hat’s the victim’s name?” Dane asked, looking at the body as the police photographer snapped pictures from different angles.

It was a typical murder scene, if there was such a thing. The place was working like a beehive, and most of the people weren’t doing a damn thing except standing around. The house was crawling with policemen, and the neighborhood was crawling with reporters, who ignored the light rain in favor of getting comments from anyone who would talk to them. Bonness was there, Trammell was there, Freddie and Worley were there—hell, it looked as if every detective on the squad was there—and the chief was reportedly on the way. The fingerprint guys were dusting their black powder over everything, the forensic evidence people were vacuuming—it was a zoo.

“Felicia Alden,” Freddie said. “Her husband, Gene, found her. He’s a sales rep for a pharmaceutical firm and had been away on business.”

“And he just happened to come home right after his wife was murdered,” Dane said wearily. They all looked at one another. They had seen the other scenes, and this was nothing like them, except for the fact that a woman had died from knife wounds. For one thing, the victim was still clothed, and she was lying on the bed as if she had been arranged there. There was no indication of sexual attack.

Dane sighed with relief. Marlie hadn’t failed; they all knew, and it was just a matter of proving it, that Gene Alden had probably murdered his wife and tried to set it up so that it looked like one of the serial murders. Alden had likely thought that, since the media had reported there was no evidence left behind, he would be safe when investigation turned up only forensic material that could be linked to him; after all, he lived there.

“Take him in for questioning, and find out about any life insurance policies he had on her,” Bonness said. “Or maybe if he caught her fooling around. I’ll try to calm the reporters down, but I can’t say much until we actually charge the guy, so they won’t believe me.” He looked depressed at the thought of facing the horde of shouting reporters.

“At least we’ll be able to do something about this one,” Freddie said.

Trammell walked over to join Dane, and they went outside. Reporters were mobbing Bonness, shouting questions at him. He was trying to talk, but they kept interrupting him. “I guess Marlie didn’t have a vision with this one,” Trammell said.

“Not even a glimmer, but it was scary anyway; it wasn’t a vision, but this afternoon she sort of locked on to him. He had picked out his next victim, but something happened and he lost her.”

Trammell whistled. “How’s Marlie?”

“On edge. It’s wearing her down.”

“No wonder. I wish there was some way to make it easier for her.”

“I’ll make damn sure she’s okay,” Dane said grimly. “By the way, how’s the work going on my house?”

“The floors are almost finished, and the furniture will be delivered this weekend. You can move back in on Monday, if you want.”

Dane snorted as he got in his car. “Get real, buddy.”

Trammell laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. See you in the morning.”

As Dane had expected, Marlie was still awake when he got there. “It wasn’t him,” he said, and watched the tension ease out of her face. She looked very small, curled up in a corner of the couch with her robe pulled tightly around her. “Probably the woman’s husband did it, and tried to make it look like the other murders.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on, honey, let’s go back to bed.”

Janes carefully controlled his elation Friday afternoon as he watched the indignant customer stalk away. Annette was there, so it wouldn’t do to let even a hint of his emotions show. At last! He was going to savor this one; too much time had passed, three weeks, for him to accurately compare it with the last one. Besides, he had concluded that it was the haste of the last punishment that had ruined it for him. He would do this one the way it should be done, with slow and careful planning, letting the anticipation build. He needed at least a week to do it properly.

He checked the calendar, though of course, he didn’t need to. It was just a part of his incredible precision. Yes, the earliest possible date would be next Friday night. The weekends were the best because those were his off days, and he could sleep late the next day. Let the media hoopla, satisfying as it was, die down a bit. The frenzy had nothing to feed on, though there had been that silly burst of hysteria the other night when some salesman had offed his wife and tried to blame it on him. It hadn’t worked, of course; the stupid bastard hadn’t had the same attention to detail. The cops had immediately seen through him. The television reports had sounded a tad disappointed.

Yes, this one would be good, maybe the best yet. The woman had been a complete bitch, the kind he had always despised on sight: lean, tanned, brittle, overloaded with jewelry of questionable taste. She flaunted her money. She might have a security system, or even guard dogs. The possibility was intriguing. It would be a real test of his genius, if she did. He disregarded the probability of a husband; that had never stopped him before.

He looked down at the name she had scribbled, repeating it in his mind, savoring the syllables. Marilyn Elrod. Anticipation was already flooding his body with energy. Marilyn Elrod. He hummed a few bars of a song, substituting her name. Mar-uh-lynn, O Mar-uh-lynn, ta dum de dum something. It was played before the Preakness race. The joke was, she didn’t know she should be running.

Friday night, Marlie asked him how work was coming along on his house. Dane lied without hesitation. “It’s almost finished,” he said. “There’s been a delay on the furniture Trammell ordered.”

The furniture was in place, and everything looked great, but he had no intention of moving out of Marlie’s house until the killer was caught. Another weekend had come and gone without a murder. A few sarcastic reporters were beginning to ask if the police were certain there was a serial killer, or had they just been spooked by a similarity between the murders of Nadine Vinick and Jackie Sheets?

“Feel anything today?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing concrete. Just kind of uneasy.” And when she had been driving home, she had passed a young couple so engrossed with each other that they had been passionately kissing there on the sidewalk. She had been in that automatic state that takes over when driving, her guard down, and suddenly she had been reading the young man. Again, it had been such a shock that she had immediately shut down, withdrawing from the emotional contact. She had had the wry thought that she hoped they would find somewhere private soon, given the intensity of the young man’s arousal, or she wouldn’t be the only one shocked.

Then the realization dawned that twice now she had been able to control the contact, to break it off. Even before, at the height of her abilities, she hadn’t been able to do that. She had learned how to partially shield herself, but had never managed complete protection. Okay, so the initial contact had slipped in, when she had been relaxed; she had still been able to immediately sever the connection.

She hadn’t wanted the return of her abilities, but suddenly she was filled with a sense of triumph, and contentment. Gleen hadn’t won, after all. The healing process had taken a long time, but in the end, she was the victor. She had emerged from the trauma even stronger than before, better able to control the gift that had been given her. She had even, with Dane, gotten past the physical terror and learned the joy of sexual pleasure. She couldn’t have done it two years ago, even a year ago, but her healing had finally progressed to the point that she had won.

“Is he hunting?” Dane asked.

“Who knows? Like I said, it wasn’t anything concrete. Maybe it’s just that I dread tonight so much.”

“Maybe I can do something about that,” he said in a slow, deep tone. He was leaning against the cabinets while she threw together a quick meal, getting in her way as usual. She looked at him and went weak in the knees. He looked so thoroughly male that every cell in her body responded. Dane was always slightly rough-edged, even when his clothes were freshly ironed, but even more so now with his shirt wrinkled, his dark hair disheveled, and his jaw showing both the mark of this morning’s assault with a razor and the need for another shave. As always, he still wore his shoulder holster, the butt of the big pistol sticking out under his armpit; he was so accustomed to being armed that he no longer noticed it. Those sharp hazel eyes were greener than usual, and held a predatory gleam as he watched her.

“Maybe you can,” she agreed, her own voice huskier than usual. Maybe, nothing; she was certain of it. His sexual power over her was so strong that the only thing that kept her from panicking was the knowledge that, when she chose, she could drive him just as crazy. She might have doubts about his emotional involvement, but there was no mistaking his physical response. All she had to do was brush against him, or give him a certain look, or even do nothing, and he would get aroused.

It sometimes startled her, for she was certainly not a sex kitten by any stretch of the imagination. She had always deliberately dressed to downplay her femininity, because she had never wanted to attract attention of any kind. None of that mattered with Dane; it was as if he never saw the clothes, but looked straight through to the woman. She still dressed the same, out of habit and convenience—after all, the clothes were there—but now, a bit surprised at herself, she realized that she didn’t feel the need to continue the camouflage. Things had changed. She didn’t have to hide herself away to protect her mental privacy, nor did she have to worry about the sickening intrusion of sexual advances. Dane intruded with sexual advances quite often, and there wasn’t anything the least sickening about them.

She was stronger. Her abilities had changed. She had healed, and was in control. She felt another little jolt as she truly realized, for the first time, that she was no longer at the mercy of her own mental powers.

She could dress any way she wanted. She could buy the trim, stylish clothes she had always admired, or even something downright sexy.

“What are you thinking?” Dane asked uneasily. “You’ve been staring at me like I’m Tweetie Bird, and you’re a hungry cat.”

She let her gaze drop lower, and delicately licked her lips.

His face changed. He straightened away from the cabinet, every muscle in his powerful body growing taut. Then he reached out and deliberately turned off the stove. She raised her eyebrows at him. “This may take a while,” he explained, his eyes heavy-lidded as he pulled her close.

Nothing happened that weekend, though Marlie couldn’t shake the uneasy anticipation. She was beginning to think she would feel that way until the man was caught. But she managed the tension better than she had the weekend before, perhaps because of her newfound confidence. She tested her control when she stood talking to Lou for a while on Saturday, deliberately opening herself up; she immediately read her neighbor’s emotions, and when she decided to stop, the flow was blocked. It was like opening a door and closing it again. She could do it!

It wasn’t an entirely satisfying experience, however; she found that Lou was extremely disapproving of the situation next door, with that man, even if he was a police officer, just blatantly moving in. Lou felt it set a bad example. Marlie wondered who she was setting a bad example for, since she was the youngest person in the neighborhood anyway. Most of her neighbors were retirees.

It didn’t help when Dane chose that moment to come out on the front porch, wearing only a pair of disreputable jeans. Because they had spent a lazy day around the house, he hadn’t shaved. He looked big, rough, slightly dangerous, and wholly masculine, with his powerful chest bare. “Hi, Lou,” he called. “Sorry to interrupt. Honey, do you know where I put my gun oil?”

“You didn’t,” she replied. “You left it out. I put it in the kitchen, second drawer from the right.”

He flashed a grin at her. “Sorry.” Then he disappeared back into the house.

Lou’s face was stiff, her eyes wide as she stared at the spot where he had stood. Marlie shifted uncomfortably. This was one time she definitely didn’t want to open that door and feel what Lou was feeling.

Then Lou exhaled in a long sigh. “Holy cow,” she said.

Her cheeks looked a little flushed. She gave Marlie a slightly embarrassed look. “I may be old-fashioned,” she admitted, “but I’m a long way from blind.”

Marlie entered the kitchen a few minutes later to find Dane calmly reassembling his pistol. There was no way he could have cleaned the weapon in the time that had elapsed. “You did that deliberately,” she accused, keeping her voice level with an effort. Lou had still been a little giddy when she had gone inside.

He grinned, not pausing in his brisk, practiced actions. “I like ruffling her feathers,” he admitted. “I thought about unsnapping my jeans, but I decided against it. Overkill.”

“It’s a good thing. You might not have made it back into the house unscathed, if you had.”

“Really pissed her off, huh?”

“Not exactly.”

He glanced up, his expression quizzical. Marlie smiled sweetly at him. “Lou fell in lust with your manly form, big boy.”

After a startled moment, he began laughing. He was too heavy for her to budge his chair, so she shoved the table away and planted her hands on his shoulders as she straddled the chair and sat down on his lap. His laughter stopped, that familiar tenseness hardening his features. “I know how she feels,” Marlie whispered, nuzzling his jaw. Her heart pounded at the scent of him, all hot, musky male mingled with the sharp odor of gun oil. She moved slowly against the ridge in his jeans.

“Wait.” His protest was feeble. “I have oil on my hands.”

“So? I’m washable,” she murmured, and that was all he needed to hear.

The weekend was wonderful. She ignored the frisson of alarm that was always there, never quite allowing her nerves to settle down, and enjoyed what she had. There were no visions, no false alarms of copycat murders. She suggested going over to his house to see how everything looked, but he was in a lazy mood and didn’t seem interested. They watched television and read. They tried out recipes... or rather, Marlie tried them out, while Dane kept her company and sampled the results. And they made love, often. It was exactly the type of life Marlie had always wanted, and always thought impossible.

By Monday, with nothing happening over the weekend, the press reports were scathing. The Orlando PD had overreacted, like Chicken Little squawking about the sky falling. One columnist suggested that not only had they made fools of themselves on the basis of two similar murders, but the hoopla might even have triggered the copycat murder of Felicia Alden.

“They forget,” Dane said sarcastically, “that the department isn’t responsible for all the publicity; the media did that. We’ve been trying to keep everything as low-key and under wraps as possible.”

Marlie gave him a troubled look. “But now, with them calling it a false alarm, people will stop being as careful. It’s giving him a greater opportunity of success.”

“Tell that to the press. All they’ll give you is the smart-ass answer that they don’t make the news, they just report it.”

“If reporting was all they did, that would be fine. But they angle it, they slant it, they ‘interpret’ it.”

He saw how truly upset she was; he was pissed off, but the press reports bothered Marlie on a deeper level. He remembered that her experiences with the media generally weren’t pleasant, and he swiftly changed the subject.

Janes was pleased with what he had accomplished over the weekend. He had made several casual trips by the Elrod house, and been delighted by what he had discovered so far. The house was large and upscale, set in the middle of a big lot with an excess of landscaping that would provide plenty of cover. Six-foot-high fences marked the boundary lines of almost every lot in the neighborhood, which further restricted any nosy neighbor’s observation.

He hadn’t seen Mr. Elrod, though the city directory listed one. Was he out of town? It was a concern that had been laughably easy to answer, though the answer had come from an unexpected source. Marilyn Elrod had conveniently left the house not five minutes before her mail was delivered, and Janes had simply used the opportunity to collect the mail and go through it. Some of the usual assortment of junk mail had been addressed to a Mr. James Elrod, confirming his existence. A more interesting envelope bore the imprint of an Orlando law firm. Janes didn’t hesitate to open it, and what he read greatly pleased him. It seemed Mr. and Mrs. Elrod were currently embroiled in divorce proceedings, and Mr. Elrod had recently moved out. What a pity.

He kept the letter, since it had been opened, and shoved the remainder of the mail back into the box. A quick look around the house revealed that there was no dog—if there had been, it would have been barking like mad by then— but there was an alarm system. Not particularly sophisticated, he saw, but a problem. Still, every system had a weakness, and he had no doubt that he would be able to find a means of entry. All in good time, though, all in good time. He wouldn’t make the mistake of hurrying as he had the last time.

“We’re being made to look like fools,” Chief Champlin growled. He wasn’t in a good mood. The mayor had raked him over the coals for jumping the gun and driving old women all over the city into hysteria. Not only that, the bad publicity had cost the city money. Orlando relied heavily on the tourist trade, with visitors from all over the world coming to the Mouse House. The rate of occupancy at the local motels and hotels had fallen off since the news had broken.

“I can’t believe this,” Bonness said plaintively. “Everyone is bitching because someone hasn’t been murdered!”

“There were just two murders. Granted, the details were eerie in their similarity—”

“The FBI agrees that it’s the same man,” Dane broke in.

“We didn’t go out on a limb in this, Chief. He’s out there. With the Bureau’s help, we think we’ve identified at least seventeen other killings that he’s done.”

“So maybe he left the city when the news broke!” the chief snapped.

Dane shook his head. “We think he’s still here.”

“On the basis of what information?”

“Marlie,” he wanted to say, but he didn’t. He contented himself with replying, “He never left an area so soon before. We’re going with his established pattern.”

“The mayor wants to know, and so do I, just what you’re doing with your time. If there is no evidence, just what in hell are you doing?”

Dane’s face had taken on a stony look. Trammell saw the signs of an incipient loss of temper and stepped in. “We’ve received lists of names from the utility companies on new customers for the past year, and we’re working our way down the list, investigating all the men on it. With the profile the FBI gave us, we’ll be able to narrow it down to a few possibilities.”

Chief Champlin was from the old school. He didn’t like Trammell’s slick sophistication, his money, his snappy clothes, or his exotic looks. He did, however, respect the political ties that Trammell had in the city, courtesy of that same money. He growled a reply along the lines of “They’d better come up with something soon, or else,” and left Bonness’s office.

Bonness sighed and pulled out a handkerchief to blot his forehead. “Shit. Anything on those names we’re running?”

“Nothing that sets off any alarms, but we still have a lot of names to go.”

“Okay. Let me know the minute you hear bells.”

“Will do.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dane said between his teeth as they returned to their desks.

“Calm down, partner. He doesn’t know what we know, because we can’t tell him about Marlie. I don’t think he’d understand.”

“Bonness was right.” Cold fury was still in Dane’s voice and eyes. “These bastards won’t be satisfied until another woman is killed.”

Janes made good use of his time at night. He found a secure place to leave his car, he checked out the situation with the neighbor’s dogs. There were two, but one of them tended to bark at everything, and the other, across the street, would join him. The barking usually elicited no more than a few irritable “Shut ups.”

Marilyn Elrod was a party girl. She was out hitting the bars almost every night, which may have been the reason Mr. Elrod was no longer living there. So far, though, she hadn’t brought anyone home with her. Her active night life gave him plenty of opportunity to make sure things were perfect.

Her night life also gave him a means of getting into the house. Thick shrubbery grew all along the house, right up to the garage. She had a habit of backing into the garage, so she could just drive right out whenever she left; since she was facing ahead, it was child’s play for him to slip from his hiding place in the shrubbery into the garage, before the automatic door closed. She never looked back.

The door leading from the garage into the utility room wasn’t wired into the security system, though the door from outside into the garage was. It was locked, but locks weren’t a problem for him. It was another skill he had taught himself, with the aid of a mail-order locksmithing course that he had taken under an alias, just as a precaution. Another little detail he had foreseen and taken care of.

The first time he entered the house he had simply walked around and familiarized himself with it. He kept himself calm, not letting anticipation trick him into acting before he was really ready, as he had the last time.

The second time, he explored more. He opened her closets and went through her clothes, deciding that her taste seemed frozen in the eighties singles-bar style. She spent a fortune on makeup, he noticed, prowling through her bathroom vanity.

He satisfied himself that there were no guns in the house. Guns could be a big problem.

Then, humming to himself, he explored the kitchen. She wasn’t much on cooking; the refrigerator held mostly microwave stuff. But she had catered to the fashion of having a large rack of butcher’s knives standing on the shiny black countertop, something he had counted on. Since she cooked so little, it wasn’t likely that she would miss a knife. He examined each knife, tsking at the dulled edges on the stainless steel blades. Most women no longer had any pride in the domestic skills, which he deplored. If she had kept her knives in good condition, he wouldn’t have to take the slight but admitted risk of removing one of them so he could put a proper edge on it.

All in all, he severely disapproved of Marilyn Elrod.

“Come to the house for dinner with Grace and me tonight,” Trammell said on Friday.

Dane leaned back in his chair. He was so sick of the damn lists on his desk that he wanted to cram them all into the trash. He never would have believed that so many people had moved into the Orlando area in the past year. What really pissed him off was that they weren’t turning up a damn thing. He was glad the weekend had come, though he and Trammell were on call.

“It’s Friday,” he reminded Trammell.

“So? You have to eat on Fridays the same as any other day, don’t you?”

“Marlie gets pretty tense on Fridays.”

“Then it will do her good to take her mind off things. If she has a vision, she can have it just as well at my house as at hers.”

“Okay, let me call her.”

Marlie advanced the same arguments that he had, and he gave her the same answers Trammell had given him. She really didn’t need much convincing, because she had spent the week dreading the approaching weekend. Dinner with Trammell and Grace would be a welcome distraction.

She had spent a few of her lunch hours shopping this past week, and for the first time wore one of her new outfits that evening. Trammell had said to dress casually, and she did, but the slim, white cotton pants and sleeveless white vest were very fetching, if she did say so herself. Dane shared the opinion. When she came out of the bedroom, his gaze settled on her bare shoulders and the deep vee of the neckline. “Are you wearing a bra?” he asked in a strained voice.

She looked down at herself. “Why?”

“I just want to know. Are you?”

“Can you see anything?” she asked, returning to the bedroom to examine herself in the mirror.

Dane followed. “Damn it, Marlie, are you wearing a bra or aren’t you?”

“Do I need one?”

“I’ll find out for myself,” he said in frustration, reaching for her.

She slipped away, giving him a roguish smile. “Down, boy. You’ll have to wait until later to find out. We’re going to be late if we don’t leave right now.”

“I haven’t seen that outfit before,” he said as he followed her out the door.

“It’s new. I bought it this week.”

He studied her back, trying to decide if he could make out the outline of a bra beneath the white vest that bared a disconcerting amount of her. It wasn’t that it was indecent, just that he wasn’t used to seeing her dress like that. He liked the hell out of it, but he didn’t want anyone else to appreciate the view.

Trammell’s house was large and airy, with sleek furnishings in light, soft colors that opened up the rooms even more. His taste, Marlie admitted, was wonderful. There was a sense of space, serenity, and coolness, enhanced by lush indoor plants and overhead fans gently stirring the air.

Dinner was relaxed, with a lot of joking and teasing. Marlie asked Trammell when Dane’s house would be finished, and he lied without turning a hair. More delays, he said solemnly.

Grace told Marlie all about the wedding plans she was making, and how lucky it was that they had planned on a long engagement because she would need all the time to plan a large, formal wedding. Trammell broke out in a slight sweat as he listened to the discussion, but the look of wild panic was gone; he was adjusting to the idea of marriage in connection with himself.

A series of thunderstorms, normal during the hot summer nights, popped up and entertained them with dramatic flashes of lightning and booms of thunder. After dinner, Trammell took several photographs of them all, and that led him into showing the thick albums of shots he had taken over the years.

Dane figured prominently in a good many of them, and Marlie studied his face with interest. He looked different, somehow, in the stark black-and-white photos Trammell had taken. Seeing her interest, Trammell settled beside her to tell her all about every shot.

It was earlier than usual when Marilyn Elrod arrived home, but the passing storms had knocked out the electricity at the bar, and the patrons had been politely but firmly invited to leave. She was also tipsier than usual, and when the garage door didn’t lift, she pressed the button on the opener again. Still nothing happened.

“Damn it,” she muttered, pointing the opener directly at the doors and holding her thumb on the button. Nothing. She threw it onto the car seat beside her. “Stupid batteries.”

She tottered in her high heels up the walk to the front door, then stood weaving as she tried to remember the code for the security alarm. She only had a few seconds after unlocking the door, she didn’t remember how long, to punch in the code and prevent the alarm from sounding. She hated that damn alarm, so shrill it hurt her eardrums. The security system had been James’s idea, not hers. Men and their gadgets.

It took her a minute to notice that the little red light above the lock wasn’t shining. Damn, was everything in the house malfunctioning?

Then she laughed softly to herself. Of course! The electricity was off here, too. She should have noticed how dark the neighborhood was.

She fumbled the key into the lock and opened it, stumbling a bit over the threshold as she went inside. Damn, it was dark as a tomb! How was she supposed to see?

Candles, she thought. She had candles. She had bought an assortment of incense candles, thinking of the sexy atmosphere they would make when she brought a lover home. There hadn’t been any lovers yet, but she was prepared just in case. James had probably had some flashlights around, but she didn’t know where they were. It was likely he had taken them with him, the bastard. He wouldn’t want his little dolly to be caught in the dark.

But where had she put them? The kitchen? That didn’t seem like the right place to put incense candles.

On the other hand, that’s where the matches were, and maybe she had put them there. She slipped out of her heels as she felt her way through the dark house to the kitchen. She found the matches first and struck one, relieved by the small flare of light. Three of them burned down before she located the incense candles.

She lit one immediately, to give herself light. Well, this was a fine end to a boring evening, she thought in disgust.

She might as well go to bed, since she couldn’t even watch television.

She carried the sack of candles in one hand and the lighted candle in the other as she went upstairs, only stumbling once. “Oops,” she whispered. “Have to be careful. I’m carrying fire.” The thought made her giggle.

In her bedroom, which she had changed completely after James had left—she had burned all the sheets the bastard had slept on—she lit the candles one by one and set them on her dresser, so she could see the effect when they were reflected in the mirror. Yeah, she thought. Pretty damn sexy. The thick aroma of incense rose, and she coughed a little. Maybe she should go for unscented candles.

She began to undress, leaving her clothes were they fell. The incense grew stronger, and she coughed again.

She halted, her head tilted a little to the side. Had she heard something? She waited, but the house remained silent. Too silent, she thought. Yeah, that was the problem. She was accustomed to hearing the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the clocks, the ceiling fans. Without them, she was too aware of the sounds outside.

When she was naked, she pulled on a robe and belted it loosely at her waist. She was suddenly too sleepy to do the complete cleansing cream routine, so she simply wet a washcloth in the dark bathroom and scrubbed it over her face, then dropped it in the basin.

She yawned as she went back into the bedroom. The candle flames flickered, sending up sickening waves of incense. She leaned over to blow them out, and a face appeared in the mirror.

She whirled around, a scream lodging in her throat.

“Hellooo,” the man said softly.