Man of her Dreams

Darby slammed the door on the other images and sounds that tried to intrude. She would not look, refused to see. From the moment Christina Fairgate’s body had been found, she’d experienced those images…the smells. She didn’t want to see. God, she didn’t want to know.

“Are you all right?”

The sound of her friend’s voice jerked her back to the here and now.

“Fine.” She blinked. “I’m fine.”

Sandra nodded, her expression thoroughly unconvinced. “Oookay,” she said, dragging out the syllable. “I have to get back to my classroom. I’ll talk to you later.”

Darby managed a nod. More like a twitch.

Another child had gone missing.

Two in the space of as many weeks.

Where are the others?

The question slammed into her brain, sent a wave of adrenaline surging through her veins.

There were others. The police just didn’t know yet. Five or six, more maybe. She’d sensed it from the beginning. Why were the sensations coming now? Why couldn’t she make it stop? Or learn something useful from it?

The bell rang, jerking her from the troubling thoughts and sending students scurrying for their seats. Darby moistened her lips and manufactured a smile. Using every ounce of strength she possessed, she directed her attention to her class. “Let’s get settled, girls and boys.” She paused long enough for two stragglers to make their way to their seats. “Today is Monday,” she continued when all eyes were focused on her. “Let’s talk about what makes Mondays special.”

Even at five, the children knew there was absolutely nothing special about Mondays.

AT 4:30 P.M., Darby slowed the momentum of her bike in front of an antebellum home in the Lower Garden District. She stopped on the side of the street, propping her weight against the curb with her right foot, keeping her left on the pedal to facilitate a hasty departure.

Corinthian fluted columns supported the home’s double gallery. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the last of the sun’s warming rays to tumble across its floors. She didn’t have to get off her bike and walk to the rear of the property to know that lovely gardens, bordered by brick walks with a bubbling fountain in the center, graced the backyard. Though sorely out of place in its nineteenth-century setting, a colorful metal swing set—red, yellow and blue—stood proudly in the middle of it all.

Yellow crime scene tape sprawled across the front of the property, flapping in the wind, its middle sagging and giving the appearance of a sinister smile.

This was the home where Allison Cook lived…the yard where she’d been playing when she disappeared.

A shadow moved through the lush shrubbery. Male, she knew, but she couldn’t see his face. Yet his voice was familiar. She heard that raspy, evil voice in her dreams. No one can save the children. They belong to me. One, two, I’m coming for you. Three, four, better lock your door.

Darby shuddered, pushed the voice away. She stared at the bushes where her mind had conjured the image of the shadow. Did the police know that he’d been hiding there? He’d watched until it was safe to grab the little girl. She concentrated hard, tried to see how he’d hushed the child. An inhalant. Quick, painless. The child would slump helplessly in his arms.

Her fingers tightened on the handlebars. How long did he watch the children before he made a move? Where did he take them afterwards? If she could see, if she dared to really look, maybe she could save the ones who weren’t dead…yet.

The latest victim was still alive, but she couldn’t sense anything definite about the others.

“Move along, ma’am.”

Darby jumped at the sound of the harshly barked order. Uniformed policeman. NOPD.

“This isn’t a sideshow,” he snapped impatiently. “Have some respect for the family. Now move along!”

Darby blinked, dragged her sluggish mind from the trance she’d slipped into. She had to go. The realization that a cop was speaking to her, the visual implications of his uniform and the cruiser parked a few feet away, suddenly cracked through the haze.

“I’m sorry…I…” She looked back at the house one last time. The sound of weeping, the weight of overwhelming anguish, abruptly echoed through her soul.

“Let’s see some ID.”

Another voice.

Male.

Darby’s gaze collided with dark brown eyes that were methodically sizing her up. The eyes belonged to a man dressed in a suit. A cop, too, she realized when he flashed his badge.

“I’m Detective Willis. Let’s see some identification, ma’am.”

Still feeling dazed, she fumbled in her satchel for her wallet. She showed him her driver’s license and waited for him to ask the questions that would come next.

“Ms. Shepard, what brings you to this neighborhood?”

He wouldn’t want to hear the truth. “I was on my way home.” She mentally grappled for an excuse to be on this street. “I thought I’d stop by Sardi’s Deli.” She knew the place. It was only a few blocks away. Though there were delis close to home, he couldn’t prove that she hadn’t been headed to this particular one for one reason or another.

He studied her a moment longer as she put her wallet away. She could feel him assessing her, deciding if her excuse was legitimate or warranted further questioning.

Realization struck her then. They were desperate for a lead in this case. They were hoping the perpetrator would show up at the scene of the crime again. Perhaps to get a look at the grieving parents. He would so love that. The children belonged to him now.

Her senses went on alert as the detective reached into the interior pocket of his jacket. She held very still so as not to give away her edginess. When his hand came back into view, he held a small white business card.

“Why don’t you call me if you think of anything from your observations that might assist us in this case.” The statement was made grudgingly, but the look of desperation in his eyes didn’t back up his indifferent tone.

Darby reached for the card, her fingers brushed his and in that one instant she felt his pain, his fear. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to solve this mystery. Pain at having watched the autopsy of one dead child, fear that another might follow soon.

She nodded. “Sure,” was all she could manage.

Pushing off with her left foot, she sped away from the Cook home and the lawmen stationed there. Four children…one found murdered. How many more would be sacrificed before they stopped this madman?

Trying hard to think of anything but those helpless children, Darby rushed home, pushing herself to the limit. By the time she reached Cohn Street, her legs ached, her lungs burned. She lugged her bike onto the porch that fronted the shotgun house she called home. The place had been divided into two apartments. Hers was the one-bedroom on the left side. Her neighbor, a stewardess who spent a lot of time away from home, occupied the two-bedroom on the right. The place had a small but nice yard that the landlord went to great lengths to keep looking sharp. He’d won the city’s beautification award for rental property several years running. Inside, hardwood floors, ancient yet well-maintained fixtures and a gas fireplace provided the primary details Darby had been looking for when she found the place.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside the cool dark interior. Wizard, her tomcat, met her at the door. He yowled and wound himself around her legs, tail twitching. Darby tossed her satchel aside and ushered Wiz out the door. She’d had him neutered long ago so he wouldn’t wander far.

Without bothering with lights, she went straight to her bedroom to change out of “teacher” wear. Jeans and T-shirts were her preferred attire.

I’m coming for you.

The words whispered through the darkness, sending fear snaking around her chest.

Darby closed her eyes and forced all thought of the missing children from her mind. This was why she never looked, never allowed herself to see. Once it got started, she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t let the visions…the dreams…take control of her life. Not again. She’d allowed that to happen once. Thank God she’d still been at home with her parents then. They’d protected her. But there was no one to protect her now.

Better lock your door.

Darby turned on the shower, stripped off her clothes and stepped beneath the spray of water. She focused on the feel of the hot water pelting her skin. She blocked all other sensory perception. She would not see, would not hear. There was nothing she could do to help those children. The dreams were never complete. Just enough information came to torture her with sounds and sensations. Never enough to help. It had always been that way.

And even if she could see, how would she ever convince the police to believe her?