The Dark Gate. Pamela Palmer

      The death visions were back.

      Larsen sat on the navy chenille sofa in her little houseboat and shook. Outside, the miserable day had slowly turned to a miserable evening, the sky darkening as if her mood were sucking the very color from the sky.

      It didn’t happen. It couldn’t have happened. Just a dream. A terrible, waking nightmare. She hadn’t had a premonition in fifteen years. Fifteen years. She’d thought they’d stopped. Prayed they’d stopped. How could she go through this again?

      Hours had passed since the wedding, yet her stomach still rolled and clenched as her mind forced her to relive the savage attacks. The blood. The rape of that poor girl.

      God.

      Sick guilt raked her insides with sharp claws. She’d fled. Instead of trying to stop it, instead of trying to save them, she’d fled.

      Hot tears burned the backs of her eyes as the weight of too many years, too many deaths, pressed her into the cushions. As a kid, she’d believed she caused them. She’d dream about people dying and they died. Her fault. The evil living inside her.

      She was eight when she saw her first premonition, the car accident that killed her mother and older brother, Kevin. She never told anyone, not even her father. How could she when she was afraid she’d somehow caused the accident? The last came when she was thirteen and saw her grandfather’s fatal tumble down the stairs.

      It never once occurred to her to try to change the outcome of one of her visions. Not until today. Not until she’d run…and not died.

      Restlessness forced Larsen to her feet and she paced the small houseboat, the court papers she should be reading all but forgotten in her hand. She was supposed to have died.

      Always before, the cursed devil’s sight had shown her the death of someone she loved. Her mom. Her brother. But this time she’d watched her own death. And that of a stranger. Why? What did it mean?

      As she paused at the window, her reflection peered back at her, riddled with a dozen dots of light from nearby apartments as if she’d captured the nightscape and her likeness in a single double exposure.

      She couldn’t have seen what she thought she’d seen. One man could not control the minds of so many. Veronica had called to tell her about the terrible attack that had occurred at the wedding and to make sure she was okay. Veronica said no one remembered anything. All those who’d been hypnotized, all those who’d killed, had awakened without any memory of what they’d done.

      But she hadn’t been hypnotized. She would have remembered. As would the man behind her. But she’d fled. And he’d died.

      A chunk of ice settled in her stomach. She turned toward the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine, hoping it would take the sharp edge off her misery. But as she reached for the refrigerator handle, the houseboat bobbed with the telltale lurch that heralded the arrival of an intruder. Larsen tensed. She rarely had visitors, and never uninvited.

      “Larsen?” The male voice was followed by the brisk rap of knuckles on the glass door. “Larsen? It’s Jack Hallihan.”

      Cop. Her heart sank even as her pulse leaped with a strange and unwanted rush of pleasure. She swallowed hard. She couldn’t very well ignore him. The blinds were still open. He knew she was here. She took a deep breath and started toward the door in her bare feet.

      Through the window she could see Jack Hallihan’s imposing form in the light’s soft glow. Exhaustion swept over her with the certain knowledge this was no social call. She couldn’t deal with his questions tonight. But refusing to talk to him would only make him suspicious.

      With a sigh, Larsen opened the door and slipped outside into the steamy night. If she let him inside, she might have more trouble getting rid of him. Closing the door behind her, she met the piercing blue gaze leveled on her. The small light above the door cast the bones of his face in high relief, making him look even more attractive, if such a thing were possible. Heat radiated from his body and twined with the spicy scent of his aftershave, stimulating her senses.

      Distance. She needed distance. She tried to move past him, but he reached for her, sliding the rough pads of his fingers down her bare arm, sending awareness dancing over her skin. Larsen looked at him, startled by the unexpected touch. His eyes had widened as if he were as surprised by the touch as she was. Why was he here? To continue his earlier line of questioning her about what she saw at the church? Or was he here for more personal reasons? She wasn’t sure. All she knew for certain was that he couldn’t succeed at either.

      She threw him her stock glare, hoping to cover for the way she’d reacted to his touch, and led him aft, away from the lights, where those eyes of his couldn’t see quite so much. At the back rail, Larsen turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest.

      “What can I do for you, Detective?”

      He came to stand beside her, leaning a hip against the rail. Too close. She sensed a restlessness in him, a tension, that made her question the wisdom of seeking out the dark.

      “I was worried about you.” His voice was as deep and rich as she remembered, a calming voice that nevertheless turned her pulse strangely erratic. She felt his probing gaze like a physical stroke. “How are you feeling?”

      “I’m fine.” A lie. Tension coiled deep in her stomach. They both knew he wasn’t here out of concern for her supposed migraine.

      “I assume you heard about the murder.”

      Even knowing why he was here, she couldn’t stop the jerk, the small involuntary movement she prayed he hadn’t noticed.

      “Yes, I heard.” But her voice was no longer steady. Just the mention brought it all rushing back. The blood. Somehow she had to convince him her running from the church was innocent, or he’d never leave her alone.

      “The best I can figure…” he said, cocking his head and crossing his arms over his chest in a way that warned she had some serious explaining to do. “It happened about twenty minutes after I saw you outside the church.”

      Her muscles bunched with the need to put distance between them, if not to outright run, but she knew better than to show fear to an adversary.

      “Seems my migraine was timely.” She pretended not to see his frown. Instead, heart racing, she looked up at the clouds blotting out the night sky, glowing a dull orange with the reflection of the city’s lights. She felt him staring at her.

      For long moments he watched her, studying her, turning her breath quick and shallow.

      “Here’s the thing.” His tone was almost conversational. “I interviewed dozens of people today. Not one of them saw anything. They were upset, sure. A dead body and blood will do that.” He straightened, moving until he blocked her escape, his gaze sharp enough to cut. “But of all the people I talked to who attended that wedding, only one had eyes with the wildness that comes from witnessing violent crime. One.”

      He leaned toward her until he was almost in her face. “You.”