The Dark Gate. Pamela Palmer
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she knew it? She’d find a way. She had to. For once, just maybe, her death visions could be used for good instead of bringing evil.
Jack poured himself a cup of coffee as he dug his fingers into his scalp, trying to ease the volume in his head. The damned voices were getting louder, as if each day they invited more and more guests into the party.
“Headache?” Larsen said from behind him, entering the kitchen.
He jerked his hand away, nearly spilling the coffee, and turned to face her. She looked soft and delicious this morning, her hair sleep-tousled, her pajamas clinging in all the right places. Blood pooled between his legs as he remembered the feel of her pressed against him during the night. He’d slept. Eventually. But now, with her awake, all he wanted to do was to sweep her up and carry her back to that bed, preferably without those soft, clinging pajamas.
He tore his gaze away from her and shoved the coffee carafe back under the brewer. It was time to play tough cop, not horny fool. But damn, she looked good.
“Do you get the Post?” she asked. Her gaze met his, then darted away with a glimmer of fear. She must know he intended to dig her secrets out of her this morning and he hated that she did. Hated that she feared him. An innocent woman would have nothing to fear.
“It’s in the foyer,” he told her. “The plastic sleeve is wet. It’s been raining since dawn.”
She returned moments later holding the newspaper in one hand and a folded white sheet of paper in the other. “I think you’d better see this.”
At the strained look in her eyes, he set down his mug and reached for the folded sheet. A handwritten note. As his gaze skimmed the bold black letters, the hair rose on the back of his neck.
Tony Jingles. This afternoon. The Dupont Circle Rapist strikes again.
His gaze pinned Larsen. “Where’d you find this?”
“It fell out of the newspaper when I picked it up.”
She was lying. He wasn’t sure how he knew that. The answer wasn’t necessarily in her gaze, which was finally meeting his, nor her erect, self-assured stance. Nor was it in the stubborn, upward thrust of her chin. He simply felt it in his gut. And he’d long ago quit second-guessing his gut. The question was, what was he going to do about it?
He skimmed the note again. Did it matter? Didn’t he have what he needed—a way to catch that son of a bitch? If he still had questions afterward, he’d interrogate her then.
He’d know where to find her. Larsen Vale wasn’t going to make another move unless he said so.
Larsen’s nerves were eating her alive.
She paced Jack’s living room, her sandals clipping over the hardwood floor as she waited for word from the Tony Jingles stakeout. The Orioles game was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes unless they called a rain delay, which was a real possibility given the drizzly skies.
The woman cop Jack had sent to babysit Larsen walked through the living room on one of her quarter-hourly rounds. The woman, Sergeant O’Malley, wasn’t much in the way of company. Short, stocky and unsmiling, she’d relinquished no more than one-word answers when Larsen tried to engage her in conversation when she’d first arrived. When the cop wasn’t making her rounds, she remained firmly by the kitchen door.
Outside, two male cops kept an eye on the house. Larsen hadn’t considered the fact that whoever supposedly put the note in Jack’s paper obviously knew where he lived. Of course, that person had been her, though she could never tell him that. So she cooled her heels in a protective custody with no means of escape short of outside intervention.
It wouldn’t take much to get herself out of here. She was convinced of that. A phone call, maybe two. Heaven knew she’d made enough of them already this morning, apologizing for yesterday and clearing her calendar for the next few days until the police caught the albino and ended this nightmare.
Why was she hesitating? Maybe because if she left now she’d never know what happened. Larsen stared out the front window at the damp, gray afternoon, the trees in front of the row house wilting with the drizzle.
And maybe the problem was Jack himself. She needed to get away from him. She knew that. But it didn’t change the fact that she was drawn to him in a way she hadn’t been to a man, to anyone, in longer than she could remember. But staying here was foolish. She was playing with fire.
With a sigh, she turned from the window as the clock on the chest in the corner chimed two o’clock. The Orioles game was about to begin. Her heart gave a nervous kick. If she was right about the murder happening pregame, it would happen soon.
Larsen turned on the television and stared as the Orioles mascot ran onto the field exactly as she’d seen him in the premonition. Chills raced over her skin, standing her hair on end. The murder had begun. The memory of that vision, that nightmare, replayed in her head like a horror film—the restaurant, the albino, every patron hypnotized but one. And she’d sent Jack and the D.C. police into the thick of it. With guns.
A sudden, horrible thought struck her. What if he controlled them, too?
Oh, God, what have I done?
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