The Dark Gate

by Pamela Palmer

  “Do you need help?” Larsen croaked, her throat raw.

  “I’ve got backup on the way. Now get out of here!”

  He didn’t have to tell her again. She ran for the lobby feeling like she was still choking…this time on guilt.

  “I’m going to kill you, Sitheen.”

  Jack clenched his fists to keep from decking the white devil sitting across the table from him in the small interrogation room.

  “You say that one more time and I’m going to kill you. Now,” Jack repeated, “I want to know how you hypnotized those people.”

  The suspect, who’d identified himself only as Baleris, watched him with that faint smile Jack was growing to hate. A turn of the mouth that was little more than a sneer in a face that made his skin crawl. He’d never seen skin so utterly absent of color, nor so…perfect. Not a blemish, not a line, not a hint of beard stubble marred his flesh.

  Jack had seen his share of weird characters over the years, but this one took the prize. He ran his palm over his own prickly jaw. Twenty-nine hours he’d been at this. Twenty-nine long hours and all he had was a name. A single name. Baleris. And what in the hell kind of name was that?

  Jack’s patience was gone. He needed a shower and a shave and about forty-eight hours’ sleep. He was nearly dizzy with exhaustion. The last time he’d slept at all had been two nights ago, but he’d spent most of that night worrying about Larsen.

  The one bright spot in this whole sorry mess was that she was safe. Thank God he’d been in time to save her. He hadn’t realized he’d wrecked his phone and she’d been trying to call him, until almost too late. He’d heard Larsen shouting as he entered the theater, a second before the bastard had started to sing.

  He’d been in time to save Larsen. But he hadn’t been in time to stop whatever had been done to make that little girl scream. And for that he was more determined than ever to nail this guy to the wall.

  Baleris shifted in his seat, the gold flecks in his Robin Hood costume catching the fluorescent light. Who was this guy?

  “You will bring me a ewer of wine.”

  Jack snorted. “You’re getting nothing…nothing…until you tell me how you control these people.”

  He’d been so sure the answers would be obvious once he caught the SOB. But he’d strip-searched him himself and found not one damn thing to explain his ability. Everything pointed to his singing. And that just wasn’t possible.

  Nevertheless, Jack had ordered the intercom into the interrogation room turned off just in case. And he was afraid to leave him. He’d been so sure…

  Now he was sure of nothing except that he couldn’t leave the son of a bitch alone. Twenty-nine hours.

  He shouldn’t have called for backup. He shouldn’t have brought him into the station at all. As it turned out, the suspect had put up no fight. Jack had had the perfect opportunity to disappear with him and to deal with him in any way he found effective. Instead he’d played it by the book. He always played it by the book. That was just who he was. A damned good cop.

  But after twenty-nine hours, he was beginning to think he was a fool. All he’d been able to get out of the man was a single name and constant threats. I’m going to kill you, Sitheen. And who in the hell was Sitheen?

  “What did you do to that little girl?”

  Again, that miserable sneer.

  Anger and lack of sleep were making his hands shake. “I’m going to learn your secrets, you bastard,” Jack snarled.

  “I am going to kill you, Sitheen.”

  Jack’s temper snapped. He pulled his gun and aimed it at the man’s crotch. The sudden flash of fear in the white man’s eyes told him he had his attention at last.

  “Answer my questions or I’ll put another hole in your dick. Now!”

  “Jack.” The voice came through the intercom.

  Dammit. They weren’t supposed to be listening.

  “What?”

  His captain’s voice came over, hard and humorless. “Out of there. Now. I want to talk to you.”

  Hell. He lowered the gun slowly. He was so tempted to shoot the man right between the eyes. But he’d done that once—shot him in the head. And it hadn’t done a thing.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am going to kill you, Sitheen.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You said that already.” Wearily, Jack rose to shove the gag back into the albino’s mouth, then went out to meet with his police captain.

  “Go home, Jack.” Captain Greg Wilkins, a tall wiry man with silver hair, clasped Jack’s shoulder. “You’re going to be useless to us if you collapse from exhaustion.”

  “Captain…”

  “That’s an order, Detective. He’s not going anywhere. This door will stay locked through the night. You’ll be the first one in here in the morning.”

  Jack clenched his jaw. “Turn off the damned intercom and keep everyone away from the door.”

  His captain gave him a hard look.

  “I mean it, Captain. The bastard’s more dangerous than anyone we’ve ever had in here.”

  “He looks like a pansy.”

  “He’d deadly. He has abilities…he shouldn’t have. Keep everyone away.”

  Greg met his gaze, then slowly nodded and handed him a stack of notes. “Some guy by the name of Harrison Rand has been trying to reach you all day. Says he wants to know what in the hell happened to his daughter at the Kennedy Center.”

  Jack sighed and took the messages. He tried to call the guy on the way home, but had to leave a message telling him to meet him at the station at ten tomorrow morning. As Jack crawled into bed, he glanced at the clock. He had twelve hours before he faced the father of that little girl. And he intended to spend every second of it sleeping.

  Jack almost didn’t hear the phone.

  His eyes felt like sandpaper as he squinted at the clock. Ten thirty p.m. Thirty minutes of sleep.

  Exhaustion pulled at him but the phone wouldn’t quit its incessant ringing. He grabbed for it, then forced his bleary gaze to focus on the Caller ID. Hank. Hell. Something had already gone wrong.

  He flipped open the phone. “What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry, man.”

  Jack collapsed into his pillow in a tired heap. “What’s happened?”

  “I’ve got to kill you, man.”

  He blinked, trying to clear his head. “Hank, are you drunk?”

  “You’ve done a terrible thing, Jack. I’ve got to kill you.”

  I’m going to kill you, Sitheen. The words knifed through his memory and he sat up, suddenly wide awake. “Who told you to kill me, buddy?”

  “There’s an APB out on you, man. We’ve been ordered to kill you. I shouldn’t be telling you. We’re coming for you now. But you’re like a brother to me. Like the white brother I never had.”

  “Hank…” But his partner of ten years, and best friend, had hung up.

  Jack stared at the phone. I’m going to kill you, Sitheen. No, the devil was sending Jack’s men to do the deed.

  Son of a bitch.

  Chapter 7

  Car breaks screeched to a stop in front of his house. Multiple cars. Police cruisers. Jack ran for the window, propelled by a surge of pure adrenalin. That white bastard, Baleris, was behind this, which meant Jack didn’t stand a chance of reasoning with these men.

  As he opened the back window, a volley of gunfire shattered the front. Damn. They hadn’t called for him to give himself up. They hadn’t given him any warning at all. We’ve been ordered to kill you, Henry had said. And that’s exactly what they were going to do. Unless he got out of here, fast.

  Jack leaped out the window and tore across the small fenced yard in nothing but his boxer shorts. As he dashed through the high gate, he heard the sound of gunfire move into his apartment. If he were a sound sleeper, he’d be dead.

  But as he ran down the dark alley, it was fear for Larsen that twisted his gut. If she was still in hiding, she might be safe. But what if she’d gone home? Ba
leris knew where she lived. He’d already sent his minions after her once.

  Now the evil thing had the cops under his control, and he wanted them both dead. If Jack didn’t find a way to warn her, it would be Larsen who would die.

  She ought to be celebrating. The nightmare was over, the villain caught, the dad and his two kids saved from a terrible death. But as Larsen stood, barefoot, in front of the microwave oven in her houseboat, waiting for the water to heat for a cup of tea, the pulsing, aching knots that twisted her stomach only seemed to worsen.

  She pressed her fist against her abdomen and the soft knit shortie pajamas she’d donned for bed. A day and a half since the incident at the Kennedy Center and the ache wouldn’t go away. She could still hear that little girl’s screams.

  The microwave beeped. Larsen dropped a tea bag into the steaming water and carried the mug to the sofa. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so lousy. Or so lonely. She missed Jack. She kept thinking he’d call her. Even his probing questions would be better than this…silence. Had he forgotten her so quickly?

  And wasn’t that what she wanted? As she took a sip of the hot tea, her cell phone rang. It was nearly eleven. Too late for most callers, but maybe not for Jack? Maybe he hadn’t forgotten her, after all. She set down the warm mug and grabbed the phone from the coffee table.

  “Hello?”

  “He’s turned the M.P.D.,” Jack said without preamble.

  Larsen blinked. “He’s what?”

  “He’s turned the cops. Larsen, tell me you didn’t go home.”

  “Where else would I go? It’s over, isn’t it? What do you mean he’s—?”

  “Get out! If they’re not there already, they will be at any minute.”

  He wasn’t making any sense. Or maybe her brain was just too tired to make sense of what he was saying, but his urgency came through loud and clear, easing her pulse into second gear.

  “Where should I go?”

  “Get in your car and drive. Then call—”

  The window behind her shattered on a crack of gunfire. A small squeal escaped her throat as she fell to her knees behind the sofa.

  “Jack…”

  A second shot hit the kitchen light. More bullets sprayed the outside of the houseboat.

  “Larsen, get out of there! Into the river. It’s your only chance. I’ll find you.”

  Terror pinned her to the floor as bullets took out the lamp beside the sofa, throwing the houseboat into darkness.

  Was he crazy? “I can’t!” If she stood, they’d kill her.

  “Larsen, go!”

  Her pulse pounded in her ears as the sound of gunfire shredded her nerves. They were going to kill her. Jack was right. She had to try to escape. No one had boarded the boat yet. She’d have felt them. They were shooting from the dock, which might mean she could escape out the back door.

  “Oh, hell, oh, hell, oh, hell. I’m going!” Squeezing her eyes closed, she dropped the phone. It was now or never. She sprang up and ran for the back door as bullets peppered the walls and broke every pane of glass in the boat. In one continuous motion, she jerked open the door, ran and dove over the rail without looking, knowing the slightest hesitation would end her life. She hit the water surrounded by a hail of bullets.

  Jack’s hands gripped the steering wheel of the Toyota Highlander he’d coerced from one of his neighbors as he tore through the streets of D.C. toward the marina, his knuckles white as that devil’s skin, his palms slick with sweat.

  Larsen. He had to reach her.

  The remembered sound of gunfire and breaking glass echoed across his brain, drowning out the normal voices that filled his head, sending a rare pain arcing through his chest. She couldn’t have survived such an attack. He’d get there only to find her bullet-riddled body floating in the river beside her boat.

  “No.” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. She had to survive. He needed her, dammit.

  It was his fault. He’d had him. Had him. He should have killed the albino when he’d had the chance. Instead, he’d let him turn the tables on him, turn his own people against him. Now he’d sent Jack’s fellow cops to snuff out the one light that had begun to shine through the darkness of his life. Larsen.

  He pulled into a parking lot across the street from the marina, then slid out into the warm night in nothing but his boxers, palming the car keys. The gravelly asphalt was rough beneath his bare feet, but his fear was too great and his heart too heavy for the discomfort to matter.

  Gunfire peppered the stillness of the night, igniting hope within him. If Larsen were dead, they wouldn’t still be shooting, would they? He couldn’t be sure. They weren’t in their right minds.

  The irony didn’t elude him. He, who had been dealing with encroaching madness all his life, was the most sane man on the force tonight. He crossed the street and eased his way into the shadows surrounding the marina office. Immediately, he felt the presence of another and went for his gun, but his hand encountered nothing but cotton fabric.

  “Who’s there?” He could just make out a shape pressed against the wall.

  “Jack?” The voice, so low it was barely more than a breath on the night breeze, sent his heart soaring.

  “Larsen.”

  He closed the distance between them and pulled her soaked body against him, the voices in his head evaporating as if sharing his joy in her survival. His nostrils filled with the smell of fish and salt water and God knew what else, but he pressed his cheek against her wet hair and held her tight. Never in his life had he felt such knee-buckling relief.

  He felt her tremble and eased her away from him. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “That gets my vote.”

  His admiration for her swelled tenfold. Despite the trembling of her body, her voice was strong and sure. Grabbing her wet hand, he eased to the edge of the shadows. While the gunfire continued unabated at the water’s edge, the pair stole across the street, climbed into the borrowed SUV and escaped.

  Larsen huddled in the front seat of Jack’s car, wet and cold. Shaking. Oh, my God. They’d tried to kill her. They’d shot at her, bullets slicing through her home, zinging through the water around her when she’d tried to escape. She’d thought she was going to die. Again. Against the wet leather seat, her body quivered like a building about to implode.

  Cold, so cold. Not just her damp, sticky skin or her wet, matted hair. She was cold all the way down into her bones, into her blood. Cold with fear of an enemy who was too strong. An enemy who wanted her dead. And she wasn’t even sure why.

  A sneeze tore through her as she shivered.

  Jack’s warm hand brushed her damp shoulder. “How did you get away?”

  She wiped her runny nose on the sleeve of her wet shirt, her gaze skimming over the needle-thin Washington Monument rising from a distant pool of light.

  “I dove, like you said, then circled back under the boat and two more before I surfaced. They kept shooting where I went in. Right where I went in. Like they couldn’t figure out I might have swum away. I climbed out and escaped without any of them even looking at me.”

  “They’re hypnotized.”

  “He’s getting stronger.”

  Jack looked at her sharply. “Why do you say that?”

  Her heart lurched. For a moment she thought she’d given herself away again, but then realized she hadn’t. “You saw the ones he controlled in the Kennedy Center. They looked like zombies. Your cops were driving, shooting…almost like normal.”

  The lights of a passing car illuminated the lines of strain on Jack’s face. “Except they kept shooting in the exact same spot.”

  “True. I guess there wasn’t a lot of brain function.”

  Jack slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “How in the hell is he doing it?”

  How in the hell was any of this happening? She’d thought it was over. Less than an hour ago, she’d sat on the sofa with a cup of tea, for heaven’s sakes. Now they were on the run with not
hing but the river-soaked clothes on their backs.

  Her gaze skimmed over Jack’s half-naked form. Strike that. Not the clothes on his back. A giggle erupted from her mouth, followed by another, but her giggles quickly turned hysterical. It was just too damn…awful. The D.C. police force was using her for target practice and her beloved boat now had more holes than a window screen. She began to cry in earnest. Not until after Jack crossed the Potomac into the Virginia suburbs did she manage to regain some measure of control.

  Finally she wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and looked at the man beside her. His gaze was fixed on the road, his mouth set in a grim line. “What are we going to do, Jack?”

  He reached for her, covering her hand and giving a quick squeeze. His gaze met hers, a fine layer of sympathy softening the hard core of determination.

  “We’re going to survive, Larsen. The first thing we’re going to do is survive.”

  Chapter 8

  Jack pulled the stolen SUV into the parking lot of a deserted industrial park. It was dangerous to stay with the vehicle, but Larsen needed to get warm and at least partially dry before he exposed her to the night air. He glanced at her, huddled against the door, looking as lost as he felt.

  Larsen glanced over at him as he pulled the car behind the low white building, parked it in the shadows and turned off the engine. “What are we doing?” she asked, her voice tight. She was visibly shivering.

  “We’re almost out of gas.”

  Larsen’s head dropped back against the seat with a defeated, disbelieving sigh. “And we have no money.” He could barely see her in the dark, but in the glow of the dashboard light he watched the way her lush lips moved with every word.

  “No.” He got out, came around to her side and opened her car door.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The backseat.” He ushered her into the back and climbed in behind her.

  “This is a bit high-schoolish, isn’t it?” Her teeth were clattering together.