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 stop 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.