Last night he’d retreated to his Blazer at the foot of Slater’s drive, where he had taken shelter against the wind and cold and grabbed a little shut-eye. All day today, after the long, uncomfortable night, the young woman had stayed out of sight.
Now, he sprinted down the gravel road toward his car, avoiding patches of ice not yet melted by the sun. His breath came in tortured gasps. He wasn’t as young or as fit as he’d once been, but that was no matter, either. He wasn’t a lot of things now—except a patient, skillful killer.
He scrambled into his Blazer and gunned the engine. The law would arrive soon—and the coroner. And he would lie low until time for the next one to die.
THE BOOMING GUNFIRE reverberated in Tyler’s ears, and pain swelled in her head. She felt herself lifted off her feet and slammed onto the floor as a terrible weight bore down on her. Dazed, she took a few seconds to realize the heaviness that crushed her was Jared Slater.
She’d heard only one shot. Maybe it had struck him. As far as she knew, she was fine. Or maybe she was in shock. She twisted beneath him.
“Lie still,” he ordered in a whisper.
At least he was alive. “Are you hit?”
“Be quiet,” came the fierce reply. “And stay put.”
His weight lifted, and he wriggled toward the entrance like an army commando. Remaining on his stomach, he slammed the door shut, reached up and secured the lock. He crawled at an amazing pace, levering himself on knees and elbows behind the sofa and up the stairs.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Through the uncovered windows, the stairway to the loft was clearly visible to anyone outside. She held her breath, waiting for the sound of another shot, then gasped with relief as Jared disappeared into the loft bedroom.
The low murmur of his voice drifted down from above, too softly for her to discern his words. A minute later, he appeared again on the stairs, clearing them with a leap and diving toward her.
He tapped her shoulder. “Follow me.”
Scurrying again on all fours, he rounded the counter that separated the great room from the kitchen. Expecting to be shot any second, she hastened after him on her hands and knees into the shelter of the kitchen, out of sight of the immense wall of windows that made them a sitting target for anyone watching from outdoors.
Breathless, she pulled herself into a sitting position and leaned against a counter. “What the hell is going on?”
Jared shushed her and closed his eyes, every muscle of his body tense and alert, waiting. She strained to hear what he was listening for, but blood thundered in her ears, drowning out all sounds except the rasp of his ragged breathing and her own.
This couldn’t be happening to her. Librarians were supposed to live quiet, ordered lives with their tranquillity broken only by the occasional overdue book. When she’d signed on as a research assistant, dodging bullets was the last thing she’d expected.
“My God, you’re hit!” His voice exploded like a shot in the stillness.
She glanced down at her bloodstained sweatshirt, lifted her hand to her throbbing temple, and gingerly extracted a long sliver from beneath her skin. Uncomprehending, she stared at it. “It’s wood, not a bullet.”
He cupped her face in his hand as he examined the wound. “There’s a lot of blood on your shirt, but the wound looks superficial. I’ll drive you to the clinic after the sheriff leaves.”
“What sheriff?”
He removed his hand, and she suppressed the desire to clutch it against her cheek again, to recapture the assurance of his warmth and strength.
He resumed his vigil. “I called him when I went for my gun.”
Only then did she notice the butt of an automatic pistol protruding from his belt. “Somebody out there almost killed me, and you’re sitting here, armed to the teeth. I think I deserve an explanation.”
Tiny creases formed around his eyes. “If I had one, you’d be welcome to it. I’m hoping the sheriff can tell us what’s going on.”
He leaned against the cabinet with an expression that squelched further questions.
Time stretched and slowed as they waited for the sheriff, and a damp chill burgeoned in the room as the fire dwindled and went out. When she shivered in the nippy air, he drew her close, cradling her against his side, warming her with the heat of his lean, muscled body, enveloping her in a one-armed embrace that kept his other hand free for the gun at his belt.
The protracted time sharpened her senses, increasing her awareness of his body. Its heat radiated a pleasant aroma of soap and woodsmoke, mixed with his uniquely masculine scent. His heartbeat thudded against her cheek, which was pressed against his chest, and, in spite of the lurking danger outside, she relaxed in his embrace.
After what seemed hours, the crunch of tires on gravel announced the arrival of a vehicle, but when she attempted to stand, Jared pulled her back roughly and pressed a warning finger to his lips. Until then, she hadn’t considered that the car might belong to the same person who had fired at her, and the thought sent her skittering pulse into overdrive.
She jumped in alarm when someone banged on the front door. Jared’s arm tightened around her.
A booming voice vibrated through the door. “Slater, it’s Sheriff Tillett. You okay in there?”
Jared climbed to his feet and held out a hand to her. Cramped muscles screamed in protest as she rose and followed him. When he unlocked the door and swung it wide, the shattered doorframe, just inches from where her head had been when the shot sounded, drew her attention. If the bullet had hit her instead…
“Ma’am, do you need a doctor?” Sheriff Tillett’s voice cut through her giddiness. “Should I call an ambulance?”
She drew a deep breath to drive away her nausea. “I’ll be fine. I was hit by a flying splinter, that’s all.”
Jared stepped back from the door. “We’ll be safer inside until we know who’s out there.”
Tillett, whose beefy frame filled the doorway, removed his broad-brimmed hat and stepped into the room. “Two of my deputies are scouring the mountain, but it’s pretty deserted this time of year.”
She lit candles on the mantelpiece, and Jared drew the curtains, blocking the view of the room from any-one still lingering in the surrounding woods.
Tillett eased his uniformed bulk into a chair. Weathered skin sagged over his square face, and his eyes held the weary look of a man who didn’t get enough rest. “Did you see who fired at you?”
She shook her head. “There’s been no sign of anyone—”
The sheriff lifted bushy eyebrows at her pause.
She shrugged. The shadowy figure at the window last night seemed even less real in the light of day. It had to have been a bear or deer or just shadows. She couldn’t be certain she’d seen anyone that afternoon. “Not really.”
The officer turned his attention to Jared. “Know anybody who’d want to harm you or yours?”
Jared pushed his thick hair off his forehead. The haunted gleam returned to his eyes, and his face appeared gaunt in the candlelight. “I’ve been here almost two years now, Sheriff, and I keep to myself. I haven’t had the opportunity to make any enemies.”
Tillett scratched his chin thoughtfully and lifted his bushy eyebrows in a grin. “Betcha made plenty people mad when you wrote for that big D.C. paper.”
When Jared smiled, her nervousness deserted her, replaced by a tingling sensation that chased the chill from her bones.
“Too many to count,” Jared agreed, “but if they were angry enough to kill, they’d have come after me long before now.”
Tillett nodded. “What about you, Mrs. Slater?”
She blushed at his assumption. “I’m Tyler Harris, Mr. Slater’s research assistant.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He drilled her with intense blue eyes, making her thankful for a clear conscience. “Any reason someone might want to harm you?”
She laughed at the absurdity of his question. “I only arrived from Chapel Hill last night. No one
but my grandmother even knows I’m here.”
Jared turned from the fireplace where he’d rekindled the blaze. “Why this line of questioning, Sheriff? Maybe the shot was fired by a sportsman, hunting out of season.”
Tillett dug into the pocket of his leather jacket and held out a small object in the palm of his hand. “Hunting with a handgun? Before I knocked, I pried this slug out of your doorframe. Looks like either a .38 or a .357—not your average hunter’s weapon of choice.”
Jared shrugged. “Then maybe it was kids, plinking at targets in the woods. Those bullets travel a long distance.”
“Maybe,” Tillett said in a noncommittal tone. He indicated her bags, scattered by the door. “The two of you should stay inside until we complete our sweep of the area, just to be safe.”
Jared closed the door behind Tillett and secured the dead bolt. Darkness had fallen quickly in the mountains, and gloom obscured the corners of the room, but the candles provided enough illumination to distinguish Tyler’s head wound, the bloodstains on her clothes, and the shell-shocked glaze in her eyes.
“I should clean that wound,” he said.
She started at the sound of his voice and glanced down at her clothes. With a swift, impatient movement, she tugged the soiled sweatshirt over her head, her firm breasts straining against the plaid fabric of her shirt.
Desire washed through him as he recalled the sensation of her body against his as they’d huddled in the kitchen, waiting for the sheriff. When the gunshot had sounded and he’d yanked her from the doorway and covered her body to protect her, he’d feared his prophetic dream had come true, especially once he’d witnessed the gash at her temple and blood on her shirt.
But her wound was superficial, and she stood in front of him now, shaken but whole. Hope soared within him. Maybe the consequences in his dreams weren’t inevitable, after all. Better yet, maybe the curse that had befallen him two years ago had lifted. If he could prevent the murder of the woman in the town where Spanish moss grew, he would know for sure.
He gathered swabs, antiseptic and bandages from the bathroom and returned to the great room. Tyler huddled near the blaze on the raised hearth, where firelight sparkled on her hair, creating rivers of flame in the jet-black strands. Heat reddened her cheeks, and she studied the flickering logs with pensive eyes.
At the sight of her, protectiveness mingled with his desire. He would test his theory, but he refused to put her at any more risk. In his dream, her death had occurred with the rhododendron in full bloom. The unseasonable cold would delay its flowering, so she would be safe with him for a few days longer.
With her assistance, he might foil the upcoming murder and catch the killer.
And keep her with you a few days longer before you have to send her away for good, an inner voice taunted.
He closed his mind and shoved away the pain of isolation he’d suffered the past two years. He’d become a freak, an outcast, avoiding everyone except those who might help him track the killer who roamed his mind and the byways of the eastern United States. Tyler Harris had brought him respite from that loneliness and the pleasure of relating to someone else besides a murderer.
He sat beside her on the stone hearth, grasped her chin, and tipped her head to examine her wound more clearly. When he swabbed the broken skin with antiseptic, her swift intake of breath informed him that it stung.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She hoped the glow from the fire hid the heat in her face. He hadn’t hurt her at all. She’d reacted to the disturbing nearness of him and his very kissable lips hovering inches from hers as he cleaned the cut on her forehead.
She closed her eyes against temptation. “You didn’t hurt me.”
As she spoke, she realized that her fear of him had vanished. The stranger at the service station couldn’t have known what he was talking about. The strong but gentle man who cleaned her wounded forehead so tenderly would never harm anyone. She trusted that fact as well as she knew her own name.
But just because Jared wouldn’t harm her didn’t mean she was safe. She touched her sore temple tentatively. “Is this what you meant?”
His eyes clouded in puzzlement.
She resisted the impulse to smooth away the creases between his eyebrows. “You warned that if I worked for you there’d be risks involved.”
He moved away from her into the shadows. “What I’m working on is dangerous, but I doubt it’s connected to the shot that almost hit you. That had to be a freak accident—target shooters, like I told the sheriff.”
She peered into the gloom, attempting to see his face. “How can you be sure?”
At the window’s edge, he lifted the drapery and peered out. Silence swelled in the room, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the fire. A minute later, he returned to one of the deep chairs in front of the hearth. “I’m not sure. It’s been a long time since I’ve been certain about anything.”
The agony in his voice wrenched her heart, and she resisted the urge to go to him, to embrace him and ease his pain. The ramrod straightness of his back, the determined jut of his chin, and the forthright expression on his handsome face rebuffed her. An inveterate loner, Jared wouldn’t appreciate her consoling him.
He lay back against the headrest and clasped the chair arms until his knuckles whitened. If it hadn’t been for the stiffness of his posture, she would have sworn he slept. Tension blended with the silence in the room. She longed to comfort him with words, but, ignorant of the source of his pain, she didn’t know what to say.
Finally he spoke, his words shattering the tension in the room like a hammer splintering glass. “When I told you about my illness, I didn’t tell you everything.”
She squelched her raging curiosity and shrugged. “You don’t owe me an explanation. You’ve made your position clear. I’ll leave in the morning.”
“I’d like you to stay a few more days—” he held up his hands, palms outward “—but don’t answer yet. Hear me out first.”
He lay back again and stared into the hidden recesses of the beamed ceiling. His eyes glittered like dark diamonds in the dim light, and emotions scudded across the stark angles of his face. “Two years ago, after I awoke from the operation that repaired the burst aneurysm in my brain, I discovered my vision had gone haywire. Fantastic auras surrounded every person who entered my room.”
“Auras?”
“Halos of light. And all different colors, depending on the person who projected them. I questioned the neurologist about them, and he didn’t seem concerned. Said they were possibly a by-product of the surgery and would probably disappear as I healed.”
“Did they?” She’d read about such phenomena, usually associated with so-called psychics, but she didn’t believe in sixth sense. In her book, if she couldn’t see, taste, touch, smell, or hear something, it didn’t exist.
He straightened and leaned toward her with his hands clasped between his knees. “They disappeared, all right. I wish to God they hadn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s when the dreams started.”
She wanted to assure him that everyone dreamed, but seeing the tortured expression on his face, she bit back her reply. “What kind of dreams?”
“Nightmares.”
She rose from the hearth and settled, cross-legged, on the floor at his feet. “We’ve all had nightmares.”
He reached out and traced the bandage on her temple with a gentle finger. “Not like these.”
“If talking about them upsets you, let’s change the subject.” She pulled his hand from her forehead and held it, twining his cool fingers with her own, relishing the touch of his flesh against hers.
With his free hand, he smoothed her hair, scorching her with a look that sent her pulse thundering. “You have to know about the dreams before you can decide whether to stay.”
She scooted across the floor and leaned back against the seat of his chair. Maybe the telling would be eas
ier if he didn’t have to face her. “I’m listening.”
“I chalked up the first dream as an ordinary nightmare—” his voice echoed in the dark room “—a vestige from my days covering the crime beat. But the dream kept recurring in the same unaltering detail.”
He stroked her hair again, as if gaining assurance from the contact. “In my dream, the same woman died, over and over, and I was the one who stalked her, who fired the fatal shot, who stood over the body until I was certain she was dead.”
He fell silent, and the quiet grew uncomfortable.
“Maybe your dream was symbolic,” she said, “and the woman represented something in your life you wanted ended.”
“You should have been a psychiatrist.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “That’s what the shrink they referred me to suggested. And he almost had me convinced, until I was well enough to request back issues of the Post to check out a series I’d written just before my illness.”
He stood and stretched, then crossed to the windows and peeked outside. When he turned, he remained hidden in the shadows and his disembodied voice floated across the room. “In the edition printed the day after my surgery, a woman’s picture appeared—Veronica Molinsky, the same woman I’d seen in my dream.”
He stepped from the gloom into the candlelight. “She’d been shot to death.”
Remembering the stranger’s warning, she felt a tingle of fear skitter down her spine before her common sense took hold again. “Maybe you saw her picture at the newspaper office on the desk of the reporter writing the story.”
“Before the fact? The coroner placed the time of death around ten o’clock, precisely the time I arrived at the trauma unit for my interview with Dr. Gilleland.” Torment etched the planes of his handsome face.
Her instincts had been right. “Then you couldn’t be the killer.”
“Me, the killer?” He shook his head. “But I know the killer.”
“Have you told the police?”
“It’s not that simple.” He collapsed in his chair and raked his fingers through his hair. “You see, I know the killer’s mind, but I don’t know his name or his face.”
Dream Maker Page 5
