jones go to trial?"
"No comment."
"Is Marlin crazy?"
"You know the ruling." He rolled his eyes and shrugged his massive shoulders.
"Will you plead him not guilty?"
"No comment."
"Is it true you told everyone that he had a bad childhood, a mother who beat him up, and an uncle who sexually abused him?"
"Public records are public records." "But there's a confession."
"It won't be admissible. The cops and the FBI made him confess."
"But what about that FBI agent? Your client knocked her cold and took her to that warehouse to kill her. They've got everything on tape and on film."
Big John gave an explosive wave of his arms. "Pure and simple entrapment. There wasn't a thought of killing her in his mind."
"I heard that he even knifed the agent."
Big John just shook his head. "No more. Just remember, it was entrapment. It was all a setup. It won't be admissible, you'll see."
And one woman newscaster said, "Oh, so you're saying if he'd killed the FBI agent then it wouldn't have been entrapment?"
Lots of laughter. And a lot of faces looking hard at Big John Bullock.
"No more questions, folks. Talk to you later."
A commercial came on for Bud Light.
She felt Savich behind her. She said quietly, "I'm going back to Boston. I've got to see Marlin Jones again."
"They won't let you see him, Sherlock."
"I've got to try." She turned slowly and looked up at him. "You see that, don't you? I've got to try. I can't just sit around waiting for some maniac to come after me again. If you tell them to let me in, they will."
"He's not the maniac who's after you now. Besides, you go talk to him again, and it could all come out that Belinda was your sister."
"No, I wouldn't tell him any of that. I wouldn't tell anyone about that."
"It's still a risk. Trust me on this: You can't begin to imagine what the media would do if they found out you were the sister of one of the murdered women and finding Marlin has been your obsession for seven years. You think the way I just said it sounds hard. Just wait until the media got hold of it. Big John would certainly squawk about entrapment then.
"I think a more worthwhile trip would be to San Francisco. Why don't I call the San Francisco office and have a couple of agents go talk to Douglas, your father, and your mother?"
She just shook her head.
"As for Marlin, maybe, after you've rested a couple of days. Look, it's Sunday. I want you to take it easy until Tuesday. You promise?"
She stroked the gold chenille afghan. "I guess I could use a good night's sleep."
"Two days, Sherlock. I want your promise that you'll lie low for two days. Then we'll talk about it."
She was silent, and he felt a good dollop of anger.
"You're an FBI agent, Sherlock. That means you do what I tell you to do. You carry out assignments that I instruct you to carry out. You don't go surfing any wave that catches your fancy. You got that?"
"You're nearly yelling. How could I not get it?"
He stepped forward, then stopped. "I've got a nice guest room upstairs. I also packed you a suitcase. It's still in the trunk of the car. I'll take you up, then bring it in."
She didn't think about her underwear until she was standing in the Victorian bathroom with its highly polished walnut floor, its claw-feet tub, pedestal washbowl, and plush pale yellow Egyptian towels with small flowers on them. She'd stripped down to her bra and panties, turned and seen herself in the mirror and stared. He'd picked out the softest peach silk set she owned. What had he thought when he picked them out
of he drawer? Without thinking, she ran her hand over her belly, the silk smooth and slithery against her palm. What had he thought?
No, she wouldn't think about that. They were just a bra and drawers, no matter how exquisite.
How potentially sexy. He probably hadn't even thought a thing just grabbed them up. She loved pretty underwear This set she'd bought herself for her last birthday. So expensive. Soft and flimsy and wicked. She took off the bra and rubbed the smooth lace against her cheek. She hadn't worn it in months. Dillon had picked it out.
"Sherlock."
> 23
SHE QUICKLYWRAPPED A towel around herself and looked around the bathroom door. He was standing in the middle of the bedroom, a suitcase in his hand.
"On the bed, please, Dillon."
He thought she looked beyond tired. He probably should have left her at the hospital, tied to the hospital bed. He looked again. He'd never before realized a towel could look so sexy wrapped around someone. "You need any help?"
That made her smile. "No, sir. I can brush my teeth without you holding my arm up."
"Then I'll see you in the morning. There's no reason for you to wake up early. Just sleep in. When you wake up, just holler, and I'll bring you breakfast. Don't forget, Sherlock, you promised to stay put."
She hadn't, but she nodded. "Thank you, Dillon."
"Oh, another thing. I need to run a couple of errands tomorrow morning. While I'm gone, I want you to leave the doors locked and don't open up for anybody, I don't care who anyone says they are. There's lots of food, even some pesto left over for you. You don't need to go out. You open it only for me, you got that?"
"I got that."
"Your SIG-Sauer is downstairs in my office. Your Lady Colt is in the drawer by your bed. Now, just let me decide what we'll do about this mess. I'll tell you tomorrow."
"What are your errands?"
He frowned at her. "Not your business. I won't be gone more than a couple of hours."
"Would you sing me a couple of lines before you go?"
"You want something down-home?"
"Yeah, real down-home."
His rich deep baritone filled the room, sounding really twangy this time. "She ain 't Rose but she ain 't bad. She am't easy, but she can be had. So am I when she whispers in my ear. She ain't Rose, and Rose ain't here.''
"Who's Rose?"
He grinned at her, gave her a salute, then left, closing her bedroom door behind him.
It was dawn when he shot straight up in his bed. He hit the floor running when another scream rent the silence.
She was wheezing, her arms wrapped around herself. She struggled to sit up in bed.
"Sherlock. You're awake? What's wrong?"
She was still sucking air into her lungs. It was as if someone had tried to suffocate her. He sat down beside her and pulled her against him. He began rubbing her back. "It's all right now. Did you have a nightmare?"
Slowly, so very slowly, her breathing began to steady, but it still hurt to breathe, as if someone had clouted her in the ribs. She couldn't talk yet, didn't want to talk. "That's it, just relax. I'm here. Nothing's going to hurt you, nothing."
Her face was buried in his shoulder, her arms limp at her sides. Then, suddenly, she put her arms around his back and held on tight.
"Yeah, I'm real and I'm solid and I'm mean. No one's going to hurt you. It's okay."
He could feel her harsh breathing against his flesh, then she said, "Yes, I know. I'm all right now."
He tried to pull away from her but she still held on tight. He could feel her shivering. "It's really okay, Sherlock," he said again. "I'm not going anywhere. You can let go now."
"I don't think I want to. Give me a few more minutes." She tightened her grip around him.
She was still shivering. "Sorry, but I seem to have packed you the wrong kind of nightgown. You must be freezing.?
"You're a man. You picked it out because it's sexy and sheer, just like my underwear."
"Well, yes, I suppose you could be right. It feels really soft and nice. Sorry, but my hormones must have gotten the better of me. Listen now. Let me go, Sherlock, and lie back."
If anything, she gripped him tighter.
He laughed. "I promise you everything's okay now. Listen, you've got to let me go. Come on now."
"No."
He laughed again. He sounded like he was in pain. "Okay, tell you what. I'm cold too. Why don't we both lie back and I'll keep holding you until we both warm up."
He knew it wasn't a good idea, but he was worried about her. Truth be told, he didn't want to think about his motives. He was wearing boxer shorts, nothing else. No, this was definitely not a good idea.
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 just 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, just 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 just 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 1 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 just 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 just this moment, but it will sooner or later."
"I have studied him. The Profilers had it right-he hated women who cursed, and that's why he cut out their to
ngues. 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 just 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 damned dream does continue on some night in the future, even if he does stick a knife into you, you can't die. It's just 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."
The Maze ft-2 Page 21
