“A couple of days,” Trammell said grumpily.
“Moving a little fast there, partner.”
Trammell started to say something, shut his mouth, then mumbled, “I’m not.”
Dane started laughing at the helplessness in Trammell’s tone. He knew exactly how it felt. “Another good man bites the dust.”
“No! It’s not that serious.”
“Keep telling yourself that, buddy. It might keep you from panicking on the way to the church.”
“Damn it, it isn’t like that. It’s—”
“Just an affair?” Dane inquired with lifted brows. “A good time in bed? It doesn’t mean anything?”
Trammell looked hunted. “No, it’s . . . ah, shit. But no wedding bells. I don’t want to get married. I have no intention of getting married.”
“Okay, I believe you. But it’ll hurt my feelings if I’m not your best man.” Smiling at Trammell’s frustrated curse, Dane went inside to get a screwdriver, and Trammell followed him. Marlie was lying curled on the couch, asleep. Dane paused to look down at her and tuck the light coverlet around her feet. She looked small and pale, utterly defenseless as her mind recovered from the devastating exhaustion.
Trammell was watching Dane’s face rather than looking at Marlie. “You have it bad yourself, partner,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” Dane murmured. “I do.” So bad he was never going to recover.
“I thought it was just a case of the hots, but it’s more than that.”
“Afraid so.”
“Wedding bells for you?”
“Maybe.” He smiled crookedly. “I’m still not her favorite person, so I’ll have to work on that. And we have a killer to catch.”
He continued on into the kitchen, where he went through the cabinet drawers in search of a screwdriver. All kitchens, in his experience, contained a junk drawer, and that was the most likely place to find a screwdriver since he couldn’t imagine Marlie having an actual toolbox. Her junk drawer, bless her neat little heart, was more organized than his flatware, and lying there in its own clear plastic holder was a set of screwdrivers. He could picture her carefully selecting the appropriate tool, using it, then sliding it back into its place in the holder, never getting them out of the order they’d been in when she’d bought them. He took the entire pack, and the small hammer lying there.
She woke as he used the hammer to tap the pin out of the second hinge, sitting up on the sofa and pushing the heavy curtain of her hair out of her face. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her expression still showing the remoteness of mingled fatigue and shock. Dane gave her an assessing glance and decided to let her have a moment to herself. She sat quietly, watching with only mild interest as they removed the damaged door and replaced it with the new one.
It wasn’t until they were finished that she said bemusedly, “Why did you change my door?”
“The other one was damaged,” Dane explained briefly as he gathered up the tools.
“Damaged?” She frowned. “How?”
“I kicked it in last night.”
She sat very still, slowly reconstructing the memories, putting details into place. “After I called you?”
“Yes.”
There was another pause. “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I didn’t intend to worry you.”
“Worry” wasn’t quite how Dane would have described it. He had been in a gut-twisting panic.
“Do you remember my partner, Alex Trammell?”
“Yes. Hello, Detective. Thank you for helping replace my door.”
“My pleasure.” Trammell’s voice was more gentle than usual. It was obvious that Marlie was still struggling to get things together.
“Have you heard anything yet?” she asked.
He and Trammell exchanged a quick look. “No,” he finally said.
A faraway look drifted into her eyes. “She’s just lying there. Her family doesn’t know, her friends don’t know. They’re going about their routine, happy and oblivious, and she’s lying there waiting to be found. Why doesn’t someone call or go by, just to check on her?”
Dane felt uncomfortable, and Trammell did, too, restlessly shifting position. They were more objective about bodies, especially bodies that might not even exist. They saw so many of them that they were hardened, for the most part thinking of the bodies as victims but not as individuals. The possibility of another murder victim had them both worried, because of the implication of a serial killer on the loose in Orlando. For Marlie, however, it was personal. She didn’t have that inner wall to protect her.
“There’s nothing we can do,” he said. “Unless you can give us a name or a location, we have nothing to go on, nowhere to look. If it happened, someone will eventually find her. All we can do is wait.”
Her smile was bitter, and not really a smile. “It happened. It’s never not happened.”
He sat down beside her. Trammell took a chair. “Can you think of any details, something you didn’t tell me last night? Not about the killing, but about the location. Could you see anything that might give us a clue? Is it a house or an apartment?”
“A house,” she said instantly.
“A nice-looking house, or a slum?”
“Very neat, good furnishings. One of those larger-screen televisions, on a pedestal.” She frowned, rubbing her forehead as if she had a headache. Dane waited. “Cypress.”
“Cypress? There’s a cypress tree out front, a park with cypress trees, what?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t really see it. He just thought it.”
“That’s a big help,” Dane muttered.
“What did you expect?” she snapped. “That he’d think, ‘Now I’m breaking into this house at so-and-so number on so-and-so street, where I’m going to rape and kill Jane Doe?’ Nobody thinks like that, everything’s more automatic and subconscious. And I’m not telepathic anyway.”
“Then how did you pick up on a cypress tree?”
“I don’t know. It was just an impression. This guy is an unbelievably strong broadcaster,” she said, trying to explain. “He’s like a superpowerful radio station, overriding all the other signals.”
“Can you pick him up now?” Trammell interjected, his eyes bright with interest.
“I can’t pick up anything now. I’m too tired. And he probably isn’t broadcasting.”
“Explain,” Dane said briefly.
She glanced at him, then away. His attention was focused on her so intently that she almost couldn’t bear it, because the lure of it was so strong and she was afraid to give in.
“His mental intensity builds as he gets closer and closer to the kill. Probably he can’t maintain that level of rage for very long; he couldn’t function at anything approaching normality if he did. So the only time his mental energy is strong enough for me to read is right before and during the kill, when he’s at his peak. I lose him shortly after that; I don’t even know how he leaves the scene.”
“That explains the fingers,” Dane said to Trammell, who nodded.
“Fingers?”
“Did Mrs. Vinick scratch him at any time?” Dane asked, ignoring her puzzled question.
Her eyes went blank again as she turned inward. “I’m not certain. She tried to fight, clawing at him. It’s possible, but I don’t think he noticed if she did.”
Until afterward, Dane thought. That was why Marlie didn’t know anything about Mrs. Vinick’s fingers. The killer had been very calm and deliberate when he’d done it, because he hadn’t noticed the scratches until his killing frenzy had cooled. That her fingers had been cut off was one of the details that hadn’t been released to the press, and he didn’t intend to tell Marlie about it. She had enough to bear, enough gory details to fill a thousand nightmares; he wasn’t going to add to it.
“You said that you picked up a hint of him the other night.”
“It wasn’t a clear image; it wasn’t an image at all. It was just a feeling of evil, a sense of threat. He was probably
stalking her,” she said, her voice trailing away as she realized that was exactly what he’d been doing. He had controlled the rage, but the hatred and contempt had leaked through, and she had felt it.
She was becoming very tired again, and her eyelids drooped. She wanted to curl up and sleep. She wanted him to leave her alone. She wanted to lose herself in the sanctuary of his arms. She wanted everything and nothing, and she was too tired to make up her mind.
But then Dane’s hands were on her, strong and sure, turning her so that she was lying down, and the light blanket was arranged over her again. “Sleep,” he said, his deep voice immensely reassuring. “I’ll be here.”
She took one slow, deep breath, and settled into oblivion.
Trammell’s lean, dark face was somber as he watched her. “She’s helpless,” he said. “Is it like this every time?”
“Yeah. She’s recovered some now. It was a lot worse last night, and earlier today.”
“Then I hope the killer never finds out about her; she’s completely vulnerable to him. If his mental energy is so strong it can block hers even from a distance, think what it would do to her if she were the one he was after. He’d be right on her, and she wouldn’t be able to protect herself in any way.”
“He won’t get the chance to get to her,” Dane said, and in the grimness of his voice there was a promise. No matter what, he’d keep Marlie safe. “Have you talked to Bonness?”
“He wasn’t thrilled with the possibility that there could be a serial killer, so he said to play it close to the vest and not mention it to anyone else until, and if, we find out there really was another murder. But he was also as thrilled as a kid at the idea of working with Marlie, because after all, it was his idea. I swear to God, sometimes I wonder if there isn’t some weirdo juice in the water in California.”
“Don’t laugh,” Dane advised. “Right now we’re pretty involved in it ourselves.”
“Yeah, but we aren’t jumping up and down with joy over it.”
“Bonness is a good guy; a little weird, but okay. I’ve seen worse.”
“Haven’t we all.” It was a statement, not a question.
Dane’s gaze wandered over Marlie’s sleeping face, and his brows drew together in a frown. “Cypress,” he said.
Trammell read him immediately. “You’ve thought of something.”
“Maybe. That’s all she said. Cypress. Not cypress tree. That was just an association I made.”
“Cypress. Cypress,” Trammell muttered. They looked at each other, two minds racing madly down the same track. “Maybe it’s the—”
“Address,” Dane finished, already on his feet. “I’ll get the map.” Like all cops, he had a city map in his car.
A minute later they were both bent over the map, open on the kitchen table. Dane ran down the alphabetical list of streets. “Shit! Don’t developers ever think of any other word to use? Cypress Avenue, Cypress Drive, Cypress Lane, Cypress Row, Cypress Terrace, Cypress Trail—”
“It’s worse than that,” Trammell said, scanning the other listings. “Look at this. Old Cypress Boulevard. Bent Cypress Road. And isn’t there an apartment complex called Cypress Hills?”
“Yeah.” Dane folded the map in disgust. “There’s no telling how many streets have cypress in the name. That’s a dead end. We can’t go door to door on every one of them, checking for bodies. What would we do if no one answered the door? Break in?”
Trammell shrugged. “You’ve done it twice in less than twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah, well, there were extenuating circumstances.”
“You’re right, though. We’re stuck. We may be fairly certain Marlie’s for real, but Bonness wouldn’t authorize that kind of search. People would be calling the mayor at home, screaming that Orlando wasn’t a police state and we had no right to come into their homes like that. And they’d be right. We can’t do that.”
“So we’re back to waiting.”
“Looks like it.”
There was no point in fretting over something they couldn’t change. Dane allowed himself a moment of frustration, then changed the subject. “Would you mind going over to my place and getting some clothes for me? And my shaving kit. I had to use Marlie’s razor this morning.”
“I noticed,” Trammell said, eyeing the nick on Dane’s jaw. “Sure, no problem.” He checked his watch. “I have time. I have a date tonight, but I’ll be close to a phone.”
“Grace?” Dane asked slyly.
Trammell scowled. “Yes, I’m seeing Grace. What about it?”
“Nothing, just asking.”
“Then stop grinning like a jackass.”
He left and was back within the hour with Dane’s clothes and shaving kit. “Your wardrobe is severely limited,” he groused, dumping the clothes on a chair. He glanced down at Marlie, who was still asleep. “Maybe she can do something about it.”
“Maybe,” Dane said. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” he asked innocently. If anything was certain to send Trammell into a tirade, it was that question.
“What’s right with them?” Trammell snorted. “You have mostly jeans, very old ones. You have one suit, and it looks as if you got it from the Salvation Army store. Assorted slacks and sport coats, none of which really go together, and the most disgusting collection of ties I’ve ever seen. Did you actually buy this stuff? You paid good money for it?”
“Well, yeah. Nobody gives stuff away, you know.”
“They should have paid you to take it off their hands!”
Dane hid his grin as he picked up the clothes and carried them into Marlie’s bedroom, where he hung them in her closet, her very neat closet. His haphazardly hung garments looked out of place there, but he stood back and admired the sight for a minute. He liked the idea of his clothes in her closet, or her clothes in his closet. He thought about that possibility for a minute. He’d have to clean out his closet before she could, or would, put anything of hers in it.
Trammell left, and Dane watched television for a while. He couldn’t find a baseball game, so he settled for a basketball playoff game. He kept the volume low, and Marlie slept undisturbed.
He’d been on a lot of stakeouts, spent a lot of time just waiting. In stakeouts, boredom and the need to piss were the two biggest problems. This reminded him of a stakeout, because the waiting seemed interminable, but the quality was different. They weren’t waiting to catch a criminal, or to prevent a crime. The crime had already been done, they just didn’t know where or to whom. They were waiting for a victim to surface, waiting for suspicion and worry to send someone to a quiet house somewhere in the city, to check on a friend, neighbor, or relative. Then the waiting would be over.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
Marlie’s voice startled him. Dane jerked his head around to look at her; she was sitting up again, her somber eyes on him. He realized that he had been staring sightlessly at the television for some time, because it was almost eight o’clock.
“It isn’t something you put out of your mind,” he said.
“No, it isn’t.” For her more than anyone else.
He got up and turned off the television. “How about calling out for a pizza? Are you hungry?”
She thought about it. “A little.”
“Good, because I’m starving. What do you like? The works?”
“That’s fine.” She yawned. “You call it in, and I’ll go take a shower while we’re waiting. Maybe it will wake me up.”
“Take your clothes off this time,” he advised, and she smiled a little.
“I will.”
The water felt good, washing away the mental cobwebs and cleansing her of the sensation of having been tainted, dirtied somehow by the evilness she had witnessed. She was tempted to linger under the cool spray, but thinking of the pizza, forced herself to briskly shower and shampoo. After blow-drying her hair to a semblance of order, she thought about clothes, but settled for the light robe Dane had selected for her.
> She left the bathroom and halted, staring at her unmade bed. If she had been more alert, she would have noticed it sooner. The fact that her bed was unmade was unusual enough, but what riveted her to the spot was the sight of twin indentations in the pillows, where two people had slept. Awareness roared through her like a brushfire. Dane had slept with her, in her bed.
She had docilely accepted his presence all day, knowing that she had talked to him the night before but never wondering about his location during the lost hours. Now she knew. He had been right there, in bed with her.
A wave of sensual heat overcame her and she closed her eyes, shuddering at the deliciousness of it. Her heart pounded, her breasts tightened, and a flooding, loosening sensation in her loins made her knees go weak. Lust. She was astounded as its presence, at its power. Instead of being outraged that he had taken advantage of the situation, she was aroused by the thought of him sleeping beside her.
He had been so gentle in his care of her that day, that iron strength and fierceness controlled so that she had felt only the protection he offered. He had combed her hair, fed her, held her while she cried, and most of all, he had given her the comfort of his presence. She hadn’t been alone this time, though somehow she always had been before, even while she had still been with the Institute. Dr. Ewell and the others had always maintained a distance from her; mental privacy had been so difficult for her to attain that they had gone out of their way to let her recover in her own way, at her own pace. Until now, she hadn’t realized how lonely and terrifying that had been.
Dane knocked briefly on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. “Pizza’s here.”
As always, the impact of his presence was like a blow. He was so big and rugged, exuding a male vitality that made her shiver. For the first time she began to think that it might be possible, that Arno Gleen’s legacy of terror was losing its power over her. Gleen had been a sick, sadistic bastard. Dane was pure, hard-edged male, too intense and grim for life around him to ever be entirely comfortable, but a woman would always feel safe with him, in bed and out.