Falling Awake (2 page)

“My parents and the others are buying that story.” Dave glanced briefly over his shoulder at the small group of people walking slowly away from the grave. “But I’m not. Not for a minute.”

Ellis nodded, saying nothing.

“Do you know what I think, Mr. Cutler?”

“No.”

Dave’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “I’m almost
positive that Katherine was killed because of her connection to Frey-Salter.”

Lawson was not going to like this, Ellis thought. The last thing the director wanted was to draw attention to his private fiefdom. After all, Frey-Salter, Inc., was a carefully constructed corporate front for the highly classified government agency that Jack Lawson ruled.

“Why would anyone want to kill Katherine?” Ellis asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

“I’m not sure,” Dave admitted, his face stony. “But I think it might have been because she discovered something going on there that she wasn’t supposed to know. She said that Frey-Salter was real big on confidentiality. Lot of secrecy involved. When she took the job she had to sign papers promising not to discuss sensitive information with anyone outside the firm.”

Something about the way Dave’s gaze shifted briefly and then quickly refocused in an intent stare told Ellis that he probably knew a lot more about his sister’s work than he should have. But if there was a problem in that direction, it was Lawson’s concern, he thought. He had his own issues.

“Signing a confidentiality statement is a common requirement in companies that conduct high-stakes research,” Ellis said mildly. “Corporate espionage is a major problem.”

“I know.” Dave hunched his shoulders. Anger vibrated through him in visible waves. “I’m wondering if maybe Katherine uncovered something like that going on.”

“Corporate espionage?”

“Right. Maybe someone killed her to keep her quiet.”

Just what he needed, Ellis thought, a distraught brother who had come up with a conspiracy theory to explain his sister’s murder.

“Frey-Salter does sleep and dream research,” Ellis reminded him, trying to sound calm and authoritative. “There’s not a lot of motive for murder in that field.”

Dave took a step back, suspicion gathering in his eyes. “Why should I trust you to tell me the truth? You work for Frey-Salter.”

“Outside consultant.”

“What’s the difference? You’re still loyal to them. They’re paying your salary.”

“Only a portion of it,” Ellis said. “I’ve got a day job now.”

“If you hardly knew Katherine, why are you here?” Dave flexed his hands. “Maybe you’re the one who killed her. Maybe that theory about the murderer showing up at the funeral is for real.”

This was not going well.

“I didn’t kill her, Dave.”

“Someone did, and I don’t think it was a random burglar. One of these days I’ll find out who murdered my sister. When I do, I’m going to make sure he pays.”

“Let the cops handle this. It’s their job.”

“Bullshit. They’re useless.” Dave whipped around and walked swiftly away across the cemetery.

Ellis exhaled slowly and crossed the grass to where he had parked the rental. He peeled off the hand-tailored charcoal gray jacket, sucking in a sharp breath when the casual movement sent
a jolt of pain through his right shoulder. One of these days he would learn, he thought. The wound had healed and he was getting stronger. The visits to the acupuncturist had helped, much to his surprise. But some things would never again be the same. It was lucky he hadn’t been passionate about golf or tennis before Scargill almost succeeded in killing him because he sure wasn’t going to play either sport in the future.

He put the jacket in the backseat and got behind the wheel. But he did not start the engine immediately. Instead, he sat for a long time, watching the last of the mourners disperse. You never knew. Maybe there was something to that old theory about the killer showing up at the funeral.

If Vincent Scargill had come to bear witness to his crime, however, he succeeded in keeping himself out of sight. Not an easy thing to do in a small town in Indiana.

When there was no one left except the two men with the shovels, Ellis fired up the engine and drove toward the road that would take him back to the airport in Indianapolis. The news of Katherine’s death had caught up with him while he was engaged in a series of business meetings in the San Francisco Bay area. He had barely made it to the funeral.

The storm struck twenty minutes later. It unleashed a full barrage of the spectacular special effects that make storms in that part of the country famous. The torrential rain cut visibility down to a bare minimum. Ellis didn’t mind the wall of water. He could have driven the complicated maze of roads and state highways that led back to Indianapolis blindfolded. He had driven them
once to get to the cemetery and once was all he needed when it came to learning a route. The part of him that intuitively picked up on patterns and registered them in his memory was equally adept at navigating.

Lightning lit up the ominous sky. Thunder cracked. The rain continued, deluging the fields of soybeans and corn that stretched for miles on either side of the highway. The rear wheels of passing cars sent up great plumes of water.

He felt the rush of adrenaline, wonder and awe that he always experienced when the elements went wild. He savored powerful storms the way he savored driving his Maserati, the way, once upon a time, he had savored roller coasters.

The raw, exhilarating passion of the thunderstorm made him think of Tango Dancer, the mysterious lady who sometimes walked through his dreams. He wondered what it would be like to have her sitting in the passenger seat beside him right now. Did she get a kick out of storms? His intuition, or maybe it was his overheated imagination, told him she did but he had no way of knowing for sure.

He wondered what she was doing at that moment out in sunny California. Although she had appeared in his fantasies more times than he could count during the past few months, he had never met her in person. That situation was supposed to have changed by now. He’d made plans. But Vincent Scargill had put those plans on hold.

Reluctantly he pulled his thoughts away from Tango Dancer and contemplated his next move in what his former boss and
sometimes client Jack Lawson referred to as his
obsession
with Vincent Scargill. He would go to Raleigh, he decided, and check out the apartment where Katherine’s body had been found. Maybe the cops had overlooked some small clue that would point him in a direction that would lead to Scargill.

Unfortunately, there was one real big problem with his personal theory concerning the identity of the man who had murdered Katherine Ralston. It was the reason he had not told Dave Ralston that he thought he knew the name of his sister’s killer.

Vincent Scargill was dead.

d
ave Ralston sat in his car, parked out of sight on a side road, and watched Ellis Cutler drive away into the oncoming storm. Katherine’s description of the Frey-Salter legend haunted him.
He’s supposed to be the best agent Lawson ever had, but Cutler makes me nervous. You can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling. It’s as if he’s always standing just outside the circle. He watches, but he doesn’t join in the game, if you know what I mean. He’s the walking definition of a loner.

Loners were dangerous, Dave thought. They went their own way and played by their own rules. Maybe this one had committed murder. Or maybe Ellis Cutler was pursuing some secret agenda on behalf of the mysterious Jack Lawson. Either way, Cutler was a for-real, genuine lead, the first one he’d been able to find. He had a name and the number of the rental car. This evening after the crowd of mourners left his parents’ house, he
would power up his computer and see what he could do with the information he possessed.

He was good with computers, just as Katherine had been good with them. It was one of the many talents they had had in common.

He put the car in gear and drove away from the cemetery without looking back at Katherine’s grave. He knew he would not be able to return here to say farewell properly until he found the person who had ended his twin’s life.

He had to get some justice for Katherine, he mused, not for her sake but for his own. They had shared that special closeness that only twins can know. She would be a part of him for the rest of his life. He would not be able to live with her memory if he failed to avenge her.

The shrinks had a word for it.
Closure.

t
he following morning Ellis flashed his Mapstone Investigations ID at the manager of the apartment house on the outskirts of Raleigh where Katherine had lived and asked to borrow the key.

“Place hasn’t been cleaned yet,” the manager warned.

“No problem,” Ellis said.

He let himself into the apartment, closed the door and took a moment to steep himself in the gloomy shadows. He was intensely conscious, as he always was on such occasions, of the respect owed to the memory of the dead.

After a moment, he walked slowly through the apartment, examining every detail closely, storing up the images to be examined later in his dreams.

The blood that had soaked the beige carpet had dried to a terrible, all-too-familiar shade of muddy brown. The killer had toppled the bookcase, emptied drawers and yanked pictures off the walls, no doubt in an attempt to create the impression of a wild, frantic burglary.

When he finished the unpleasant tour he returned to the living room and stood for a while near the patch of dried blood.

That was when he noticed the one object that did not look as if it belonged in the apartment. The crime scene tape had come down. The police had obviously not considered the item to be evidence. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm.

At the door he paused one last time, allowing the dark, haunting atmosphere to flow over and around him.

I’ll find him, Katherine,
he vowed.

B
ELVEDERE
C
ENTER FOR
S
LEEP
R
ESEARCH
,
NEAR
L
OS
A
NGELES
, C
ALIFORNIA

i
had this really weird dream last night,” Ken Payne said from the doorway of Isabel Wright’s tiny office.

“Sorry, Ken, I don’t have time to talk about your dream right now.” Isabel picked up a stack of computer printouts that was only a little higher than Mount Rushmore. She started toward her desk. “I’ve got an appointment with the new director in a few minutes.”

“This will only take a minute.” Ken lowered his voice and checked the hallway furtively. “In the dream I’m driving a car toward an intersection and I know I have to brake or there will be a crash but I can’t take my foot off the accelerator.”

“Ken, please . . .” The toe of her shoe struck the heap of dream logs she had been forced to pile on the floor because every other surface in the cramped room was covered with books, journals and notebooks.

She staggered under the impact. The stack of printouts in her arms wobbled ominously, affecting her balance. She felt herself start to topple to the side.

“Oh, damn.”

“Here, let me take those.” Ken moved out of the doorway and deftly plucked the printouts from her hands.

“Thank you.” Relieved of her burden, she grabbed the back of her desk chair and managed to steady herself.

Sphinx, Martin Belvedere’s large, ill-tempered tortoiseshell cat, glared from behind the steel grid door of his carrying cage. Isabel knew that excessive human commotion irritated him. Actually, there were a lot of things that irritated Sphinx. He was not in a good mood in the first place because life had changed drastically for him a few days earlier, when Martin Belvedere had dropped dead from a heart attack. Now he was fuming because she had stuffed him into the carrier.

Ken peered around the stack of reports, searching the cluttered office. “Where do you want me to put them?”

She pushed several annoying tendrils of hair out of her eyes, mentally cursing Mr. Nicholas, her new hairstylist.

Mr. Nicholas was only the latest in a long series of stylists who had promised her the sun, moon and stars. More to the point, he had practically guaranteed that the new cut he had created for
her, a style that curled just above her shoulders and framed her face with airy wisps of hair in various lengths, would give her instant sex appeal. The sucker had lied through his perfect white teeth. Her social life had not taken a great leap forward since the last trip to the salon. It had, in fact, slid backward a few notches.

But deep down she knew that, even as she mentally heaped recrimination upon his handsome head, she could not really blame Mr. Nicholas. She had no one to blame for her wretched social life but herself.

For as long as she could remember, the only thing men wanted to do to her or with her was tell her their dreams.

Not that she was interested in dating Ken Payne, she thought. He was a cheerful, good-natured sort, always ready with a smile and a funny story; the kind of friend you could call when you needed someone to help you move. He had no doubt been the class clown back in elementary school. But he was in love with a woman named Susan. Isabel knew that the only thing stopping him from asking his girlfriend to marry him was his recurring dream.

She motioned toward the corner of her desk. “You can set the printouts there.”

“You sure? What about those old dream logs?”

“Just put the printouts on top of them, please.”

“Okay.” Ken cautiously set the stack down. He took a step back, eyeing the unstable-looking result with a dubious expression. “What the hell happened in here, anyway? Place looks like
a cyclone hit it. Your office is always a little chaotic but this clutter is a lot worse than usual.”

“The new Dr. Belvedere ordered all of his father’s papers cleared out of the executive office this morning when he took charge. The janitors were told to take everything to the trash bin out back. I barely managed to catch them in time to rescue this stuff. Five minutes later and I would have had to dig it all out of the garbage.”