Dream Man

“So he’s moved here recently?”

“I’d say so.”

“Isn’t there any way you can check on recent arrivals? Wouldn’t the post office have a record? Or maybe you could get a list of new customers from the utility companies.”

“Do you know how many people move to central Florida every year?” he asked. “It would take a helluva lot of time. Still, it’s an idea.”

“You could eliminate all the women, which would cut the list in half.”

“And still leave us with a cast of thousands.” He stood and began clearing the table. “I’ll talk to Bonness about it.”

She knotted her hands together and stared at him. “Do any of the others know about me?”

“You mean, any of the other detectives?”

“Yes.”

“Just Bonness, Trammell, and me. Why?”

“I’ve been worried about it.”

“Again, why?”

“They would talk.” Restlessly she got up and helped him clear the table.

“So?”

“That kind of talk would get to the media. You know how it is.”

“So far, the media doesn’t even know about the killer. I’m surprised, because once we told the mayor, I expected it to be blasted on the six-o’clock news that there’s a serial killer loose in Orlando. No one in city hall can keep a secret. It’ll leak out any day, though.” He began washing their few dishes, and watched her as she paced the kitchen. “Have you had a rough time with the media before?”

She shot him an incredulous look. “Are you kidding?”

“What happened?”

“Which time?” she asked caustically. “The reporters are bad enough, every time a story breaks, with the phone ringing incessantly, and cameras and microphones pushed in my face every time I open the door. But the reporters aren’t the worst of it. They’re just the cause. The worst comes after they’ve done their stories, when the death threats start, and the crackpot evangelists hold prayer meetings in front of my house to drive out Satan, because I obviously do the devil’s work. If it got out this time, I’d probably lose my job. I’ve never been in these circumstances before, because the Institute always supported me. But can you imagine a bank tolerating that kind of publicity? A weirdo psychic working in their accounting department! Some of their customers would close out their accounts, afraid I would pry into their business.”

“Wonder what they have to hide,” Dane said, his eyes speculative.

“Nothing, probably. Some people are paranoid enough that they think the ’authorities,’ whoever that may be, watch everyone and check everything. They won’t fill out their census papers because they think the information will be turned over to the IRS.”

“How do you know?” he asked, sliding the question in as smooth as silk. She glanced at him to find those hazel eyes glittering with amusement.

She choked on a spurt of laughter as she realized where he had led her. “Because I used to be able to read them! Used to, Hollister. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Are you sure? Have you tried?”

“Yes, smarty, I’ve tried.”

“When?”

“Last week. I tried to pick him up, but couldn’t. I tried to find you. I tried to find Trammell. Nothing. I did finally see you, very briefly, but I couldn’t read anything from you.”

“You saw me.” He didn’t look pleased at the idea. “What was I doing?”

“Watching a ball game and answering the telephone,” she snapped. “It was when I called you the first time. If I hadn’t been so worried and frightened, I doubt if I could have seen you. That never was my strength, anyway.”

He rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the drainer, then dried his hands. “But that was before we became involved. Now, maybe you could do it any time you wanted.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t tried again.”

He turned around and propped against the sink, his arms crossed as he studied her. Marlie stood her ground, but she wasn’t certain what against. He looked grim, and bigger than usual. He had removed his jacket when he’d gotten home with the cartons of takeout Chinese, but still wore his shoulder holster. A chill went through her. He had been with her for a week now, and in that short length of time she had become accustomed to his protectiveness, even to being cosseted. But a week was a very short time, and before that they had been adversaries.

In a flash she realized what the problem was. He wanted her, but he didn’t trust her. How could he? He didn’t know her well enough. Wasn’t that a big part of her problem, too? They had been propelled together without having time to get to know each other. He was a cop; distrust and suspicion were his stock in trade. He had made love to her, moved in with her, thinking that she had lost most of her psychic abilities. He didn’t at all like the idea that she could check up on him without his knowledge. He wanted to keep himself private, except for the parts he chose to share with her.

It hurt, but she couldn’t blame him. She had spent a lot of effort in trying to secure privacy for herself, so she couldn’t decry the same instinct in him.

“Do you want me to apologize for being what I am?” she asked steadily. “Or put my hand on a Bible and swear a sacred oath that I’ll never again try to reach you?”

“You don’t know that you can, except in an emergency.”

She shrugged. “I won’t try it even then, if you don’t want me to.”