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October
Oh God. In her sleep, Liza Parrish rolled over and tried to wake herself up. It was happening again. And she couldn't stop it.
"Shh, baby. Shush."
Liza closed her hand around the dog's muzzle and hunched down closer beside him in his hiding spot in the shadowy alley. The fact that he didn't protest the silencing touch was evidence of just how close to starvation this furry bag of skin and bones was.
He was lucky she'd come here after classes and work tonight, following up on a call to the shelter about an emaciated stray wandering the dock area that neither the county's Animal Control Unit nor the Humane Society had been able to catch. She'd get him back to the vet's office where she was interning—feed him a little bit of food and water, run some tests to make sure he wasn't infected with heartworm or some other debilitating disease, give him some love and a bath, and maybe just save his life.
But who was going to save her ?
She hoped the dog was the only one who could hear her heart thumping over the whoosh of the Missouri River, surging past only a few yards away.
Trying to calm herself so the dog wouldn't panic and give away their position, Liza blinked the dampness of the foggy night from her eyelashes. If only she could blink away the stench of wet dog and old garbage just as easily. If only she could blink herself to safety.
Her leg muscles were beginning to cramp in protest against just how long she'd been curled up with the knee-high terrier mix, hiding behind the trash cans and plastic bags that smelled as if they could have been left in this alley off the river docks ever since the warehouses on either side had closed. She was tired, aching, chilled to the bone—and scared out of her mind.
But she wasn't about to move.
Hearing two gun shots from the other side of the brick wall she huddled against did that to a woman.
Watching the two men waiting in the black car parked only ten, maybe twenty feet from her hiding space also kept her rooted to the spot. Her jeans were soaking up whatever oily grime filled the puddle where she crouched. The only warmth she could generate were the hot tears stinging her eyes and trickling down her cheeks.
Was this what it had been like for her parents and for Shasta? Endlessly waiting for death to find her. Fighting back the terror that churned her stomach into an acid bath. Driving herself crazy trying to decide whether, if she was discovered, it was smarter to fight or run for her life.
She felt her parents' terror. Felt her pet's confusion as he valiantly tried to protect them. Felt their senseless loss all over again.
Two gunshots.
Death.
And she had a ringside seat.
The dog squirmed in her arms and Liza absently began to stroke his belly, feeling each and every rib. "Shh, baby." She mouthed the words. She wasn't the only witness to this crime.
Eyewitness.
Almost of their own volition—maybe it was a subconscious survival streak kicking in—her eyes began to take note of the details around her.
Black car. Big model. Missouri plate B ? Or was that an 8? Oh hell. She couldn't make out the number without moving.
But she could see the men inside. She had a clear look at the driver, at least. He was a muscular albino man, with hair as shockingly white as the tattoos twining around his arms and neck were boldly colored. In the passenger seat beside him sat a black man. He was so tall that his face was hidden by the shadows near the roof of the car's interior. She could tell he was built like a lineman because he was having a devil of a time finding room enough to maneuver himself into his suit jacket.
The size of the black man was frightening enough, but the albino looked crazy scary, like he'd beat the crap out of anyone who stared crosswise at him.
She was staring now. Stop it!
Liza closed her eyes and turned away. She could note any damn detail she wanted, but if those crazy colorless eyes spotted her, she was certain there'd be no chance to tell anyone what she'd seen.
The gunshots had rent the air only a couple of minutes ago, but it felt like hours had passed before she heard the next sound. The sticky, raspy grind of metalon metal as someone opened the front door of the warehouse and closed it with an ominous clank behind him. At the sharp bite of heels against the pavement, she opened her eyes again. The black man was getting out of the car with an umbrella, opening the back door.
"No, Liza. Don't look." It was almost as if she could hear her mother's voice inside her head, warning her to turn away from the eyes of a killer. "It'll hurt too much."
"But I need to see," she argued, feeling the tears welling up and clogging her sinuses again. "It's the only way I'll be free of this nightmare."
"Don't look, sweetie. Don't look."
"I have to."
Liza squinted hard, catching sight of the back of a pinstriped suit climbing into the backseat of the car.
"No!" She threw her head back. She'd missed him. She hadn't seen the man who'd fired the gunshots.
The next several minutes passed by in a timeless blur. The car drove away. She'd seen fogged up windows, and a face through the glass. But it had been too vague. Too fast.
She didn't know what the third man looked like.
As she had dreamed so many times before, what happened next was as unclear as the mist off the river that filled the air. But Liza was inside the warehouse now, cradling the weightless black and tan dog in her arms, creeping through the shadows.
If there were gunshots, if there were killers, then there must be….
"Oh, my God."
Liza had no free hand to stifle her shock or the pitying sob that followed.
In the circle of harsh lamplight cast by the bare bulb hanging over the abandoned office door was a man. Lying in a spreading pool of blood beside an overturned chair, his broken, bruised body had been laid out in a mock expression of reverence. His twisted fingers were folded over his stomach. The jogging suit he wore had been zipped to the neck, and the sleeve had been used to wipe the blood from his face.
"Stay with me, baby." She set the dog on the floor, keeping one foot on the leash she'd looped around his neck in case he should find the energy to try to run from her again. Although she was in grad school learning how to treat animals, not humans, she knelt beside the man's carefully arranged body and placed two shaking fingers to the side of his neck. She already knew he was dead.
"Remember." Liza heard the voice inside her head. Not her own. Not her mother's. "Remember."
"I'm trying."
Barely able to see through her tears, Liza pulled her cell phone from her pocket and turned it on. She punched in 9-1-1. "I need to report a murder."
"Remember."
"Shut up." She tried to silence the voice in her head. She wasn't on the phone anymore. She was kneeling beside the body, reaching out to him.
The dead man's eyes popped open.
Liza screamed. She tried to scoot away. "No!"
His bloody hand caught hers in an ice-cold grip and he jerked his face right up to hers. "Remember!"
"No-o-o!" Liza's own screams woke her from her nightmare. She thrashed her way up to a sitting position. Panting hard, she was barely able to catch her breath. And though she felt the haunting chill of her cursed dreams deep in her soul, she was burning up.
"What the hell? What…"
She became aware of wiping her hands frantically, and then she stilled.
On the very next breath she snatched up the pen and notepad from her bedside table, just as she had been trained to do. Write down every detail she remembered from her dream before the memories eluded her. Dead body. Cold hand.
"Remember," she pleaded aloud. Before the body. There were gunshots. She put pen to paper. "Dead man. Two shots." And… and…
Blank.
"Damn it!" Liza hurled the pen and pad across the room into a darkness as lonely and pervasive as the shadows locked up inside her mind.
A low-pitched woof and a damp nuzzle against her hand reminded her she wasn't alone. She was home. She was safe. She flipped on the lamp beside her bed and with the light, her senses returned.
Three sets of eyes stared at her.
She could almost smile. Almost. "Sorry, gang."
The warm, wet touch on her fingers was a dog's nose. She quickly scooped the black and tan terrier mix into her lap and hugged him, scratching his flanks as she rocked back and forth. Liza couldn't feel a single rib on him now. "Good boy, Bruiser. Thanks for taking care of Mama. I'm sorry she scared you."
Not for the first time Liza wondered if the scrappy little survivor remembered that night more clearly than her own fog of a memory allowed her to. She traced the soft white stripe at the top of his head. "I wish you could tell me what we saw. Then we could make this all go away."
But she and her little guardian weren't alone. The nightmare might have chilled her on the inside, but her legs were toasty warm, caught beneath a couple of quilts and the lazy sprawl of her fawn-colored greyhound, Cruiser. "So I woke you, too, huh?"
Cruiser outweighed Bruiser by a good sixty pounds, and could easily outrun him, but a guard dog she was not. She was the cuddler, the comforter, the pretty princess who preferred to offer the warmth of her body rather than her concern. Liza reached down and stroked the dog's sleek, muscular belly as she rolled onto her back. "I know you're worried, too, deep down inside. I wish I could be as serene and content as you."
And then, of course, there was the furry monster by the door. Yukon's dark eyes reflected the light with something like contempt at the disruption of his sleep. Despite weeks of training and all the patience she could muster, the silvery gray malamute had yet to warm up to her. No amount of coaxing, not even a treat, could lure him to join her in bed with the other dogs. He didn't even mooch when she cooked in the kitchen. Yukon tolerated the rest of the household. He accepted the food and shelter she offered and ran or roller-bladed with her anytime she asked. She always got the feeling that he was looking for a chance to escape—to run and keep on running away from the prison he temporarily called home. No way was Yukon ever going to thank her for rescuing him from being euthanized by an owner who couldn't handle such a big, athletic dog. No way did he care that she'd been scared, trapped in a nightmare she'd relived time and again these past six months. No way was he going to offer one bit of his strength to make her feel any better. She spotted the crumpled notepad lying just a few feet away from him against the wall. "Nothing personal, big guy," she said. "Sorry I woke you."
Liza checked the clock. Four a.m. She'd worked the late shift at the vet clinic and had her applied microbiology review in another four hours. She should try to get some more sleep.
But she was wide awake in the middle of the night. She had no family to call, no arms to turn to for comfort. She was isolated by the very nightmare she desperately needed to share with someone who could help her complete the memories and then get them out of her head. But the KCPD and a restraining order from the D.A.'s office—to keep her identity out of the press—prevented her from talking to anyone but the police and her therapist about the gruesome crime she'd witnessed. She was alone, with no one but her three dogs for company.
She glanced over at Yukon, who was resting his muzzle on his outstretched paws again. He understood isolation. "But you like it better than I do, big guy."
With sleep out of the question and class still hours away, Liza shoved Cruiser aside and kicked off the covers. "Move it, princess."
Knowing she'd have extra fur and body heat to keep her warm, Liza kept the house cool at night. The October chill that hung in the air shivered across her skin as her bare feet touched the wood floor beside her bed. Instead of complaining, she let the coolness rouse her even further. After a few deep breaths, she stepped into her slippers and pulled on her robe as she walked past Yukon and headed for the kitchen.
The usual parade followed, with Bruiser right on her heels and Cruiser padding behind at a more leisurely pace. Yukon deigned to rise and come out of the bedroom, only to lie down outside the kitchen doorway. Liza brewed a pot of green tea, ignored her fatigue and pulled out her pharmacology text. She read her next assignment until the first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains above the kitchen sink.
It was 7 a.m. Late enough to politely make the call she'd been ready to make since the nightmare woke her.
The male voice on the other end of the line cleared the sleep from his throat before answering. "This is Dr. Jameson."
Great. She'd still gotten him out of bed. Now her therapist would think she'd had some kind of breakthrough. But all she had was the same familiar nightmare she wished would go away.
Combing her fingers through the boyish wisps of her copper-red hair, Liza apologized. "I'm sorry to wake you, Doctor. This is Liza Parrish. I think I'm…" She swallowed the hesitation. There was no thinking about this. Just say it and get on with it, already. "I want to try the hypnotherapy you suggested. I need to get the memory of that cop's murder out of my head."
"Can she tell meanything new or not?" The burly blond detective named Kevin Grove addressed the question across his desk to Dr. Trent Jameson rather than to her.
The gray-haired psychologist answered for her as well. "Possibly. Though she seems to be juxtaposing her parents' deaths with your crime scene, there were certainly a few more details in the account she shared with me this morning. She's certain there were two gunshots now. And that the victim's body had been arranged in a way that indicates the killer—or someone who was on the scene with the killer—cared about him."
"Uh-huh." Grove frowned, looking as skeptical as Liza felt.
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