He frowned at her pragmatic attitude. "Hey, I thought you'd be a little more compassionate."
"I am compassionate, but you can't make a mystery out of everything."
"I'm not doing that. It's possible my father came up here and drowned her. You think that's crazy?"
"I guess not. I just feel as if you're focusing on how she died rather than on the fact that she really is gone, and she's not coming back. That has to bother you."
"I told you, I accepted that a long time ago."
It was obvious she didn't believe him, but she let it go. He wasn't lying, but he wasn't telling the whole truth either. If he gave himself a moment to think about her being dead he'd lose his focus, so he wasn't going to think about it, not right now, anyway.
The graveyard came up quickly. It ran for one long block. Small stones were set in neat rows on the slight rise. It was a peaceful place surrounded by trees, quiet save for the sounds of birds.
He moved through the rows, studying the names, not really recognizing any of them, although some sounded vaguely familiar. Finally, at the top of the hill he found her grave, his mother's name on the simple gray stone, Olivia Sanders, and the dates of her life. There was nothing else. No
loving mother
or
loving wife.
Had his father buried her? Had he even come to the funeral? Or had strangers done the deed?
Finally it sank in.
His mother was dead.
He was never going to see her again. He would never have the chance to talk to her, to hear her side of the story.
His legs weakened. He felt shaky, hot.
Catherine's hand slipped into his. He held on tight, feeling like he might just keel over. He'd thought he was handling it, but apparently he wasn't. Finally the dizziness passed. He drew in several deep breaths and then let go of her hand, embarrassed by his emotional reaction. "I need a minute," he said roughly. "By myself. Do you mind?"
"It's okay to care, Dylan."
"Just wait for me at the end of the road."
"All right. Take whatever time you need."
He didn't know why he'd sent Catherine away. He missed her as soon as she was gone. Now it was just his mother and him, no buffer between them. He felt he should say something, but what? He was normally good at finding the right words, but in this moment he had none. He didn't know what to think. For so many years he'd lived his life believing she'd deserted him. It was hard to let go of that. He didn't even know if he
should
let go of it. She had left. It was just a question of whether or not she would have come back. Now, as he'd told Catherine, they would never know.
Several more minutes passed before he could speak. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve him, and neither did I." He took a deep breath. "I blamed you for the bad stuff, but I guess you were a victim, too. You didn't come back, but I'm going to believe that you wanted to, and that you would have if you'd had more time." He paused again, staring down at her name on the stone. He knelt down next to the grave, his last words coming out in barely a whisper. "I forgive you, Mom."
He felt a burden slip off his shoulders as he finally let go of all the hate, the bitterness, the rage he'd felt toward her. He still had the same feelings toward his father, but her he could forgive. It was past time to do anything else. And who was he to judge her for the actions she'd taken so many years ago? She'd been a lonely, unhappy woman. He hoped she'd found some joy in her affair; she'd certainly paid a big price for it.
A car door shut; an engine roared. The noise brought his head around. At the end of the lane he saw a car pull away, a man behind the wheel.
Fear suddenly ripped through his heart. Where was Catherine? He'd told her to wait at the end of the road, but she wasn't there.
"Catherine. Where are you?" He ran through the graveyard and down the street, calling her name, but she was gone. Someone had taken her.
Chapter 19
Dylan ran back to the house, jumped into the car, and headed off in the direction of the vehicle he'd seen by the cemetery. As he drove his heart hammered against his chest, desperation washing over him. He never should have told Catherine to leave him alone. He'd put her in a vulnerable position, and someone had taken advantage of his mistake, someone who had been watching him—the shooter, no doubt. He'd tracked them here. Dylan wasn't surprised. Whoever was after them always seemed to know where they were going. He wanted to figure out how, but right now he had more pressing problems. He had to get to Catherine. She must be terrified.
Why hadn't she cried out to him? Why hadn't she screamed, struggled, fought? The man must have come up behind her, caught her off guard. She'd probably been looking at him, worrying about him.
Dammit!
He'd been so caught up in the past he'd forgotten about the danger that lurked in the present.
He had to think, focus. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he drove across the island, searching for some sign of the car. But the island was huge, with lakes, forests, hills, thousands of acres, and he had no idea where to go.
Where would the killer go?
He was the prime target. Someone wanted
him
dead. So why grab Catherine? Just to get her out of the way first? Or was there another reason? If his father was behind the plan, then what was his ultimate goal? Had his intention always been to bring Dylan to the island where he was conceived and have him die here? That made some sort of poetic sense.
But where had he been conceived? In his mother's house? Somewhere else? How the hell could he figure it out? He didn't even know who his real father was. He'd been seven years old the last time he'd been here. He barely remembered anything.
Or did he? Was the answer locked up in his brain somewhere?
Maybe he should call Jake. Perhaps his brother knew more than he did about his mother and her past relationships on the island, but that would take time, and he didn't have time. He had to get to Catherine. He had to save her. He knew she was counting on him. He could hear her voice in his head, confident that he would find her, that he would save her. They were connected. They were linked.
Damn.
That was it. He had to open himself up in a way he'd never done before, let all the emotions in so he could hear her. Catherine said she couldn't get past his defenses. He had to take them down.
Pulling over to the side of the road, he leaned his head against the steering wheel and closed his eyes, trying to be as quiet as possible. But his own inner voice was too loud, telling him he was an idiot to try to use mental telepathy to solve his problem. He needed to go to the island police, or back to his mother's house or somewhere.
Then he heard her voice again, telling him to listen for a change and stop talking.
Drawing in a deep breath, he focused on Catherine's face, her blue eyes that revealed so much, her sweet lips, the freckles that dotted the tip of her nose.
Tell me where you are. Bring me to you. I know you can do it. Make me believe.
* * *
Catherine winced with pain as the car hit another bump in the road and her head struck the roof of the trunk. She didn't know what had happened. She'd been watching Dylan at his mother's grave, and now she was squished into the trunk of a car. Her hands were untied. She didn't have a gag or a blindfold. But as she inhaled she smelled it again: that thick, sweet odor that had covered her nose and mouth so quickly that she couldn't breathe, couldn't scream.
She was in big trouble. She searched in the darkness for some way to open the trunk from the inside, but she couldn't find anything. She stuck her fingers into the thin line of light that streamed into the car, but she couldn't pry open the heavy metal lid. She was trapped, and she was quite possibly going to die.
The realization hit her hard. This wasn't anyone else's nightmare. It was hers. The man who had killed Erica, who had shot out the windows at the house—the man whose evil she'd felt in her soul—was taking her somewhere, and he was going to kill her. She wanted to scream, but she was afraid to draw any more attention to herself. In a moving car would anyone hear her— except him? Did she want him to know she was already awake?
She needed to buy some time, figure out a way to save herself, or at least give Dylan a chance to find her. But how was he going to do that? He wouldn't know where to go, unless he'd seen her get snatched. Even if he had, he'd been on foot. It would have taken him precious minutes to get back to the car. She couldn't count on him to save her.
Well, she'd wanted to get out of her dreams and into the real world, and she'd gotten her wish. But there had to be a way to use her visions to help herself. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine where they were going, what would happen next.
The car stopped for a minute. She held her breath. Had they arrived? A moment later the car started moving again. They'd either been at a traffic light or a stop sign. Had they passed either on their way to the house from the ferry? She couldn't remember.
Panic began to set in despite her best effort to remain calm. She pushed it back. She couldn't let the fear overwhelm her or she'd have no chance of surviving. The car sped up as if they were leaving a more populated area, getting out on the open road. They were going faster now. The person driving knew exactly where he was headed.
A few moments later the car swerved to the right, then to the left in a series of sharp turns. They were on a winding road, noticeably climbing. She could hear the intense whine of the motor, feel the upward tilt. There was a huge mountain on the island. Was that where they were now? And what was going to happen at the end of the trip?
Helplessness engulfed her as she considered the possibilities. Her mind created every possible worst-case scenario. The man might open the trunk and shoot her in the head before she could move. He could wrap her body in the sheet she appeared to be lying on and dump her over the side of the mountain into the water below. She could die without anyone knowing.
"Dylan," she whispered. "You have to find me. I don't think I can do this by myself."
His confident voice came into her head:
I'm coming. Don't give up. Just get me there.
Get him there? How could she do that?
And then she realized the power she'd always had: the power to enter other people's minds. She'd never tried to use it. She'd always let it use her. She'd been afraid to go into the evil, afraid she'd lose herself there and never come out. But she'd have to take that chance.
Closing her eyes again, she drew in a deep breath. She'd been in the killer's mind before. She just had to get back there. Opening her heart and her mind, she listened....
This was a stupid-ass way to kill someone. A nice clean shot to the head and he could be having lunch by now. She'd be dead, and so would her pal. But, no, he had to play out some ridiculous scenario with so many possibilities for failure. He didn't like it. He'd stayed alive and free this long by following his own instincts. But he needed the cash owed to him, so he'd do what he'd been told—exactly as he'd been told.
He pressed down on the gas, and the car shot forward. The turnout was just ahead. So was the rest . . . the small cottage, the bird feeder on the front deck, the stone chimney, the sweeping vista of the water. It had to happen there, he'd been told, so that was where it would happen.
It wasn't a bad place to die. She was lucky. Well, not that lucky, he thought with a laugh.
* * *
Dylan saw an image in his head. A hummingbird danced around a bird feeder that hung on the front porch of a cottage clinging to a cliff on the sea's edge. He saw a stone chimney, a path leading to the water, a long, rickety pier.
His eyes flew open and he started the car. He'd been to that place with his mother many times. They'd gone to visit someone—a man. His breath caught in his throat. Was the man his father? Was he being drawn to the place where it had all begun?
It made sense that there was a method to the madness. The plan had been so well orchestrated up until this point. Why would it change now?
But wasn't he just continuing to march to the beat of someone else's drum? He could be walking into a trap. They could be waiting for him. In fact, he'd bet they
were
waiting for him. He had to be smarter.
Driving down the road, he searched desperately for signposts, memories from his long-ago past. How on earth was he going to find that house on this big island?
Think,
he ordered himself.
Make something happen.
There was a hill that led to the cottage. That narrowed it down. He saw the mountain rising before him like a beacon calling him home. He heard Catherine's voice telling him to turn one way, then the other. Somehow he would find her.
I'm coming, Catherine. Hang on.
* * *
The car stopped. The trunk opened a moment later. Catherine blinked, momentarily blinded by the sunlight. She couldn't see much beyond the hand that grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the trunk. She hit the ground, landing on her knees. He hauled her to her feet, his grip tight on the arm he pulled behind her back, facing her away from him.
She strained to see him, but he was standing behind her now, one hand on her arm, the other on the back of her head. She could feel the size and power of him. He was tall, broad, strong, and there was a hint of whiskey on his breath.
"Move," he said, shoving her forward toward a path that went off to the side of a house.
It was the house she'd seen in her head, or his. .. .
This was the place where he was going to kill her. She stumbled, trying to slow down the inevitable, but he pushed her along.
"I'll shoot you right here if you don't keep going," he growled, his voice low and hard next to her ear.
She recoiled at the sound of that voice, so loud, so intense. Pain shot through her as he gave her arm another vicious twist. At the end of the path they reached the pier. It extended out over the water a good dozen or so feet. It was old, the boards showing signs of weather and age. She tried to look around, to seek help from a neighbor, but there was no other house, no other person anywhere in sight.
She was alone with a killer.
He shoved her onto the pier, taking her right up to the edge. The water was ten feet below, the waves lapping at the columns that supported the dock. It was cold, windy. Her hair blew across her face. She reached up with her free hand to push it back.
"Just tell me why," she said. "Tell me who you're working for. If I'm going to die, I deserve to know who wants me dead."
"Stalling. Women always like to stall," he said.
Something caught in her chest. His voice again—it was so familiar. She'd heard it in her head, but had she also heard it somewhere else, somewhere real? She itched to see his face.
"Just tell me, what's it to you?" she asked. "You're working for someone else. You don't have to protect their secret. I'll be dead, right? What does it matter what I know?"
Squawking birds flew by, two of them diving into the water. In the sudden commotion he eased his grip on her arm.
Catherine yanked herself away, turning around, facing him head-on.
Her heart thudded to a stop. She couldn't breathe.
It wasn't possible. It couldn't be him.
He stared back at her. He was now pointing a gun at her head. But as he looked at her something in his eyes, his dark eyes, fluttered and caught. He knew her, too.
The moment she'd been dreading her entire life had finally arrived. He'd come back to kill her.
"You," she whispered. "Is it you? Are you really my father?"
"Catherine?" His voice revealed his shock. He hadn't known. Why hadn't he known? "No." He shook his head. His hand wavered slightly, but still he didn't lower the gun. Her back was to the water. He stood between her and the only way off the pier. There was nowhere to run. So she wouldn't try. Instead she would take her moment of truth.
"You killed her, didn't you? You killed my mother and you tried to kill me."
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. She saw the answer in his eyes.
The images from the past suddenly rushed back into her head.
They were fighting, screaming terrible things at each other. He called her mother a witch and a whore. He told her that she was crazy, that the devil was inside her.
She said he was the devil, the one filled with evil. He took out the large kitchen knife. She put up her hands, terror on
her face.
"No," she screamed. "Don't do it."
The knife plunged into her chest. Blood spurted everywhere. She stared at him in shock. "Die, demons, die," he cried over and over and over again.
Catherine ran. She knocked into the door on her way out. She heard him call her name. She had to hide before he killed her, too.
"You killed my mother," she said again, facing him now with more anger than fear. "She saw you for what you were, and you couldn't stand that."
"You're just like her, aren't you?" he said with a sneer. "I knew you were out there somewhere. I should have gotten rid of you before this."
"How can you talk about me like I'm nothing to you? I'm your child. Your daughter."
"
Her
daughter. Her demon child."
"I have your blood, too."
His fingers tightened around the gun. "This isn't about the past. You're just a job I have to finish."
"This is what you do? You kill people? Did it get easier after you killed her?"
"It was always easy."
Suddenly it made sense. The murders she'd seen in her dreams had been tied to her father. He'd been killing people for the past twenty-four years, people she couldn't save. And now she might not be able to save herself. He was going to win again. She couldn't let him. She had to find a way out.