The Maze
Page 83
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He knew it wasn't a good idea, but he was worried about her. Truth be told, he didn't want to think about his motives. He was wearing boxer shorts, nothing else. No, this was definitely not a good idea.
He got under the covers with her, lay on his back, and pulled her against him. She settled her face on his shoulder, her hand on his bare chest. He pulled the covers as high as her ears.
She was stiff. "It's okay," he said, hugged her against him hard, then eased up. "You want to tell me about it?"
He felt her jerk, her breath fan over his skin. She was still afraid. He just waited. He began to stroke her back-long, even strokes. Finally, she said, "It was a nightmare, a stupid nightmare. Talking about Belinda probably brought it on again."
"What do you mean 'again'? You've had this dream before?"
She was quiet for a very long time. At least she wasn't shuddering anymore. He was hoping she'd keep talking. Getting her to open up was turning out to be one of his toughest assignments. And he was beginning to seriously doubt his strategy for calming her down. In the silence he noticed how uneven his own breathing had become. He began breathing deeply. "Tell me about the dream, Sherlock."
It was near dark, she was cocooned in blankets against him, she was safe, her mind wasn't on alert, and so she said, her breath warm and light against his skin, "I was the one in the warehouse, or I was with Belinda, or somehow a part of her.
I don't know. But in the dream it's as if I'm the one who was there, I was the one in his maze, the one he was supposed to kill, not Belinda. Then I went through the whole thing in Boston. I truly believed it would bring me full circle, but it didn't."
"I'm not understanding all of this."
"No wonder. Sometimes I think I'm mad."
"Talk to me." He kissed the top of her head. It wasn't a good move. "Talk to me," he said again, his voice lower this time, deeper, because he was aware of her woman's body against him, aware of her scent, aware of her hair on his shoulder, tickling his cheek.
"Every time I've had the dream in the past, it's gone a bit further. He hasn't yet killed me, but this time I woke up just as he raised the knife."
He waited, just held her, and waited. He could feel her tensing, feel her heart speeding up. "Say it, just say it, Sherlock. What is it?"
"I know, Dillon, I know that when that knife comes down I'll die."
It was no longer dark in the bedroom. It was a soft pearly gray, yet dark enough so that it was still just two people sharing confidences in the night. He knew she had to tell him all of it now or she might never tell him. She was vulnerable now. He didn't know how much longer it would last. Probably not long.
"The dream began just after Belinda was murdered?"
"Yes. I've thought about it and thought about it over the years. It's as I said before-if I'm not the one who's there, then it's as if I'm actually following her same path, feeling the terror she felt." Her fingers clutched the hair on his chest and he jerked a bit.
"Sorry, Dillon. Oh my, you're not wearing any clothes. I'm sorry. I hadn't realized before."
"It's all right. I'm wearing boxer shorts. Ignore it. How long since you've had the nightmare?"
"Well over a year. This time I went through it all the way to the center of the maze and he was there, only it was so dark I couldn't see him, but I saw the silver arc of his knife. Then 1 screamed and it woke me up."
"Do you think what you did in Boston brought the dream back?"
"I don't know. Probably."
He was silent for a moment, then said very quietly, "So this was why you were so sure exactly what Marlin was going to do. It wasn't just the Profilers' reports, it wasn't all the study you've done during the past seven years, all the thought you've given to it. You knew every step. Because of the dream, you knew each move to make, each move he would make."
"Yes. But it still doesn't make any sense, does it?"
"Not just this moment, but it will sooner or later."
"I have studied him. The Profilers had it right-he hated women who cursed, and that's why he cut out their tongues. What they couldn't have been certain about was that the women also bad-mouthed their husbands. But I knew it was true. That's why I had to be the bait-I knew exactly how to get him to come after me, I knew which buttons to push. He didn't have to doubt for a second that I was the best candidate for punishment around.
He got under the covers with her, lay on his back, and pulled her against him. She settled her face on his shoulder, her hand on his bare chest. He pulled the covers as high as her ears.
She was stiff. "It's okay," he said, hugged her against him hard, then eased up. "You want to tell me about it?"
He felt her jerk, her breath fan over his skin. She was still afraid. He just waited. He began to stroke her back-long, even strokes. Finally, she said, "It was a nightmare, a stupid nightmare. Talking about Belinda probably brought it on again."
"What do you mean 'again'? You've had this dream before?"
She was quiet for a very long time. At least she wasn't shuddering anymore. He was hoping she'd keep talking. Getting her to open up was turning out to be one of his toughest assignments. And he was beginning to seriously doubt his strategy for calming her down. In the silence he noticed how uneven his own breathing had become. He began breathing deeply. "Tell me about the dream, Sherlock."
It was near dark, she was cocooned in blankets against him, she was safe, her mind wasn't on alert, and so she said, her breath warm and light against his skin, "I was the one in the warehouse, or I was with Belinda, or somehow a part of her.
I don't know. But in the dream it's as if I'm the one who was there, I was the one in his maze, the one he was supposed to kill, not Belinda. Then I went through the whole thing in Boston. I truly believed it would bring me full circle, but it didn't."
"I'm not understanding all of this."
"No wonder. Sometimes I think I'm mad."
"Talk to me." He kissed the top of her head. It wasn't a good move. "Talk to me," he said again, his voice lower this time, deeper, because he was aware of her woman's body against him, aware of her scent, aware of her hair on his shoulder, tickling his cheek.
"Every time I've had the dream in the past, it's gone a bit further. He hasn't yet killed me, but this time I woke up just as he raised the knife."
He waited, just held her, and waited. He could feel her tensing, feel her heart speeding up. "Say it, just say it, Sherlock. What is it?"
"I know, Dillon, I know that when that knife comes down I'll die."
It was no longer dark in the bedroom. It was a soft pearly gray, yet dark enough so that it was still just two people sharing confidences in the night. He knew she had to tell him all of it now or she might never tell him. She was vulnerable now. He didn't know how much longer it would last. Probably not long.
"The dream began just after Belinda was murdered?"
"Yes. I've thought about it and thought about it over the years. It's as I said before-if I'm not the one who's there, then it's as if I'm actually following her same path, feeling the terror she felt." Her fingers clutched the hair on his chest and he jerked a bit.
"Sorry, Dillon. Oh my, you're not wearing any clothes. I'm sorry. I hadn't realized before."
"It's all right. I'm wearing boxer shorts. Ignore it. How long since you've had the nightmare?"
"Well over a year. This time I went through it all the way to the center of the maze and he was there, only it was so dark I couldn't see him, but I saw the silver arc of his knife. Then 1 screamed and it woke me up."
"Do you think what you did in Boston brought the dream back?"
"I don't know. Probably."
He was silent for a moment, then said very quietly, "So this was why you were so sure exactly what Marlin was going to do. It wasn't just the Profilers' reports, it wasn't all the study you've done during the past seven years, all the thought you've given to it. You knew every step. Because of the dream, you knew each move to make, each move he would make."
"Yes. But it still doesn't make any sense, does it?"
"Not just this moment, but it will sooner or later."
"I have studied him. The Profilers had it right-he hated women who cursed, and that's why he cut out their tongues. What they couldn't have been certain about was that the women also bad-mouthed their husbands. But I knew it was true. That's why I had to be the bait-I knew exactly how to get him to come after me, I knew which buttons to push. He didn't have to doubt for a second that I was the best candidate for punishment around.
