Silent Fall (2 page)

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Catherine Hilliard awoke in the middle of the night, her heart racing and sweat dampening her cheeks. The digital clock read four forty-four. Every night for the past two months she'd woken up with terror flooding through her body like a tidal wave threatening to take her under. The screams of the past ran through her head, a maddening refrain that she feared she would never forget and yet never fully remember.

The events of one night had been lost in her subconscious for twenty-four years. And every few years the nightmares came back, torturing her for weeks at a time and then disappearing as quickly as they'd come. But this time was different. The dreams were getting worse, and the fear was relentlessly increasing with each passing night, as if something were coming for her, something horrific.

Scrambling out of bed, she did the only thing she could do to take the fear away. She painted.

On the easel a blank canvas waited. She picked up her brushes and opened her mixed paints, finding comfort in the familiar actions. Dipping her brush into the paint, she paused for a second and then put the brush to the canvas. The nightmare in her mind took shape with bold, dark swaths of color, red, green, black, blue. She barely breathed as the fear seeped out of her with each swipe of the brush. She never knew what would come out of her subconscious. Finally, shaken and drained, she set down her brush and backed away.

The picture she'd painted would make no sense to anyone. It was a mess of lines and shapes, collisions of color, but in the abstract images she thought she could see a face haunted by fear, dark eyes filled with terror, a mouth pleading for help. And deep down she believed she was supposed to help, but she didn't know how.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she let out a sigh as she studied her picture from afar. Calmer now, she tried to analyze what she'd done, the way she did every night, but the turmoil in her brain was as confusing as always.

She'd been six years old when her life had changed forever, when her reality had become a nightmare, when the bad dreams had begun. The police had wanted to know exactly what she'd seen that night, but she couldn't tell them. A therapist had given her paper and crayons and told her to draw, so she'd drawn, but the images hadn't made any sense then, nor did they now. And since that day she hadn't been able to stop drawing. Art had become her refuge, her passion, and her way of making a living. If she couldn't paint, she didn't think she could live.

During the daylight hours she could draw beautiful pictures, landscapes, flowers, happy people—but at night, after the dreams came, her paintings became monstrosities as she was driven to put brush to canvas in a desperate effort to free herself from the endless nightmares.

She'd tried changing her environment, but that hadn't worked. As a child she'd lived in eight different foster homes, and the nightmares had always found her. As an adult she'd tried three different cities and rented more than a few apartments before settling into her current beach cottage, but the dreams always returned.

Of course, there were months when she slept undisturbed. She wished for the relief of those dreamless nights. The longest she'd gone without a nightmare was six years. She'd thought they were over. Then they'd returned, and she'd realized she would never be free until she did something....

She had the sense that she was meant to act in some way—only then would she be able to escape. But what was she supposed to do? She didn't know. Nor did she recognize the abstract faces of the people she painted. They called out to her, but she couldn't answer, because she didn't know who they were.

Although tonight she couldn't help wondering if the face in her picture belonged to the woman who'd approached Dylan in the bar. There was a faint resemblance, wasn't there? Maybe she was just imagining it. Or perhaps she'd painted the woman's face because she'd seen her in her head, when she'd had a brief glimpse into Dylan's future—a future that seemed to include her. Not that she wanted to be included. She had a feeling Dylan was heading for trouble, and the last thing she needed was more trouble in her life.

Getting up, she walked over to the window and drew back the curtain. Her room was located on the top floor of the three-story lodge and had a direct view of the lake several hundred yards below. The water shimmered in the light of a full moon. The tall pine trees that covered the hillside swayed in the breeze like giant monsters. A shiver ran down her spine. She believed in connections, in fate and destiny. Nothing happened by chance. There was always a purpose. A long-ago childhood psychiatrist had told her that sometimes bad things just happened, and she had to stop looking for reasons, but Catherine hadn't believed the doctor then, nor did she buy into that philosophy now. Which was why she couldn't ignore the fact that something was wrong.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she felt a cold draft through her thin camisole top and silky shorts. She hoped her sense of impending doom didn't have anything to do with Sarah. Her friend deserved to be happy after everything she had been through the past few years. And Jake and Sarah and their daughter were on their way to Hawaii, to the land of swaying palm trees, soft, warm breezes, and blue skies. They were fine. They had to be.

She drew in a deep breath and then slowly let it out. She repeated the action several more times. Usually painting her nightmares tired her enough so that she could sleep until morning. Tonight she still felt edgy, as if she were waiting for something else to happen. She walked over to the valise set against the wall and pulled out another painting, a portrait this time....

Dylan stared back at her with his golden brown eyes that were a mix of mystery, pain, amusement, and cynicism. She'd worked hard to capture the complexity of his eyes, the proud strength of his jaw, and the hint of wariness that was usually present in his expression, as well as the cocky smile that could also be kind, but she didn't think she had it quite right yet. They'd spent only a few days together two months earlier, when Dylan had asked for her help in finding Sarah and Jake's daughter, but those few days in his presence had touched her in a way she didn't completely understand. She just knew that they were connected. There was a reason Dylan had come to her.

He'd say pragmatically that it was because she and Sarah shared a past, and that was the end of it. But she suspected there was more to come. If only she knew how the woman in the bar figured into things, that would be helpful, but her visions were never as complete or as forthcoming as she wanted. She would have to wait for whatever came next.

Setting the painting aside, she returned to the window. In the light of the moon Dylan's image flashed through her head once again. She saw fear in his eyes, an expression of shock and betrayal. She grabbed the curtains with both hands, swaying with the sudden and certain knowledge that Dylan was in trouble.

Glancing back at the clock, she realized an hour had passed since she'd first awoken in the grip of her nightmare. It was almost six. She just had to make it until dawn and then she would be fine. Once the sun came up she could relax. She could breathe again. And she could check on Dylan. She wanted to call him now, but she doubted he'd appreciate being wakened so early.

A red-and-blue strobe light caught her eye. She turned back to the window, stiffening as a police car pulled up in front of the lodge. She pressed her face against the glass, watching two uniformed policemen enter the building.

Her fear intensified. She was torn between wanting to go downstairs and find out what was happening and wanting to stay safely tucked away in her room.

This wasn't her problem, she told herself. She didn't need to get involved in a situation that didn't concern her. Keeping away from cops was second nature to her. They hadn't been able to protect her when she was a child, and as she'd grown up she'd learned that the only person she could trust was herself—certainly not uniformed police officers, whose nightly sweeps of the streets had made trying to survive only that much more difficult.

She moved away from the window and sat down on the bed, staring at the phone. She couldn't shake the desire to call Dylan and find out if he was all right. She hadn't seen him since she'd left him at the bar with that woman. She'd looked for him several times during the reception, especially when Jake and Sarah had wanted to say good-bye to him, but he'd been nowhere in sight. Jake had joked that his brother had probably gotten lucky. And she'd figured he was right. But now she wondered.... Dylan and Jake were so tight, as close as brothers could be. Would Dylan have really taken off with a woman at his brother's wedding? It seemed unlikely.

Giving in to impulse, she picked up the phone and dialed the hotel operator, asking for his room. The phone rang and rang, finally giving way to voice mail. She hung up, her hand shaking. He might just be a heavy sleeper. Or he could be spending the night with that woman.

Catherine crawled under the covers and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She stared at the clock, watching each minute tick away. She wanted to sleep, but she knew she couldn't, not until the sun came up and her fears went back into hiding.

Chapter 2

Dylan stirred, feeling something sharp stabbing the middle of his back. His head felt thick, a dull pain reverberating from the front of his skull down to his neck and shoulders. His lids were heavy, and it took him a second to get his eyes open, another minute to realize he was lying flat on his back on the ground. He reached under his body and yanked out a pinecone, the source of his discomfort.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the tall trees that surrounded him, the air still chilled with the icy cold of dawn. A few wispy clouds hung in the otherwise blue sky. It was morning, he realized, feeling halfwitted. What the hell had happened? Why was he on the ground in the woods? Had he gotten drunk and passed out? He struggled to sit up.

There was dirt on his pants and on the sleeves of his charcoal gray suit. A cut on the top of his hand had

swelled up, his skin now puffy and red. A glance at his watch told him it was seven fifteen in the morning. And the last thing he remembered was . . . what?

He drew in a deep breath and ordered himself to think. The view reminded him that he was in Lake Tahoe and that Jake had just gotten married. Dylan had been at the wedding reception, sitting at the bar. He'd spoken to Catherine, and then Erica had arrived. She'd wanted to talk to him. She'd given him champagne. They'd taken a walk—a long walk.

His pulse began to race as he jerked to his feet, suddenly feeling vulnerable. He looked around him, but he could see nothing but trees and the downward-sloping hillside that led to the edge of a cliff—a sheer drop to the lake below. Erica had brought him to this spot. She'd said something about having no choice, but the rest of her words were a blur. He remembered feeling sick, too weary to walk, as if he'd been drugged. That had to be what had happened. Erica must have put something in his champagne. But why would she do that?

He checked his pockets. His wallet was intact, along with a couple hundred dollars. She hadn't taken his money or his watch, and he had nothing else of value on him—unless she'd wanted something from his room. He patted down his pockets again, realizing he didn't have his car keys. Had he left them in the room? And speaking of his room, where was his room key? He'd brought his laptop with him to do some work. Some of his files and notes from the Ravino case were on it. Had Erica wanted some piece of information?

Was that why she'd drugged him and lured him out to the woods, so she could get into his room?

A stirring nearby made him turn his head. Was the rustle of leaves and branches the work of squirrels or birds, or was someone watching him? Was it Erica? Was she about to put another part of her plan into action? He needed to return to the lodge, but he was disoriented, so he took a minute to figure out which direction to go. Stumbling on the dirt and rocks, he made his way slowly through the trees, eventually finding a trail.

It took him a while to reach the lodge. He hadn't realized how far they'd walked the night before. Erica had obviously wanted to get him far enough away from the property so that no one would find him. Still, luring him out to the woods and leaving him there half-drugged didn't seem like a complete plan to him. There had to be more.

He realized what that
more
was when he saw two police cars in front of the lodge. Something had happened. Picking up the pace, he jogged up the front steps, a multitude of fears running through his head. He'd lost a dozen hours or more, and he had no idea whether Jake and Sarah had gotten off on their honeymoon. Had they wondered where he'd gone? Had they worried about him, called the cops? Or, God forbid, had something happened to them? Was that why the police were here?

As he entered the lobby he saw a uniformed police officer and a man in a dark gray suit standing by the reception desk. They were talking to the manager of the lodge while half a dozen employees looked on. One of those employees was the bartender who'd served him drinks the night before. When their gazes met, the bartender lifted his hand, pointing to Dylan.

"That's him," the bartender said. "That's the guy I saw leaving the bar with her last night."

Erica. This had to do with Erica.

"What's happened?" Dylan asked.

The man wearing the suit walked toward him. He appeared to be in his early forties, with light brown hair and a receding hairline. His tie hung loose around his neck, as if he spent a lot of time tugging on it, and his ruddy complexion bore testament to a man who lived outside as much as in. At the flash of his badge, Dylan's gut tightened.

"I'm Detective Richardson with the Washoe County Sheriff's Department," he said. "And you are ...?"

"Dylan Sanders. What's going on?"

"We're checking on the welfare of one of the guests, Ms. Erica Layton. Do you know her?"

His heart skipped a beat. "Yes. I know her. What happened to her?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. The bartender who worked the wedding reception last night said he saw Ms. Layton at the bar with you, and that you left together. Is that correct?"

The detective's gaze ran down his body, and Dylan was suddenly very aware of his appearance, the dirt on his shirt, the pine needles sticking to his sleeves. He resisted the urge to draw more attention to himself by shaking them off. "That's right," he muttered.

"When did you last see Ms. Layton?" the detective asked.

"Last night about seven thirty."

"Where were you?"

"In the woods. Erica and I took a walk. She said she wanted to speak to me."

"About what? Do you have a relationship with Ms. Layton?"

"Not exactly." Dylan hesitated, his brain beginning to work again. He didn't like the speculative gleam in the detective's eyes or the direction of his questions. "Why are you asking?"

"As I said, we're concerned about Ms. Layton's whereabouts. Did you accompany her to her cabin last night?"

"No. The last time I saw her was in the woods."

"Where she wanted to speak to you about what?"

"We worked together on a story I did several months ago. I'm a news reporter for KTSF Channel Three in San Francisco. I assumed she wanted to talk to me about that," Dylan replied. He had no intention of discussing his personal relationship with Erica until the detective told him what was going on.

"So Ms. Layton was a guest at your brother's wedding?"

"No, she wasn't a guest. She apparently came to Tahoe to speak to me."

"You said you assumed she wanted to talk about the story you did together, but that wasn't her purpose, was it?"

"I'm not sure. We never actually got around to having a conversation."

"Why not?"

"She left."

"Did you argue? Was Ms. Layton upset?"

Dylan frowned. He didn't know what the hell had happened to Erica, but there must be some evidence of something, or the police wouldn't have been called and the detective wouldn't be interrogating him as if he were the prime suspect in a murder investigation. His pulse jumped at the thought. Was Erica dead?

No, the detective had said he was concerned about her welfare. That meant she was missing, not dead.

"Where did you go after Ms. Layton left you?" Detective Richardson continued.

As a reporter, Dylan had worked with the police on several occasions, and he knew it would be best to tell the truth, but his mind jerked ahead to what his explanation would sound like, and he knew it wouldn't be good. But what choice did he have? Lying would only delay the inevitable revelation of the truth.

The nearby elevator opened with the ring of a bell. Dylan was surprised to see Catherine step out. She wore a pair of blue jeans and an oversize cream-colored sweater. Her reddish blond hair was swept back in a loose ponytail. She stopped abruptly when she saw the police officer, her expression a mix of relief and wariness.

"Mr. Sanders?" Detective Richardson prodded. "I'm going to need you to answer my questions. Where did

you go after Ms. Layton left?"

"Nowhere."

"Excuse me?"

"I have to back up," Dylan said, realizing he needed to explain what had happened.

"All right." The detective folded his arms across his chest as he waited for Dylan to continue.

Dylan looked away from Catherine. He needed to focus on one problematic woman at a time. "Erica approached me in the bar. As I said, we'd worked together on a story a few months ago. I was surprised to see her at my brother's wedding, because we haven't had any contact in weeks. She handed me a glass of champagne and told me she needed to talk to me, but she didn't want to do it in the bar because it was too loud and too public, so we took a walk along the path that runs in front of the lodge. After a few minutes I started feeling ill, dizzy, as if I were drunk or drugged. But Erica kept walking, leading me deeper into the woods. I became disoriented. I didn't know how far we'd gone. I stumbled, and that's the last thing I remember until I woke up about fifteen minutes ago, and I came straight back here. I believe Erica slipped something into my drink."

"Hold on. You're saying that Ms. Layton drugged you? Why would she do that?" the detective asked, tilting his head to one side, his brown eyes sharp and thoughtful. "I thought you were friends."

"I thought we were, too. I don't know why she would drug me. I vaguely recall her saying something

to me about not having a choice, but the rest is a blur."

"That's quite a story," the detective said skeptically.

"It's the truth. That's what happened."

"So Ms. Layton was angry with you."

"I don't think I said she was angry."

"Didn't you?" the detective countered. "Why else would she slip something into your drink? That doesn't sound very friendly to me."

"She did not appear angry or upset when she approached me in the bar. The only emotion she exhibited was nervousness," he added, remembering how jittery Erica had been.

"Your relationship wasn't just business, was it, Mr. Sanders?"

Dylan licked his lips, feeling as if a noose were being pulled around his neck. He needed time to think, but he doubted the detective would give it to him. "Do I need to get a lawyer?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"Look, I was drugged. I don't know what happened to Erica—if, in fact, anything did happen to her. If you don't believe me I'll get a drug test," he said impulsively. He needed to prove his innocence, and this was the perfect way to do it. "I'll get one right now."

"You'd be willing to do that?"

"Absolutely. I don't have anything to hide."

"If you didn't have something to hide, I doubt you'd be asking for your lawyer," the detective said with a wry twist to his lips. He paused for another second and then nodded. "I'll send one of our deputies with you to the local hospital. He can set up the tests. Excuse me for a minute."

Dylan let out a breath as the detective went to confer with the deputy. He hoped he hadn't made a mistake by agreeing to take a drug test, but he couldn't think of a better way to prove he had been incapable of hurting anyone. Turning his head, he saw Catherine watching him from across the lobby. He walked over to join her.

"Are you okay?" she asked with concern. "You have dirt in your hair, and you look like you've been up all night."

He ran his fingers through his hair, creating a shower of needles on the carpet. "Obviously I'm not all right. What do you know about Erica?"

"Was she the woman at the bar?"

"Don't play dumb, Catherine. You know something is going on. That's why you're down here. And you predicted Erica's arrival, remember?"

"Of course I remember. I never forget my visions," she said, her blue gaze meeting his. "I knew her face, but I didn't know her name."

"Didn't you?" he challenged. "You said we were all connected. Why do I get the feeling you're setting me up?"

"Why would I do that? You're Jake's brother, Sarah's brother-in-law. Sarah would kill me if I tried to hurt you." Her eyes narrowed. "Besides, what reason could I possibly have for wanting to set you up for something? I barely know you."

He couldn't think of a reason; he just knew he didn't completely trust her. "If you knew Erica would cause trouble for me, why did you take off yesterday? Why didn't you stick around to help me?"

"It wasn't my business, and you seemed to know her. I certainly didn't expect her to drug you and drag you off to the woods, if that's what happened. I heard what you told the detective," she added. "You weren't talking all that quietly. I'm sure everyone heard your story."

"Well, it's not a secret," he said with annoyance, although now he wished he'd spoken to the detective in a more private setting. The lodge employees were all looking at him with extreme speculation.

Catherine's gaze darted around the room as if she were waiting for something else to happen. Did she know what was coming? Had she seen something else?

He'd never believed in psychics or visions, and certainly Catherine's prediction that two women would enter his life and cause problems was vague enough to come true at just about any time. After all, a lot of women came into his life. But it did bother him that Catherine had identified Erica as the woman she'd seen in her vision, especially now that Erica was missing. Had it been just a lucky guess? Had Catherine seen Erica come up to him at the bar and decided to tell him that was the woman from her vision to make it look as if she really were a psychic? Or was there something to her supposed visions?

"So what's going to happen next?" he asked. "Since you seem to have an insight into the future that the rest of us don't have."

"Obviously you don't believe that I do," she snapped back. "I don't know why I came down here."

"Why did you? Or are you going to claim you were just headed for breakfast?"

She hesitated. "I was worried about you. I saw the cop car from my room. I knew something was up."

"And you decided I was the one in trouble?"

"I had a bad feeling."

"Sure you did," he said wearily. "You can never give me a straight answer, can you?"

"That is a straight answer. I work off my instincts, Dylan. But you have bigger problems to worry about than why I'm here."