Wake to Darkness

“No, Mason,” she whispered. “No one would be better off knowing their father, husband or son was a serial killer. No one. Trust me on this.”

He nodded slowly. “It’s been eating at me. Keeping that secret.”

“You did the right thing.”

God, he’d needed to hear her say that again. He didn’t know why, didn’t need to know why. It was a relief, that was all.

“They must have that new baby sister by now, though, right? Marie was out to here last time I—”

“Stillborn,” he said softly.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, Mason. I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve called.”

“What good would that have done?”

She blinked real tears from her eyes. “Poor Marie. First her husband and then her baby. I’d ask how she’s doing, but...” She just shook her head.

“Yeah, she’s having a hard time of it. Keeps saying she’s being punished.”

“For what, for heaven’s sake?”

He shook his head. “She’s grieving. We can’t expect her to make sense.”

“And the boys?”

“Josh is good. He’s eleven, you know? It’s Christmas. They bounce back at that age. They spend a lot of weekends at my place, including this one when I get back. I pick them up after school and take ’em to the gym to shoot hoops every Wednesday when they don’t have any other commitments.”

“Josh is good,” she said, homing in on what he’d left out.

She was good at that. Good at reading between the lines, good at sensing the things people didn’t say. He’d never seen anything like the way she could tell when someone was lying and read the emotions behind their words.

“But Jeremy, not so much?” she asked.

“He’s seventeen.” He said it as if that said it all, but then reminded himself that Rachel had nieces, not nephews, and it might not be quite the same. “He’s not bouncing back like Josh. He’s morose. Brooding. Quiet. Withdrawn. Didn’t even go out for basketball this year. Would’ve been his first year playing varsity, too.”

“Sounds like he’s depressed.”

“Marie thinks he’s been drinking. Said she smelled it on his breath when he came in late one night.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Mason.”

“It is what it is. They’ll come back around. It just takes time.”

Then he lifted his head and tried to do the same to his mood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. I should be focusing on the positive, right? That’s what your books would tell me to do.”

“It’s hard when there’s so little positive to find,” she said. Then she stabbed him with those insightful eyes of hers. “What about you? How are you doing, Mason?”

He had to think about his answer. “Work’s been busy as hell. We just had a local vet murdered, his office torched with him in it.”

“I read about that. You have any suspects?”

He shrugged. “He and his wife were both having affairs, heading for divorce. The drug cabinet was demolished, no way to tell if anything was missing. Who the hell knows?”

She nodded. “But that’s work. I didn’t ask how work is, I asked how you are.”

He lowered his head. “I don’t know, Rache. I feel like I’m in some kind of limbo. Waiting for something really big and really bad.” He met her eyes again. “Like it’s not finished yet.” He knew that she knew what he was talking about.

“It’s got to be finished,” she said, and she said it really softly. Like she was afraid to press their luck by saying it out loud.

A waitress brought their sandwiches, each accompanied by homemade chips and a six-inch pickle spear. They dug in, ate for a while. She started with the chips. He remembered a line from one of her books. Eat dessert first in case you’re going to choke to death on your broccoli. It made him smile to see her living by those words.

When he was half finished, he rinsed his mouth with coffee and said, “So...about this case. It’s a missing person. The name was familiar, and I realized it was one of Eric’s organ recipients.”

She went still, but only for an instant. Then she just shrugged and kept on eating. “Coincidence.”

“There’s no such thing as coincidence. You wrote that yourself.”

“Every self-help author spews that line. No one even knows who came up with it first. It’s universal. Doesn’t make it true.”

“I kind of think it does.” But he took another bite as he contemplated, and then said, “I figured I should at least ask if you’d had any dreams. Like before.”

“Before, when I was riding along inside the head of a killer, you mean?”

“Inside the head of another person who got one of my brother’s organs. If you can see them when they’re committing crimes, maybe you can see them when they’re the victim of one. Right?”

She bit, chewed, swallowed, taking her time. Delaying her answer. “It was so traumatic before that I think my mind’s kind of...taken over.”

“In what way?”

“Every time I start to dream, I wake up. I have the same startle response you have when you dream you’re falling, you know what I mean?”

He did. “So is it any time you dream at all, or only when it’s one of those...psychic connection dreams?”

“How the hell would I know? The dreams never play out.”

“No dreams ever play out?”

She averted her eyes, and her cheeks turned cherry-red. “Well, sure. Some do.”

Was it crazy for him to hope that blush was because those dreams were about him? And that they were sexy as hell? Like the ones he’d been having about her since he’d seen her last?

“But I can say for sure that I haven’t had any dreams about any harm being done to any people. Besides, you said this was a missing person, not a murder victim, right?”

“Right. It’s a missing person. But...”

“But what?”

“According to the family, this isn’t someone who would just up and vanish. Housewife. Soccer mom. PTA, all that. You know?” He got an idea and ran with it before his brain told him not to. “It would be like if your sister Sandra suddenly just up and vanished. You wouldn’t think she did it voluntarily, right?”

“No, I wouldn’t. Not like when my transient addict brother up and vanished and I assumed he’d just turn up after a while, like he always did. Until he didn’t.”

“I’m sorry. That was a bad— I’m sorry, Rachel.” He covered her hand with his.

She nodded, then twisted her arm to look at her watch. “I have to go.”

“How are you getting back?” he asked.

“Alone, Mason. I’m getting back alone.” She pushed the final chip into her mouth and left half the sandwich on her plate, along with the entire pickle. “Thanks for lunch. I hope things get better for your family soon.”

He nodded. “Thanks. Merry Christmas, Rache.”

“Merry Christmas, Mason.”

2

Friday, December 15

I would never get tired of seeing my home. Not just because I hadn’t been able to see it until this past August, but because it was so freaking beautiful. All steep peaks and those half-round clay shingles on the roof like broken flowerpots. It was partly rich maple wood planks and partly cobblestone, and it always reminded me of a fairy-tale cottage. Only bigger. Way bigger. It sat near the dead end of a long dirt road that bordered the Whitney Point Reservoir, which really looked more like a great big lake. The road and my wrought iron fence were the only things between my place and the shore. There were woods all around me and the giant meadow where the house sat, rising up above the rest like a jewel on top of a crown.

The driveway was gated, because, let’s face it, I’m kind of a big deal. But the gates were open, as they usually were, and I drove right on through and up to the attached garage where my precious T-Bird was parked for the winter, with my niece’s first car parked beside it. She’d still had school this past week, so she’d needed her car to drive back and forth. My winter ride was a Subaru XV Crosstrek, brand-new in tangerine-orange, all-wheel drive with all the extras, and tougher than nails. The thing was more sure-footed in the snow and ice of the rural southern tier of New York State than a mountain goat. I loved it. Not as much as my collectible T-Bird, but it was close. I think Myrtle liked it even better than the yellow ’Bird. Heated leather. She liked her ass warm.

Everything had been brown and barren when I’d left to hit the talk show circuit, but now there was a fluffy blanket of snow on everything. I’d never had eyesight in the winter before. Not since I was twelve, anyway. My fairy-tale cottage looked more like Santa’s workshop now, and the sight of snow clinging to the branches of the towering pines had me gaping like an air-starved trout. And I’d thought fall was gorgeous.

Damn, I love where I live.

I parked outside the garage instead of taking the time to drive in. I wanted to walk in the snow and gawk at my view some more. But as soon as I was out and inhaling my first icy, pine-scented breath, the front door opened, and Myrtle came running right down the steps and along the curving stone path to my feet, where she wiggled against my legs. My gorgeous niece Misty stood in the doorway, shaking her head but grinning.

You couldn’t not love a blind bulldog.

I crouched down and rubbed Myrt’s ears, kissed her face. “Hey, little boodog. Did you miss me?”

“Snarf,” she replied. Which meant, only if you brought me something edible.

Fortunately, I had. “Come on inside and I’ll give you a treat.”

She followed me in, trotting along all on her own. She’d become completely confident in finding her way around her home base. As long as I didn’t leave things out of place, you’d never know she was blind. Away from home she was a lot more dependent, but here, she ruled.

“How was the trip?” Misty asked, moving her tall and impossibly thin frame aside to let Myrtle and me come in. Like there wasn’t already room.

“It was great, but I’m glad to get home.” I gave her a hug. “I brought you something, too, to thank you for taking care of Myrt.”

“It was fun. We watched all your appearances. You really kicked ass, Aunt Rache.”

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” I frowned and sniffed. “What smells so good?”

“Amy’s making you a welcome-home dinner. Pulled pork or something with an equally pornographic name.”

“Ooooh.” I don’t know if I said that, or my stomach did. Amy worked for me, but she was not my cook or housekeeper, so this was above and beyond the call of duty. I didn’t even have a cook or housekeeper and didn’t want one. I liked my space, didn’t like other people poking around in my stuff. I shucked my boots and coat, leaving them where they fell, and headed for the sofa to collapse. “God, it’s good to be home.”

When my short, slightly round assistant and right-hand woman finally emerged from the kitchen to tell us dinner was served, I didn’t want to get up.

“Amy, if we can eat in here I’ll give you a Christmas bonus.”

She grinned, dark red lipstick making her teeth look whiter, thick black eyeliner making her skin look paler. She dressed like an aspiring Addams Family member. “You always give me a Christmas bonus.”

“Then I’ll give you a bigger one. Please?”

She shrugged. “It’s your house.”

“It is, isn’t it? Then I decree we eat in front of the TV like a bunch of real rednecks.”

“I’m gonna bring everything in, then,” Amy said. “You clear off the coffee table.”

I saluted her and cleared off the magazines, books and catalogs with a sweep of my arm. “Done.”

“God help us all,” Amy muttered.

“Give me your keys, Aunt Rache. I’ll go get your luggage for you.”

“You are definitely the good twin. I don’t care what your mother says.” I nodded at my coat, lying like a red puddle by the front door. “They’re in the pocket.”

A few minutes later we ate. My luggage was in my room, my coat and boots magically in the closet, and the gifts from the Big Apple had been delivered. I’d managed to get two signed photos from Rusted Rail, a band they both adored, who’d also been guests on one of the talk shows I’d done. I was no longer sure which one. It was a blur at this point. The girls were thrilled. We talked into the night, and then Amy went home for the first time in several days, and Misty headed up to the guest room.

I walked around the house after it was quiet again. There was no cleanup to do; Amy and Misty had done it for me, knowing I always came back from these trips exhausted. And I was.

But there was more on my mind than being wiped out. I was thinking about Mason Brown’s visit and what he had said, and yes, I was feeling guilty for not telling him everything. The thing was, this phenomenon where I would start to dream, then be immediately startled wide awake, hadn’t been happening all that long. I mean, I’d sort of implied to him that it had been happening ever since we nailed the Wraith and went our separate ways. But it hadn’t. I hadn’t had another one of those terrifying vision-dreams since, so I guess my brain had seen no point in waking me up. Until about two weeks ago, give or take. But it had happened five times since then. I would start to dream, and bam! I’d be sitting straight up in bed with my eyes wide open, that startle reflex waking me right up. And every one of those times I’d been sure the dream I was about to enter wasn’t an ordinary one. It had felt like the other ones. Those terrible, horrible visions when I’d been seeing through the eyes of the serial killer whose heart beat in another man. And whose corneas had restored my eyesight.

Two weeks. That was how long he said the transplant recipient had been missing. A person who had received organs from the same donor. Mason’s brother, Eric, the original Wraith. What if my dreams had been telling me where she was, what had happened to her? What if I could have helped her?

It’s not my job. I’m not a caped crusader, I’m a self-help author.

But what if I could help? I mean, really, was it asking too much to just have a damned dream? Even a nightmare. It couldn’t hurt me, after all. It wasn’t real. It was a dream.

I suppose I could try to let one play out. What harm is there in that?

Images from the earlier visions started to creep in like black ink spilling over my brain, but I shoved them away. “It’s just a missing person,” I told Myrt. “She might be in trouble. I need to let the dream play out, because that’s what any decent human being would do.”

Nodding, my decision firmly made, I headed for the stairs. “Come on, Myrt. Bedtime.”

She was right beside me, hadn’t left my side since I’d gotten home, and she trotted up the stairs, happy as hell. She’d lost a few pounds since I’d adopted her. Our long walks were doing her a world of good, despite the fact that she acted like they were sheer torture.

I took a long hot shower while Myrtle lay on the bathmat in front of the shower doors, snoring. Then I put on my jammies—a white ribbed tank and panties—brushed my teeth and opened my medicine cabinet. There was some PM-style pain reliever, the closest thing I had to a sleep aid. I popped two of them, and then Myrtle and I went to bed.

She walked up her little set of doggy steps, and I knew she’d missed sleeping with me. I wondered where she’d been spending her nights while I’d been gone. With Misty, or in here all alone? She stretched out on top of the covers, as close to me as she could manage. I rolled onto my side and put my arm around her, and she sighed as if all was right with her world again. She was snoring within ten seconds.

And then I closed my eyes and hoped I was wrong. That there would be no vision. That there was no connection between me and the others who’d received organs from my donor. Mason’s brother. The dead serial killer. None at all.

* * *

I was dreaming. I knew I was dreaming because I wasn’t me, I was someone else. I was lying on my back on the ground. I could feel the icy cold earth underneath me and the snow around me. It was freezing. I couldn’t move. I was awake, I was breathing, but I couldn’t move, and I was terrified.

Someone was with me, crouching over me. I angled my eyes until they hurt, but I couldn’t see them, really, because I couldn’t move my head and I was lying flat and naked in the snow.

Naked? No, not quite. I was wearing a dress, but it lay open on either side of me, sliced up the front. I could just make it out in my peripheral vision. I could feel something tight around my waist, like panty hose. And there were shoes on my feet, a little too tight in the toes.

All I could see was the night sky, dotted with stars and—

Ohmygod, something’s cutting me!

An ice-cold blade flashed in my vision and drove into my abdomen, and the pain screamed through me. And I tried to scream, as well, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. It was cutting me. Oh, God, it was cutting me. I felt the blood, warm and running over my naked skin. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe!

I was going to suffocate. Let it be fast! Faster than the cutting! Oh, God, no more.

But there was a tearing, ripping. My lungs seemed to spasm in my chest, hungry for air, but I could not take a breath. Black spots started popping in and out of my vision. My head was going to explode. My torso was on fire with pain, and my heart was pounding like a jackhammer in my chest, or trying to.

Something was torn from my abdomen, and it rose up, into that tiny area within range of my vision. It was pink and dripping, and clutched in a gloved hand. A piece of me!

And then blackness descended. Merciful death caught me in soft hands. The pain went away from me. Or rather, I went away from the pain.

* * *

I screamed until my bedroom door was flung open and Misty stood there with a baseball bat in her hands. She wore cute flannel PJs, and her perfectly straight, perfectly platinum hair was in her face as she shrieked, “What the fuck!”

Hearing that particular word from my seventeen-year-old niece seemed to do the trick. I clamped my jaw and blinked my vision clear, pushed my hair off my own face and turned on the bedside lamp. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Misty, I must have scared the hell out of you.”

“You okay?” She lowered the bat.

It made me proud to think she would come running to my defense if I really was being attacked in my sleep.

“What happened, Aunt Rache?”

Someone paralyzed me and cut out one of my organs while I lay there unable to move. Good God.

“Aunt Rachel?”

“Bad dream, kid. Just a bad dream.”

She heaved a big enough sigh that I knew she’d been truly scared. “Jeeze, I thought someone was murdering you.” She let the bat drag on the floor as she came farther into the room.

Someone was. Only not me. Another of Eric’s organ recipients. Dammit, Mason was right. It isn’t over.

“Aunt Rache? You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Look, I’m sorry, kiddo. You want to curl up here for the rest of the night?”

“Only if you promise not to wake up screaming again.”

I looked at the clock. 4:00 a.m. The pills would have worn off by now. “I’m pretty sure I won’t.”

“If you do, I swear, I’m gonna hit you with this bat.” She stood it up against the headboard and climbed under the covers.

Myrtle snuggled back down between us and started snoring like a chain saw.

“Hope you don’t mind sharing with a bulldog,” I said.

“She’s been in bed with me every night since you left. I kind of missed her, to be honest.”

“Yeah, she has a way of getting under your skin, doesn’t she? Good night, Misty.”

“Good night, Aunt Rache. Sweet dreams. And that’s an order.”

I turned off the bedside lamp. Of course the night-light was on. I always left the night-light on.

Saturday, December 16

Seeing Rachel again after almost a month had had an impact on Mason that he hadn’t expected. He’d thought their one-night stand had been based on the drama they were going through, and the sense of intimacy between them on the secret they shared. No one else in the world knew the truth about his brother. Or that he’d concealed evidence to protect his family—his mother, his pregnant sister-in-law, his nephews. He loved those boys like his own. No one knew what he’d done but Rachel.

He knew she needed time to figure out who the newly sighted Rachel de Luca was. He’d been relieved by that when she’d said it, because he’d convinced himself that their roll between the sheets hadn’t meant anything special. And he wasn’t ready for anything more than that, anyway. He’d just lost his brother, betrayed his oath of service, become the only father figure in his nephews’ lives. There was no room for anything else.

Even the way he kept thinking about her at odd moments, and the idiotic way he’d set his damned DVR to record anything that had her name attached to it, had seemed like no big deal. But seeing her again...that had hit him like a mallet between the eyes.

And now he was starting to wonder if maybe what connected them was more than just the traumatic situation they’d gone through together, the secret that they shared. Hell, he’d seen through her masks so easily on that talk show yesterday that she’d seemed completely transparent. But she wasn’t, she couldn’t be, or the entire reading public would see through her, too, right?

No, it was only him. And he saw more than the mask she wore, the positive-thinking public persona. He saw through the cynic she thought she was to the real Rachel. And it made him want to see her even more.

A door slamming downstairs reminded him that he wasn’t alone. It was the weekend, and his nephews, who usually showed up on Friday nights, had been delayed an extra twelve hours due to his trip into the city to see Rachel. They would not be put off any longer.

“Uncle Mason!” Joshua yelled. “Aren’t you up yet?”

He rolled onto his side and blinked at the clock. 8:30 a.m. Kids had no respect for sleeping in. Flinging back the covers, he sat up, gave his head time to adjust to being vertical, then shouted back, “I’ll be right down.” He needed a shower, but in the meantime he pulled on pajama bottoms, a T-shirt and a pair of nice thick socks, because his old farmhouse had cold floors. Giving his hair a rudimentary flattening with his hands, he headed downstairs.

Jeremy was in the living room, on the sofa, already manning the Xbox controller. His expressionless eyes were glued to the TV screen, and his brown hair was even longer than it had been last weekend. He refused to get it cut.

“Hey, Jer,” Mason said.

“Hey.”

Nothing, not a flicker. It was par for the course with Jeremy lately. Only a little over four months since his father had shot himself in the head in Mason’s apartment. Two and a half months since the teen had busted into a remote cabin where a madman was about to kill both Mason and Rachel. Jeremy had picked Mason’s gun up off the floor and shot the bastard dead. Just like that. He hadn’t even hesitated. The kid was depressed over the loss of his father, traumatized over having killed a man.

Mason scuffed into the kitchen where Marie had a pot of coffee brewing, and was taking mugs from the cupboard. She looked his way as he entered and smiled, but her eyes were dead, too. Like Jeremy’s. Her smile was fake. Forced. Her baby girl had been stillborn a few weeks ago. Her husband had killed himself three months before that. The woman was so destroyed he thought a stiff wind would knock her over. But she was putting on a brave face for her boys’ sakes, doing the best she could. It validated for him yet again that he’d done the right thing by hiding Eric’s suicide note. The family was barely holding on as it was. Imagine how much worse it would be if they knew that their beloved husband and father was a serial killer.

“Sorry we got here so early,” Marie said. “Josh was in the car with his backpack an hour ago. I put him off as long as I could.”

“It’s fine. I should have been up by now.”

“It’s your downtime. You know you could skip a weekend if you wanted.”

“And do what, sleep till noon and stare at the walls all day? Nah. I need these guys around to keep me from going to pot.”