Dancing in the Dark Read online

  Everything was dark, the only disruption the glass scattered on the floor. “Sara?” As before, the name echoed through the empty hall, unanswered. Edging up the stairs he worked his way to the bedroom, swinging around the door-jamb, his eyes searching every nook and cranny.

  Clothes were draped over a chair, and a towel had been thrown across the bed. He reached out to touch it, the dampness indicating she'd been here recently. Holstering his gun, he walked into the bathroom, breathing deeply, her perfume still lingering in the air. The counter was littered with cosmetics, a brush teetering on the edge. She'd obviously been in a hurry.

  To get back to him.

  The thought echoed through his brain, taunting him, and his gaze locked on a small jewelry box. Open, the blue velvet lining highlighted the gold of Sara's wedding ring. He wasn't certain why she'd taken it off, but he was certain that the act was momentous. She wore the ring like a shield, using it to hold the world at bay.

  Spurred on by anger and fear, he tore through the rest of the house, searching every corner, finally, standing alone in the empty kitchen.

  “If she was here, she's gone now.”

  Eric spun around to look at his partner, Tony's face mirroring his own anguish. “Did Nate say anything?”

  Tony shook his head. “He's still out. But the paramedics are here, and they don't seem to think he's in any danger. Just a nasty bang on the head.”

  “Any sign of Jenkins?”

  “He's dead. I found him in the bushes. His neck's broken.”

  “Nate?”

  “It would make sense, except that you haven't found Sara. Are you sure you looked everywhere?” Tony's voice was gentle, but Eric rounded on him anyway.

  “Positive. There's no blood in the house. And no body. She's not here.”

  “So what the hell happened?”

  Eric clenched a fist, trying to focus; he wouldn't help Sara if he had a meltdown. “I don't know. The front door was locked. Nate was obviously trying to get in when someone hit him.”

  “Well, it wasn't Jenkins. From the looks of it, I'd say he's been dead a while.”

  “So that leaves Sara. But if she did it, then where the hell is she? None of this makes any fucking sense.”

  “There's no sign of anyone outside.” A uniformed officer came in through the back door. “But there are footprints. Heading toward the alley.”

  “Get the techs out there. Maybe they can tell something from the tread. And have someone check this kitchen.” Eric barked the orders, but to the man's credit, he simply nodded and turned to make it so.

  “Let's get the hell out of here,” Tony said. “Nate's on his way to the hospital. And the sooner we question him, the sooner we can begin to piece together what happened here.”

  Eric nodded, still fighting against his fear. He had to hold on. Had to keep focus. It was the only way they were going to find Sara.

  Sara opened her eyes slowly, trying to remember where she was. The room didn't look familiar at all. She started to sit up, but just turning on to her side sent her head reeling, the world tilting on its axis, her stomach roiling. Lying back, she breathed deeply, closing her eyes, concentrating on stilling the chaos inside.

  The last time she'd felt like this she'd been in college, head hanging over the toilet, fighting the effects of one too many glasses of Blue Nun. Only this time she hadn't been drinking.

  Memory came back with a vengeance.

  Nate.

  She blew out a breath, forcing herself to open her eyes. To focus. She needed to talk to Eric. To tell him what had happened. She sat up, fighting for equilibrium, her beleaguered brain finally taking in her surroundings.

  She wasn't at the hospital. She wasn't anywhere she recognized at all. The room was a kaleidoscope of color: apple green curtains over what appeared to be a boarded-up window, an orange hang-ten throw rug on the floor, and a bedspread that could have passed as the original model for flower power. The bedside table was piled with battered books, the top one called Wildfire at Midnight, the one below it The Tropic of Capricorn.

  Everything was battered, dingy almost. An old snapshot from the sixties, right down to the rows of beads hanging in the doorway. She inched her way to the edge of the bed, and with a concentrated effort, tried to stand.

  Teetering, she reached out to the night table for balance, then slowly took a step forward. One step followed another, and although she felt light-headed, she held away moving to stand by the window. It was indeed covered with boards, the night visible through the cracks, dark and inscrutable.

  She frowned, her mind trying to play out the events that had led her here. She'd been with Ryan. He'd talked to Eric, and then they'd been heading for the hospital. Ryan had said that Jenkins was handling Nate. Was it possible that Nate had somehow managed to turn the tables? Could he have overtaken Ryan as well?

  She struggled to remember, but everything was fuzzy. She remembered Ryan being there. Remembered all that had led up to his appearance but try as she might, she couldn't remember leaving. Didn't remember anything really except drinking coffee and needing Eric.

  Coffee.

  Her stomach churned, threatening revolt, but she fought the urge, turning back to face the room again, her eyes drawn to the back wall. Filled with shadows, it appeared to be lined with record albums, some of them filed, some hanging on the wall like artwork. Intuitively, she recognized the artist, her blood turning to ice, but her mind refusing to accept what her eyes were telling her without confirmation.

  Still fighting nausea, she walked to the wall, pulling out one album and then another, her heartbeat ratcheting up with each discovery. Songs for Swinging Lovers, Come Dance With Me, Songs for Young Lovers, Strangers in the Night.

  Frank Sinatra.

  They were all Frank Sinatra. She shuddered violently, the enormity of the thought sending her stomach into spasms again. This time her stomach won, and she scrambled for a wastebasket, making it with only seconds to spare.

  Gasping for breath, she perched on the edge of the bed again, jumping at the sound of the door opening, Ryan's smiling face nailing the truth down once and for all.

  “You're awake.” He sounded as if he'd spirited her away for a romantic weekend, his expression concerned, caring. “I'm sorry I had to spike the coffee, but I was fairly sure you wouldn't come any other way.”

  She fought the urge to throw up again. “Where are we?”

  “Someplace safe.” He walked over to the bed, reaching out to touch her, but she shied away, pushing herself back against the headboard. “Ah, Sara. Don't turn away. There's nowhere to go. Besides,” he stroked her cheek, his eyes almost sorrowful, “we don't have much time.”

  The words were terrifying, robbing her of strength, reality warping, twisting into something evil. She thought of the other women, sharing their horror, their last minutes on earth, then closed her eyes, pulling an image of Eric front and center.

  Eric. Her future. A lifeline amidst all the madness. She couldn't die here, not like this. Not when for the first time in two years, she had a reason to live. No. She wasn't going down without a fight.

  Shifting so that her back blocked the nightstand, she edged closer to Ryan. “What do you mean?” she asked, forcing a smile. “We have all the time in the world now that we're finally together.”

  He frowned, obviously confused by her about-face. “But you're in love with Eric.”

  Sara fought the urge to retch, and shook her head, her hand closing on a book. Not the best of weapons, but it would have to do. “I had no idea you were interested. Why didn't you tell me?”

  “I did.” He studied her, weighing her words, suspicion mixing with hope. “And you told me that if it weren't for Charlie and Tom, you'd have fallen for me. Don't you remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” she lied, leaning closer, feigning interest, her insides collapsing in on themselves as the reality of his words drove home.

  “Well, I did it. I got rid of them. But you still
didn't come to me.”

  With energy born of raw hatred, she swung the book, the spine connecting with his head with a satisfying thwunk. Then she hit him again, the second blow catching him full in the face, the force driving him off the far side of the bed, his head cracking against wallboard.

  In an instant she was running for the door, yanking it open, beads swaying with the motion. She slammed it behind her, searching for a lock, a dead bolt. She sure as heck wasn't going back for the key, so she dragged a chest of some sort in front of the door. The door opened inward so the chest wouldn't stop him for long, but he'd have to move it, and that bought precious time.

  The hallway was short, two doors; one a bathroom, the other a closet. Ignoring both, she ran through the opening at the end of the hallway, skidding to a stop, taking precious seconds to orient herself.

  A living room. She was standing in a living room. Sparsely furnished. A table, a couch, and in the corner what passed for a kitchen. Another door opened off the adjacent wall. But it was too small for a hallway, and was definitely not the front door.

  A noise from behind her set her heart racing. Ryan was up and moving. She pivoted, eyes searching, dismissing the boarded window and a cubby that looked like a pantry or closet, finally settling on an alcove on the same wall as the door, almost hidden by shadows.

  A crash, followed by a curse, echoed down the hallway. Ryan had hit the chest. Sara ran for the alcove, praying that it held the front door and that the door was unlocked.

  One out of two didn't count.

  The door was there, but the double-key lock mocked her, the sound of Ryan's footsteps in the hall signaling that her time had run out.

  “Where the hell is Sara?” Eric's voice was contained, but that didn't stop his anger from contaminating every word.

  Nate Stone shrank back against the pillows of his hospital bed, shooting a pleading look at Tony, who was leaning against a wall by the door, arms crossed, his expression inscrutable.

  “Don't look at him. Look at me,” Eric demanded.

  “But I've already told you. I don't know where Sara is.” The man was just this side of terrified, and despite the evidence, Eric found himself wondering if Nate was actually capable of the atrocities he'd been accused of.

  “Then tell us what you do know.” Tony straightened, coming to sit beside the bed, his voice gentle, playing good cop to Eric's bad cop, which was probably just as well because Eric's stance was not an act.

  Nate swallowed, then drew in a shaking breath. “I went to Sara's to take her the contact sheets from the shoot she did with Allison Moore's family. I thought we could discuss the article. But when I got there, I found Jenkins.”

  “You just happened to be poking around the shrubbery?” Eric asked, not even trying to contain his sarcasm.

  “The wind caught the sheets and they blew out of my hands. Some of them went into the hedge. That's how I found him.” His eyes met Eric's, obviously begging him to believe.

  “Seems a bit of a stretch, Nate,” Eric growled. “Why didn't you call for help?”

  “My cell phone was in the car, and all I could think of was getting to Sara.” Nate licked his lips, his gaze darting from Eric to Tony and back again. “I tried to open the door, but it was locked, so I started pounding and screaming for her. I was afraid something had happened, that whoever had killed the officer had hurt her. But then I saw her. In a flash of lightning. Only she was backing away from me, as if I were something to be afraid of. So I threw a rock at the door. I wanted to break the glass and get in. To warn her.” He shot another look at Eric, then faced Tony again, his anxiety apparent. “The next thing I remember is coming to here.”

  “So, according to your story, Sara was alive the last time you saw her.”

  “Yes.” Nate nodded. “She was definitely alive.”

  Anger mixed with hope, leaving Eric torn between relieved and frantic. “Then where the hell is she?” He banged his hand down on the tray table, the plastic top rattling in the sudden silence.

  Nate winced. “I told you. I don't know.”

  Eric threw his hands up in frustration. “This isn't getting us anywhere.”

  “Look, I'm not the Sinatra killer,” Nate pleaded. “I swear it.”

  “Then maybe you can explain why your fingerprint was found on the boom box left at Molly's.” Eric waited, watching, everything hanging on their ability to get Nate to confess, to tell them what he'd done with Sara.

  “I turned it off.”

  Eric frowned; Nate's answer surprising in its simplicity. And something Claire said moved front and center. Molly had been tied, and she wouldn't have had the strength to get the ropes off. At least not by herself. “You called it in. You helped Molly.”

  Nate nodded, his eyes filled with tears. “I came by to see if she wanted to go to lunch. I wanted to talk to her about something. She was really good at listening. But when I got there, the door was open, and I could hear music playing. I knocked, but she didn't answer, so I went inside and found her there.” He covered his face with his hands, the memory overwhelming him. “I untied her and pulled her off the chair. Then I called for help.”

  “Why didn't you stay with her?”

  “I didn't want anyone to know I'd been there.” Nate looked up, his face crumpling in on itself. “I even tried to wipe everything clean.”

  “But Molly's blood was on the phone.” Tony's frown was intense, and Nate winced.

  “I put it there. It was easy enough. There was blood everywhere.” Nate stared down at his hands. “I wanted to cover my tracks. I thought if you knew, considering my past, you'd think it was me. Like before.”

  Not only had the man not come forward, he'd tampered with the scene. Eric fought to contain his anger. “You're talking about the Wichita Falls murders.”

  Nate nodded. “It wasn't me, but the detectives there wouldn't listen. They just took a look at my past and assumed I was the one.”

  “They had to have more reason than that, Nate.”

  “There was a witness who said she saw a man loitering in the area of the first murder. She picked me out of a lineup. But she recanted later, said she really hadn't been able to see that well.”

  “So they dropped the charges.” Tony shrugged, his tone purposefully flippant.

  “That didn't matter; the damage was already done. You can't imagine what it was like. Everyone in town thought it was me. I couldn't walk down the street without people whispering. I can still see their faces. It was like I was a monster or something. Only I hadn't done anything. Don't you see, I couldn't go through that again. I just couldn't.”

  “So you didn't tell anyone you were with Molly.”

  “But I called. That has to count for something, right?” The tears fell, his misery a tangible thing. “I didn't hurt Molly. And I didn't hurt Sara. They're my friends. Don't you see? I couldn't hurt my friends. That's why I broke Sara's door. I was trying to help her. And I want to help you. But I can't tell you what I don't know.”

  Eric ran a hand through his hair, disappointment threatening to unravel his hard-won control. Nate was sticking to his story and they weren't any closer to finding Sara. Which left them absolutely nowhere. Sara was out there somewhere, and he didn't have a fucking clue.

  A policeman entered the room holding an envelope, but before he could say anything, Eric's phone rang. Leaving the officer to Tony, he turned his back, plugging an ear so that he could hear. “D'Angelo.”

  “It's Brady. Claire got a hit on the print from your car. I'm faxing the report over to the hospital, along with the file. It's a prior from New Orleans. Guy by the name of Roy Graham. The record dates back almost eighteen years, so the picture is questionable. And to top it off the guy's apparently been clean ever since. There's not a whisper of him in Louisiana or Texas. But I thought you'd still want to see it. Stone give anything up?”

  “No. He swears he's innocent.” Eric looked over at Nate, frustration peaking again.

  “And
still no word from Sara?”

  He shook his head, the silence answering for him, then clicked the phone off, and turned to face Tony. “Brady's sending something over.”

  “Way ahead of you.” Tony slit the envelope, pulling out the contents. “Hanson brought it.” He tipped his head toward where the officer was still standing, then looked down at the paper in his hand. “Son of a bitch.” He held out the sheet, his expression grim.

  Eric took the page, eyes narrowing as he studied the picture there. Roy Graham couldn't have been more than fifteen, but his features were clear—the line of the nose, the set of the eyes, even the fall of his hair exactly the same as Ryan Greene's.

  Chapter 29

  “Sara.” Ryan's voice was harsh, his breathing heavy. Which meant she'd hurt him. Small comfort, but she'd take what she could get. Moving faster than she'd have thought herself capable, she dashed through the second doorway, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  This room was smaller. Probably meant to be a bedroom, it was obviously being used as a storeroom. Grabbing boxes at random, she piled them in front of the door, knowing they wouldn't hold him back for long, but hoping to buy enough time to escape.

  The light switch was behind the boxes, but there was a floor lamp off to her left. She ran over to it, turning the switch, praying that it worked, relief rushing through her when it did.

  The light was weak, casting long shadows across the room, making it hard to make anything out except her immediate surroundings. Still, it was better than before. Determined to see more, she took a step forward, staring into the dark, waiting for her eyes to adjust, immediately regretting the action.

  There was someone in the room with her. Someone sitting. Watching.

  She pressed backward against the boxes that blocked the door, her mind scrambling to figure out how Ryan could possibly have gotten in. Then she heard him behind her, felt him slamming against the door.

  Someone else was in front of her.

  Despite her fear, she inched forward again, straining into the shadows trying to see. As if on cue, the lamp flickered, then brightened. A scream rose and died, terror drying her mouth, cold sweat prickling along her arms and hairline.