“Thank you for listening.” Her nerve endings resonated with his deep baritone. “You’re the only one who’s heard my story. I hope you’ll decide to stay.”
“Tomorrow,” she muttered wearily. “We’ll talk about it then.”
She locked the door behind him and, as an extra precaution, jammed a chair beneath the knob. After dressing in warm pajamas, she crawled into bed and turned out the light. For a long time, sleep eluded her. She lay listening to branches scrape against her window and trying to convince herself she was safe because she wasn’t the woman in Jared Slater’s dreams.
THE CLICK OF THE doorknob awakened her. Disoriented in the pitch darkness, she couldn’t remember where she was. She fumbled for the bedside lamp switch, and its soft light illuminated the travel clock she’d set out the night before. It was six o’clock in the morning. And she was in Jared Slater’s guest room.
Still groggy from deep sleep, she watched the doorknob turn. Apprehension drove the dregs of stupor from her mind. She must have been insane to stay the night with Jared, a man with a killer in his head.
She cast about the room in search of an object, anything she could heft and use as a weapon. Her gaze fell on a walking stick-a solid club of heavy, twisted hickory that leaned in a corner. As she lunged across the room for it, a knock sounded at the door.
“Tyler, are you awake?” Jared’s voice, strong and hearty, reverberated through the door panels.
He sounded sane enough. She relaxed her grip on the stick, inhaled deeply, and tried to reply in a normal tone. “It’s 6:00 a.m. What do you want?”
“I brought your coffee. It’s time to get to work.”
She collapsed on the edge of the bed, wondering what to do. She had to open the door sometime, but she distrusted what she might find on the other side. Was it possible that the night had transformed Jared? Who would he be this morning—Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?
She couldn’t remain huddled in the bedroom for the rest of her life, attempting to forestall the inevitable. With reluctance, she shuffled into her slippers and robe. Still clasping the walking stick, she slid the chair from beneath the knob and turned the key.
Jared heard the latch click. When the door swung inward, Tyler stared up at him, her face framed by thick, tangled hair, one hand clutching her robe beneath her chin. Uncertainty glistened in her eyes, still puffy from sleep. Her other hand held his carved hickory stick.
“A little early for a hike in the woods, isn’t it?” He kept his voice light, hoping to put her at ease, and offered her a cup. “Here’s your coffee. Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.”
Her eyes mirrored her indecision as she faced the choice of which hand should accept the mug he proffered. He breathed a sigh of relief when she leaned the walking stick against the doorjamb and accepted the steaming coffee with a mumbled thanks.
“There’s plenty of hot water now,” he said, “if you want a shower before breakfast.”
With reluctance, Jared returned to the kitchen, carrying the image of her confusion and anxiety with him. If he’d been in her place, he would have never stayed this long. Between being shot at and listening to the ravings of a man who must seem a first-class lunatic, no wonder she seemed nervous.
He issued up a silent prayer that she would stay. He needed her to help him find the killer. Most of all, he needed her to make him feel human again, even if only for a few days until he had to send her away for her own safety.
The cozy warmth of the kitchen, the aroma of coffee, the muffled rumble of the shower, and the sizzle of sausage in the frying pan combined in a symphony of domestic harmony. Maybe somewhere in an alternate universe another Jared Slater existed in such peacefulness, about to enjoy a tranquil breakfast with a woman, unfettered by homicidal dreams and the compulsion to stop a madman before he killed again.
He shoved aside wistful thoughts. Sentimentality would only slow him down. Thirty minutes later, Tyler emerged in formfitting jeans and a red pullover with a crisp white collar protruding at the crew neckline. By then, he had tamped down his feelings so securely that his pulse barely accelerated at the sight of her. Her face was freshly-scrubbed and her eyes looked innocent. Her magnificent hair was fixed in a neat French braid. The tiny cut on her temple served as the only visible reminder of the trauma she’d endured the day before.
“Did you sleep well?” He set a plate laden with scrambled eggs, sausages and grits at her place opposite his on the counter.
She climbed onto the high stool. “Surprisingly. How about you—any more dreams?”
“Not last night, thank God. For once I actually feel rested, which is just as well. We have our work cut out for us today.” He placed his own plate on the counter and took his seat. “That is, if you’ve decided to help.”
With a sinking heart, he watched doubt flood her lovely features.
She sipped her orange juice slowly, as if deliberating what to say, and when she finally spoke, she chose her words with care, as if groping her way over unfamiliar terrain. “By your own admission, you suffered a severe injury to your brain a couple of years ago. How can you be sure these dreams aren’t a result of that?”
“A figment of my imagination?” He struggled to keep the impatience from his voice. “That’s a fair question. Maybe before you decide about working for me, you should check out the files on Veronica Molinsky and Mary Stanwick.”
She nodded. “I will, but that doesn’t mean—”
“Tyler—” he savored the sound of her name on his tongue “—I promise, you’re safe with me.”
He reached across the counter and grasped her hand, and contact with the seductive warmth of her skin crumbled the barrier he’d erected earlier around his emotions. He struggled to regain control. If he so much as hinted at the strength of his feelings, she would probably take off, spooked for good. “Don’t let your breakfast get cold.”
For distraction, he flicked on the television in the great room with the remote control, and they finished breakfast as they listened to the news from the Asheville station, including a forecast of warmer weather.
“I’ll do the dishes,” he said when they’d eaten, “while you check out my story.”
He folded back the doors beneath the loft to uncover his desk and computer, then crossed to the windows and tugged open the draperies. Striations of pink, gold and mauve light tinged the eastern sky, bathing the pale gray bark of barren trees and the undergrowth of dogwood and wild azalea.
He heard the soft hiss of her breath beside him.
“It’s beautiful,” she said with a sigh.
The delicate light illuminated her face, and its glow seemed to emanate from within her, reminding him of a Botticelli angel.
“Beautiful,” he agreed.
He rammed his hands into his pockets to keep from clutching her to him and returned to the kitchen. She started to work, while he did the dishes. Over the rattle of silverware in the sink, computer keys clicked softly in the morning stillness.
He’d put away the last pan, when he realized the sound had stopped. He turned to find Tyler standing at the counter, studying him with an expression he couldn’t interpret.
“I’ve accessed back issues of the newspapers in D.C. and Mary Stanwick’s town,” she said. “Your story of the murders checks out.”
He folded a dish towel and laid it across the sink. “But that doesn’t mean I really dreamed about the victims before they were murdered.”
“No.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “I have nothing but your word for that.”
He leaned his hips against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “There’s only one way I can prove to you that my dreams are real.”
Wariness flitted across her features. “How?”
“By capturing the killer.”
“But you need my help to do that.”
He nodded. “So deciding whether to work for me is a catch-22, isn’t it?”
Her lips twisted upward in a cynical smile. �
��So what am I supposed to do, toss a coin?”
“I admit it’s a crapshoot.” He itched to kiss the smile off her face. “From your point of view, my story presents three possibilities.”
“I’ve already mentioned one.” She perched on the stool, propped her elbows on the counter and rested her chin on her clasped hands. “Even though these murders actually happened, you could have imagined your connection to them, maybe dreamed about them after the fact and confused the chronology.”
“The second possibility,” he said, playing along, “is that my story is true. That in some weird way I’ve established a psychic connection with the killer that tells me what he’s thinking, planning.”
With raised eyebrows, he studied her, attempting to determine the impact of his words. She made no response, but stared past him out the kitchen window, as if searching for answers in the leafless trees.
His soft words broke the silence. “Then there’s the third possibility.”
“That you’re the killer.” She lifted her head, and her eyes, cool and dismal as a winter rain, confronted him.
His heart pounded in his throat. If she believed that, she would be lost to him forever. She might even report him to the authorities, who would ply him with questions he couldn’t answer. Worst of all, she would think of him not as a man, but as a monster. But then, if she was seriously considering that, she wouldn’t still be here.
“No…” Her voice trailed off in the room’s silence.
His hopes plummeted. “I’m sorry, but I understand why you can’t take the job.”
She shook her head, and her floral scent carried on the air currents. “I’m not turning down the job.”
“But you said—”
“I said no, you’re not a killer.”
Her smile, open and trusting, washed over him, and joy, an emotion he’d all but forgotten, bubbled up from obscurity. “What makes you so sure?”
She tapped her temple lightly. “When someone shot at me yesterday, you risked your life when you covered me with your body. Those aren’t the actions of a killer.”
It had been too long since anyone had shown such faith in him. No wonder he’d fallen in love with her in his dream. He was almost in love with her now. “That leaves only options one and two.”
She grinned with an impishness that made her even more alluring. “Either you’re telling the truth, or you’re delusional. No matter which, the salary you’re offering is too ridiculously extravagant for me to turn down.”
HOURS LATER, TYLER FELT she’d earned every dime. Her neck and shoulders ached from long hours at the computer with little results, but she had no regrets about her decision to trust him. In the clear, gray light of morning, her fears had dissipated like mountain mist beneath the rising sun. He’d exhibited nothing but kindness, gentleness, and rash, heroic self-sacrifice when she’d been in danger. Delusional he might be, but Jared Slater would never harm her.
As soon as she had agreed to take the job, she’d tackled the task with enthusiasm. Jared had worked beside her, checking the information as she pulled it up on the screen, hoping to glimpse a name or fact to reveal the location of the next victim.
First, she eliminated all cities and towns with intersections of First and Orange except those in the Deep South where Spanish moss grew. That had left 143 possible locations.
“How can you narrow these down without visiting each of them?” she asked.
“The woman we’re searching for lives in a threestory Victorian house,” Jared said, “with azaleas around a broad front porch and wisteria growing over an arbor at the front gate of a picket fence.
She sighed with frustration. “That’s half the houses in most of these towns.”
“Then we’ve reached a dead end?” Alarm colored his words.
She massaged the aching muscles of her neck. “I’ll check the National Registry of Historic Places on the chance the house is listed there.”
Jared picked up the alphabetical list of 143 cities and towns. “I’ll start at the top and call real-estate agents. I’ll say I was driving through their area, and saw the house, and I’ll describe it in complete detail. If I tell them it’s the kind of property I want to purchase, maybe they’ll recognize it.”
All day, while she checked the registry and classified real-estate ads from newspapers in the target cities, Jared spoke with realtors and studied listings that hummed in over his fax line. None of the houses matched his dream.
Hours later, a dead end seemed no longer avoidable. “I don’t know what else to try,” she said.
He uttered a stream of curses that would have sent her well-bred grandmother into a swoon, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’ve seen that town a dozen times in my sleep. Turn-of-the-century buildings, moss-draped oaks overhanging the main street—”
“Names of businesses?” she prompted.
“Nope, nothing that helpful. Our only hope is the five realtors who were out when I called earlier today.” He sat up and stretched, flexing his muscles with the lean power of a jungle cat. “I’ll fix us some dinner, then hit the sack early. Maybe I’ll dream something more specific tonight.”
“Want some help in the kitchen?” She pushed away from the keyboard and stood, easing the cramps from her shoulders with a rolling motion. Her lips parted in surprise when strong hands grasped her from behind, massaging away the tension.
“You’ve done more than enough for one day.” His warm breath skimmed her ear. “Sit down and give your mind a rest. There’s usually a movie on TV this time of night.”
She leaned back against the lean firmness of his chest, yielding to his warmth and strength, aching to kiss him, until the insistent buzz of the telephone brought her out of her reverie.
Jared took the loft stairs three at a time. When he answered the phone, she strained to hear over the loft wall.
She blushed at her eavesdropping. The call could be personal, nothing to do with their search, but her curiosity about every aspect of Jared’s life was undeniable. However, her auditory snooping yielded nothing but Jared’s murmured responses.
A few minutes later, he descended the stairs, clutching a legal pad. His grim expression unnerved her. “That was one of the realtors, returning my call.”
“Another dead end?”
He shook his head. “The realtor said the house isn’t for sale, but she recognized it. The owner’s name is Evelyn Granger, and the house is located at the corner of First and Orange in Micanopy, Florida, south of Gainesville.”
“So you’ve found her. That’s good, isn’t it?”
Agony lit his brown eyes with a golden light. “Only if she’s still alive when we get there.”
Chapter Five
Uttering a muffled curse, the stranger surfaced from a troubled sleep and groped for the telephone in the darkness of the motel room. “Yeah?”
“Your 4:00 a.m. wake-up call, sir,” the desk clerk’s cheery voice announced.
With effort, he threw back the tangled covers and reached for his pants. His joints groaned in protest and when he stood, his head throbbed with pain. His cold was no better, and he’d already lost a day.
“Fluids and aspirin,” he mumbled before swallowing two tablets with a gulp of warm juice he’d purchased the previous evening from the motel vending machine. “Bed rest will have to come later.”
He scowled, remembering his mother’s adage: No rest for the wicked.
A forbidding figure stared back at him from the bathroom mirror, a man with tortured features and bloodshot eyes, who sported a two-day stubble streaked with silver. A man who’d forgotten how to smile.
Maybe he could smile again, once he’d taken care of Slater. But first, Slater had to suffer.
Dizziness assailed him, and he gripped the edge of the counter. Of all the damn stupid times to get sick. He leaned his burning forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall and waited for the giddiness to pass. His muscles ached and his knees trembled, o
bjecting to his weight. At one time he could have crawled back to bed until his illness passed. Now he couldn’t afford that luxury. There was too much to do, and time was running short.
Just let me finish the killing. Then I can die, for all I care.
Minutes later, he climbed into his Blazer and shivered in the predawn chill. The vending-machine coffee tasted horrible, but it helped drive his tremors away as he headed into the mountains. He had to kill Slater’s girlfriend today, then he could rest until his sickness passed. When he was well again, he would take care of Slater.
Even with the heater pumping hot air, he shook with chills as he maneuvered the mountain curves. Each twist and turn made his stomach quiver. His headlights’ high beams glanced off the mountain rock face, slick with moisture, rugged with cracks and crevices where the road had been blasted through. He clutched the steering wheel, forcing his blurring vision to pick out the white line that kept him on the highway.
Light-headed and aching, he turned at the church and ascended the road that led to Slater’s. A flash of light on the mountain above warned him someone was coming down Slater’s drive.
Cursing his luck, he backed into the driveway of an empty cottage, killed his lights, and waited. A few minutes later, a gray Volvo drove past. In the dawn twilight, he recognized the faces of the two people in the front seat. Jared Slater and the woman. But where the hell were they going at this hour of the morning?
He waited until they were well ahead of him, then threw the Blazer into gear and inched after them, easing without headlights down the shadowy road.
The two couldn’t drive forever. He patted the bulk of the revolver in its holster beneath his arm. When they stopped, he would kill her.
JARED EASED THE VOLVO off the ramp into traffic streaming southwest on Interstate 85 toward Atlanta. “We should make good time, now that we’re out of the mountains.”
Tyler studied the map. “Even so, it’ll take us about ten hours to reach Micanopy.”
Dream Maker Page 7
