Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (56 page)

H
E COULD FEEL THE ANGER
burning in him as the woman marched away, and he sternly controlled it, as he controlled everything. Now wasn’t the time to let his anger show; it would be inappropriate. Everything in its own time. He looked down at the complaint form the woman had filled out and smiled as he read her name: Jacqueline Sheets, 3311 Cypress Terrace. The guarantee of retribution gave him a certain peace. Then, taking care that his body blocked Annette’s view of what he was doing, he slipped the complaint form into his pocket to be disposed of later. Only a stupid person would leave it lying about, perhaps for some busybody to look at and remember later, and Carroll Janes did not consider himself stupid. Quite the opposite, in fact. He prided himself on taking care of every little detail.

“I don’t know how you can be so calm when people talk to you like that, Mr. Janes,” Annette muttered behind him. “I wanted to punch her in the face.”

His expression was perfectly calm. “Oh, someday she’ll get hers,” he said. He liked Annette; she had to put up with
the same things he did, and she was always sympathetic when someone gave him a hard time. Most people were acceptably courteous, but there were always those few who needed to be taught a lesson. Annette, however, was unfailingly polite, calling him Mister. He appreciated her perception. She was a homely little thing, short and dark and plain, but generally amiable. She didn’t irritate him as so many other women did, with their silly airs and pettishness.

Carroll Janes carried himself in an erect, military posture. He had often thought he would have been perfectly suited for the military—as an officer, of course. He would have been at the top of his class in any of the academies, had he been able to attend. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had the connections necessary to get into any of the military academies; connections were imperative, and those who lacked them were shut out. It was how the upper class kept their ranks closed. Joining the military as an enlisted man was unthinkable; he had likewise rejected both ROTC and OCS as being a poor second to the academies. Instead of the distinguished military career he should have had, he was stuck in this degrading job handling customer complaints in a ritzy department store, but that didn’t mean he would let his personal standards slide.

He was five foot ten, but his erect carriage often fooled people into thinking he was taller. And he was generally considered a nice-looking man, he thought: in good shape, thanks to twice-weekly visits to a gym; thick, curly blond hair; even features. He enjoyed dressing well, and was always meticulous in his grooming. Attention to detail meant the difference between success and failure. He never let himself forget that.

He wondered what Annette would say if she discovered the power he kept concealed, under perfect control until it was time to be unleashed. But no one suspected, least of all Annette. Fooling them all so completely gave him immense satisfaction; the cops were so stupid, so utterly outclassed!

He was patient enough to wait until Annette took her
afternoon break before going to the computer to see if Jacqueline Sheets had a charge account with the store; to his delight, she did. It was always so much easier when he had this initial access to information. He wasn’t interested in her payment record, however. The information from each customer’s credit request form was at the top of each file, and that information included the spouse’s name and occupation. Jacqueline Sheets was divorced. He clucked his tongue. What a pity, she couldn’t maintain a relationship.

Of course, that didn’t mean she lived alone. She might have children, or a live-in boyfriend, or a lesbian roommate. She might live with her mother. Any of those scenarios would make his task more difficult, but by no means impossible. He almost hoped such a complication would develop, for it was a truer test of his nerve and intelligence. It was unusual to have another transgressor so soon after the last one; he was a bit curious to see if he would be sharper, like an athlete intensifying his training, or if the opposite would be true. He hoped he would be even stronger and faster, his mind clearer, the surge of power more intense.

When he left work, he could already feel the anticipation humming in him. He ignored the pleasurable sensation and followed his normal routine, for of course, he couldn’t allow it to strengthen now; it wasn’t time. The pleasure would be all the more intense for having waited, once he let it go. So he drove to his apartment, read the newspaper, popped a microwave dinner into the oven. While it was heating, he set the table: place mat, napkin, everything just as it should be. Just because he lived alone was no reason to let his standards slide.

Only after it was fully dark outside did he allow himself to get out his map of the Orlando area and locate Cypress Terrace, marking the route from his apartment with a yellow highlighter, carefully memorizing the turns. It was closer than he’d expected, no more than fifteen minutes by car. Convenient.

Then he went for a pleasant, leisurely drive, enjoying the
mild spring weather. This first reconnaissance was little more than a drive-by, to locate the house and fix it in his mind. He’d also notice a few other details, such as how close the other houses were, if there were a lot of pets in the neighborhood, how many children seemed to be around. If there was a fence around the yard, how many cars were parked in the driveway, or if there was a garage. Little things like that. Details. Later he would find out more, much more, discovering more on each trip until the final reconnaissance, when he would go inside the house itself, learn the layout of the rooms. He would let the pleasure begin building then, for there was something delicious about wandering through her house when she wasn’t there, touching her things, looking in her closets and bathroom cabinet. He would already be inside her, and she wouldn’t even know it. It would lack only the finale.

He drove past 3311 Cypress Terrace; there was a narrow, one-slot carport instead of a garage, and a five-year-old Pontiac occupied the space. There were no other cars, no bicycles, no skateboards, nothing to indicate kids. Only one light was on in the house, indicating that there was either only one person there, or everyone was in one room. Usually it was the former.

He circled the block and drove by a second time; twice was all he allotted himself on one trip. If anyone was watching, which wasn’t likely, the second pass would be attributed to someone lost, while a third pass would be suspicious. The second time he noted the fence that ran down the left side of the house, on the opposite side of the carport. Good. A fence was nice concealment. The right side was more open than he liked it, but all in all the situation was very nice. Very nice indeed. Everything was falling into place.

•  •  •

Marlie had been curled up on the couch, reading a book that was only mildly interesting and slowly feeling herself relax. She had felt the strain all day long, wondering if
Detective Hollister would be waiting in the parking lot when she left work as he had been the day before. She wasn’t certain she could handle another of those hostile confrontations with him, but at the same time she felt curiously cast adrift when she walked out of the bank and he wasn’t there. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop, only it never did.

She leaned her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes. His face formed behind her eyelids: the rough planes, the broken nose, the hazel green of those deep-set eyes. Not the face of a sophisticate; even if the features had been more even, the expression in those eyes would always set him apart. They were the piercing eyes of a predator, always watching. She rather thought that the people of Orlando could count themselves lucky that he had come down on the side of the law, making criminals his natural prey instead of themselves. Now, added to the force of his own nature, was the look that all cops had: that all-encompassing cynicism, the cool distance, the wall that those in law enforcement erected between themselves and those they served.

She had known a lot of cops, had seen it in all of them. Cops relaxed only with their own kind, with others who had seen the same things, done the same things. None of them went home and told their spouses about the meanness and depravity that they saw every day. What a great topic that would have been over dinner! Cops had a high divorce rate. The stress was incredible.

Cops had never known how to take her. At first, of course, they had all thought of her as a joke. After she had proved herself, though, they had all become very uneasy around her, because her psychic insight had included them. Only a cop understood another cop: That was a given. But
she
had felt their emotions, their anger and fear and disgust. They couldn’t erect that wall against her, and they had felt vulnerable.

Then, six years ago, she had had to learn how to read people’s emotions the way everyone else did, by picking up subtle clues of body language and voice tone, by reading expressions. She had been like a baby learning how to talk, because she had never before had to rely on visual clues. For a while she hadn’t wanted to learn, all she had wanted was to be left alone in the blessed silence. But total isolation wasn’t human nature; even hermits usually took up with animals. Instinctively, once she had felt safe, she had begun to watch people and read them. It was difficult to read Detective Hollister, though. Her mouth quirked with wry humor. Maybe she had such a hard time reading him because she could barely stand to look at him. It wasn’t that he was repulsive, because for all his rough features, he wasn’t, but rather because he was so intense. He made her uncomfortable, glaring at her the way he did, battering at her until he forced her to pull up memories she would rather forget.

She wasn’t afraid of him; no matter how much he might try, he couldn’t tie her to Nadine Vinick’s murder, because there was no tie. He couldn’t find evidence that didn’t exist. The uneasiness she felt—

Marlie froze, her eyes flying open and focusing on nothing as she mentally searched the feeling that had crept over her. It wasn’t a vision, or anything else that overwhelming. But she definitely sensed a vague, cold malevolence, a threat.

She got jerkily to her feet and began pacing as she tried to order her thoughts. What was happening? Was the knowing truly returning, or was she experiencing a perfectly normal reaction to a lot of stress?

She had been thinking of Hollister, and all of a sudden she had felt uneasy and threatened. Easy enough to understand that, if Hollister was the source of the threat. Most people would think so, but Marlie analyzed the feeling again and couldn’t find any fear of Hollister in any way connected with his investigation.

The malevolence slapped at her, growing stronger. Marlie
gagged on a sudden rise of nausea. Something was happening. God, something was happening. What? Was it connected with Hollister? Was he in danger?

She lurched to a halt, her fists clenched. Maybe she should call him, see if he was all right. But what should she say? Nothing. She didn’t have to say anything. If he answered the phone, then he was obviously all right. She could just hang up.

Childish trick. This unformed threat was sickening. She broke out in a sweat, torn with indecision, and all of a sudden the old instincts took over. Blindly she reached out with her mind, searching for Hollister, trying to pinpoint that nebulous cloud of evil. It was like groping in fog; she couldn’t focus on anything.

Groaning, she sank down on the couch again. What had she expected? She hadn’t been able to do that for six years, and even before, it hadn’t been easy. Just because she had had one freak vision, and felt this vague threat, she thought all of the old skills had come back? She hoped they never would, damn it! But just now she needed them, needed something to calm this panic she felt.

But if he was unconscious—she banished the word
dead
before it could form—then she wouldn’t be able to pick up his mental signals. Feeling even more frantic, she summoned up an image of his partner, Alex Trammell. She hadn’t paid much attention to him, but she was observant enough to be able to recall his face. She closed her eyes, concentrating, hearing her own harsh, fast breathing as she tried to find one particular person.
Think!
she fiercely commanded herself. Think of Trammell.

It was no use. Nothing.

Swearing under her breath, she grabbed the phone book and ran her finger down the
Hs
until she found the Hollisters. Why were there so damn many of them? Ah, there it was. Dane Hollister. She picked up the receiver and punched in the number before she could talk herself out of this.

And suddenly she knew that he was all right.

It wasn’t like before. She hadn’t tuned in to his emotions; there was no mental barrage. She just knew. She had a mental picture of him sitting barefoot and bare-chested in front of the television, watching a baseball game and sipping on a beer. He muttered a curse as he reached for the telephone—

—“Yeah.”

Marlie jumped. The word had sounded in her ear just as she had pictured him in her mind, speaking. “Ah . . . uh. Sorry,” she stammered, and dropped the receiver clattering into the cradle. She stared at the phone, so stunned she didn’t know what to do. She had heard the definite sounds of a baseball game in the background.

•  •  •

Dane shrugged with mild irritation and hung up the telephone. He had missed an out in the game, just in that short time when he’d taken his attention off the screen. He settled back down with a grunt, his bare feet propped on the coffee table and crossed at the ankle. This was the most comfortable he’d been in a while: no shirt, no shoes, the beer in his hand so cold that it made his mouth tingle to drink it.

The caller had been a woman. He knew it instinctively, even though the voice had been low and unusually husky. A smoker’s voice.

He thought of Marlie Keen. Her voice had that little rasp; just hearing it gave him a hard-on every time. Reflexively he looked down at his lap. Bingo.

He reached for the phone.