The Dark Gate. Pamela Palmer
of strings, the guests stood at attention, blank-faced and splattered with gore. At their feet lay Larsen’s and the unknown man’s mutilated remains.
They’d killed her. The blood roared in her ears.
He’d killed her. The pale, evil puppet master who’d controlled the others.
His thin face wore an expression of fevered satisfaction as he thrust his hips against the bridesmaid, taking her from behind. White hair whipped around his head as if a small whirlwind attacked him alone.
He suddenly looked up at the point from where Larsen watched the premonition, like an actor staring directly into the camera.
With a frown, he looked at her body and then back at her.
He saw her. The hair rose at the back of her neck and she mentally jerked back. He saw her watching him. Eyes narrowed with a malevolent light, he leveled his index finger at her menacingly, then shook his head and the vision was gone.
“Miss, are you okay? Miss!”
Larsen blinked, pulse pounding. The room swam back into view, exactly as it had been before, the wedding festivities still in full swing, the guests eating cake. A woman she didn’t know was pushing her onto a chair.
“Sit. I’ll get you some water.”
“No.” Terror tore at her lungs. Pain exploded in her head. He’d killed her.
“I—I’m not feeling well.” Her stomach rolled and clenched, and she lurched to her feet. She was going to be sick. “I’ve got to go.”
Larsen stumbled from the room and pushed through the outer door to the empty playground at the back of the church. She clutched at the rough brick wall and vomited onto the dirt.
He’d killed her. And she’d seen it. She’d seen it.
Dear God, her death visions were back. Larsen sagged against the wall and swiped a trembling hand across her mouth. Not again. She squeezed her eyes closed. Not again.
She pushed herself away from the wall and started across the parched yard on legs that suddenly felt too long for her body. The curse that haunted her life had lain dormant for more than fifteen years. She’d thought the nightmare was over. Every night she prayed her devil’s sight would never return. Now it was back. People were going to die.
She was going to die.
Chapter 2
Jack felt like a lovesick teenager, though he was acting more like a stalker as he sat on a bench under a large oak across the street from the All Saints Church and waited for Larsen Vale to emerge from the wedding reception.
He had to see her again.
He had to know if she’d really quieted the voices or if the gut-kick reaction he’d gotten from touching her had somehow short-circuited his brain so much that he simply hadn’t heard them for a moment. And if she really could quiet his head? Then he had to convince her to stay by his side for the rest of his life. That simple. That impossible.
He leaned back against the uneven bench slats and stretched his legs out in front of him as the Monday afternoon traffic passed under a hazy summer sky. On the sidewalk in front of him, tourists walked by with their guidebooks and fanny packs.
Sweat rolled down his scalp as the ever-present voices conspired to further destroy his sanity. As a kid he’d barely noticed the noise, the voices little more than static in the background of his thoughts. Not until he was in high school did the sound escalate and distinguish itself as a mob of individual, though unintelligible, voices. But even that he’d learned to deal with until these past couple of weeks, when they’d begun to grow louder, more numerous, more agitated, by the day. He shoved his hand through his damp hair, pressing his fingers against his scalp.
Shut up. Just shut up.
But, if anything, the horde in his head grew even louder. With an angry flick of his thumb, he pushed up the volume on his iPod in a useless attempt to drown them out, and concentrated on watching for Larsen.
What were the chances she’d believe he just happened to be hanging around Dupont Circle this afternoon? That he just happened to be walking by as she left the wedding reception?
Jack grunted. Nil. Hell, even if she did believe him, her secretary would give him away the moment she told Larsen he’d stopped by her office this morning looking for her. Police business, he’d said.
He was so screwed.
His only chance of success depended on him knocking her off her feet with a single lethal blow of his charm. Yeah, right. The formidable Ms. Vale was probably immune to any man’s charm.
Damn, this sucked. He’d never had trouble attracting a woman before. He was the one women accidentally ran into, never the other way around. Now here he was, broiling in the summer sun, praying the woman would give him the time of day. She had to. He had to know if her touch was really his salvation.
A movement across the street caught his attention—a woman in a bright green dress walking out from behind the church. Stumbling, more like it. Her hair shone like gold in the sun. Her dress was splattered…red.
Larsen.
He lunged to his feet and dashed across the busy road, weaving between the traffic, heedless of the honk of horns and the squeal of brakes as he completely forgot his pretense of running into her by accident.
In the minute it took him to cross the street, she’d pulled herself together and now walked calmly, almost normally. Except he was a cop and knew better. There was a paleness to her face and a wildness in her eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday.
Those eyes were pointed straight at him, but he could swear she didn’t see him.
“Larsen.”
She visibly started, then stopped abruptly, blinking as if disoriented. As he watched, she pulled herself in and away, snapping a cool facade in place. Once more, she was the remote woman he’d met before.
“What are you doing here?” she asked with only a hint of a wobble to her voice.
“Screw that. What happened to you? You…” He motioned helplessly at the red dotting her dress. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the spots. From a distance, they’d looked like blood.
She glanced down at herself. “I spilled my punch. Once again, what are you doing here?”
Either she was amazingly adept at hiding her emotions, or he’d screwed up. Badly. But he saw something move in her eyes, a glimmer of the fear he was convinced she struggled to hide, and he knew his instincts were dead-on.
Her cool facade crumbled and she cringed and pressed her palm to her forehead.
“What’s the matter?” Jack curled his fingers around her forearm to steady her, but the moment his fingers brushed her skin, his head noise went silent. The “Hallelujah Chorus” nearly erupted from his mouth.
It wasn’t his imagination. She quieted the damn voices.
Slowly she lowered her hand. If she’d been anyone else, he might have thought he saw a sheen of tears in her eyes.
“I don’t feel well. I’m going home.”
He tightened his grip on her arm. “What happened in there?”
Her response was a moment too long in coming. “Nothing. I have a migraine. I want to get home before I throw up again.” She looked pointedly at the hand still gripping her arm, avoiding his gaze.
“Larsen…” His cell rang and he grabbed his phone and checked the Caller I.D. Police business. Hell. He stared at her, torn, as the percussion beat of his ring tone continued. He could see the faint tremble of her ripe lips, a tremble echoed in the vibration of her arm beneath his fingers.
Her gaze suddenly snapped to his. “Are you going to get that?”
“Yeah.”