"You said you were six or seven when you lost them. Most people have memories, bits and pieces, at least, from much earlier than that."
He hitched one shoulder. "Well, I don't. If that's odd, I guess I am."
But again the shrapnel of violence and fear screamed into her head, making her wince in spite of her effort not to.
He hitched one shoulder. "Well, I don't. If that's odd, I guess I am."
But again the shrapnel of violence and fear screamed into her head, making her wince in spite of her effort not to.
He threw her another look, this one sharp and accompanied by a snort and a sardonic little smile. "I'm guessing you're picking up something. So? Come on, give. I can't wait to hear this."
She shook her head, looked up at the light and said flatly. "It's green."
A polite beep from someone's horn seconded the reminder, and the car jerked forward. They drove for two blocks in total silence before Tierney spoke again, in the same toneless voice. "You missed it."
"What?"
"That was my place back there. Where I live. You missed it."
Swearing, Wade flipped on the blinker and made a screeching right at the next corner. Once again silence reigned inside the car while he maneuvered around the block and into a parking space two doors from Jeannette's Gallery. He turned off the motor but continued to sit facing front, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. Tierney made no move to get out of the car. and neither did he.
Then he thought. What the hell am I doing?
Acting like a damn jerk, was what he was doing. And it wasn't him, the sarcasm, the mockery. He didn't like the idea of someone reading him-who would? But it wasn't as if she did it on purpose. And if she had picked up something from his thoughts-emotions, or whatever-so what? Far as he knew, he hadn't been thinking or feeling anything out of line. What was he afraid of?
He let out a breath, a wordless surrender. "Look, that was uncalled for. I'm sorry."
"I know."
He threw her a look in time to catch the remains of a smile, then gave a snort of laughter and ran a hand over his hair. "This is going to take some getting used to. And what happened to my being able to block you?"
She looked back at him with somber eyes. "I don't know. Maybe you let your guard down. Or maybe-"
"What?" he prompted when her gaze slipped away. He caught her arm and she brought her eyes reluctantly back to his. "Come on, what the hell did you see?"
"Feel"
"Whatever."
"It was bits and pieces-like a jigsaw puzzle all mixed up, so a lot of it didn't make sense. But I felt fear. A small child's fear-terror, actually. It was powerful."
She paused, and he gave her a shake. Not even aware that he did. "Go on."
"I feltviolence. Trauma. Really awful" Her voice broke and her eyes darkened, as if the violence she spoke of was reflected in them. Relentless, he was about to prompt her again when she caught a breath and went on. "But there's something else, too. Something else I-you- felt. Or remembered. Something changed. You felt comforted. The fear was still there, but it was less now, because someone, or something, came between you and the violence. You feltsheltered. Protected." She gazed at him, now with uncertainty in her eyes. "Maybecould that have been your parents? Does this mean anything to you?"
He shook his head. Became aware of the way he was gripping her arm and released her. Faced front again and groped blindly for the ignition key. He was all but vibrating with the strain of keeping himself and his thoughts and feelings blocked.
"Not a thing," he said as the engine roared to life.
Tierney nodded without comment, though he knew she didn't believe him. After several tension-filled moments, she opened her door. "Well. Anyway. Thanks for the ride home."
"No problem. I'll, uhI'll call you if anything develops. And by the way-good job today." She paused to give him a long look, and he felt compelled to add, "Really, You helped a lot."
She nodded, murmured. "Thanks," and closed the door.
He pulled out of the parking space and drove off with as much decorum as he could muster, considering how jangled he was, rather like a normally law-abiding citizen who'd just been ticketed for a traffic violation. He was sweating, and his jaws felt cramped.
He wondered if he'd been successful at keeping Tee Doyle out of his head.
He sure as hell hoped so. Hoped she didn't know she'd just described the nightmare he'd been having off and on since he was seven years old.
Chapter 4
That night he had the dream again, for the first time inhe didn't know how long. A couple of years. After Matt's accident, maybe?
It started the way it always did, him dreaming of waking up in the darkness, of being afraid, terrified. Heart racing and pounding, he was sweating and shaking, wanting to cry but knowing he was too big to cry. He didn't want to be a baby, did he? He didn't cry, he didn't. But his chest and throat hurt as if he did.
Then the noise. Terrible noises-things crashing, breaking, thumps and bangs, voices yellingscreaming. A man's voice yelling. A woman's voice screaming.
My mother's voice.
Yes. This time he knew it was his mother's voice-the screamingcryingbegging.
There were other voices, too, small frightened voices- not mine!-whimpering, "Mommy"
And finallyfinally the other voice, the one he'd been waiting for, praying for, soft as a breath blowing warm past his ear. Shh It's okayit's gonna be okay. I won't let him hurt you. Nobody's gonna hurt you. You're safe now. It's okay
He felt safe, then, and warm, and when the loudest noises came, he crouched down in the warm darkness and waited for the crashing and banging and screaming and yelling to stop and the lights to turn on, so bright they hurt his eyes. So bright he always woke up.
Once, when he was a kid, he'd told Matt about the dream. When he got to the part about the soft voice, Matt had nodded emphatically, the way those little bobblehead dogs do that people put in their cars. "I remember that," he'd said. "It was the angel."
Wade, being older and past believing in angels, but kindhearted enough not to want to hurt his little brother's feelings, merely asked. "How do you know?"
"I just do." Matt replied. "He always came when I was scared."
"He? A man angel? Aren't angels supposed to be ladies?"
"Uh-uh-not a man. a boy angel. Like us, only bigger. Boys can be angels, because if a boy dies, what else is he gonna be?"
That was a bit too much for Wade; it gave him a funny feeling in his stomach. So he'd said, "Boys are too ornery to be angels!" and pounced on Matt and tickled him until he almost wet his pants and had to dash off to the bathroom.
After that, when the bright lights came he'd tried to see the angel's face, but he always woke up before he could.
On this night, though, instead of going back to sleep. Wade lay thinking about the dream and Matt's "angel." Nothing had happened in his life so far to change his mind about the existence of angels, but But what? He had dreams about a presence that comforted him in times of danger. His little brother had an imaginary "angel" who did the same thing for him. He'd always chalked it up to bad dreams and Matt's vivid imagination, but evidently the presence was a powerful enough part of his own psyche that Tierney had picked up on it, and what did that mean? He had no memories of the years before he'd been adopted, which had happened when he was seven and Matt was five. Except
Tonight he'd dreamed he heard his mother's voice. Was that just a dream, or was it a memory?
If it was a memory, what about the rest of the dream? Was that a memory, too?
If the whole dream was a memory, what was it about, all the screaming and the noise? As a cop he knew the sounds of violence when he heard them. Could something really bad have happened in his childhood that he'd blocked all memory of, except for this one recurring nightmare?
If so, who in the he-uh, heck-is Matt's angel?
The logical conclusion would be Mom or Dad, he supposed. But again, his experience in law enforcement told him that if Mom was the one doing the screaming, it was most likely Dad doing the shouting. And banging.
Wide awake and sweaty, heart pounding. Wade threw back the wreckage of his covers and got out of bed. A glance at the clock on the nightstand told him he could have taken another hour, but he knew better than to try to sleep. Instead he walked to the window, yawning and scratching, and peered out at the familiar shapes of his neighbors' houses, just becoming visible in the thinning darkness.
In the above-garage apartment he rented from a nice retired couple named Hofmeyer. the bedroom window overlooked the street while the kitchen and sitting room opened onto a deck at the back which enjoyed the nicer and more private view of the neighbors' trees, shrubs and flower gardens. He was about to turn and make his way to the bathroom to begin the process of making himself ready for polite company, when a slight movement caught his eye. He froze, eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the source of the movement, which hadn't come again. Nevertheless, in the rapidly approaching daylight he found it-someone sitting in a car parked directly across the street.
No reason to think anything about that. Could have been someone waiting for his neighbor, running late for their car pool. Could have been-aw, hell, he knew it wasn't any of the things it could have been. Maybe it was what Tierney had said about someone watching him. and the fact that he was beginning to have some respect for that lady's "impressions." That, and the feeling in his gut. The cop sense that had kept him out of serious trouble a couple of times in his career told him whoever it was sitting out there in his dark car in the breaking dawn was there because of him.
He eased back from the window so as not to alert the watcher by any sudden movements of his own. In the darkness of his bedroom he found the pair of pants he'd worn the day before-on the floor right where he'd stepped out of them-and slipped them on. Barefoot, he quick-timed it down the stairs and out the door that opened onto the Hofmeyer's backyard. There, he closed the door silently behind him and paused a moment to listen. Heard the far-off hum of traffic, still fitful at this hour. Some muffled breathing-his own. Some rustlings in trees and shrubbery that could have been just about anything, but nothing he needed to worry about. Satisfied the watcher hadn't yet taken alarm, he slipped around the corner of the garage and started down the flagstone pathway at a tiptoe run.