e couldn’t get her to say anything else, though the line was still open. Dane scrambled into his clothes and shoved his sockless feet into running shoes. He grabbed his shoulder holster, with the Beretta in it, but didn’t take the time to slip it on. Barely a minute after answering the telephone, he was on his way out the door.

His heart was slamming painfully against his ribs. What had she said? Her last sentence had been so faint, he could barely hear; something about doing it again.

It didn’t matter what she had said. Her panic had reached through the phone line to him, as real as if he could see it. She was in trouble, serious trouble.

It was raining lightly, just enough to slick the streets and make him keep the wipers on. He couldn’t drive as fast as he wanted, but he was still going too fast for the road conditions. The sense of urgency kept his foot on the accelerator. He merely slowed down for stop signs, and halted at red lights only until there was a break in traffic.

An accident on the expressway forced him to cut across the median, backtrack, and take another route, wasting valuable time. Almost twenty minutes had passed when he pulled into Marlie’s driveway. Her car was in its customary place, and a light was on in the living room. He didn’t bother with the two shallow steps, but leaped onto the porch with a single bound and knocked on the door.

“Marlie? It’s Dane. Open up.”

The silence inside was absolute, as complete as it had been that afternoon at the Vinick house, as if no living creature were inside. Dane’s blood chilled, and his voice was hoarse as he called her again, banging on the door with his fist.

There were no windowpanes in this door to break, and he didn’t take the time to go around back and check out the kitchen door. He backed up and lashed out with his foot. Four kicks broke the lock and splintered the frame, and the door flew open to crash against the wall. He knew he should take his time, not rush in without knowing the situation, but fear was greater than caution and he hurled himself through the opening, the Beretta in his hand.

“Marlie!”

She was just sitting there on the couch, in a pool of light from the lamp, like a statue in a niche. Her eyes were open, fixed and unseeing. She was utterly still, utterly white, and for an agonized moment he stopped breathing. The pain was like a fist, clenched around his heart.

Then he remembered what Officer Ewan had said, that at first he had thought she was dead, and he started breathing again, managed to move, though the fear hadn’t released its icy hold on him. He laid the pistol aside and knelt on the floor in front of the couch, picked up one of her hands from her lap and held it against his chest while he put two fingers on her fragile wrist, pressing and finding the reassuring throb of her pulse. It was slow but steady. Her skin was cool, but the warmth of life lay just under the surface chill.

“Marlie,” he said again, much calmer now. There was still no response.

Carefully he looked her over, then examined the surroundings. There was no sign of struggle, and no injuries that he could see. She seemed fine, physically.

The phone receiver was lying beside her on the couch, a beeping noise coming from it. He picked it up and replaced it in the cradle.

He swallowed as he realized what must have happened. She had had another vision, might even still be locked in it. What was it this time? Another murder? God knows, with drugs and street gangs, it was a wonder she didn’t spend most of her time in a catatonic state. Did she ever pick up on the good stuff, on happy times, on people playing with their kids or groaning at a dumb joke? How could she function, if she was overloaded with all the shit in people’s lives?

She was wearing only a thin tank top and panties, and her legs felt chilled to his touch. He got up and closed the ruined door, then went into her bedroom in search of a blanket. The small room, like every other room he’d seen in her house, was cozy and soothing. She had made the house her retreat, her barricade against the world. He stood in the middle of it and looked around, getting to know her in little ways. The covers on the double bed were twisted and half on the floor; she had evidently been in bed when the vision had started, and the condition of the covers was a measure of her agitation.

There was a crocheted throw lying across a rocking chair. He picked it up and returned to the living room, where he draped it over her, tucking the folds around her bare arms and legs. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved even a centimeter, except for the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

He didn’t know what else to do, except wait. He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee; she might not need it when she came out of this, but he sure as hell did.

He sat on the couch beside her, watching her. Her expression was as blank and empty as that of the statue she had reminded him of earlier. There was no awareness in her; her eyes were open, but she was either unconscious or... gone, somehow.

He studied her oblivious face. Seen in profile, there was an otherworldly purity to her features that he hadn’t noticed before. When she was awake, the sharpness of her tongue and the cool intelligence in those bottomless blue eyes took most of his attention. Most, but not all. If she had been awake, he sure wouldn’t have put a cover over her half-naked body. He looked at the tender curve of her lips, remembering how they had felt, how she had tasted. Her shape was all feminine daintiness, soft, lithe curves that made his entire body feel hot, and his skin too tight.

Ten minutes had ticked by. The mechanical thumping and spitting in the kitchen had stopped, indicating that the coffee had finished brewing.

He fetched a cup of coffee, then resumed his seat beside Marlie and placed the cup on the lamp table. Very gently he lifted her, and settled her on his lap.

“Marlie. Can you wake up now? Come on, honey, wake up.” He stroked her face, then grasped her shoulder and shook her.

She made a little sound, not quite a whimper, and her lashes fluttered.

“Come back to me, Marlie. It’s Dane. Wake up and tell me what happened.” Her head lolled against his shoulder. He cradled her with his supporting arm and rubbed his free hand over her upper arm and shoulder, feeling the cool, sleek skin under his hard palm. He shook her again, but not hard, only enough to jar her. Her eyes were closed now, which seemed to him at least more natural, as if she were sleeping.

“Marlie!” He made his voice sharp. “Wake up and talk to me, damn it!”

She moaned and tried to push away from him, but her hand fell heavily to her lap as if she couldn’t quite control it. She drew several jerky breaths, and her lashes lifted, then closed again, the effort beyond her.

“Marlie, look at me.” He deliberately said her name, calling her from the far reaches of darkness, back toward the light.

Someone was insistently calling her name. Marlie’s exhausted mind latched on to the familiarity, like a drowning person desperately clutching at a life ring. It gave her a center, a sense of identity in the swirling fog of nightmare. The voice was far away at first, but then came closer and closer, until it was right over her head. Reality seeped back, though there was something very unreal about it. It felt as if she was lying against someone, as if arms were around her, and the sensation was so alien that it confused her. She didn’t allow people to hold her; the mental intrusion, strengthened by physical contact, was just too disrupting. But someone had held her, a dim memory insisted. Oh, yes. Dane. Gently bullying, stubborn, refusing to listen to her... Of course. Dane.

She forced her heavy eyelids to lift, and found herself staring at that roughhewn face, the hazel eyes dark with worry. His heart thumped steadily against her, a comforting rhythm that made her want to curl against him. The heat of his big body was under her, around her, chasing away the bone-deep chill. Why was she so cold?

Hazily she looked around. She was in her living room. But why was Dane here, and why was she on his lap? Why was she so tired? She had expected him to call, but he hadn’t, and she had gone to bed—

She had called him. She stiffened, memory returning in a flood of awful details that she would have given anything not to recall. Her exhausted mind struggled to cope.

“Dane.” She clutched his shirt, fingers twisting in the material.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, smoothing back her hair. “I’m here. You had another vision, didn’t you? What was it about this time? Just take your time, settle down. Do you want some coffee? Will that help?”

He was holding a cup of coffee to her lips, and she sipped it, hoping the caffeine would buy her a few extra minutes. She had to get her thoughts ordered, tell him as much as she could, but the coffee was the worst she had ever tasted, and with a grimace she turned her head away when he tried to get her to drink again.

“He did it again,” she said, the words slurred a little.

“Who did?” he asked absently, trying to get her to drink a little more coffee. She turned her head away from the cup.

“Him. He killed another woman tonight.” The trembling had started again, shaking her from the inside out.

He tensed. She could feel his muscles coiling beneath her. “The same one who killed Nadine Vinick?” he asked carefully.

“Yes. I knew he was out there, looking... I felt him, just a hint, the night I called you.” She forced the words out in a tumble, trying to get it all said.

“That’s what scared you?”

She nodded, her head barely moving in the hollow of his shoulder.

Holding her securely against him, Dane picked up the telephone and called central dispatch. He identified himself and said, “Has a stabbing murder of a woman been called in?”

“No, it’s been pretty quiet for a Friday night. Guess the rain’s put a damper on things. You know something we don’t?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Listen, if there is anything like that, give me a call on the pager. Night or day, no matter what.”

“You got it.”

He hung up and looked down at Marlie. “Nothing’s been called in.”

She was still gripping his shirt, and her eyes had taken on that faraway look they had had Monday morning, when she had recited a horror tale in a flat, emotionless voice. The trembling in her slight body had increased; he held her with both arms, trying to cushion her against the shock waves he could feel rippling through her.

“She has red hair,” she said in that small, ghostly voice. “She’s very pretty. She’s watching television, some old movie. She doesn’t know he’s there. He walks up behind her and stands there, looking down. He’s amused; how long will it be before she senses his presence? Too long. She’s a stupid cow, and he’s getting bored. He touches her neck, with his left hand, then slaps it over her mouth before she can scream. He loves that first moment of terror. The knife is in his right hand. He holds it to her throat.”

“Are you sure it’s the same one?” Dane asked. He desperately wanted her to say that she wasn’t certain.

“Yes. The movie is still on; it masks the noise. He makes her take off her pajamas and lie down on the floor. Couches are too cramped; he doesn’t like couches. He uses a condom. She doesn’t deserve his sperm. Slow and easy, slow and easy... let her relax, not be so afraid. Don’t hurt her, not yet, not yet.”

Dane anchored her to him, holding her so tight he expected her to protest, but she didn’t, all of her attention on her litany of terror. Chills rippled up his spine, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Oh, God.

“He’s finished. He’s on his knees beside her. She’s looking up at him, eyes wide and scared, but hoping. That’s good, that’s real good. He smiles at her, and her stupid mouth quivers, but she smiles too. She’s afraid not to, she thinks he’s crazy. Too stupid to live. He’s bored; this isn’t as much fun as the last one. Maybe he can liven her up. He sticks her a little and she squeals like a pig, and the race is on. Around and around the mulberry bush.”

“Jesus God,” Dane said, his voice hoarse. “Marlie, stop it. That’s enough.”

She blinked and refocused on him, and the expression in her eyes made him want to cry. The pallor of exhaustion lay over her face like a clay mask.

“You have to catch him,” she said in a drugged voice.

“I know. I will, honey. I promise.”

She turned her face in to his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Her body went limp in his arms. He looked down at her as she began breathing in a slow, heavy rhythm that signaled deep sleep. As quickly as that, she had slipped into unconsciousness. He wasn’t alarmed. After seeing her as she had been when he’d first arrived, this looked downright normal.

He sat there for several minutes, his face grim as he considered the ugly ramifications. Finally he got to his feet, with Marlie still in his arms, and carried her into the bedroom, where he carefully placed her on the bed. She didn’t move when he pulled the throw away and re-covered her with the sheet.

He refilled the cup with hot coffee, then resumed his seat and thought about what had happened tonight. He didn’t like any of it.

He glanced at the clock; it was after midnight. He called Trammell anyway.

The receiver was fumbled upward on the other end and he heard a very feminine “Hello?” at the same time as Trammell was saying, “Don’t answer that!” Evidently two beers hadn’t incapacitated him too much, and evidently the canceled date had been rescheduled.

Then Trammell got the phone away from his lady friend. “Yeah?”

Dane wasn’t in the mood to tease him. “Marlie had another vision tonight,” he said without preamble. “The same guy. She says he did another one.”

Trammell was silent for a shocked two seconds as the ramifications of it hit him, too. “Where?” he asked.

“Nothing’s been called in yet.”

More silence. Then he said, “This will prove one way or the other if she’s for real.”

“Yeah. She was in pretty bad shape. I’m at her house, if you need me. Dispatch is going to call if anything’s reported.”

“Okay. If she’s right... shit!”

Yeah, shit. Dane sat there drinking coffee, brooding. If Marlie was right, and the same guy who had murdered Nadine Vinick had done another woman, in the same way, they had big-time trouble. As bad as he had wanted the bastard, he thought he had been looking for a one-timer, he had hoped it was someone who had known Mrs. Vinick. He had thought it had been personal, though he hadn’t been able to find anything to indicate what that would have been. Multiple stab wounds usually meant someone was really pissed at the victim.

But another victim, killed with the same MO, meant they had a psychopath in Orlando. A serial killer. Someone without conscience, someone who acted only according to his own weird rules. Worse, it looked as if he was an intelligent serial killer, taking pains to leave no evidence behind. Serial killers were a real bitch to catch under any circumstances, and a smart one was almost impossible. Look at how long Bundy had killed before he’d finally made a mistake.

He couldn’t do anything but wait. He couldn’t investigate a murder that hadn’t been reported, a body that hadn’t been found. Until a victim turned up, all he had was a vision by a burned-out, trauma-damaged psychic. He believed her, though; his gut believed her, and that was frightening in itself. A cold corner of logic in his brain was still saying “wait and see,” but logic couldn’t dissipate the knot in his stomach.

He knew the terminology. Escalating sexual serial killer. He tried to remember if there had been any unsolved stabbing murders in Orlando before Nadine Vinick, but none came to mind, at least none that resembled it. Either the guy had just recently started murdering his victims, or he had moved in from another city. If a killer moved around, kept the murders spread out over different jurisdictions, cops might never figure out that it was the work of a serial killer because they wouldn’t have the other murders to compare the method to.

If Mrs. Vinick was his first victim, then to have killed again so soon the guy had to have gone totally out of control, and they would soon have a bloodbath in the city. An escalating killer started out slow; there might be months between his victims. Then the killings would start getting closer and closer together, because that was the only way he could get his rocks off, and he wanted it more and more often. Only a week between victims signaled an incipient rampage.

And he couldn’t do anything except wait.

When would the body, if there was a body, most likely be discovered? Maybe the husband worked third shift, like Mr. Vinick. Maybe that was the common denominator, that the husband was gone nights. If so, the discovery would be in the morning, say from six until eight. But if the lady lived alone, it could be a couple of days or longer before anyone missed her enough to check on her. Hell, he’d seen cases where people had been dead for weeks before anyone noticed.

Wait.

He looked at the clock again. Five after two. The coffee was gone, and he drank so much of the stuff that it only worked as long as he was pouring it in. He was tired; his eyelids felt like sandpaper.

He looked at Marlie’s couch, and snorted in dismissal. He was six two, and the couch was five feet. He’d never been into masochism.

He peeked into the one room in the little house that he hadn’t seen, wondering if it was a spare bedroom. It wasn’t. This was where she stored odd pieces of furniture, luggage, boxes of books. It wasn’t as cluttered as the main rooms in his home usually were.

The only bed in the place was the one Marlie was sleeping in. He supposed he could go home, but he didn’t want to leave her alone. The lock on her door was ruined. He didn’t know how long she would sleep, but he intended to be there when she woke.

He hesitated for only the barest second, wondering what she would say if she woke up with him in bed beside her, but then he shrugged and went into her bedroom. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved at all.

He stripped down to his shorts, tossing his clothes over the rocking chair, and placed the pistol on the bedside table. His pager went right beside the pistol. There was only the one table, and Marlie was lying on that side of the bed. Dane scooted her over, then without even a twinge of conscience, slid in beside her and turned off the lamp.

It felt good. Contentment spread through him, a warm antidote to the worry of the last few hours. As big as he was, the double bed felt cramped to him, but even that had its good points because Marlie was so close to him. He put his arms around her, holding her cradled to him with her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Her slight body felt soft and fragile, and her breath moved across his chest with the lightest of touches.

He would be willing to lie awake for the rest of his life, if he could protect her from what she had gone through tonight. She had told him, Officer Ewan had told him, the professor had told him, but until he had seen it with his own eyes, he simply hadn’t realized how traumatic it was for her, how it hurt her, how much it cost her.

What a price she had paid! He knew the toll it took on the human spirit to see so much ugliness, day in and day out. Some cops handled it better than others, but they all paid, and they had only normal sensitivities. What must it have been like for her, feeling everything, all the pain and rage and hate? Losing her empathic ability must have been like being rescued from torture. Now that it was evidently coming back, how must she feel? Trapped? Desperate?

Desire pulsed in his loins; he couldn’t be around her and not want her. But stronger than desire was the need to hold her close and protect her, from the horrors within as well as those without.

He slept until eight, and woke instantly aware that the pager hadn’t beeped at him during the night. Neither had Marlie stirred. She lay limply against his side, her very stillness a gauge of her exhaustion. How long did this stupor normally last?

He showered, figuring she wouldn’t mind the use of her bathroom and towels. Then he shaved, using her razor and swearing when he nicked himself. Then he went into the kitchen and put on another pot of coffee. He was beginning to feel as comfortable in Marlie’s house as he was in his own. While he was waiting for the coffee to brew, he measured the ruined front door for a replacement. He had just finished that when the phone rang.

“Heard anything?” Trammell asked.

“Nothing.”

“What does Marlie say?”

“She hasn’t said anything. She’s been asleep almost since she came out of the vision last night. She managed to tell me what she’d seen, then passed out.”

“I thought about this for hours last night. If it’s a serial killer... ”

“We’ve got trouble.”

“Should we tell Bonness what we think?”

“We’d better. After all, he believed Marlie before either of us did. We can’t do anything until the murder is verified, but we should keep him informed.”

“We’re going to feel like fools if no one’s found.”

“I hope so,” Dane said grimly. “I honest to God hope I feel like the biggest fool walking. That would be a hell of a lot better than the alternative.”

Trammell sighed. “I’ll talk to Bonness,” he volunteered. “How long are you going to be at Marlie’s?”

“I don’t know. At least until she’s capable of functioning on her own. All weekend, the way it looks.”

“Wipes her out, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” A thought occurred to him. “And while you’re out and around today, I need you to get a door for me. Marlie’s isn’t very secure.”

The voice pulled insistently at her, refusing to let her rest. It was a very patient voice, though relentless. On the far fringes of consciousness she knew that it was familiar, but she couldn’t quite recognize it. She was tired, so tired; she just wanted to sleep, to forget. The voice had pulled her from oblivion before. Why didn’t it leave her alone? Fretfully she resisted the disturbance, trying to find the comfort of nothingness again.

“Marlie. Come on, Marlie. Wake up.”

It wasn’t going to stop. She tried to turn away from the noise, but something was holding her down.

“That’s right, honey. Open your eyes.”

Surrender seemed easier; she didn’t have the energy to fight. Her eyelids felt like stone, but she forced them open, and frowned in confusion at the man who was sitting on the bed beside her. His arms were braced on either side of her, holding the sheet tight; that was what was preventing her from moving.

“There you are,” he said softly. “Hi, honey. I was getting worried.”

She couldn’t think; everything was fuzzy. Why was Dane holding her trapped like this? Her confusion must have been on her face, because he smiled and lifted one hand to smooth her tangled hair back from her face. “Everything’s okay. But you’ve been asleep for a long time, and I didn’t know if it was normal or not, so I decided to try to wake you up. It took some doing,” he added wryly.

“What...? Why are you here?” she mumbled, trying to sit up. He sat back, releasing the sheet, and she struggled into an upright position. It took so much effort that she ached. What was wrong? Had she been sick? The flu, maybe; her bones ached so, that could be the explanation. But why was Dane here?

“If I had to make a guess,” he said, his voice pitched to a soothing rumble, “I’d say your need for the john has to be critical. Can you make it there?”

When he mentioned it, she realized that he was exactly right. She nodded and clumsily pushed the sheet away. He stood so she could swing her legs off the bed. She didn’t have many clothes on, she thought weakly as she sat on the edge looking down at her bare limbs, but she just didn’t have the strength to care.

She tried to stand and sank heavily back onto the mattress. Dane bent and lifted her easily in his arms. Her head drooped into the curve of his shoulder and neck, and the position seemed so comfortable that she let it stay there.

She heard the hum of the air conditioner. The air was cold on her bare skin, and the radiant heat of his big body was heavenly as he carried her... somewhere. She closed her eyes.

“No you don’t,” he scolded, putting her on her feet. Her heavy eyelids opened and she saw that she was in her own bathroom. “Make an effort, honey. Now, can you manage by yourself or do you want me to stay in here with you?”

She wasn’t so tired that she couldn’t give him a “get real” look, and he chuckled. “I’m fine,” she said, though she heard the fretful weakness in her own voice. She ignored it. She would manage; she always had.

“Okay, but I’ll be right outside the door. Sing out if you need me.”

She stood swaying in the small room after he had left, staring longingly at the bathtub and wondering if she could stand upright long enough to take a shower. It would be so embarrassing if Dane had to help her, handling her naked body as if she were a helpless infant.

First things first, though. She was very thirsty, but there was a more pressing concern. When that was taken care of, she gulped two glasses of water, then stood with the cool glass pressed against her forehead. Her mind was still so foggy, every thought such an effort. She needed to remember something, she felt the urgency, but couldn’t concentrate long enough to bring it to mind. All she wanted to do was sleep. Blessed sleep. She didn’t want to remember.

She really wanted that shower a lot.

Finally the simplest thing to do was to turn on the water and step under it, clothes and all, so that’s what she did. She deliberately left the water not quite lukewarm, knowing that it would wake her up, not wanting to but accepting the necessity. She stood under the cool spray, her face turned up to catch the full blast, and let the fog dissipate. Let memory return. Let the water overcome and wash away the hot salty tears, the way a flood overcomes and obliterates a trickle.

Until it wasn’t enough and she buried her face in her hands, sobs shaking her body.

“Marlie...?” The worried, impatient tone changed at once, became quiet and steady. “I know, honey. I know it’s bad. But you’re not alone now. I’ll take care of you.”

The water was turned off, and his strong hands were on her, helping her out of the tub. She stood dripping on the mat, her eyes still closed while tears tracked down her cheeks.

“You’re soaked,” he said, still in that soothing, rock steady tone. “Let’s get these clothes off—”

“No,” she managed, the word strangled.

“You can’t keep them on.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“Okay. Just open your eyes for me, honey, and tell me that you can manage, and I’ll get some dry clothes for you and leave you to it. But I want to see those eyes before I do.”

She swallowed, and took two deep breaths to control the tears. When she thought she could handle it, she forced herself to open her eyes and look up at him. “I can do it.”

His gaze was piercing as he studied her, then he gave a short nod. “I’ll get your clothes. Tell me what you want.”

She tried to think, but nothing came to mind. “I don’t care. Anything.”

“Anything,” left to his decision, was a pair of panties and her cotton robe. While he waited outside, she stripped off her wet clothes, clumsily dried herself, then dressed in what he had provided. She was rubbing her wet hair with a towel when he decided she had had enough time, and opened the door again.

“Here, I’ll do it,” he said, taking the towel from her and putting down the lid on the toilet for her to sit down. She did, and he carefully blotted all the excess water from her hair, then took the comb and smoothed out all the tangles. She sat there like a child, letting him minister to her, and the small attentions gave her a comfort she’d never had before. Numbly she realized that what he’d said was true: She wasn’t alone this time. Dane was with her. He had been there last night, and he was still there, taking care of her, lending her his strength when she had none.

“What time is it?” she finally asked. Mundane thing, but the small and unimportant were the anchors of life, the constants that held one steady.

“Almost one. You need to eat; come on in the kitchen and I’ll put on a pot of fresh coffee, then fix breakfast for you.”

She remembered his coffee. She gave him an appalled look. “I can do the coffee.”

He accepted the rejection of his coffee with good grace, being used to it. She was coming out of it; she could say anything she wanted about his coffee. She was more alert, though her face was utterly colorless, except for the shadows under her eyes, and tight with strain. He put his arm around her waist to support her as they slowly made their way to the kitchen.

She leaned against the cabinet while she made coffee, then sat and watched Dane competently assemble a meal of toast, bacon, and a scrambled egg. She ate a couple of bites of egg and bacon, and one slice of toast. Dane ate the rest.

When she crumpled, without a word he scooped her onto his lap and held her while she cried.