“That means I’m going to have to lock Rob up in about a year and a half. No girl in Maestro will be safe.”
“Oh dear, Rob and Rafe are nearly that age—that certainly changes one’s perspective on things. Now that I think about it, Lance was twenty-one, maybe even twenty-two. Maybe it was a graduation present from college.”
Even as he grinned, realizing how really good he felt at this moment, reality climbed up on his chest and stared him in the eye.
“Stop it, Dix, come back here. Life is always out there, but neither of us have to face it every moment. Come back.” She took his hand, brought it down to his chest, and pressed her hand down over his. “It’s the strangest thing,” she said. “I can feel your heart through your hand.
“Another strange thing,” she continued. “Every day of the week you get up in the morning, chow down your peanut butter toast, navigate to the Hoover building hoping you won’t kill any of the idiots on the Beltway, and you arrive at your job, which is to hunt down murderers and various other sorts of psychopaths. Everything’s all nice and normal and expected, and then something weird happens, something that knocks you off your pins, something like this deal we’re in right now, and suddenly we’re not in Kansas anymore.
“But you know something? No matter what smacks me in the head, I know I won’t have to deal with it by myself any longer. You’ll always be there for me. It makes the world exceedingly nice, Dix.”
He came up onto his side, leaned over her, and riffled his fingers through her dark hair, all wild about her head, a beautiful contrast to her white skin, and those dark eyes that seemed to see all the way to his soul.
She touched her fingers to his cheek and heaved out a soft sigh. “I love you.”
She loved him? This incredible woman actually loved him? “You’ve never said that before,” he said.
“Now was the time,” she said simply. He was basking in what she’d said when she added, “On the other hand, I also love football, and thank the good Lord there’s only four more months to wait.”
He turned his hand palm up and twined his fingers with hers. “Now you’re doing your Ruth thing—mixing the utterly serious with a joke. What would you think,” he went on as he leaned up to nuzzle her jaw, “of getting married before football season starts? That way we’ll have a good week for me to fly high and sing arias to you in the shower before we’re yelling our heads off in front of the tube for the Redskins. And you know what would be really good about that?”
“Great sex whenever I want it?”
“That too. Better yet, it would mean no more questions, no more doubts, no more putting things off—”
“Just you and me and a big bed and a bigger—?”
“You gonna finish that thought?”
“And a bigger heart, Dix. I’m so glad I staggered into your woods. I would love to marry you. You and the boys are the center of my life now.”
He leaned down to press his forehead against hers. He felt the goodness in her, the bone-deep honor, and the strength. “Have you ever considered that maybe tracking down killers and psychopaths isn’t all that normal and expected?”
She kissed him, stroked her hand through his hair. “Nah. What I can’t understand is milking a cow or taking apart a smoking motherboard.”
He grinned, fell onto his back, felt her hand move to lie flat on his belly again. He lay quietly, finally heard her breathing even into sleep. No wonder. Both of them were tired to the bone, what with the long flight from Richmond, then dropping her off here at the Sherlocks’ because of his decision to see Charlotte as soon as possible. He’d tried to get some information out of her, anything at all they could use about her and her husband, but she had cut it short. He had no idea if she really wanted to see him again, or was pretending. When he’d told Ruth he might have to play-act at seducing her, she’d merely nodded, and said in that no-nonsense way of hers, “It’s your call, Dix.”
After he’d left Charlotte, he’d stood by his rental car a moment and felt cold to his soul. He knew something wasn’t right about Charlotte. He knew too that something really bad was out there that concerned Christie, waiting for him to find it.
Savich and Sherlock, with Sean and his nanny Graciella, had arrived a little after six o’clock, welcomed by all, especially Sherlock’s parents. Isabel called out over their heads that she’d made her baby’s favorite sausage enchiladas.
Sean had yelled “Yes!” until told by his mother that she was Isabel’s baby, not him. Sean had looked puzzled a good long time about that.
Of course, there’d been more discussions, more plans made over a big pot of coffee—until all of them, in their pajamas and their jet lag—were shooed off to bed by Mrs. Sherlock.
And now, as Dix lay in the sinful big bed, Ruth’s head on his shoulder, he thought of the endless string of lies he’d told the boys, and felt the knife of guilt twist in his gut. And if that wasn’t enough, he realized he hadn’t told Ruth he loved her. What a moron he was. What was a marriage proposal without at least some mention of love? He was an idiot. He’d tell her first thing in the morning when she awoke, warm and soft with sleep.
His last thought before he fell asleep, his face against Ruth’s hair, was about Christie. I’m going to find out what happened to you, Christie. I’m going to find you justice. And then I’m going to let Ruth share my heart with you.
CHAPTER 36
Cheney stood at the front window of his condo, leaning to his left so he could manage a glimpse of his partial view of the Golden Gate. Julia was asleep on his sofa, sprawled on her back. He was glad she’d wanted to come home with him, away from the media, the crime scene tape, the neighbors, and maybe another visit from Makepeace. Suddenly she said clearly, in an anguished voice, “Linc, oh Jesus, no! Linc!”
She began to sob, deep wrenching sobs, and she wept, saying over and over, “Linc, oh no, please Linc. Don’t leave me. No!”
He gathered her up, rocked her. “Julia, wake up. You’re okay, it was a nightmare. Come on, wake up.”
She did immediately, staring up at him in the dim moonlight coming through the front window.
“You had a nightmare. You’re okay now.”
It took her a moment to gain control. “Thank you, Cheney. I guess with all the stress, those nightmares are slipping right in.”
He wondered how often she dreamed of Linc, but now wasn’t the time to ask. “You want some warm milk or something?”
She managed a grin. “No, I want to go back to sleep. Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I’m too hyped up, I guess. I’ll go sack out soon now.”
“You’re afraid he’ll come here, aren’t you?”
“My address wouldn’t be all that hard to find out. Thanks to Captain Paulette, there’s a squad car down the block keeping an eye on the place. It wouldn’t be Xavier’s best move to try it. Actually, it’d be nuts.”
“He is nuts.” She shivered. Without thought, he pulled her close again, felt her hair against his face.
She said against his neck, “Can you believe Kathryn wondered if we were lovers? I haven’t even known you a week.”
He was silent, thinking she didn’t sound at all angry or alarmed, perhaps only surprised, maybe even curious. She was wearing one of his white undershirts, and it was falling off her shoulder.
Julia said, “You didn’t believe anything she said, did you?”
He was aware that she smelled of something soft and flowery. “Fact is, she could have heard or deduced most of it and guessed the rest. Pretty commonsense stuff, all dressed up with purple prose—that’s what I thought when she said it. ‘His core was black, his pride was purple’—and the bit about his aching feet, come on, give me a break.”
“When you say it, away from her drama and atmosphere, it does sound like some ridiculous tale a good storyteller could spin.”
Cheney said, “She’s some showman. I suppose that’s her greatest skill.”
“But she did say she tho
ught he had an author’s name.”
He frowned. “Yes, she did say that.”
She yawned. “You’re still dressed.”
“Yes.”
He leaned down and pulled her blanket over her. “Go back to sleep, Julia.”
Sean Savich’s eyes popped open. Something didn’t smell right. That was it, he wasn’t in his own bed or in his own room. He was someplace else, someplace scary. He knew a monster was hiding in the closet. The monster could see his bed, could see him. He was sure the door was slowly pushing open and he nearly stopped breathing. Even though Graciella had showed him there were only clothes and shoes in the closet, he knew she didn’t understand, didn’t know what he knew. This wasn’t his closet, so he knew Graciella couldn’t see the monster; it hid itself until she closed the door. And then it waited a long time before it slowly oozed out from its hiding place in the closet wall and tasted his clothes, getting his scent. The monster was coming out of the closet now, and it was bad.
Even though Graciella was sleeping in a twin bed not ten feet away from him, it wasn’t enough. No way could she save him in this strange place. Sean’s heart pounded. He watched the closet door as he slithered out of the narrow twin bed, slipped through the bedroom door, and ran as fast as he could down the hallway. It was strange, he didn’t know where to run since he didn’t know where he was. A huge black shadow barred his way. He sobbed and closed his eyes as he ran through the shadow. He was heaving when he eased inside the first closed door. He saw two people sleeping in a big bed. He raced to the bed and climbed up to burrow between them. Something wasn’t quite right, but he didn’t care because they were big and he was too afraid of what was lurking in the hall. He was safe now. Sean pressed closer. They wouldn’t let anything hurt him. Everything was all right.
At seven o’clock in the morning, Dix was jerked awake by the sudden jab of an elbow in his neck.
"He’s still asleep,” Ruth whispered.
Dix slowly lowered the little boy’s arm and turned slowly to his side to face Ruth. Sean was between them.
Dix whispered, “Nightmare, I guess. Did he wake you up when he came in?”
At that moment, they heard Sean’s name shouted from outside the door. It was Sherlock, and she sounded scared to her toes.
Ruth slipped out of bed, pulled on the robe she’d tossed over the end of the bed, and opened the door. “Sherlock, it’s okay. Sean came to sleep with us in the middle of the night. He’s okay.”
Sherlock rushed into the bedroom, as if she couldn’t believe what Ruth had told her was the truth, and skidded to a stop. She shook her head, relief pouring off her. “Oh, Sean.” Graciella came running into the room on her heels, her face pale as the moon.
Sherlock saw her little boy in Dix’s arms, dead to the world, and sucked in a deep breath. “All right, then. It’s okay.” She turned to give her husband a blazing smile.“Dillon, we’re in here.”
Dix said, “Nightmare, strange house, and we’re the first bedroom next to Sean’s. He landed here. There was no problem.”
Sean yawned, raised his head, looked at Dix and smiled. “Hi, Uncle Dix,” he said. “Where’s my mom?” And he turned to look at the other side of the bed, stretched out his small hand, and frowned. “Where’s Mama?”
“Well, that’s a fine thing for him to think, isn’t it?” Sherlock said.
Savich laughed. “Hey, Champ, you ready for some Cheerios?”
Dix got another elbow in the neck when Sean dashed out of bed to get scooped up by his father. He saw Savich whisper against Sean’s cheek, “Hey, you’re at your grandparents’ house, in San Francisco. Do you remember that?”
Sean reared back in his father’s arms, studied his face a moment, and said, “Cool. I can play with Grandpa and Grandma.”
Dix said, “I remember when Rob would wake up with a nightmare and come running. Rafe usually came running in right behind him, didn’t want to be left out. That kid could make up scarier tales than Rob, who’d actually had the nightmare.”
Ruth said as she punched him lightly on his bare shoulder, “The boys are in good hands, Dix, stop worrying about them. Mrs. Goss and Chappy will spoil them rotten. Tony and Cynthia will take them to NASCAR, and all of them will be in Rob’s cheering section at the ball game tomorrow. And by the time we get back to Maestro, Brewster will rule at Tara.”
Dix realized he still hadn’t told Ruth he loved her.
CHAPTER 37
SAN FRANCISCO
Tuesday morning
The reason Cheney kept checking his rearview mirror was because of Kathryn Golden’s phone call at six-thirty that morning.
"I had another vision, Agent Stone. It was him, the man who wants to kill Julia. He’s been to Pacific Heights, he managed to break into Julia’s house, I saw him, and then he came out again because she wasn’t there, and he was angry. He knows about you, Agent Stone, I think he’s found out where you live. He doesn’t know if Julia’s there, but he’s coming. He’s in a car, driving. He looks calm, but he isn’t, not really—it’s like a layer of snow covering up a fire. He’s coming. Please be careful.”
And he’d thanked her, hung up, and sneered. Another safe guess on her part. The only thing that had surprised him about her “vision” yesterday was her guess about the assassin’s name. Maybe she knew someone in the SFPD and that person had leaked it to her. Yeah, that was possible, even Julia had mentioned that. And now she’d called him to tell him something else equally obvious. It wasn’t such a stretch to realize he was keeping Julia safe at his place. Of course Makepeace was out there. But on the road? Could be. He sneered again.
But as he negotiated the heavy morning city traffic, he kept chewing on it, and checked his rearview mirror more often than he would have if Kathryn Golden hadn’t called with her damned vision.
Julia sat quietly beside him, a lot calmer than he was, even though he’d told her about Kathryn Golden’s call. She’d said only, “It can’t hurt to listen.”
Now he worried that Makepeace had come around and seen the cops guarding his condo and decided to wait for them to leave. Maybe he was now following them. He thought about calling Frank Paulette, asking for backup. But what would he tell him? A whacked-out psychic had a vision?
He looked back again. The San Francisco morning rush-hour traffic was thick, but he didn’t see anyone acting suspicious, no one moving up through the tangle of cars to get closer. Maybe he was hanging back, biding his time.
Cheney was freaking himself out. He had to calm down. He wasn’t about to scare Julia any more than she had to be. He looked over at her. She was still quiet, starting at nothing in particular that he could see. What was she thinking?
He checked the rearview mirror again.
Julia said, “Do you see him?”
“No, I don’t. The chances are he’s nowhere close.”
“If Kathryn’s right and he’s already been to my house, maybe it would be safe to go home for at least a shower and some clothes. Maybe we call Soldan Meissen after that?”
She still sounded more calm than he felt. He said, “First I’d like to introduce you to some FBI friends of mine who just got into town last night—”
He had subconsciously registered a white Dodge Charger and now his brain zeroed in on it. The Charger was moving up, not going all that fast, not all that obvious. But the Charger was passing a black Ford SUV, weaving easily back and forth in the lanes on Geary, efficient and smooth, as if out for an easy drive. Cheney couldn’t see the driver, couldn’t even tell how many people were in the car, but he knew it was Makepeace, felt it in his gut. So you’re coming for us, are you? You want to get this show on the road? Fine by me, you crazy mother.
The Charger was only four cars back now.
Cheney turned to her. “Julia, I want you to hold on, okay?”
“What? Oh, he’s here? Kathryn was right?”
“Whatever. Yes, I think Xavier is behind us, coming up now. He must really be pissed to come after you
in full daylight, in damned rush hour, in the middle of San Francisco. I want to get out of all this traffic. If he starts firing we have to be able to move out fast. I’d just as soon avoid any civilians getting hurt too.”
She looked back. “The white Dodge Charger?”
“Yep.”
“He’s three cars back. Where are we going?”
“Hold on,” he said again, whipped the Audi around a station wagon, and floored the gas. She was thrown back, felt her seat belt tighten against her chest. Oddly, she wasn’t scared, not particularly, more excited really, and wasn’t that screwed up? She grabbed the chicken strap, jerked around to look back—
A bullet exploded the back window, spewing spears of glass everywhere, embedding itself in the back of Julia’s seat.
“Get down, all the way! Keep your head covered,” Cheney yelled.
Julia popped her seat belt and squeezed down as far as she could into the small space in front of the passenger seat.
Cheney tossed her his cell. “Punch four—it’s Captain Paulette’s personal number.”
Another bullet came through the jagged-edged mess of glass and slammed again into the back of the passenger seat. With no glass window to slow it down, the bullet tore through and drilled into the Audi’s glove compartment, not an inch above Julia’s bowed head. He nearly stroked out. “Try to scrunch down more! Lower!”
Cheney looked in the rearview and finally saw Makepeace, in his sunglasses. It would take some time before they heard any cop sirens, before the sound of approaching cops might force Makepeace to peel away. What could he do in the meantime? The truth was, he really didn’t want Makepeace to peel away. He wanted to bring him down, but first he had to protect Julia, he had— He said aloud, “The thing is, Julia, I know San Francisco very well and Xavier Makepeace doesn’t.”
He pressed down on the gas again and soon the Audi’s speedometer passed seventy miles an hour in the middle of San Francisco. The hit of it all was more powerful than a Turkish double espresso.