Dream Man

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 world. He stood in the middle of it and looked around, getting to know her in little ways. The covers on the double bed were twisted and half on the floor; she had evidently been in bed when the vision had started, and the condition of the covers was a measure of her agitation.

There was a crocheted throw lying across a rocking chair. He picked it up and returned to the living room, where he draped it over her, tucking the folds around her bare arms and legs. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved even a centimeter, except for the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

He didn’t know what else to do, except wait. He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee; she might not need it when she came out of this, but he sure as hell did.

He sat on the couch beside her, watching her. Her expression was as blank and empty as that of the statue she had reminded him of earlier. There was no awareness in her; her eyes were open, but she was either unconscious or … gone, somehow.

He studied her oblivious face. Seen in profile, there was an otherworldly purity to her features that he hadn’t noticed before. When she was awake, the sharpness of her tongue and the cool intelligence in those bottomless blue eyes took most of his attention. Most, but not all. If she had been awake, he sure wouldn’t have put a cover over her halfnaked body. He looked at the tender curve of her lips, remembering how they had felt, how she had tasted. Her shape was all feminine daintiness, soft, lithe curves that made his entire body feel hot, and his skin too tight.

Ten minutes had ticked by. The mechanical thumping and spitting in the kitchen had stopped, indicating that the coffee had finished brewing.

He fetched a cup of coffee, then resumed his seat beside Marlie and placed the cup on the lamp table. Very gently he lifted her, and settled her on his lap.