pillow. Counting sheep had always seemed like such a ridiculous thing to doâ¦.
And yet she was desperate.
She counted horses instead.
Â
Strange dream. There was fog and sunlight. She was walking toward him in the dream. Sometimes they were on a beach, and sometimes she was moving toward him in the cabin of the Gwendolyn. Hair spilling down her back, fleshâ¦yeah, naked flesh, all of it being touched by the sun and by the shadow.
Nancyâ¦
Heâd dreamed often that sheâd been there, with him, trying to tell him something. Except that it hadnât been like this. Before, theyâd just been talking. Discussing the case. The frustrations, the dead ends. But sheâd known something. Reckless, restless, unhappy in her married life, she was determined to throw her heart into her work.
They were good partners.
Not good enough. There had been something more, something she had suspected, something she had thought of doing to break the wall they were up against.
Then he dreamed of her face as it had looked, on the autopsy table, after they had found her. And that would always strike such a chord of horror in his heart and mind that he awakened.
Not tonight, though. Tonight that image didnât appear.
He couldnât see her clearly. Her hair wasnât dark; it was red in the light.
It wasnât Nancy. Just someone like her. Who moved something like herâ¦
It was Nickâs girl. Walking with a slow, confident, easy rhythm. She reached him. The dream progressed. Memory faded, the now took hold. She was different, very much alive, real, vibrant. She wasâ¦reaching him. Touching him. She wasâ¦
He awoke abruptly, in a cold sweat. The alarm was ringing.
Fuck.
No. Not the alarm, the phone. Hell, what time was it? The middle of the night. And still, bleary, wretched, he was glad of the sound. It had drawn him from the depths of the most bizarre wet dreamâ¦about Nickâs kid. He needed to stay the hell away from her. Far away.
Shouldnât be hard, not after the way they had just reacquainted themselves.
The phoneâ¦
Still ringing, like a hammer pounding inside his head.
He picked up the phone. Listened. And his knuckles went white against the receiver.
CHAPTER 3
âT hereâs not a lot left of the face,â Martin Moore said, nodding to the uniformed officer who allowed him and Jake through the crime tape to the off-road location where the body had been discovered.
âI think the recent rains washed her down here. She was probably buried in a shallow grave farther in from the road.â
It was the crack of dawn, Saturday morning.
He wished he hadnât switched to Scotch the night before.
And he wished he had one then. Martyâs call had been way beyond bizarre.
So much for the long weekend off. But since the case had never been officially closed, he had been called in. Marty had been in vice, the narcotics squad, five years ago, when the first murders had occurred, but he had worked with Jake for a long time now and knew the past history of what were still referred to as the Bordon murdersâas well as anyone. He also lived in the area, so heâd reached the scene first.
Police floodlights helped illuminate the area, which was still dark. Inky dark. Much of this part of the county had been developed out of land that was really part of the Everglades. The dirt was rich here and the foliage thick. Lights were few and far between. Before dawn, the darkness could be a strange ebony, as if the Glades had reclaimed what was really part of a no manâs land.
Jake paused a few feet from the corpse, taking his first look at the body that had been discovered that morning by a jogger. A foolish jogger, he thought, running at a time when the night still held sway in an area where the obsidian shadows and undergrowth could hide many a sin.
The jogger, he noted, was still on the scene. She was a middle-aged woman with a pretty, too-skinny face,
And yet she was desperate.
She counted horses instead.
Â
Strange dream. There was fog and sunlight. She was walking toward him in the dream. Sometimes they were on a beach, and sometimes she was moving toward him in the cabin of the Gwendolyn. Hair spilling down her back, fleshâ¦yeah, naked flesh, all of it being touched by the sun and by the shadow.
Nancyâ¦
Heâd dreamed often that sheâd been there, with him, trying to tell him something. Except that it hadnât been like this. Before, theyâd just been talking. Discussing the case. The frustrations, the dead ends. But sheâd known something. Reckless, restless, unhappy in her married life, she was determined to throw her heart into her work.
They were good partners.
Not good enough. There had been something more, something she had suspected, something she had thought of doing to break the wall they were up against.
Then he dreamed of her face as it had looked, on the autopsy table, after they had found her. And that would always strike such a chord of horror in his heart and mind that he awakened.
Not tonight, though. Tonight that image didnât appear.
He couldnât see her clearly. Her hair wasnât dark; it was red in the light.
It wasnât Nancy. Just someone like her. Who moved something like herâ¦
It was Nickâs girl. Walking with a slow, confident, easy rhythm. She reached him. The dream progressed. Memory faded, the now took hold. She was different, very much alive, real, vibrant. She wasâ¦reaching him. Touching him. She wasâ¦
He awoke abruptly, in a cold sweat. The alarm was ringing.
Fuck.
No. Not the alarm, the phone. Hell, what time was it? The middle of the night. And still, bleary, wretched, he was glad of the sound. It had drawn him from the depths of the most bizarre wet dreamâ¦about Nickâs kid. He needed to stay the hell away from her. Far away.
Shouldnât be hard, not after the way they had just reacquainted themselves.
The phoneâ¦
Still ringing, like a hammer pounding inside his head.
He picked up the phone. Listened. And his knuckles went white against the receiver.
CHAPTER 3
âT hereâs not a lot left of the face,â Martin Moore said, nodding to the uniformed officer who allowed him and Jake through the crime tape to the off-road location where the body had been discovered.
âI think the recent rains washed her down here. She was probably buried in a shallow grave farther in from the road.â
It was the crack of dawn, Saturday morning.
He wished he hadnât switched to Scotch the night before.
And he wished he had one then. Martyâs call had been way beyond bizarre.
So much for the long weekend off. But since the case had never been officially closed, he had been called in. Marty had been in vice, the narcotics squad, five years ago, when the first murders had occurred, but he had worked with Jake for a long time now and knew the past history of what were still referred to as the Bordon murdersâas well as anyone. He also lived in the area, so heâd reached the scene first.
Police floodlights helped illuminate the area, which was still dark. Inky dark. Much of this part of the county had been developed out of land that was really part of the Everglades. The dirt was rich here and the foliage thick. Lights were few and far between. Before dawn, the darkness could be a strange ebony, as if the Glades had reclaimed what was really part of a no manâs land.
Jake paused a few feet from the corpse, taking his first look at the body that had been discovered that morning by a jogger. A foolish jogger, he thought, running at a time when the night still held sway in an area where the obsidian shadows and undergrowth could hide many a sin.
The jogger, he noted, was still on the scene. She was a middle-aged woman with a pretty, too-skinny face,
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