The Dark Gate

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Winning her trust was a luxury he could no longer afford.

His last doubt that she was involved in this case had evaporated as he’d watched her react to the surveillance video.

His sanity be damned. His first responsibility was to the people of D.C. It was high time he got to the bottom of Larsen Vale’s involvement. Before that bastard committed another murder or assault.

With weighted feet, Jack strode to his bedroom and rapped on the door. “Larsen?” When she didn’t answer, he pounded harder. The door, not fully latched, swung open to reveal a figure huddled on the floor in the sweep of hall light.

His heart lodged in his throat. “Larsen, what happened?”

She stared at nothing, her eyes glassy and filled with horror. He crossed to her in three quick strides and knelt in front of her, searching for sign she’d been injured, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. No arrow sticking out of her. No blood.

He cupped her face in his hands, his palms encountering the cool clamminess of her skin. “Talk to me, Larsen. What happened?”

Long lashes swept up. Tormented eyes met his gaze and slowly filled with tears. Sobs began to rack her slender body.

“Are you hurt?”

She pressed her lips hard together, but shook her head.

His fear slid away. Keen protectiveness warred with frustration even as he pulled her against him in a move that was at once alien and utterly natural. She fit against him perfectly, her arms sliding around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder.

She belonged to him. In a way he couldn’t describe, he felt it in his bones.

Jack stroked her damp hair as her crying slowly subsided. She wasn’t injured, not physically at least. Whatever tormented her came from within. Was it fear that hounded her? Guilt?

He felt the tension drain out of her as he rubbed her back.

“I need to know what’s going on,” he said quietly. “I can’t help you if I don’t know.”

Too late, he realized she’d cried herself to sleep. Resigned, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, then lay beside her, his fingers twined with hers.

Blessed silence filled his head, perhaps for the last time, as he gazed at the woman who stirred so many conflicting emotions in him. Come morning he was going to have to break through her defenses to get at the truth. No matter what it took. Even if it meant earning her hatred, and losing his last chance.

Larsen woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a soft rain pattering against the window. Her arms, which were always on top of the covers when she slept, were buried beneath a sheet tucked up to her chin, as if someone had pulled the sheet over her during the night.

Jack.

She’d woken just before dawn to find her back pressed against his chest, his arm tight around her. She’d felt so safe, so secure, she’d fallen right back to sleep. Something warm and soft moved in her chest. If things were different, if they were different, he might just be a man worth taking a chance on.

But though he might be able to protect her physically, he was, ultimately, a cop who saw too much. And she was a woman with secrets she could never share. Premonitions. Death.

Tony Jingles.

The terrifying memory slammed into her and she struggled from beneath the snug sheet and sat up, heart pounding. The albino would strike again. Another rape. Maybe another death.

She raked her hair back from her face and stared at the plain blue sheet bunched at her knees, her mind spinning. She’d seen her own death at the wedding reception, yet she hadn’t died. For the first time ever, one of her death visions hadn’t come true. Were these visions different from the ones she’d had as a child, or had she simply never believed she could change things, so never before tried?

Oh God, what if she could have saved her mom from that car accident all those years ago? Her scalp began to tingle with the horror of the thought. Don’t. Don’t go there. What was done was done. She couldn’t change the past. But maybe…maybe…she could change the future.

The horror charging through her system slowly changed to excitement. What if she could stop the murder at Tony Jingles? What if she could save that woman and her daughter, and possibly end the albino’s rampage once and for all?

Sudden restless energy shot down her limbs. With a kick of the sheet, she climbed out of bed and began pacing the room. Jack was a cop. He could stop the attack and catch the murderer.

But how could she tell him what she knew without telling him how 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?

Chapter 5

“Sabrina’s in love,” Henry said, his dark head glistening from the misty rain. “Says she’s going to marry the guy.”

Jack scanned the street outside Tony Jingles for sign of anything…or anyone…suspicious. The two men were tucked into a doorway across the street from the restaurant. Watching.

Waiting for the Dupont Circle Rapist.

“Fourteen’s a little young to be getting married.” Jack glanced at his partner. “Who’s the lucky kid?”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t even let her date, yet. Shook me up good.”

“What does Mei think?”

“She’s laughing at me. Says she was planning to marry Michael Jackson when she was that age. She doubts Sabrina’s even met the guy, but I don’t know. I don’t like my little girl talking about getting married. It’s not right.”

Henry’s despondency made Jack smile. He clapped his friend on the back. “Don’t sweat it, Hank. Sabrina’s a smart kid. When the day comes, she’ll pick a great guy.”

“I’ll still hate him.”

Jack chuckled. “Yeah, so will I.”

Henry grinned. “That’s one of the things I like about you, man. If anything ever happens to me, I know you’ll watch over my family. You love my kids near as much as I do.”

“Your kids are great, Hank. The best.”

For once he didn’t feel the usual pang of melancholy that being “Uncle” Jack brought him. Always before, he’d thought this was the closest he’d ever come to being a father. He’d always known he could never have kids of his own. But now he wasn’t so sure. A fragment of hope lodged in his chest the day he met Larsen. The day he realized she could stop the voices.

A flash of white caught his attention inside the restaurant. As he peered closer, he realized he was staring at the same stark white hair, the same odd clothes as on that news report last night. His blood went cold.

“He’s in there.”

Henry pulled his gun. “Where? I don’t see him.”

Jack yanked out his phone and called Griff and Duke who were inside the restaurant posing as patrons. He could see Griff’s red hair, knew he was facing the Pied Piper. Why hadn’t he called for backup?

“Griff, he’s there. Do you have him?”

“Where? I don’t see…”

A sudden crash reverberated through the phone, the sound of breaking glass and shattering plates, followed by an eerie silence.

“Griff? Griff!” In the background he could hear someone…singing. The hair rose at the nape of his neck.

“Come on.” Jack snapped his phone shut and dodged through traffic, Henry racing behind him.

Jack pulled his gun and burst into the restaurant, aiming the weapon at the whitest man he’d ever seen. The man wasn’t merely blond, but a true albino, skin without color.

“Police! Hands in the air!”

The man turned to face him, still singing the odd, tuneless melody Jack had heard through the phone. A movement in the booth beside him caught Jack’s attention.

A man was strangling a woman.

Jack fired at the ceiling. No one seemed to notice, no one reacted at all. Their expressions, to a man, woman and child, were blank. As if every one of them was completely stoned.

He ran and lunged for the strangler, hauling him off his victim. The woman gasped, coughed, then screamed when the man reached for her again.

“Stop!” Jack lifted his gun to shoot him.

“No!” the woman cried as she scrambled out of her assailant’s reach. “It’s him.” She pointed at the albino. “It’s his singing.”

Jack aimed his gun at the pale man. “Quiet!” When the man ignored him, Jack shot him in the leg. The song stumbled, but never ceased, and the Pied Piper’s expression never changed.

Jack stared at the uninjured leg. Had he missed? A second shot rang out and a bullet ruffled his hair. He dove for cover as another hit the table beside him. Were they trying to turn this into a shoot-out? Jack lifted his gun in the direction of the shots, and froze.

The only one aiming for him was Henry.

“Hank!”

But his partner’s eyes had gone as blank as the others. His partner and best friend fired at him again.