The Dark Gate (2 page)

Hope roared through his veins like a flood through a parched gully.
She'd quieted the damn voices.

She was his salvation.
His cure.

He hurried after her as she started across the parking lot. “Wait.”

She stopped and turned to look at him, a hint of a question in her eyes.

“I'm…Jack.” He thrust out his hand, partly from habit, partly from an intense desire to touch her again. “Jack Hallihan.”

She glanced at his hand, but made no move to take it. “I know.” Then she turned and walked away as if she hadn't just changed his life.

 

“You're an angel, Ms. Vale.”

LarsenVale cut a wry look at the mother of the bride standing beside her. “I'm afraid a lot of people would disagree with you, Mrs. Ramirez. But thank you. I'm glad I could help Veronica.”

Across the crowded, flower-bedecked fellowship hall of the Dupont Circle All Saints Church, her former client, Veronica Hernandez, and her new husband posed for the photographer while one of the bridesmaids artfully arranged the drape of the classic wedding gown.

Veronica's mother, a compact woman in her fifties, smiled, tears in her eyes. “It will be different this time. Juan is not like Nicky. He is a good man. He will treat my daughter well.”

Larsen gazed at the newly married couple, at the glowing joy in the bride's face, and remembered the first time she'd seen Veronica. Bruises had lurked beneath her heavy makeup like stones in a still pond, and fear had haunted her eyes. Now adoration lit those same eyes, an adoration mirrored in her new husband's.

The signs were good that this marriage would be a far cry from Veronica's last, but Larsen had long ago quit believing in fairy-tale endings.

“I must see to the cutting of the cake,” the older woman said shyly, and slipped away, leaving Larsen standing alone. A place she was all too used to.

Larsen didn't mind her mostly solitary path through life, but there were times, like now, when she remembered other plans, other dreams. A man to love her. A wedding of her own.

But that was before she'd realized she was different—that love and family could never be hers.

She took a sip of the dark, sweet punch and grimaced inwardly, wishing Veronica had splurged on a few bottles of champagne. Nearby, a man eyed her with interest, earning her standard,
back-off
look. The man next to him leaned closer and said something that Larsen was pretty sure ended in
bitch.
The first man stiffened and turned his back on her in a hurry.

The encounter neither amused nor disturbed her. She wasn't the man-hater everyone thought she was, though it was a miracle she wasn't, given her line of work. Day after day she saw the disasters men made of their marriages and the pain they caused those who loved them. No, she didn't hate them. She just didn't let
anyone
get that close.

Unfortunately she'd been cursed with looks that invited nearly continuous male attention. Unwanted attention. So she'd developed a haughty manner that kept even the most determined at bay. She was perfectly happy on her own. No one making demands on her time or asking too many questions. She didn't need anyone. She certainly didn't need a
man.

Larsen tossed back the rest of the sickly sweet punch.

If only her hormones agreed. She groaned at the memory of Jack Hallihan watching her from the deck of his friend's boat yesterday, those laser-sharp blue eyes boring into her. An unwelcome rush of heat spiraled deep inside her.

She'd never actually met him before, but she'd known who he was. One of her law clerks had pointed him out in the courthouse last fall. Tall and broad-shouldered, with gorgeous blue eyes and a thatch of dark hair that appeared perpetually mussed, he'd walked with an easy confidence and casual strength that had drawn her attention and refused to let go, especially when he'd flashed a grin that had sent her pulse through the ceiling. She'd found herself watching for him every time she went to court for months afterward. She never again caught a glimpse of him.

Until yesterday, when she'd found him staring at her.

A flush of embarrassment rose into her cheeks as she remembered the way she'd dropped her papers at the touch of his hand, like a schoolgirl with her first crush. He hadn't called her on it. She'd seen no amusement in those blue eyes, no knowing smile that said he knew she'd been affected by the touch. He'd barely reacted at all.

A day later and she was still reacting. Even the memory of their brief meeting had turned the air in her lungs warm and heavy. With a groan of self-disgust she headed for the punch bowl and a cool refill, her heeled sandals clicking on the bare linoleum floor.

She didn't want to be attracted to a man. Attraction led to wanting and to wishing for things that could never be.

The conversation in the room eased as the guests' attention turned toward the cutting of the cake.

As she poured another ladle of the dark red punch into her cup, she heard a soft sound of laughter and glanced up to find a girl standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her pretty, delicate features awash with a poignant wistfulness.

A tiny thing, barely five feet tall, she was far too thin. Larsen guessed she was in her late teens, maybe early twenties. She wore a pair of jeans and a Redskins T-shirt that were both miles too big for her as if she, and not they, had gone through the dryer and shrunk. Her skin was a deep tan in color, her head shiny and bald like a chemo patient's.

Larsen's heart twisted with sympathy and she took a step toward her. “Hi, there. May I bring you a piece of cake?”

The girl started and turned to Larsen with a guilty, wide-eyed gaze. “I…nay, m'lady.” The words stumbled out in a charmingly accented rush. “I should not have…
nay.
”

“It's all right,” Larsen assured her. “There's a piece for me and I really don't want it. I'd be happy to bring it to you.”

The girl cocked her head as if pondering Larsen's offer…or Larsen herself. The girl's eyes, an amazing shade of violet, looked suddenly older than her years.

“My thanks,” she said shyly. “But I cannot.” Then she turned and fled into the kitchen.

Larsen sighed, sorry she'd chased the girl away. She turned back toward the festivities, but as she took a sip of the too sweet punch, her vision suddenly went black.

Pain shot through her head and she grabbed for the wall, cool punch splashing her bare legs even as her sight returned. Except…
she wasn't seeing with her eyes.

She could feel the hair on her arms leap upright, her heart beginning to pound with a terrible dread. For the first time in fifteen years she was about to watch someone die.

The scene unfolded in front of her—the same, yet altered. Though still in the fellowship hall, she watched from above now, as if she'd been plastered to the ceiling. Time had lurched forward. The cake was gone, the bride and groom stood near the door, ready to leave. Women gathered around the bride, preparing to catch the bouquet.

Mouths moved, shoulders shook with laughter, but Larsen heard none of it—like watching a silent movie. Then suddenly everyone went still, their expressions sliding off their faces, leaving them looking like mannequins…or wax figures.

No, not everyone. A man, the strangest man she'd ever seen, appeared to be talking. He was dressed like something out of a medieval play. His tunic was a shimmering forest-green, his leggings brown with metallic gold flecks that caught the light. But the strangest things about him were his long, lank hair and his skin—both a matching, startling white.

As she watched, he motioned to one of the bridesmaids. The plump young woman left the throng of women and went to him, her dark ringlets brushing the shoulders of her cobalt gown. When she reached him, she turned her back to him, pulled up her tea-length skirt to her waist, and bent over. The odd-looking man started to untie his leggings.

Shocked realization jolted her. Larsen opened her mouth to yell at him, but nothing came out. As she watched in helpless frustration, two people strode angrily into the premonition—a man in a suit and a woman in the same apple-green sheath dress Larsen wore even now.

It was her! She was watching
herself.

The albino in the tunic stared at the two of them with surprise, even as he pulled his distended penis from his leggings. He scowled, then flicked his free hand. Like an army of well-dressed zombies, the wedding guests surrounded the pair and attacked. Without hesitation. Without mercy.

With horror, Larsen watched her other self crash to the bare floor and disappear beneath a barrage of kicking, stomping feet, her apple-green dress turning a sickly, purplish bloodstained brown.

The attack ended as suddenly as it began. Like puppets jerked upright by a dozen sets of strings, the guests stood at attention, blank-faced and splattered with gore. At their feet lay Larsen's and the unknown man's mutilated remains.

They'd killed her.
The blood roared in her ears.

He'd
killed her. The pale, evil puppet master who'd controlled the others.

His thin face wore an expression of fevered satisfaction as he thrust his hips against the bridesmaid, taking her from behind. White hair whipped around his head as if a small whirlwind attacked him alone.

He suddenly looked up at the point from where Larsen watched the premonition, like an actor staring directly into the camera.

With a frown, he looked at her body and then back at her.

He saw her.
The hair rose at the back of her neck and she mentally jerked back.
He saw her watching him.
Eyes narrowed with a malevolent light, he leveled his index finger at her menacingly, then shook his head and the vision was gone.

“Miss, are you okay? Miss!”

Larsen blinked, pulse pounding. The room swam back into view, exactly as it had been before, the wedding festivities still in full swing, the guests eating cake. A woman she didn't know was pushing her onto a chair.

“Sit. I'll get you some water.”

“No.” Terror tore at her lungs. Pain exploded in her head. He'd killed her.

“I—I'm not feeling well.” Her stomach rolled and clenched, and she lurched to her feet. She was going to be sick. “I've got to go.”

Larsen stumbled from the room and pushed through the outer door to the empty playground at the back of the church. She clutched at the rough brick wall and vomited onto the dirt.

He'd killed her. And she'd seen it.
She'd seen it.

Dear God, her death visions were back. Larsen sagged against the wall and swiped a trembling hand across her mouth.
Not again.
She squeezed her eyes closed.
Not again.

She pushed herself away from the wall and started across the parched yard on legs that suddenly felt too long for her body. The curse that haunted her life had lain dormant for more than fifteen years. She'd thought the nightmare was over. Every night she prayed her devil's sight would never return. Now it was back. People were going to die.

She was going to die.

J
ack felt like a lovesick teenager, though he was acting more like a stalker as he sat on a bench under a large oak across the street from the All Saints Church and waited for Larsen Vale to emerge from the wedding reception.

He had to see her again.

He had to know if she'd really quieted the voices or if the gut-kick reaction he'd gotten from touching her had somehow short-circuited his brain so much that he simply hadn't heard them for a moment. And if she really could quiet his head? Then he had to convince her to stay by his side for the rest of his life. That simple. That impossible.

He leaned back against the uneven bench slats and stretched his legs out in front of him as the Monday afternoon traffic passed under a hazy summer sky. On the sidewalk in front of him, tourists walked by with their guidebooks and fanny packs.

Sweat rolled down his scalp as the ever-present voices conspired to further destroy his sanity. As a kid he'd barely noticed the noise, the voices little more than static in the background of his thoughts. Not until he was in high school did the sound escalate and distinguish itself as a mob of individual, though unintelligible, voices. But even that he'd learned to deal with until these past couple of weeks, when they'd begun to grow louder, more numerous, more agitated, by the day. He shoved his hand through his damp hair, pressing his fingers against his scalp.

Shut up. Just shut up.

But, if anything, the horde in his head grew even louder. With an angry flick of his thumb, he pushed up the volume on his iPod in a useless attempt to drown them out, and concentrated on watching for Larsen.

What were the chances she'd believe he just happened to be hanging around Dupont Circle this afternoon? That he just happened to be walking by as she left the wedding reception?

Jack grunted. Nil. Hell, even if she did believe him, her secretary would give him away the moment she told Larsen he'd stopped by her office this morning looking for her. Police business, he'd said.

He was so screwed.

His only chance of success depended on him knocking her off her feet with a single lethal blow of his charm. Yeah, right. The formidable Ms. Vale was probably immune to any man's charm.

Damn, this sucked. He'd never had trouble attracting a woman before.
He
was the one women accidentally ran into, never the other way around. Now here he was, broiling in the summer sun, praying the woman would give him the time of day. She had to. He had to know if her touch was really his salvation.

A movement across the street caught his attention—a woman in a bright green dress walking out from behind the church. Stumbling, more like it. Her hair shone like gold in the sun. Her dress was splattered…red.

Larsen.

He lunged to his feet and dashed across the busy road, weaving between the traffic, heedless of the honk of horns and the squeal of brakes as he completely forgot his pretense of running into her by accident.

In the minute it took him to cross the street, she'd pulled herself together and now walked calmly, almost normally. Except he was a cop and knew better. There was a paleness to her face and a wildness in her eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.

Those eyes were pointed straight at him, but he could swear she didn't see him.

“Larsen.”

She visibly started, then stopped abruptly, blinking as if disoriented. As he watched, she pulled herself in and away, snapping a cool facade in place. Once more, she was the remote woman he'd met before.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with only a hint of a wobble to her voice.

“Screw that. What happened to you? You…” He motioned helplessly at the red dotting her dress. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the spots. From a distance, they'd looked like blood.

She glanced down at herself. “I spilled my punch. Once again, what are you doing here?”

Either she was amazingly adept at hiding her emotions, or he'd screwed up. Badly. But he saw something move in her eyes, a glimmer of the fear he was convinced she struggled to hide, and he knew his instincts were dead-on.

Her cool facade crumbled and she cringed and pressed her palm to her forehead.

“What's the matter?” Jack curled his fingers around her forearm to steady her, but the moment his fingers brushed her skin, his head noise went silent. The “Hallelujah Chorus” nearly erupted from his mouth.

It wasn't his imagination.
She quieted the damn voices.

Slowly she lowered her hand. If she'd been anyone else, he might have thought he saw a sheen of tears in her eyes.

“I don't feel well. I'm going home.”

He tightened his grip on her arm. “What happened in there?”

Her response was a moment too long in coming. “Nothing. I have a migraine. I want to get home before I throw up again.” She looked pointedly at the hand still gripping her arm, avoiding his gaze.

“Larsen…” His cell rang and he grabbed his phone and checked the Caller I.D. Police business.
Hell.
He stared at her, torn, as the percussion beat of his ring tone continued. He could see the faint tremble of her ripe lips, a tremble echoed in the vibration of her arm beneath his fingers.

Her gaze suddenly snapped to his. “Are you going to get that?”

“Yeah.” He gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the rush of noise in his head, and released her.

Without a moment's hesitation, she brushed past him and strode away.

 

The death visions were back.

Larsen sat on the navy chenille sofa in her little houseboat and shook. Outside, the miserable day had slowly turned to a miserable evening, the sky darkening as if her mood were sucking the very color from the sky.

It didn't happen. It couldn't have happened. Just a dream. A terrible, waking nightmare. She hadn't had a premonition in fifteen years. Fifteen
years.
She'd thought they'd stopped.
Prayed
they'd stopped. How could she go through this again?

Hours had passed since the wedding, yet her stomach still rolled and clenched as her mind forced her to relive the savage attacks. The blood. The rape of that poor girl.

God.

Sick guilt raked her insides with sharp claws. She'd fled. Instead of trying to stop it, instead of trying to save them, she'd fled.

Hot tears burned the backs of her eyes as the weight of too many years, too many deaths, pressed her into the cushions. As a kid, she'd believed she caused them. She'd dream about people dying and they died. Her fault. The evil living inside her.

She was eight when she saw her first premonition, the car accident that killed her mother and older brother, Kevin. She never told anyone, not even her father. How could she when she was afraid she'd somehow caused the accident? The last came when she was thirteen and saw her grandfather's fatal tumble down the stairs.

It never once occurred to her to try to change the outcome of one of her visions. Not until today. Not until she'd run…
and not died.

Restlessness forced Larsen to her feet and she paced the small houseboat, the court papers she should be reading all but forgotten in her hand.
She was supposed to have died.

Always before, the cursed devil's sight had shown her the death of someone she loved. Her mom. Her brother. But this time she'd watched her own death. And that of a stranger. Why? What did it mean?

As she paused at the window, her reflection peered back at her, riddled with a dozen dots of light from nearby apartments as if she'd captured the nightscape and her likeness in a single double exposure.

She couldn't have seen what she thought she'd seen. One man could not control the minds of so many. Veronica had called to tell her about the terrible attack that had occurred at the wedding and to make sure she was okay. Veronica said no one remembered anything. All those who'd been hypnotized, all those who'd killed, had awakened without any memory of what they'd done.

But she hadn't been hypnotized. She would have remembered. As would the man behind her. But she'd fled. And he'd died.

A chunk of ice settled in her stomach. She turned toward the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine, hoping it would take the sharp edge off her misery. But as she reached for the refrigerator handle, the houseboat bobbed with the telltale lurch that heralded the arrival of an intruder. Larsen tensed. She rarely had visitors, and never uninvited.

“Larsen?” The male voice was followed by the brisk rap of knuckles on the glass door. “Larsen? It's Jack Hallihan.”

Cop.
Her heart sank even as her pulse leaped with a strange and unwanted rush of pleasure. She swallowed hard. She couldn't very well ignore him. The blinds were still open. He knew she was here. She took a deep breath and started toward the door in her bare feet.

Through the window she could see Jack Hallihan's imposing form in the light's soft glow. Exhaustion swept over her with the certain knowledge this was no social call. She couldn't deal with his questions tonight. But refusing to talk to him would only make him suspicious.

With a sigh, Larsen opened the door and slipped outside into the steamy night. If she let him inside, she might have more trouble getting rid of him. Closing the door behind her, she met the piercing blue gaze leveled on her. The small light above the door cast the bones of his face in high relief, making him look even more attractive, if such a thing were possible. Heat radiated from his body and twined with the spicy scent of his aftershave, stimulating her senses.

Distance. She needed distance. She tried to move past him, but he reached for her, sliding the rough pads of his fingers down her bare arm, sending awareness dancing over her skin. Larsen looked at him, startled by the unexpected touch. His eyes had widened as if he were as surprised by the touch as she was. Why was he here? To continue his earlier line of questioning her about what she saw at the church? Or was he here for more personal reasons? She wasn't sure. All she knew for certain was that he couldn't succeed at either.

She threw him her stock glare, hoping to cover for the way she'd reacted to his touch, and led him aft, away from the lights, where those eyes of his couldn't see quite so much. At the back rail, Larsen turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

He came to stand beside her, leaning a hip against the rail. Too close. She sensed a restlessness in him, a tension, that made her question the wisdom of seeking out the dark.

“I was worried about you.” His voice was as deep and rich as she remembered, a calming voice that nevertheless turned her pulse strangely erratic. She felt his probing gaze like a physical stroke. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine.” A lie. Tension coiled deep in her stomach. They both knew he wasn't here out of concern for her supposed migraine.

“I assume you heard about the murder.”

Even knowing why he was here, she couldn't stop the jerk, the small involuntary movement she prayed he hadn't noticed.

“Yes, I heard.” But her voice was no longer steady. Just the mention brought it all rushing back.
The blood.
Somehow she had to convince him her running from the church was innocent, or he'd never leave her alone.

“The best I can figure…” he said, cocking his head and crossing his arms over his chest in a way that warned she had some serious explaining to do. “It happened about twenty minutes after I saw you outside the church.”

Her muscles bunched with the need to put distance between them, if not to outright run, but she knew better than to show fear to an adversary.

“Seems my migraine was timely.” She pretended not to see his frown. Instead, heart racing, she looked up at the clouds blotting out the night sky, glowing a dull orange with the reflection of the city's lights. She felt him staring at her.

For long moments he watched her, studying her, turning her breath quick and shallow.

“Here's the thing.” His tone was almost conversational. “I interviewed dozens of people today. Not one of them saw anything. They were upset, sure. A dead body and blood will do that.” He straightened, moving until he blocked her escape, his gaze sharp enough to cut. “But of all the people I talked to who attended that wedding, only one had eyes with the wildness that comes from witnessing violent crime. One.”

He leaned toward her until he was almost in her face. “You.”

Larsen struggled to hold her ground even as her throat went dry. “You misread me, Detective. I left the reception early because I was getting a migraine. The only wildness you saw was fear that I was going to vomit on the Metro on the way home. Which I did, by the way.”

His expression turned hard and disappointed. “You're going to deny you saw something?”