Night Vision Page 4

  He sighed. “That’s all right.”

  “We have to get her address, Sam.”

  He looked at her, frowning as if confused.

  She shrugged. “You know me. The most useful piece of information I got from touching that poor woman is that there’s no one to go to her house and feed her cat. She was thinking that, as she lay there. ‘If he kills me, how long before someone knows I’m dead and goes to my apartment to take care of Roderick? Will he starve to death in the meantime?’”

  “I’ll see to it the cat is taken care of,” Sam told her.

  She smiled a little. “I doubt he’d starve. He’s pretty overweight anyway.”

  Sam stared at her. “Don’t tell me. You can describe the cat?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Maybe it’s because I have a cat of my own. Slender little gray tabby. Hers is big, long-haired, buff-colored, with one green eye and one blue.”

  “You’re incredible,” he said softly.

  “Just not very helpful,” she replied.

  He swallowed hard. “You saved that girl’s life.”

  “You did that.”

  “You knew the rapist was in the park.”

  “So did you, the second you heard her scream.”

  He shrugged. “So we were both instrumental. The fact is, we have a survivor now. If she got a look at him, we might finally have a description of our boy.”

  “I don’t think she did, though. But...I hope you’re right.”

  “Look, I have to go to the hospital.” He clasped her shoulders, studying her face, really searching her eyes. He looked at her more deeply, more thoroughly than anyone had ever bothered looking before. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay. You have a job to do. I’m fine.”

  “I’ll take you home on the way to the hospital, all right?”

  She shook her head left then right. “Sure...but...it’s just, I thought you wanted my help on this case.”

  “I do, but–”

  “Then why not take me to the hospital with you?”

  Sam seemed to consider that, then shook his head with real regret in his eyes. “The chief would never get it. He still thinks.... Not tonight, okay? I’ll take you sometime when the place isn’t crawling with cops.”

  By now they were nearing the restaurant and his waiting car. He flicked a button on the key ring, and the locks opened. Then he opened her door for her. She got in, then he did, and he started the engine, then paused.

  “What was the second thing?” he asked

  “What?”

  “When I was kissing you in the park–”

  She smiled just a little, the warmth of that memory chasing away the chill that had settled over her.

  “–you got that vision, and I asked you what it was. You said, two things, the killer being the most important one. What was the other?”

  She lifted her brows as the warmth left her in a rush. “Oh. That.” She looked him dead in the eye. “It was the clear message that you’re still keeping things from me. Important things.” She shrugged. “Go figure.”

  Of course he denied it all the way back to her house, tried to cover it, but she knew. She’d felt it clearly when he kissed her. It was lurking beneath the real passion and heat that rose between them. There was a reason he was kissing her, a reason he was even with her at that moment, and that reason was not the one he was trying to make her believe.

  He didn’t want to date her, and he didn’t believe in her visions.

  She sighed, disappointed. It didn’t matter. She had to stick with him, see this thing through, because she, too, had reasons for being with him.

  The dreams.

  Besides, there was something about him. Something she liked. Not the lying, though. She didn’t like that at all. At least he didn’t seem like any sort of a threat to her. He’d even given her a card with his cell phone number on it, in case she needed him, he said.

  Megan dropped her coat on the back of the sofa and kicked off her shoes, belatedly realizing she still wore the borrowed flip-flops. Her pumps were in Sam’s car. She sank into her favorite chair, and Percy jumped into her lap, nuzzled her chin. She petted her cat, thinking of the other woman, and her pet at home alone. “What do you suppose that man’s keeping from me, Percy?” she asked.

  Percy purred and arched his back to her hand for more affection.

  “Lot of help you are. Hell, I suppose being the psychic, I ought to know. Then again ...” She glanced across the room to where her computer sat, collecting dust. “I suppose I could do a little research, couldn’t I?”

  She set Percy aside, ignored his mewling protests, and crossed the room to open the laptop. A few mouse clicks later she was online, running a search on Samuel Sheridan. She was surprised at the number of hits that came up, news articles, mostly, and they stunned her.

  Samuel Sheridan, Killed in Line of Duty.

  Officer Shot Down in Robbery Attempt.

  Hero Cop Gives All.

  She clicked on the first link, which took her to a newspaper’s website, but not to the article. So she went back to the search results and tried again, finding the same outcome every time. Frowning, she looked more closely at the links, each of which gave just a line or two of the accompanying story, and realized the links were more than a decade old.

  Of the three newspaper sites, only one had a “Search the Archives” button, and she used it, relieved when the article actually showed up. She read through the piece, and realized Sam’s father had been a cop, too, and that he’d died in the line of duty just a few days after his thirty-fifth birthday. This article was about him, not her Sam.

  “Samuel Sheridan Jr. was shot at point-blank range when he attempted to foil a liquor store robbery in progress last night. Both suspects were also killed.”

  The article shocked her, but not so much as the line that brought her to a grinding halt.

  "It is a painful irony that Samuel Sheridan’s father, also a police officer, was likewise killed in the line of duty at the age of thirty-five. In the elder Sheridan’s case, death came by way of a high-speed pursuit that ended in a fiery crash."

  She blinked slowly. Both Sam’s father and his grandfather had been police officers, and they’d both died in the line of duty at the age of thirty-five? How horrible. Sam couldn’t have been more than a child when his father died. She wondered how old he'd been, then wondered how old he was now. He mentioned at dinner that he had a birthday coming up.

  A low growl made her turn her head sharply. Percival stood on the back of the sofa, staring toward the front door, his back arched and the hair on the scruff of his neck bristling. His tail switched back and forth.

  “Percy, what’s wrong?” She looked toward the door, too, suppressing a shiver.

  Percy jumped to the floor and darted across the room, ducking through the slightly open bedroom door and out of sight.

  As a guard dog, her cat left a lot to be desired.

  Megan saved the article to her hard drive, then closed the lid and walked to the front door. She hadn’t locked it behind her when she’d come in, she thought. After what she’d witnessed tonight, that should have been the first thing she thought to do. She turned the locks now, even while peering through the glass panes, but they were more decorative than functional. Beveled and tinted. Pretty, but useless.

  She backed up enough to flip on the outdoor light, then moved to the nearest window to push the curtains aside and peek out.

  She saw no one. Nothing. She thought she would have felt better if she had. A local dog trotting by or a neighbor out for a walk. Her cat had sensed something out there. But what?

  A car passed by, and its lights fell on a solitary figure, standing across the street. A man. Just standing there, staring at her house.

  Megan jerked away from the window, swallowed hard, then forced herself to lean closer again, to take another look.

  White sneakers.

  The attacker in the park had been wearing w
hite sneakers. It was the one thing she’d noticed, the way they stood out so prominently in contrast to the darkness of the night, and to his jeans.

  Jeans. White sneakers and blue jeans. Okay, at least she had something to tell Sam.

  What the hell was the killer doing outside her house? If it even was him. Hell, there were probably lots of men running around in white sneakers and jeans. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the little card Sam had given her. Then she dialed his number and prayed he would answer.

  Chapter 6

  Sam was leaving the victim’s hospital room when his cell phone bleated. He answered it, then said “Hold on” while a scowling nurse told him to turn it off or take it outside.

  “Sorry.” He headed toward the elevators, noting the signs that told him not to use a cell phone inside the hospital, something he’d already known and just hadn’t thought about as he’d rushed in. When the doors slid closed on him, he brought the phone up to his ear again. “Yeah?”

  “Sam. It’s Megan. There’s, um...there’s someone outside my house.”

  He blinked twice, his brain quickly processing her words, weighing the fear in her voice, and spitting out an interpretation he didn’t much like, and a rush of panic so overblown it bore further analysis. But later. “Where?”

  “He’s standing across the street. Just standing there, looking toward my house.”

  The elevator stopped and Sam stepped out of it, striding rapidly toward the exit doors and through them into the parking lot as he spoke. “Are your doors locked, Megan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You double-checked, all of them?”

  “Yes, I did that. Windows, too.”

  “Good girl.” He hit the lock release button on his car, got in, and started the engine. “I don’t suppose you’re getting any flashes? As to who this guy is or what he’s doing out there?”

  “No flashes. Just a gut feeling. It’s him, Sam. It’s the killer. I know it is.”

  He pressed the accelerator to the floor, speeding out of the parking lot. “I’m on my way, hon. Five minutes, tops. I’m gonna click over and call nine-one-one, but I’ll come right back on with you. All right?”

  “I...guess so.”

  “Just for a second, I promise.”

  “I’m scared, Sam.”

  “I know. I know. I’m coming for you.”

  He ran a red light while he manipulated the phone, hitting the flash key and dialing 911. He hit the flash key again to bring Megan back into the call as he took a corner so fast the car rocked to one side. “I’m back, Meg.”

  The dispatcher’s line was ringing, and in a moment he heard, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “Hold on,” he said. “Megan? Are you still there?”

  No answer.

  “Shit. Dispatcher, this is Detective Sam Sheridan with the Pinedale P.D., badge number seven eighty-five. I have a prowler, possible murder suspect, possible witness in danger, five-one-three Sycamore Street. I need immediate assistance.”

  “I’ll send cars right out. Detective. Can you stay on the line?”

  “No, I need the line open.”

  “All right then. I have officers en route.”

  She disconnected, but the line remained open. His call to Megan was still connected. “Meg?” Still no answer. His throat burned, and so did his eyes. He told himself he would be just as worried no matter who had been on the other end of that phone call, but he knew damn well it wasn’t true.

  There was something about Megan Rose. It felt as if she had sunk roots into his flesh, roots that had burrowed deep and twined themselves around his bones. He didn’t get this way about women. In fact, he’d made a conscious decision not to. Not ever. It wasn’t part of his emotional makeup and never would be. So what the hell was this?

  “Megan, for the love of God, answer me,” he whispered.

  Then there was the distinct sound of her phone hanging up. It shattered the silence on that line like a gunshot, and Sam’s last ounce of composure with it. He slammed the accelerator to the floor, his heart pounding in his throat. God, he’d had no idea how much that redhead had gotten under his skin until that very moment. It made no sense for One-Night Sam to feel this way about a woman he barely knew. And yet, he did. And there wasn’t much point in fighting it.

  Megan dropped the telephone when she heard rattling at her back door, then the sound of breaking glass. She was already racing for her front door when the heavy footfalls came from her kitchen toward her. Her hands shaking, she flipped locks, yanked the door open, and bolted outside into the night. She ran, damp grass and then cold pavement under her bare feet, cool air filling her lungs.

  A car came speeding toward her, its lights blinding her, tires squealing as it skidded to a stop. There was one moment of sheer panic before she stepped out of the headlights’ glare, blinked, and recognized the vehicle as Sam’s Mustang. And by then he was out of it, running toward her. His arms came around her powerfully and instantly. He held her hard against him, his grip ferocious, his heart pounding wildly beneath her head, one hand in her hair. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  She nodded against his chest, amazed at the power of his fear for her. Amazed at how odd it felt to have someone care this much, and at the way her own arms locked around his waist in return. As if there was something between them, as if they were important to each other. As if they had been for a very long time.

  “He’s in the house, Sam.” She didn’t want to say it. She would rather have just stayed there in his arms until everything was all right again.

  Gently, he pried her arms from around him, turned to face the house, and lifted the gun he had in his hand. God, she hadn’t even seen it there. “Get in my car,” he told her. “Lock the doors. Pull it off the road.”

  “Sam, I–”

  “Do it now, Meg.” He softened the harshness of the command with a tender look, a quick touch, his hand cupping her head briefly as his eyes compelled her to obey.

  She drew a shaky breath, nodded, and got into his car, then sat there watching in panic as Sam moved toward her house, the gun leading him. This wasn’t right. She was supposed to save this man, according to her recurring dreams. Not send him walking into what might be his death.

  Sam went inside, and she swore part of her went with him. Belatedly, she put his car into gear and pulled it off the road. But she had no intention of staying safe inside it while he risked his life. Swallowing her fear, she opened the car door, got out, took a few tentative steps along the sidewalk toward her home. “Sam?”

  No reply. She moved closer, turning up the walk to her front door. Behind her, sirens wailed and lights flashed as police cars came screaming up her road. Doors slammed, but she kept moving forward, shaking. “Sam?”

  A hand fell on her shoulder, stopping her. “Ms. Rose? You all right?”

  She nodded. “Sam, Officer Sheridan, he’s in the house. There was someone in there.”

  The cop turned, waving to others who were apparently awaiting his orders. He pointed to two and swung his hand in an arc, indicating the back of her house, then he pointed to another and nodded at the front door. “Sheridan’s inside. Possible intruder as well,” he said, his voice low but firm as the other officers moved past him to carry out his orders.

  Before they got far, though, Sam was coming out the front door, his gun holstered once more. When she saw him, Megan’s breath rushed out of her, and her muscles went soft.

  “Forget it,” he said. “Whoever he was, he’s long gone.” His eyes found Megan’s, held them as he came to her. She barely restrained herself from wrapping her arms around him, she was so relieved to see him safe. It wouldn’t look good, not in front of the other cops; she knew that. But Sam did embrace her, when he joined her there. He touched her with his eyes, with his serious but reassuring smile, with how close he stood, and his hand on her shoulder telling her it would all be okay.

  “Chief,” he said, nodding to the older m
an.

  “What’s the story, Sam?”

  “Chief Skinner, this is Megan Rose. She was a witness to the assault in the park tonight. An hour later she called in to say there was a prowler outside her house. Apparently, he broke in before we got here.”

  The police chief glanced at Megan, and she at him, now that she could tear her eyes from her own front door, and from Sam’s. The chief was an attractive man, perhaps fifty-something, lean, strong, with neatly cropped black hair that was graying at the temples, and friendly brown eyes. She knew that he knew who she was–the crackpot psychic he suspected of God only knew what.

  “You were inside at the time?” the chief asked her. His concern seemed genuine.

  She nodded.

  “That must have been terrifying for you.”

  “It was. I heard someone trying to get in the back door. Glass breaking. Footsteps. I ran out the front.”

  He nodded, looking again at Sam.

  Sam said, “Glass was busted out of the back door. Looks like he reached through and unlocked it, walked right in. We’ll want to dust it for prints.”

  “Terry, get that scene secured,” the chief said, sending one of the officers scurrying to obey. “I’m sorry you’ve been through so much today, ma’am,” he went on, focusing again on Megan. “Did you get a look at the man when you saw him outside your house?”

  “No. It was too dark. He was just a shape. White sneakers, jeans.” She shook her head, belatedly skimming ground level, noting all the shiny black shoes running this way and that way.

  “And what about the one in the park? Could you identify him?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, I didn’t get a look at him. But apparently, he got a pretty good look at me.”

  “You have reason to believe it was the same man?”

  Megan lifted her head, shifting her gaze to Sam’s, then back to the chief’s. “I don’t have a reason to believe it,” she said slowly. “But I believe it anyway.”