If Looks Could Kill Page 2

  Harry Nore was evaluated and then incarcerated in a north Florida institution for the dangerously insane. He had a frightening, nearly toothless grin that was spread across the nation on the covers of the major magazines. He looked the part of a homicidal maniac, and the police and the investigators and the folks from the D.A.’s office were pleased, telling Madison and her family that at least they would not have to live with the agony of an unsolved murder. Nore had been found with the murder weapon, and he had confessed to the crime. Madison couldn’t understand why she didn’t feel as satisfied as she should that justice was being done. She wondered if it was just because locking Harry Nore away wouldn’t bring Lainie back. Or was it the presence of fingerprints, when she knew the killer had been wearing gloves?

  The police were happy, and even Harry Nore was happy. He didn’t have to beg out on U.S. 1 anymore. He was fed three times a day.

  Life went on. Madison had never thought that it could; but it did. She never stopped hurting for her mother. But though the ache remained, the raw, jagged edge of pain was dulled by acceptance. Even the sensationalism at last died down, and only now and then would a cable channel run a program about Lainie and her wild life and tragic death.

  She and Kaila went to live with their father. Kyle, Jassy and Trent went away to different universities. Rafe finished at Florida International University and went to New York to work on Wall Street. Madison went to school, dances and parties, tried out makeup, shaved her legs, pierced her ears and temporarily dyed her hair a brilliant blue for Halloween. Seasons passed; she fell in and out of love. Her father married twice in three years. Both women were gone so quickly she barely remembered their names.

  She began to forget that she had actually seen the knife coming down as it killed her mother.

  Began to forget…

  She was young, and life went on. She would always love Lainie, always remember her. But each day the little things began to matter more. Her sisters and brothers. Jassy, who looked after her. Kaila, who needed her. Rafe and Trent, who were gentle with her. Kyle, who was kind for a while, then infuriating, then strong, or gentle, when she needed help the most. Life had to be lived.

  Pain and fear gradually faded.

  But she was the spitting image of her mother.

  And the terror was destined to follow her.

  1

  Twelve Years Later…

  Madison felt the dream wash over her, and instinctively, even in her sleep, she fought it. She tried to awaken. No good—she was entangled in it.

  She heard herself laughing, except that it wasn’t really her. She was the other woman, the woman in the dream. Pretty, auburn-haired, charming. Out for the night with a charismatic man. She was so excited. The feel of anticipation was exhilarating. They were going to make love. She wanted to. She wanted to be swept away, seduced, and when the weekend was over, she would finally share him, his name, with her friends. She would laugh and tell them what a wonderful lover he had been; at work, she would share intimate little secrets about how incredibly romantic he was, how erotic their affair could be, and she would be so happy, a woman in love with her handsome lover, a man who loved her, as well….

  Madison knew that something was wrong. She screamed inside the dream, but to no avail. She was the pretty woman, and she was swept away by the excitement, the longing, the human desire to be touched and adored…. Oh, God, there was something so pathetic about being so needy.

  The landscape swept by the car. Madison did and didn’t recognize it. She wanted to wake up, to stop what was happening, but she couldn’t.

  The couple laughed and teased. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she saw the woman’s beautiful dark red hair whipping in the wind as they drove.

  Darkness descended. Time elapsed….

  They were in a bedroom. A shadowy hotel room. She was laughing again, so delighted. They kissed, murmuring. He undid the buttons of her blouse…one by one…touched her, stroked her….

  Madison wanted to look away; she felt like a voyeur, watching such intimacy. The redhead was willing to do anything. Anything to please her lover. Naked, they entwined on the bed. She let him turn her over, onto her belly. His fingers threaded into her hair, drawing her head back. She only twisted her head slightly, looking back at her lover, and it was then that she saw…

  The knife…oh, God, the knife, descending…

  Madison woke up, desperately choking back a scream. Carrie Anne was watching a video in her room; she couldn’t alarm her daughter. Oh, God, she was still shaking. She hadn’t had such a horrible, realistic dream in a very long time.

  She looked at her watch. It was nearly five in the afternoon; she’d promised to sing tonight. She hadn’t intended to fall asleep, hadn’t meant to nap. And she certainly hadn’t meant to dream. And, oh, God, such a dream, so horribly, painfully vivid and terrifying…

  She got up and paced her room for a moment, then dialed Jimmy Gates at the office. He was still at work.

  “Madison?” he asked when she started talking, explaining.

  “Jimmy, this dream…”

  He listened as she talked.

  “Jimmy, has anything happened? Do you know anything about what I’m telling you?”

  He hesitated, and she winced. Yes, something had happened.

  “I don’t know…. I mean, I’m not sure if the scenario’s like you’re describing or not, but…Listen, I’m on an investigation. I was going to call you anyway, after the weekend. I need your help. You’re spending the weekend down at your dad’s, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll pick you up at your place Monday morning. We can get going from there, huh? Try to have a good weekend. Give Carrie Anne a kiss for me, will you? Maybe I’ll even get down there. And don’t worry—there’s not a thing you can do for anyone now except yourself, okay?”

  She nodded and hung up, then sighed, glad because the terrifying vividness of the dream was already fading. She hated it when she had such dreams.

  She drew a brush through her hair. Well, she’d called Jimmy. She would do what she could, as she had a few times in the past. Thankfully, it was rare that the dreams came to her. When she could help, she did. Yet she knew that she couldn’t cure all the evils in the world. She couldn’t even cure all the problems in her own family.

  The dreams had started with her mother’s death.

  She lay down on her bed again, staring up at the ceiling, wishing she didn’t feel so overcome by memories. She hadn’t had any strange visions for five years after her mother’s death.

  Then she’d had the first of the dreams.

  In her dream she was walking away from an unknown house. Quietly. Tiptoeing. She realized that she held a gun. She heard noises and saw a car. She was angry, somehow aware that it was her car, and that someone was trying to steal it.

  She crept out and raised the gun….

  There was a violent pain in her arm, and she cried out, then woke up, rubbing her arm and shaking.

  She was in her bedroom at her father’s house, the room she shared with her sister Kaila. Kaila was across the room in her own bed, just waking up, rubbing her eyes. “Madison? Madison, what’s wrong?” She jumped out of bed and came hurrying over to Madison’s bed, sitting beside her.

  They often fought, as most sisters, especially those so close in age, fought. But there was also a warmth between them. They were very unalike in personality, yet so similar in appearance that they might have been identical twins.

  “It was nothing, just a dream,” Madison assured Kaila quickly.

  “Did you hurt your arm?”

  “What? No?” But she was still rubbing her arm, even though there was nothing wrong with it. She shook her head sheepishly. “No, no, I’m fine. I had a nightmare, but it’s all right now. Sorry I woke you.”

  “What was it about?”

  “It was stupid. I was somebody else, in a different house. Someone was trying to steal my car, and I had a gun and was going to s
top what was happening—then someone hit my arm, and I woke up. Dumb, huh?”

  Kaila shrugged. “Well, different. You sure you’re okay now?”

  Tomorrow they would be fighting over makeup or who had taken whose new jeans. But for now…Madison nodded, and Kaila gave her a quick, fierce hug and went back to bed.

  A few days later, when Madison still felt the dream nagging at her, she called Jimmy Gates. He wasn’t in, and, feeling foolish, she left no message except her first name.

  That afternoon, when Madison was driven home by Darryl Hart, the Hart-Throb of the school, she was startled to see a car in her father’s expansive driveway, with a familiar man leaning against it. Detective Jimmy Gates. He was a little bit older now, showing premature signs of silver at his temples. He looked distinguished, befitting a man who’d gotten a number of promotions and citations during the five years since Lainie’s murder.

  She stared at him, feeling increasingly uneasy. She shouldn’t have called him. She’d just had a dream, that was all.

  Darryl behaved like the perfect high school stud he was, setting protective hands on her shoulders. “Who is he? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Darryl. He’s an old friend of the family. I think we probably need to talk alone. Call me later tonight?”

  “Sure. Except maybe I shouldn’t leave you alone with him. So much strange stuff happens these days.”

  “It’s all right, Darryl. He’s a cop.”

  Darryl drove away unhappily, watching her in the rearview mirror as he backed out of the drive. Jimmy smiled at her. “Hi.”

  “Hi, Jimmy. You still playing ‘Miami Vice’?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “You know there’s no such thing,” he said.

  “Homicide,” she said flatly.

  “Yeah, I’m still homicide. And I need to know why you called.”

  She hesitated, then told him about the dream, apologizing for calling him while trying to sound matter-of-fact and not like a fool.

  Jimmy looked off into the distance, hesitating, then stared at her. “Have you heard about the Peterson case?”

  She nodded and tried to pretend that a strange, cold sensation wasn’t sweeping over her. She’d heard. Everyone in the city had heard. Earl Peterson had gotten his legally licensed handgun out of the cabinet where he kept it carefully under lock and key, to go outside when he heard noises by his car. He had tussled with someone outside and been killed with his own gun. He’d been found by his wife at six o’clock the following morning.

  “I think maybe you can help me,” Jimmy said.

  “You do?” She shouldn’t have called him. She felt ill. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help him—she just wished she didn’t have the knowledge to do so.

  “You have something, Madison. Something special. Will you help me?”

  She hesitated. Her father wouldn’t like it, but she was almost eighteen. She had seen Mrs. Peterson sobbing softly on television, and if she could do anything to ease the woman’s suffering, she would.

  She walked toward the car, and Jimmy opened the passenger door for her. She slid into the seat.

  They drove to the crime scene.

  A BMW sat in a tree-lined drive. Madison walked over to it, so alarmed by the cold, dark sensation sweeping over her that she nearly backed away. Only the memory of Mrs. Peterson’s tearful appeals kept her moving.

  Then she stood still.

  She closed her eyes. She had a vision of night; of a feeling of anger. She could hear breathing, controlled, growing heavier. Mr. Peterson. She saw his hand, saw the weapon he held as he carefully, angrily moved around the BMW toward the large, shadowy figure trying to break into the car. She started violently as a second figure—unnoticed until then—suddenly stepped from the shadow of a large palm tree to slam his arm down on Mr. Peterson’s. Mr. Peterson dropped the gun with a gasp. Madison cried out, feeling the pain in her arm—the same pain she had experienced in her dream. She hunched down, hugging her arm to her body. Seeing.

  The man picked up the gun. Mr. Peterson looked up at him. “Now, wait—” Peterson began.

  The gunman, a tall, thin white man with a blond crew cut, looked down at Peterson and calmly pulled the trigger twice.

  Madison felt the force of the bullets ripping into her chest. She didn’t cry out, but she clutched her breast, feeling the impact.

  And the cold. The awful cold assailing Peterson as his lifeblood began to drain away…

  And still she saw. Saw the killer turn with his shadowy companion and race across the street into a heavily overgrown vacant lot.

  The killer paused and started to run back, but his companion stopped him, urging him forward again. Madison saw them run again, saw until the icy fingers of death eroding Peterson’s vision turned the picture to black.

  Jimmy was at her side, helping her up, trembling himself. “I shouldn’t have done this. Jesus, look at you. You’re soaking-wet, shaking…”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I’m all right. I’m all right. Honestly.” She hesitated. “I can give you a description of the killer.”

  Jimmy ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure I believe this myself. How am I going to get anyone else to believe that you can…see things?”

  “Cops do make use of…of…” she began, but broke off, wincing.

  “Psychics,” Jimmy supplied.

  She shook her head. “I’m not psychic. This has only happened to me twice. But I can give an artist a good description of the killer.”

  Madison did give the police a description, and an artist created a damned good sketch of the man.

  Through the sketch, they found the man and brought him in for routine questioning. Thinking that the police had more on him than they did, he broke down and confessed to the killing of Earl Peterson. After that, Jimmy made Madison promise to call him anytime she had strange dreams.

  But the next time she had such a dream, it was far more personal. And it changed her life.

  Madison graduated from high school with honors. She intended to go to school in Washington, D.C., and major in criminology—just like Kyle, who had recently acquired his master’s degree and gone to work for the FBI.

  Kyle came to her graduation. They hadn’t seen much of each other in recent years; he had been away, and Lainie’s death had more or less split up the “family.” But he came to her graduation, along with all her other assorted siblings.

  He brought his brand-new wife. Her name was Fallon, and she was perfect for Kyle, being perfectly beautiful. He was so tall, dark, well-muscled and good-looking; she was petite, blond, amber-eyed, slim and hourglass-shaped. Madison was surprised to find she wanted the woman to turn out to be a bimbette; however, she wasn’t. She, too, had just gotten her degree and had taken a job with the Smithsonian. She was sweet and charming, and Madison had to admit to liking her very much. She told herself that she would have been incredibly critical of any woman clinging to Kyle’s arm, because he was her…No. Because he was Kyle. And though she told herself that she didn’t have a crush on him, she did. She was jealous.

  That night she slept with Darryl Hart for the first time. Darryl was madly in love with her and intended to follow her to the same university. She was the envy of all her friends.

  He did everything right. And though it was slightly painful, it wasn’t horrible. It just wasn’t what she had read about, though Darryl assured her that it got better for women.

  She certainly hoped so, though she tried very hard not to let him know just how disappointed she was. Darryl was a good guy.

  She dated him for her first three years of college.

  Then…she had another dream.

  She had known that Fallon was expecting a baby. She and Kyle lived relatively near one another—she in Georgetown, he in a suburb in Maryland, just outside downtown D.C.—but she avoided him. She and Darryl and Kyle and Fallon had met for dinner a few times, and everyone had had a great time—except her. So she made excus
es not to see them. She told herself that she was a bitch, a horrible person. She should be happy for Kyle and Fallon. Kyle was her friend. He had helped her through the worst period of her life, so it was natural for her to feel a strange kind of dependency on him. It wasn’t a crush. She needed to appreciate Darryl. He was even-tempered. He adored her and was unfailingly considerate. He was handsome, built like a young Adonis. She did appreciate him.

  Together, they were perfect.

  She was with Darryl when she had the dream about Kyle and Fallon.

  It was terribly uncomfortable. It was almost as if she were with them. In their bedroom.

  Fallon was on her side of the bed, tossing and turning. She was hugely pregnant, round as a tomato, yet still beautiful, her blond hair a tangled fan around her delicate, pinched features. She was racked with pain.

  Kyle, at her side, was up, trying to help her, support her. “It must be the baby. We’ve got to get to the hospital.”

  “It’s too soon, almost two months too soon!” Fallon cried.

  “But you’ve been sick. We’ve got to get you there now.” He stood, naked. Muscled, tanned. In her dream, Madison tried to look away, but she couldn’t. It was as if she were there.

  He dressed hurriedly, eschewing socks and underwear, slipping into his jeans and a T-shirt, and sliding his feet into his loafers while he dialed the phone. Fallon was distressed that he’d called for an ambulance, but he told her, “Babe, you’re burning up. We need some help, fast.”

  Madison felt Fallon’s heat. She was burning, burning, burning…like a fire. But there wasn’t pain, there was just heat. And Kyle was there, holding her hand. Fallon was happy to feel his hand in hers, it was just that the heat was so terrible, and then she was shivering, hot and cold, hot and cold….