Danger Signals

Chapter 4

That night he had the dream again, for the first time in…he 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 yelling…screaming. 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 screaming…crying…begging.

There were other voices, too, small frightened voices- not mine!-whimpering, "Mommy…"

And finally…finally the other voice, the one he'd been waiting for, praying for, soft as a breath blowing warm past his ear. Shh… It's okay…it'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.

All was well, going his way. Right up until the moment his bare foot made contact with something large, warm and soft. As the object emitted a loud grunt. Wade went down- swearing, a succinct sibilance kept under his breath that probably wouldn't have been loud enough to raise alarms from the watcher across the street. He might have salvaged the situation even then if, in the natural reflexive action of someone in the process of falling, he hadn't flung out his arm and attempted to grab the nearest solid object. This happened to be the gate, or more accurately, the gate latch, which gave with a loud clang, allowing the gate to swing back against the wall of the garage with a resounding thump.

As he lay full-length and prone upon the flagstones, he heard a car's engine start up, then accelerate and move off down the street.

With a groan, he rolled over onto his back, then immediately wished he hadn't, as a pair of large stubby paws planted themselves squarely in the middle of his chest, and a long snout terminated by a large wet nose snuffled noisily across his face. Before he could get an arm up to fend it off, a very long, very wet tongue smelling of well-aged liver followed.

"Ah, jeez, Bruno…" This Wade uttered in a constricted wheeze, as the front half of a grossly overweight basset hound settled onto his chest. "Get…off. you lump of lard-your breath would gag a maggot, you know that?" In response to the insult Bruno turned his head away with studied disdain, one ear slapping Wade across the face in the process. "What are you doing out here, you good-for-nothing fleabag? You let some stranger sit right there across the street and spy on me? Some watchdog you are."

As if to contradict that, Bruno lifted his nose to the dawn sky and uttered a halfhearted, "Ah-rooo…" Then he proceeded across Wade's body with all the grace of an elephant climbing over a picket fence.

"Someday…" Wade snarled as a well-padded tail slapped his face in a disdainful wave of farewell. However, the threat went unspoken as his senses picked up an indescribably foul odor wafting back from the animal now waddling unhurriedly off down the flagstone pathway.

"Ah, jeez!" was all Wade could manage while coughing and swearing blasphemously. He fought his way to his feet in hopes of finding some less polluted air, and since the gate was open anyway, he darted through it and down the driveway to the street.

But of course the watcher-if that's who it was- was long gone.

Wade went back to his apartment to shower and dress for work, mad enough to chew up nails and spit out bullets. Not even the shower on full cold did much to settle the steam.

Damn it. he didn't need this! He had a serial-now cop-killer on the loose and a city on full alert, a beautiful psychic giving him nightmares and now he'd picked up a stalker? What the hell was going on?

By the time he'd emerged from the shower and scrubbed himself pink, he'd resolved a couple of things. One: last time he'd looked, by God, the name plate on his desktop said Detective Callahan. So it was high time he got off his ass and started detecting. Which meant getting the answers to a whole lot of questions. And two: he had a feeling the person with the answers to some of those questions was the beautiful psychic, the same one responsible for his most recent nightmares.

Which made his first move of the morning a no-brainer: he needed to talk to the psychic.

He probably shouldn't have been surprised when he wiped the steam off of the mirror and saw a smile on his beard-stubbled face. Well. hell, he thought, whistling tunelessly as he picked up his shaver, it's a terrible job, but somebody has to do it…

"Hi, honey, it's me."

"Cory! Wow it's really early out there. Where are you? What's-is anything wrong? Did you see him? Talk to him? How did it go? For heaven's sake, say something, damn it. I've been waiting all night for you to call."

"Samantha, dearest, I will say something if you'll let me."

"Okay." There was a pause, and some heavy breathing. "I'm shutting up now. Your turn."

"Well then, to answer your questions in order. I'm sitting in a rental car-a Honda Civic. I think-in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. Nothing's wrong. Yes, I saw him. No, I didn't talk to him. and it didn't 'go' at all."

"Okay…and you are about to tell me why, right, Pearse?"

"I chickened out, Sam." His wife, understanding him well and knowing how fragile he was right now, didn't press. He laughed the way people do when nothing's funny, drew in a breath and blew it out audibly. "I feel like a complete idiot, but I couldn't do it. I drove up and parked across the street from the house. I could see a light on in his apartment, so I knew he was home. And I couldn't make myself go in there."

"Oh, Cory."

"The guy's a cop, Sam. Those guys are hard-wired to be suspicious. What's he going to do when some stranger walks up to him and says, 'Hi, I'm your big brother'? A brother he hasn't seen since he was six years old and probably doesn't remember. At this point I have no proof. Nothing whatsoever to back that up."

"What about Holt Kincaid? His files-"

"…Will document a search based on my knowledge that I have four siblings somewhere in this world. Wade Callahan evidently has no such knowledge. According to his employment and school records, he's only got one brother, a year and a half younger, named Matthew. I can't just spring this on him, not until I have something to offer besides my crazy story." He gave a brief snort of laughter. "If I keep up like I've been doing, he's liable to shoot me for a burglar or arrest me for stalking."

"What do you mean, like you've been doing? What did you do?"

"What did I do? I sat in front of his house in my car, that's what I did. And this morning he almost caught me."

"You sat in your car? All night? Good Lord, Pearse, you're an investigative journalist. You've covered wars, revolutions, genocide, interviewed terrorists, dictators, heads of state. And you're telling me-"

"He's my little brother, Sam."

There was a long pause, then a sigh. "I know, love."

"I let him down."

"Cory, you didn't. He was taken away from you. You were a child yourself. What could you have done?"

"I should have found a way. I was supposed to protect them-all of them. And I let them split us up. Now…I've got a chance to get us back together."

"You will, Pearse. I know you will."

"But I have to do this right. I can't screw it up, Sam. This time I have to get it right."

Wade arrived at the downtown station out of sorts and running late, nursing a sore elbow and limping slightly, thanks to the contact-harder than first realized-a couple of his appendages had made with the flagstones during his early morning foray. The task force was assembled in the briefing room, evidently waiting for him, which right away ticked him off.

Ed Francks handed him a black armband when he walked in. then gave him a sideways look that slid down to his gimpy leg and back up again. Being wise and experienced, the older man didn't say anything.

One of the younger detectives, though, an import from the northeast named Rudy…something Italian, apparently wasn't smart enough to follow the veteran cop's lead. He sang out, "Hey, Boss, what happened to your leg?" and for his concern got a glare that would have frozen up Old Faithful.

"In the first place, Detective. I'm not your boss," Wade growled, then expanded the glare to take in the rest of the room. "What is this, kindergarten? You gotta have your teacher hold your hand before you can go to the John?"

There was some uneasy stirring and shifting around, but nobody said anything.

Muttering to himself, Wade turned his back on the lot of them while he slipped the armband up his sleeve. This brought him face to face with the board, upon which the latest crime scene photos had already been posted. Above these, and partly obscuring the most grisly, someone had tacked a large photograph of Officer Alicia Williams in her dress uniform. She was smiling, her slightly slanted black eyes sparkling beneath the brim of her hat, looking like she had the world by the tail and a good life ahead of her.

Damn.

He took a deep breath, tapped the photograph, then turned. "All right, ladies and gentlemen, in case anybody needs reminding, this is why we're here. What may or may not be wrong with my leg is not the business of this task force. Finding a killer-now a cop killer-is. Now, somebody want to be the first to tell me I've got reason to believe we might catch this sonofabitch today?"

After that the briefing proceeded along pretty much normal lines. Reports: canvases had turned up no witnesses, autopsy results were roughly the same as with all the other victims; CSI had found no useful trace evidence on or near the victim. The remnants of Officer Williams's burned uniform were being processed for DNA, which would take a while-a lot longer than it did on TV forensics procedurals, for sure.

Family members and friends of the earlier victims were being re-interviewed to determine whether any of them ever had occasion to wear a uniform, on the job or off. Results so far: vic number three, the retired schoolteacher, had been working part-time as a crossing guard at a busy intersection near her house. Vic number two was a city bus driver, and yes, they wore uniforms. Vic number one, the former army private turned college student, had been supplementing her G.I. Bill working nights as a security guard at a popular downtown nightclub.

Wade nodded. '"Number five-that's the docent. Six, Officer Williams. We have anything for number four?"

"Working on it." Rudy the Italian muttered, thumbing through his notes.

Wade stared at the notes he'd scrawled on the board, and an old familiar tingle crawled up his backbone. There was something here. He was close, he knew it. If he could only… He wondered if Tierney might… Ah, hell. What was he doing? Using the woman as a crutch instead of depending on his own intelligence? She'd given him the uniform connection, what more did he want?

The uniform connection. He's timid, a mouse, Tierney said. He's most likely been abused by someone wearing a uniform. It represents oppression to him. What if…

He rapped a knuckle on the board where he'd written each victim's occupation involving a uniform, then jerked around to face the room.

"How 'bout this," he said, his voice strong and certain for the first time in a while-since this case had been handed to him. "Each of these victims would have been in a position to confront someone, cause them trouble, interfere with their plans, give them grief. Right? Maybe the bus driver won't let somebody on her bus because he doesn't have exact change. The museum docent…hell. I don't know, maybe she makes someone put out a cigarette, or chews him out for taking flash photos. You guys doing the interviews-go back and ask if they know if any of the victims reported trouble with anyone recently."

"Wait… Igot something here-" Rudy had been flipping frantically back through his notes. "Yeah…right here. First victim's mom mentioned something about an altercation at the club the weekend before she was killed. Some guy gave her a hard time because she wouldn't let him in."

Wade exhaled gustily. "Okay. Say, the club doorkeeper denies our killer entrance. Ticks him off. She was the first vic-that could have been the trigger." He snapped his fingers, his mind racing now, almost too fast for his mouth to keep pace. "Okay, Rudy, stay on those interviews. Ochoa and Washburn, go back through Officer Williams's traffic citations over the last few weeks. Eliminate everybody that doesn't fit the profile-that would be women, men with families-wives and kids. Anybody over fifty."

Martin Ochoa, who'd been busily scribbling notes, lifted his head. "So, we got a profile now? When did we come up with that?"

Ochoa's partner from Robbery-Homicide. Larry Washburn, nudged him and grinned. "I bet he got it from his crystal ball. Hey, Callahan, where is that crystal ball of yours today?"

Wade gave that the response it deserved, which was a stone-cold stare. "May I remind all of you comedians that Ms. Doyle is a civilian who has graciously volunteered her talents and time to help apprehend a killer? A killer who's killed six times. Anyone who wants to sit around here making cracks better hope there isn't a seventh."

At that point Nola Hoffman stuck her head in to remind Wade about the news conference about to commence, and at which his presence was requested. Meaning required.

"Be right down, Boss." Wade swore under his breath while Nola's high heels went tap-tapping off down the hallway, then turned back to his team. "Okay, you've got your work cut out for you. Let's focus on getting this guy before he kills again. We're looking for a young male, late twenties, early thirties, single, a loner, probably works some kind of menial job. Most likely a rep for not playing well with others. That's all-unless you plan on sitting around here on your asses all day."

Glowering, he headed off to join the mayor's news conference. Trying his best not to limp.

Wade's role in this as in all the other news conferences he'd been called upon to attend, was to stand at parade rest beside Nola. two steps behind and a little to one side of Chief Cutter and Alan Styles, and attempt to strike an attitude somewhere between alert and somber. The mayor would make his speech, then introduce Chief Cutter, who would bark out a quotable phrase or two, then waste no time in turning the microphone over to the chief of special cases. Styles would do most of the talking, including fielding questions from the news media.

Thus his mind was not exactly tuned in to the proceedings until he caught the end of a question from one of the network TV reporters that brought him back to front and center in a hurry.

"-true the department has been working with a psychic on this case?"

Chief Styles, naturally, declined to comment on "the details of an ongoing investigation," and pointed to a waving hand on the other side of the crowd.

The reporter, who hadn't earned her network stripes by being so easily brushed off, shouted over the babble, "Chief, we have reports from a reliable source that the psychic credited with helping solve the Yreka kidnapping last year has been seen both here and at the last two crime scenes. Care to comment on that?"

Styles, who'd never gotten the hang of out-and-out lying to the press, covered the mic with one hand while he bent his head to confer with Chief Cutter. Then he turned and looked at Nola, who jabbed Wade in the ribs with her elbow and growled. "Take it, Callahan."

He uttered one short, sharp cussword under his breath, then stepped up to the mic. Cleared his throat. "We always welcome any useful information from members of the community. Members of the media included."

That got a bit of a chuckle, and Wade was about to step back when a voice he knew, belonging to the regular police reporter for the Portland Oregonian, sang out, "Come on, Callahan, rumor says you've got your own personal crystal ball."

Ducking his head to the mic once more, Wade scowled at the crowd and snapped. "Wish I did. I'd sure as hell use it. We'll take help from anybody and anything if it'll help us catch this guy."

On that note, Chief Cutter stepped in and ended the news conference, although the clamor continued for several more minutes. Under its cover, Nola said dryly. "You shoulda been in politics, Callahan."

He was trying to think of a response to that when he felt his cell phone vibrating in its holster against his hip. He pulled it out, scowled at a number he didn't recognize, thumbed it on and barked, "Callahan." And heard a voice he did recognize, hushed and breathless.

"Wade, he's there. Right now. Somewhere close. I-"

"Hold on-who's here? You mean, here here-at this news conference? The killer?"

"No! At least…I haven't picked anything up. But I'm getting that Watcher again. Only he's…different. I don't know how to explain it, he's just as intense as before, but it feels different, somehow. Like it's a different person. And…before there was this exultation, this elation. Now I'm getting sadness. Really terrible sadness-like grief…"

Wade was only half listening, eyes sweeping the slowly dispersing crowd. The sun was in his eyes, having just broken through the morning overcast with all the intensity of a Portland summer day. It was only May, but it was going to be a warm one-humid, too. But damn. Nobody stood out. Nobody caught his attention. Nobody stared at him. or even lingered behind the rest of the horde.

"Miss Tee," he said, interrupting her, "we need to talk. What are you doing for lunch?"