Night Moves : Dream Man/After the Night Read online

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  Detective Hollister hadn’t called, though Marlie had expected him to, or even shown up unannounced as he had a tendency to do. She had been on edge, afraid he would call or come by, then irritable with him for not doing so. Either way, he had managed to ruin her quiet evening at home.

  She had toyed with the idea of going to a movie, partly to stymie Hollister if he did call, but had rejected the idea. She couldn’t forget what had happened last Friday night. Had it only been a week? It seemed like a month. Perhaps next week she would go to a movie, but not tonight.

  She went to bed earlier than normal, before ten, not even staying up to watch the late news. She was tired; the week of tension had taken a toll on her. It was a relief to close her eyes and know that she didn’t have to go to work in the morning, that she could stay in bed as long as she wanted. She relaxed into the mattress, feeling her muscles go limp and her mind ease into sleep . . .

  —He moved silently through the house. The television was blaring, masking his presence. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the woman who sat with her back to him while she watched an old movie, and contempt filled him. She was so easy. He walked forward, taking his time, enjoying the suspense. The flickering light from the television glinted on the slim, curved blade of the knife in his hand—

  A grunting, animal sound tore from deep in her chest as Marlie tried to scream, tried to send a desperate warning through her closed throat. God, oh God. She whimpered, fighting the covers as she tried to throw herself out of bed. The vision was so real that she expected to see him coming at her out of the darkness, silver blade gleaming.

  —He stood right behind her, looking down at her. The stupid bitch had no idea he was there. He liked that. Maybe he’d just stand here until the end of the movie, and all the time she’d never know—

  She scrambled out of bed and fell, caught by the sheet tangled around her legs. She fought her way free of the sheet and stumbled to her feet, lurching wildly from side to side as she staggered for the door. Panic blinded her, froze her brain—no, it was dark, the lights were off. She careened into the wall, and the hard impact steadied her, somehow. She groped for the light switch, but it wasn’t there.

  —This was boring. Smiling, he reached out to touch her neck—

  Marlie stumbled into another wall, a wall that wasn’t supposed to be there. She stood there, trembling, totally disoriented. Where was she?

  Headlights from a passing car briefly illuminated the room. The living room. How had she gotten in here? She remembered trying to get to the bedroom door, but not reaching it. But at least now she knew where a light was.

  She almost knocked the lamp over as she fumbled with the switch, and the sudden bright flare of light momentarily blinded her. The phone. The phone was right there, on the table.

  His number. What was his number, damn it? She couldn’t remember, couldn’t think—the redial button. Had she called anyone since that night? She didn’t know, didn’t care. It would reach someone. She lifted the receiver, banging it painfully against her temple as she tried to hold it in place with a violently trembling hand, and punched what she hoped was the redial button. Her vision was blurring, and she wasn’t certain.

  The first ring buzzed in her ear. She closed her eyes, fighting to remain within herself.

  The second ring. Hurry. Please, hurry hurry hurry.

  The third ring cut off in midbuzz, and a deep, sleepy, grouchy voice said, “Hollister.”

  “D-Dane.” Her voice was thin, wavering out of control.

  “Marlie?” All sleepiness was gone. “Marlie, what’s wrong?”

  She tried to speak and couldn’t; her throat was too tight. She took deep, gulping breaths.

  “Marlie, goddammit, say something!” He was yelling at her now.

  It was coming. She couldn’t fight it off any longer. The trembling was convulsive, the light fading as her vision went. She made a desperate effort, screaming, and her voice was only a whisper. “He’s . . . doing it . . . again.”

  10

  HE COULDN’T GET HER TO say anything else, though the line was still open. Dane scrambled into his clothes and shoved his sockless feet into running shoes. He grabbed his shoulder holster, with the Beretta in it, but didn’t take the time to slip it on. Barely a minute after answering the telephone, he was on his way out the door.

  His heart was slamming painfully against his ribs. What had she said? Her last sentence had been so faint, he could barely hear; something about doing it again.

  It didn’t matter what she had said. Her panic had reached through the phone line to him, as real as if he could see it. She was in trouble, serious trouble.

  It was raining lightly, just enough to slick the streets and make him keep the wipers on. He couldn’t drive as fast as he wanted, but he was still going too fast for the road conditions. The sense of urgency kept his foot on the accelerator. He merely slowed down for stop signs, and halted at red lights only until there was a break in traffic.

  An accident on the expressway forced him to cut across the median, backtrack, and take another route, wasting valuable time. Almost twenty minutes had passed when he pulled into Marlie’s driveway. Her car was in its customary place, and a light was on in the living room. He didn’t bother with the two shallow steps, but leaped onto the porch with a single bound and knocked on the door.

  “Marlie? It’s Dane. Open up.”

  The silence inside was absolute, as complete as it had been that afternoon at the Vinick house, as if no living creature were inside. Dane’s blood chilled, and his voice was hoarse as he called her again, banging on the door with his fist.

  There were no windowpanes in this door to break, and he didn’t take the time to go around back and check out the kitchen door. He backed up and lashed out with his foot. Four kicks broke the lock and splintered the frame, and the door flew open to crash against the wall. He knew he should take his time, not rush in without knowing the situation, but fear was greater than caution and he hurled himself through the opening, the Beretta in his hand.

  “Marlie!”

  She was just sitting there on the couch, in a pool of light from the lamp, like a statue in a niche. Her eyes were open, fixed and unseeing. She was utterly still, utterly white, and for an agonized moment he stopped breathing. The pain was like a fist, clenched around his heart.

  Then he remembered what Officer Ewan had said, that at first he had thought she was dead, and he started breathing again, managed to move, though the fear hadn’t released its icy hold on him. He laid the pistol aside and knelt on the floor in front of the couch, picked up one of her hands from her lap and held it against his chest while he put two fingers on her fragile wrist, pressing and finding the reassuring throb of her pulse. It was slow but steady. Her skin was cool, but the warmth of life lay just under the surface chill.

  “Marlie,” he said again, much calmer now. There was still no response.

  Carefully he looked her over, then examined the surroundings. There was no sign of struggle, and no injuries that he could see. She seemed fine, physically.

  The phone receiver was lying beside her on the couch, a beeping noise coming from it. He picked it up and replaced it in the cradle.

  He swallowed as he realized what must have happened. She had had another vision, might even still be locked in it. What was it this time? Another murder? God knows, with drugs and street gangs, it was a wonder she didn’t spend most of her time in a catatonic state. Did she ever pick up on the good stuff, on happy times, on people playing with their kids or groaning at a dumb joke? How could she function, if she was overloaded with all the shit in people’s lives?

  She was wearing only a thin tank top and panties, and her legs felt chilled to his touch. He got up and closed the ruined door, then went into her bedroom in search of a blanket. The small room, like every other room he’d seen in her house, was cozy and soothing. She had made the house her retreat, her barricade against the worl