“I don’t call that mere concentration, babe. You put yourself into a goddamn trance, and I don’t like it. Don’t you ever do that again, do you hear me?”
She had frightened him, she realized, and like all strong men, he didn’t take kindly to it. In his anger he had even called her “babe,” something he hadn’t done since she’d told him how much she disliked it.
He bent his head down to hers, pressing his forehead against her hair. “This was a bad idea,” he muttered. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
But because he was a cop, when they were halfway down the stairs he reluctantly asked, “Did you pick up on anything?”
“No,” she said softly. “Nothing that would help.” She didn’t tell him about Marilyn’s presence, peaceful but resolute, patiently waiting. That had nothing to do with the investigation. It was private, between herself and Marilyn, both of them victims, in different ways, of the same evil.
Dane opened the door, and she stepped out. The bright sun glared directly into her eyes, momentarily blinding her, and she paused. She didn’t see the people rushing toward her until they were right on her.
“I’m Cheri Vaughn with WVTM-TV,” a young woman said. “We have learned that the Orlando Police Department is using a psychic named Marlie Keen to aid in apprehending the Orlando Slasher. Are you Marlie Keen?” Then she thrust a fat black microphone in Marlie’s face.
Stunned, she stared at the lean, fashionably dressed young woman, and at the burly, shorts-clad man who stood behind her with a camera balanced on his shoulder. A van with the station’s insignia blazoned on the side was parked at the curb, and the crowd of neighbors had drastically increased, drawn by the television camera. Roughly Dane shouldered in front of her. “I’m Detective Hollister,” he snapped. “You’re behind the police line. You have to leave—now.”
But the tenacious Ms. Vaughn neatly sidestepped him and once more pushed the microphone at Marlie. “Are you the psychic?”
A confusing flurry of impressions hit Marlie broadside. She couldn’t read Dane; his mental shields were too strong. But Cheri Vaughn, ambitious and slightly nervous, was no match for Marlie’s abilities. Marlie didn’t even have to try; the truth was broadcast at her in deafening waves.
Shock hit her in the pit of her stomach, and she almost choked as the bile of betrayal rose to her throat. It was possible that someone else had leaked the news of her involvement—but no one else had. And only one person had known where she would be at this exact moment.
She felt cold, icy cold, and suddenly alone. Slowly, her face very still, she looked at Dane. He still wore that grim expression, his eyes as narrow and fierce as a hawk’s as he watched her. She could barely breathe. Accusation and betrayal were in her expression as she put her hand over the microphone.
“You set me up,” she said to the man she loved, the man who had used her.
22
MARLIE TURNED BACK TO THE TELEVISION REPORTER. “YES, I’m Marlie Keen,” she said coldly.
“Ms. Keen, have you been working with the Orlando Police Department to help them locate the killer?”
“Yes.” The one word was clipped. She could barely contain her fury, her sense of betrayal.
Dane put his hand out, as if to block the camera, but Marlie knocked it aside. Cheri Vaughn plunged ahead. “In what way have you aided them, Ms. Keen?”
“I gave them the killer’s description.”
“How did you know what he looked like? Did you have a psychic vision?”
Again Dane moved in front of her, his rough face furious. Marlie sidestepped. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? She was going to deliver, in spades. “Something like that. I know the killer the way no one else does. He’s not a dream man, unless you’re into nightmares,” she said, borrowing Esther’s words. “He’s a worm, a coward who gets his jollies by attacking women—”
“That’s enough!” Dane roared, pushing the camera down and grabbing Marlie’s arm with his other hand, his fingers biting into her soft flesh. “You people leave this scene, now.”
Cheri Vaughn blinked at him, looking both frightened and elated. Marlie didn’t have to guess how the reporter felt; she knew. She had come here to act a part, with the promise of some news, but she had walked into a sensational gold mine. Her stock at the station had just gone stratospheric.
Still gripping her arm, Dane hustled Marlie to the car, putting her in on the driver’s side and shoving her over to make room for himself. He slammed the door and turned the key in the ignition. “What the hell were you doing?” he said from between clenched teeth.
She could feel the white heat of his rage, but she wasn’t impressed. “What you wanted me to do,” she replied bitterly. “Attracting the killer’s attention. Wasn’t that the whole point of the exercise?”
Dane thought of denying it, but realized there wasn’t any point in it. She wouldn’t believe any denials he could come up with, and he was so angry right now that he wasn’t inclined to try. “Attract his attention, yes, not drive him into a killing rage!”
“But now you can be certain he’ll come after me. He won’t forgive an attack on his ego.” She was facing forward, not even glancing at him as he drove.
Dane took a firm grip on his temper. He had known she wouldn’t like being exposed as a psychic, but he hadn’t expected her to immediately realize he had set up the entire situation, or to react by goading and taunting the killer.