Simon Says… Hide E-Book

Mayer Dale

• Herausgeber: Valley Publishing Ltd.
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Introducing a new thriller series that keeps you guessing and on your toes through every twist and unexpected turn....

USA Today Best-Selling Author Dale Mayer does it again in this mind-blowing thriller series.

The unlikely team of Detective Kate Morgan and Simon St. Laurant, an unwilling psychic, marries all the unpredictable and passionate elements of Mayer's work that readers have come to love and crave.

Newly promoted detective Kate Morgan stands up for the victims in the world, never backing down or giving up. From a family of victims, Kate will not tolerate those who take advantage of others. The worst ones prey on the hopes of desperate people to line their own pockets.

And when Kate finds a connection between more than a half-dozen cold cases to a recent case--where a child's life is in jeopardy--she'll make a deal with the devil himself to protect the child.

Having the gift of Sight, Simon St. Laurant knows that once he uses it, he can never walk away. But when nightmares of his own past are triggered, Simon can’t stand back. Determined to help, Simon vows to save these children--even if it means dealing with the cranky and critical Detective Kate Morgan.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Books in This Series

About This Book

A Behind-the-Scenes Glimpse into Dale Mayer’s Simon Says Series

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Excerpt from Simon Says… Jump

Author’s Note

Complimentary Download

About the Author

Copyright Page

Books in This Series

The Kate Morgan Series

Simon Says… Hide, Book 1

Simon Says… Jump, Book 2

Simon Says… Ride, Book 3

Simon Says… Scream, Book 4

About This Book

Introducing a new thriller series that keeps you guessing and on your toes through every twist and unexpected turn….

USA Today Best-Selling Author Dale Mayer does it again in this mind-blowing thriller series.

The unlikely team of Detective Kate Morgan and Simon St. Laurant, an unwilling psychic, marries all the unpredictable and passionate elements of Mayer’s work that readers have come to love and crave.

Newly promoted detective Kate Morgan stands up for the victims in the world, never backing down or giving up. From a family of victims, Kate will not tolerate those who take advantage of others. The worst ones prey on the hopes of desperate people to line their own pockets.

And when Kate finds a connection between more than a half-dozen cold cases to a recent case—where a child’s life is in jeopardy—she’ll make a deal with the devil himself to protect the child.

Having the gift of Sight, Simon St. Laurant knows that once he uses it, he can never walk away. But when nightmares of his own past are triggered, Simon can’t stand back. Determined to help, Simon vows to save these children—even if it means dealing with the cranky and critical Detective Kate Morgan.

Sign up to be notified of all Dale’s releaseshere!

A Behind-the-Scenes Glimpseinto Dale Mayer’s Simon Says Series

With this new Simon Says series, it seems some background information from me, the author, might be in order. For one, Vancouver is a city where I have many happy memories of my decade-plus years growing up there. As an army brat, I spent most of my childhood years in Vancouver, as I ventured into adulthood. For all the good memories I do have, several are not so good. That’s partly what brought this series to light.

The city of Vancouver, like all big cities, has the wonderful surface layer that hides a dark underbelly. The contrast between dark and light has always interested me. I write on both sides of this coin constantly. The good against the bad, the light of day against the dark of night. The positive versus the negative. The funny compared to the dark. Laughter paired with suspense. It keeps me happy and the words flowing.

I was at a conference with several friends years ago, and I mentioned I wanted to do a new thriller series. The ideas easily flowed forth—which they do naturally with me anyway. But this time, my two main characters, Kate and Simon, fully popped into my mind, both the physical appearance of both as well as their personalities. I didn’t touch the concept for another full year, until I sat down and wrote the first book, Simon Says … Hide. Then self-doubt hit, and I pushed it aside, ignoring it for another year. But Kate hammered away at me inside my head, wanting more page time, so I sat down to write the next four books of this Simon Says series.

Writing fiction, particularly crime fiction, presents its own challenges, especially when you marry that with the fiction license—joining reality with imagination. Meaning, I did my best to line up truth and facts and yet kept my license to create needed bits of information to ensure that the story worked. Remember. These are stories. They are not real cases, not real people, nor real events. In fact, given urban density, at the time you read this story and the others in this Simon Says series, the Vancouver street names, traffic patterns, and even beaches and community neighborhoods could well have changed.

I do thank the Vancouver Police Department for their patience in answering my multitude of questions throughout the writing of this series. They were very helpful in sorting out the divisions between the various community and law enforcement groups that work together to protect and to serve and to keep safe Vancouver and all the neighboring cities.

Remember. All these people, places, events are fictional, creations of my mind. I wrote these stories for entertainment purposes only.

Enjoy!

Dale Mayer, Author of the Simon Says Series

Chapter 1

Vancouver, First Monday in June …

Newly minted homicide detective Kate Morgan sat on one of the many benches positioned in this child-friendly park, watching the kids play on the swings in downtown Vancouver. She’d passed her first three months in her new position amid the craziness of too many murder cases to count. Vancouver, BC, was like any big city around the world and had its share of criminal activity. The city had its issues—just being on the coast and blending many different nationalities—yet somehow it all worked. Plus it was home for her. Always had been.

Because of those life-and-death issues, Vancouver had three homicide units, usually with six or seven detectives in each unit. She chuckled. At one time, the two other units called themselves Team Canuck or Team Flames, showing how hockey crazy Canada got. She didn’t know what her unit used to call themselves, as she was the odd-one-out still. New enough to know her place and not so new to misunderstand the team needed time to meld.

Her ever-assessing gaze watched two men on a bench on the far side of the park. One got up, tossed a bright yellow ball at the other and then, with a raised hand, turned and walked away.

Her focus flitted to the storm approaching in the distance, assessed its threat, and dismissed it. Rain was part of the reality when living on the coast. The more pressing threats in her world were the two-legged predators. She’d known the dangers ever since her younger brother had disappeared, even now, twenty-five years later with still no trace of him. She kept a copy of his file on her desk, as a reminder of the work she’d dedicated herself to. Timmy was always close to her heart. She could only hope to get closure, as she worked to give closure to others.

Sudden movement on her left had her watching a lean man of average height, walking into the park and staring at the kids on the swing. Something about his gaze set her nerves on edge. He was slightly turned away from her, only letting her see his jeans and well-worn jacket with the upturned collar. He perched on a nearby bench seat, seemingly fascinated by the boys’ antics.

The single male on the far side stood suddenly and strode her way, tossing the yellow ball and catching it smoothly with every step. He gazed at the street beside her, unconcerned for the kids or other adults. His focus was internal. From the power suit he wore, business deals most likely.

As she turned back to the other man, he’d disappeared. Her gaze zipped to the boys at the swings. They were still there. Relaxing slightly, she studied the park exits. Both men had left at the same time. From opposite sides of the park.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But it felt like it did.

Her phone rang just then. Rodney, one of her team. “We found another one. Prepare yourself. It’s a little boy.”

*

Tuesday

Simon St. Laurant had had a bad week. He twisted in bed, kicking off the blanket. His body shimmered with sweat. He drifted in and out of sleep. He’d been up until two in the morning in one of his friendlier gambling games and had crashed soon afterward. Now it was five in the morning, and the last thing he wanted was to be awake. He rolled over, pulled the sheet over his sweating body, and closed his eyes.

As he tried to fall asleep again, he drifted down the same godforsaken dark street, just a halo of light coming from the streetlamps across on the other side. A small man, holding the hand of a very young boy at his side, walked quietly down the street. The little boy asked, “When will we be there?”

“We’ll be there soon,” the older man promised.

Something was just so damn wrong about that picture that Simon kept telling the little boy to run, wanting to reach out and drag him to safety. But, even as Simon reached out a hand, he saw that it wasn’t real, that he wasn’t there, that he couldn’t grab that little boy and escape. As the older man walked under the streetlamp, Simon caught the hungry look on the man’s face. A predator’s look. Yet not clear enough to identify him.

Simon woke immediately, sat up, and groaned in frustration. “Why that same goddamn freaking nightmare?” he cried out, before flopping to his back yet again.

He was exhausted, his mind overwhelmed, as he drifted once again into the deepness of sleep. This time he landed in a small room, with lots of toys on the bed and on the floor. A bed that broke his heart because it had a plastic sheet for the little kids who might wet themselves. A blanket was atop the bed but was otherwise empty. Simon’s mind knew that a light was on the side of the room and that Simon would see the child soon, but he didn’t want to go there. He kicked himself out of the dream, sitting up again, shuddering in the dark. “Damn it,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “What fresh hell is this?”

Almost as if by asking that question, his body stiffened. He fell backward again, and this time he was in a different room, and the bed was bigger. It had little pink roses around the base and unicorns across the headboard. A little girl sobbed her eyes out, curled up into a tiny ball, hugging a teddy bear. The problem was that fancy little bed was completely out of place, surrounded by bare concrete walls and old cracked floors. The lack of carpet or any other niceties suggested this would not be a nice little home for her.

Instead Simon saw the bloodstains on the mattress around her, the pain and the terror in her heart, and the loneliness in her soul. He wanted to hold her and to tell her that it would be okay. But the same words rippled through his mind: Hide. He’s coming.

Then everything went dark …

When he woke again, he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, dry-eyed, but felt as if he’d bawled his entire life away. Every part of his body hurt, especially his soul. He sat up, felt like he was thirty years older than his thirty-seven years on this planet. Thirty-seven years of pain and fighting to get the upper hand, trying to make sure that he wouldn’t be a victim in this world again.

Years ago he’d sworn to be a victor instead. He played the game, but he didn’t let others play him. That wasn’t part of his new reality. Not anymore—not for a long time. He looked down at his bed, the bottom sheet literally pulled off the mattress and twisted beneath him, while the top sheet was crumpled on the floor beside him.

“Looks like I had a party—and not the fun kind,” he muttered, as he slowly straightened. He stretched, turned to get the kinks out of his neck and his back. A bad night had the effect of turning his spine into a pretzel that he could spend hours trying to untwist. He needed a hot shower to complete the job. Yet every time he went under the water, he kept seeing images of the boy that he’d seen in the first nightmare this morning.

It made no sense, when he’d seen many other children throughout his lifetime of nightmares, but, for some reason, he identified with that one. That night terror always upset him because he didn’t know that child. It wasn’t Simon as a child, and he didn’t understand the dialogue, didn’t remember it from his own life. What he did know was that these nightmares had to stop.

If he had a friend who was a doctor, he might have talked to him or her, but unfortunately he didn’t even have that. In truth, speaking out loud of this weakness, … in the wrong hands, that knowledge could crush Simon. As he walked naked to the shower, he knew something had to change; he couldn’t keep going on this way. The nightmares had restarted suddenly, for no current reason, and they were getting stronger, clearer, and more traumatic to view.

He should get away for a few days. Book a gambling cruise to take his mind off this mess. Maybe see Yale there. Simon’s gaze caught sight of the yellow child’s ball that Yale had tossed to Simon, the two men out of the blue both at the park yesterday.

Simon often walked that corridor and had come upon his old friend, looking sad and depressed. It had been nice to see Yale unexpectedly. Normally they’d be in on the same poker games or cruises, but he hadn’t seen his old college friend in over six months.

Much happier after their visit, Yale had laughed, as he’d tossed him the ball, and said, “For old times’ sake.”

With a shrug, Simon stepped under the rain showerhead and let the hot water slosh over his head and down his back to the tiles below.

As soon as he was dry and dressed in lightweight pants with a linen shirt, perfect for summers in Vancouver, he picked up his blazer, flipped it over his shoulder, and headed out. He needed coffee in a big way, but he also had to escape the solitude of his own thoughts, preferably out in public, where he could disappear into the crowds. He walked off the elevator, crossed the lobby, and headed toward the front door, held open by the doorman.

Once outside, he stopped for a long moment, lifted his head, and sniffed the early morning Vancouver air. The nearby harbor, with that scent of salt, plus the noise and the bustle of city life, all of it melded together beautifully. With a smile he turned and headed toward his favorite coffee shop.

Chapter 2

Kate walked toward the open room, the bullpen full of desks, singled out her own, and threw herself into her chair, her fingers hitting the keyboard with the same ferocity.

“Wow, bad night?” Owen asked from behind her.

She shrugged, as she logged in to check her email. “Aren’t they all?”

She was the newest member to the division, supposedly worked within an active base team of six—with access to an analyst and two assistants—plus Sergeant Colby Stevens, the head of their team. One of the assistants was out on leave, so the temporary replacement was sinking deeper under the workload each day.

“Thought you went out with your new guy last night?” Owen teased her.

“In your dreams,” she snapped back.

He was the one happily married member of the team, with one boy and one girl, the perfect little family. That alone was enough to get a rise out of her. How the hell did he manage that with this job? She really wanted to know. She barely had time to braid her thick hair each day, keeping it out of her way. Plus he never missed a shift, but yet somehow he was there for all his kids’ special events and birthdays. When he was on the job, he was fully here. Yet it seemed that he gave his all to his family. They were lucky.

Now she had more reason to hate his teasing. She knew he had a huge grin on his face, particularly if he thought he’d gotten a rise out of her. Her love life was a constant joke. Because there wasn’t one. She tried to keep the team out of it, but it was damn near impossible. This is what happened when you worked closely with guys. Two women were in the group, her and Lilliana. And, if ever two women were opposites, it was them.

Kate liked to consider herself a fighting machine, but, in truth, she had to work harder, faster, than anybody else, just to prove herself to the others. She was tall, lean, didn’t give a damn about makeup or looking good. It’s not what she was here for. She was all about the job. Lilliana was one of those pretty women; blonde, coiffed, makeup perfectly applied, always looked good—even though she was a detective. Yet she was as smart as Kate was. Although there was just something about Lilliana that made the guys like her a whole lot more.

Kate could read fast and could digest information quickly, but her real talent lay in solving puzzles. It had taken years of dedication to become a detective. It was a coveted position, and, anytime an opportunity came up, it meant somebody else had retired, quit, or unfortunately died on the job. And that’s what had happened to the detective she replaced. He’d been killed during the investigation of a major crime. It had taken the department six weeks to hire somebody to replace him, and, even now, she felt the disapproval of those around her.

Not so much disapproval because it was her as much as she was someone else.

She would never fill Chet’s seat. It just wasn’t possible. He’d been six-five, a 280-pounder, with a ready laugh. A guy everybody had loved. He’d done his job well and had been on the force twenty-five years. According to the others, he’d wanted to die on the job; he just didn’t want to die ten years early.

“Chet always came in with a smile on his face,” Rodney said from her side.

She winced at that. “And for the one-hundredth time,” she said, without turning around, “I’m not Chet.”

“Is that not the truth?” Lilliana said on a laugh as she walked in. Somehow she always looked put together. Her jeans were high-end, her shirts designer.

It was all Kate could do to arrive clean, as few holes as possible in her jeans and her T-shirt, and no way would she ever show up in heels. She shook her head. Not that they had to wear the same uniform, as if still street cops, but Lilliana had these clothes that somehow made her look like a professional, whereas Kate always felt like she was barely getting the hang of things.

When the phone rang beside her, she just glared at it.

“See? That’s one of the things here,” Rodney said helpfully from beside her. “When the phone on your desk rings, it means somebody is trying to call you.”

She shot him a look, picked it up, and said, “Detective Morgan, what can I do for you?”

It was Audrey, the new clerk out front. “Somebody here to see you.”

“Who is that somebody?” Kate drawled. “Santa Claus?” As Audrey went off on a gale of laughter, Kate pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, I do love your sense of humor,” Audrey said, “but, no, he just came in off the street. He wants to talk to a detective.”

“If he came in off the street,” Kate said carefully, “he’s not looking to talk to me.”

“The sergeant said that anybody new coming off the street was supposed to talk to you first.”

Kate took a long slow breath. Of course he did. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll be there in a minute.” She put the phone down very quietly. Even then, the members of her team all around her were smirking. No way they weren’t, and honestly—if she weren’t the low man on the job—Kate would be too. Still, she would put in her time and do the job. A job she was damn glad to have finally gotten.

After making whoever it was out there wait for ten minutes, she stood, grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, and stepped out of the room. She heard the bullpen conversation as she left.

“She’s in a great mood, isn’t she?”

“Clearly she didn’t get laid last night,” Lilliana said in a delighted whisper that made all the guys perk up and smile.

As Kate walked past the Colby’s office, he called out to her, “Kate, what’s up?”

She looked at him and said, “Just going to talk to somebody out front, a walk-in with info.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad you’re settling in.”

She nodded and kept walking. She was patient. That the team hadn’t clicked yet just meant it would take a little longer. Chet had been well loved—the wound only scabbed over, not fully healed. She had put her time in on the streets and had worked damn hard to make detective. Now she was here; she was one of them. She should be happy that she was doing the drudgery because it wouldn’t last. Besides, even being new was better than still trying to make the grade.

As she stepped toward the receptionist area, she saw one man sitting on a bench. Could already tell he was tall and fit, his dark hair immaculately groomed. He was dressed in a silvery-gray suit, and he wore it like it had been tailored directly on him. Rich guy.

Instinctively she didn’t like him. Something was slightly familiar about him, but she couldn’t place it. Something about money, something about the posh style, it grated on her. But then she was from the wrong side of the tracks. Born there, she had never found a way across to the other side. This guy looked like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. As she approached, he stood and reached out a hand.

“Thank you for seeing me.”

She noted the faint French accent. Probably a Quebec transplant. Not a Vancouver native, like Kate was. She shook his hand, wearing the same professional air that had gotten her where she was, and said, “Let’s step into this room, where we can talk.” She then led him into an empty interview room nearby.

As he sat down on the far side of the table, she closed the door, dropped into her seat, pen in hand, facing her notepad, and asked, “What can I do for you?”

He just sat here, without saying a word.

She looked up at him, folded her hands in front of her, resting them on the pad of paper, and waited. She found that waiting often made even the guiltiest of suspects nervous. But not only wasn’t he nervous, it was almost like the waiting helped him to settle. She frowned.

“You are the one who came here,” she said gently, struggling for patience, when what she really wanted to do was get up and walk out. Files were stacked up on her desk; the backlog of work was never-ending, and she always had her private work that she kept secret, though she knew it really wasn’t. Only she was so damned busy that she hadn’t had a chance to look into that particular cold case. Keeping Timmy’s file on her desk was a constant reminder to not forget her brother. As if that would ever happen.

The man across from her finally spoke. “I’m probably just wasting your time.”

“Good to know,” she said. “In that case, we are done here because, sadly, I have no time to waste.” With the pad and pen in hand, she stood, opened the door, and motioned for him to leave. But he hadn’t moved. She looked at him and asked, “So which is it? Are you wasting my time or not?”

He leaned forward and said, “I guess I need to tell you, so you can figure it out.”

She cocked her head to the side, disappointed that she couldn’t return to her desk; still, he intrigued her. He wasn’t here because he wanted to be here, and she didn’t think much could force this man to do anything. Shutting the door with a little more force than necessary, she walked back over and sat down.

Now she waited again.

He grinned at her, a lightning-fast sexy smile that immediately had her back up. “Are you always this difficult to talk to?”

Her left eyebrow shot up. “How do you know I’m difficult to talk to?”

“Because you’re sitting there, trying really hard to not boot my ass off this chair and out of the station,” he said. “And I really appreciate that you’ve given me some time to work through this in my mind.”

She felt like a heel, but, from the look in his eyes, she knew he’d done it deliberately. She tossed down her pen, slouched in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and said, “Anytime.”

“I’m having nightmares.”

“We’re not shrinks. You know that, right?” she said in a droll voice.

“Great,” he said. “I’m trying to pour out my soul here, and you’re not helping any.”

“That’s because I’m not a shrink.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” he said. “I know perfectly well where I am. I’m at the police station, and I need to get something off my chest.”

Kate grabbed her pen, leaned forward, her gaze intent, as she studied him. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

She studied him for a moment, slid the pen back down again, and slouched, resumed her arms-across-her-chest position. This time she crossed her legs too. “So why are we here?”

He gave a startled laugh. “You know what? You’d make a great doctor.”

She stared at him in confusion.

“Your bedside manner is perfect.”

She just upped the voltage of her glare.

“Look. I don’t want to be here either,” he said in frustration. “I’ve come to this police station three times and walked away each time, before I ever made it inside.”

“Congratulations, you made it inside,” she said. “Are we done now?”

He stared at her and then laughed. “Of all the things I ever thought I would come up against, not even having a chance to talk wasn’t one of them.”

“You’ve had lots of chances to talk,” she said, “but you’re not talking.”

“Same nightmares over and over again over the years, but now really concentrated in the last week,” he snapped. He clasped his hands together in front of him, a small yellow ball squeezed in between.

She studied the child’s toy, wondering why it was firing in her memory. There were thousands all around the city just like it. Forcing her gaze back to stranger, she studied his stiff back and rigid jaw. “Not helpful,” she said, and she managed to keep her tone completely flat.

He shook his head. “Same little boy every night.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Do you like little boys?”

He fisted his hands on the table, leaned forward, and said, “The same little boy being walked down Hastings Street under the shadow of the lights, a little boy not more than five, maybe six, years old, holding the hand of some old guy, who scares the crap out of me.”

“Interesting,” she murmured. She studied him closely for any signs of deception, but nothing was really there, as far as she could tell. He was telling the truth, as he believed it to be, but, so far, he hadn’t said anything definitive yet. “Can you identify the little boy?”

“Only that he’s got some lollipop in his free hand, and he’s wearing a little Burberry coat,” he said. “I can’t tell what color it is.”

“Why is that? You said there were lampposts.”

“He is walking under the lampposts, yes, but everything is in shades of grays.”

“Your nightmares are in gray?”

“This one is, yes.”

“So then what happens?” she asked, intrigued in spite of herself. She didn’t know what it had to do with the police, but she could imagine that a dream, nightmare, as he’d said, that would happen over and over again would really piss off a guy like this. That fascinated her as much as anything.

“I just hear this voice that calls out, ‘Timothy.’”

“Timothy?” she said, questioning, her body stiffening at the name.

He nodded.

“Timothy?” she snapped, her feet flat on the floor. “Is this some sick joke?”

He looked at her in surprise. “No,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

She stared at him and then gave a hard headshake. No, he couldn’t know. Besides, her Timmy had gone missing during the day, not the evening, and had happened a long time ago. “Look. I don’t know what your nightmare is all about,” she said, “or why you think you need to tell me about it. I’m a homicide detective, in case you didn’t know.” She stopped, took a deep breath. “But if you don’t have anything else, then this interview is over.”

“This is an interview?” he asked curiously.

“Look, sir,” she snapped. “Do you have anything else you feel like you need to tell me?”

“Yes,” he said, “I just know that—because of the styles of clothing, the shades of gray—this happened a long time ago.”

“Know?”

He stared at her.

Yet he seemed more confused than mad. “And?”

Her fist clenched on her lap, she stared at the half-moons that her fingernails had embedded into the palm of her hand in order to stop the scream from reaching up her throat. She wanted nothing more than to grab this guy by the throat and to shake the truth from him.

“The trouble is, it goes from that image to another image within a little room,” he said, “with toys and a toddler’s bed, but no child is there, just a blanket. But it’s got some plastic wrapping around it that’s a different color, not so dark. Unfortunately then it goes to an absolutely beautiful little girl in a fancy little bed.” His tone was heavy. “The little girl in the bed is crying her eyes out. She’s in a basement. It looks like a basement or maybe a cellar. I don’t know,” he said. “She’s got just a blanket, and blood’s on the bed. She is crying, as if her heart is breaking.” And then he fell silent.

She sat back and looked at him. “And it’s the same nightmare over and over again?”

“The same one for a week now,” he said bitterly. “Until last night.”

“What about last night?” she asked, but inside she knew. Dear God, inside she knew.

“Last night, another child was added to the sequence,” he said. “A little boy, a little bit older, like six, maybe seven. I don’t know children’s ages. Skinny, curled up in the bed, but he wasn’t even breathing. In the nightmare I zoomed down, and he was just lying there, and I couldn’t see him moving or breathing. There was like a weird outline to him.”

“Did you see anything that can identify these children? Or where they are located?” she asked lightly. But she was gripping the pen in her hand so hard that it was in danger of breaking.

“I would have said no,” he said. “I would have said it could be any child, anywhere in the world. That’s one of the reasons I never came in to the cops before. Although I’ve had these particular nightmares for the last few weeks, I’ve had them off and on in various forms for years. I’ve always just ignored them, but now I can’t ignore them anymore.”

“Why is that?”

“Because this newest little boy has a name on the bed above his head. It read ‘Jason.’ No last name, just the first name.”

“And you can’t give me any physical description of him?”

“Emaciated to the point of being starved,” he said bluntly. His tone still easily portrayed the horror of what he had experienced in his nightmares. “He’s drawn, skinny, like you could see inside him. His skin was almost translucent.”

“And, if the child were dead, how long has he been dead?”

He shook his head. “I got the impression it was recent. But I don’t think he was—” And then he stopped, shook his head, and looked away. “I don’t put any credence into this,” he said. “So you probably shouldn’t either.”

“Well, I don’t have anything to put credence into yet,” she said drily. “So why don’t we just go down this mythical pathway and see if anything is there?”

“Have you had anything to do with psychics before?”

“Hell no,” she said forcibly. “I only believe in what I can see and hear and feel.”

He stared at her. “Of course I would be talking to you.”

“Do you consider yourself a psychic?”

“Hell no,” he said. “But I can’t help but wonder if these nightmares don’t have some kind of fact-based realism.”

“Fact-based realism?” She had never heard that phrase before. “If you had given me anything to identify any of these children with,” she said, “I could look them up in the files.”

“It’s the first time I saw a name on the bed,” he said, “but I definitely got the impression the child had been there for a while.”

“Starved to death?”

“I’m afraid that was probably the least of his problems,” he said softly.

She studied his face, seeing the pain, the tired lines in the corner of his eyes, the faint anger masked around his lips, as he clenched them tight. “It makes you angry, doesn’t it?”

He glared at her, not liking the sound of that. “I didn’t do anything to these children,” he said, “but whoever did hasn’t stopped.”

She sat back. “Why do you say that?”

“I think, when I saw the first nightmare,” he said, “since it seemed to have been such a long time ago, I ignored it. But then I had another one and then another, and each time they came back around, another child had been in the group.”

“If that’s true,” she said, “then whoever this person is has taken four.”

Then he shook his head. “No,” he said, “because it’s quite possible he’s taken a lot more, and I just haven’t connected.”

“Connected?” she pounced. “So you are thinking along psychic terms?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not thinking on any terms. I just know these damn nightmares won’t leave me alone, and last night I saw the name Jason. And the child maybe was six, and I can’t give you any more than that.”

“Well, it’s not much,” she said, “but I’ll need your contact details.”

He just stared at her.

“If it does turn out to be something, I obviously have to contact you again,” she said. “Not to mention the fact that every visit here is recorded.”

He swore softly.

“Is that a problem?” she asked. And again she studied him intently. Everybody gave away so much in their body language that they weren’t aware of. But, in his case, no, he kept his cool, even as the small tic in the corner of his jaw pulsed away. She watched it, fascinated, because she never understood if it was a muscular thing or a nervous sign. But, in his case, it was neither.

He was thinking hard. He turned to look at her, nodded, and said, “My name is Simon St. Laurant,” and he went on to add his phone number and address.

“That’s a pretty high-end area for you to live,” she said, staring at the False Creek North address she’d written down.

“For me to live?”

“For anybody,” she said smoothly. “In other words, it takes money to live there.”

“If you say so,” he said curiously. “Money comes. Money goes,” he added. “I try not to worry about it too much.”

Her pen stopped in the act of writing down his address. “Isn’t it nice that you can say that,” she said. “Most of the world can’t.”

“I’m not most of the world,” he said, once again settling back into that arrogance she’d seen in him when he’d first arrived.

She nodded, stood, and said, “I’ll see you out.”

“Will you check?” he asked abruptly, as they reached the entrance door, where he would walk back out onto the street.

She nodded. “I’ll check.”

He flashed her a brilliant smile that had her stopping still in amazement. “That’s all I can ask,” he said, and he turned and walked out.

Behind her, the Audrey, from the front desk said, “Wow.” In a lowered voice Audrey added, “He’s gorgeous. Did you see the way he moved? Like a panther, so smooth.” She giggled. “And you got to talk to him too.”

Kate said in exasperation, “Well, I had to, obviously.”

“You’re just lucky I’m here to run interference for you,” Audrey said, with a cheeky grin. “In his case, I’m more than happy to. I wonder if he’s married?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Kate said and headed back to her desk. Anything to do with psychics made her back away. Charlatans, the whole lot of them.

But the one thing burning in the back of her mind now—well, other than the mention of her brother, Timmy—was how the hell this Simon guy had heard about Jason, a six-year-old boy who’d been missing for six months and whose emaciated body had just been found.

Chapter 3

Friday Morning

Three days after St. Laurant’s statement, Kate still had no answers. But, from the little bit nonpsychic Simon had given her, she did confirm he was talking about Jason Holloworth, who’d gone missing while walking home from school one day. He was supposed to go outside to wait for his mother, who had been late to pick him up, so he decided to start on his own because he was only a few blocks from home.

But he never made it.

According to his mother, he was always on the skinny side and had issues gaining weight. He was six and a half at the time of the abduction but looked closer to five. His seventh birthday came and went, with no sign of the child. Everyone was still hoping he would be found alive and well, until four nights ago, when his body was found floating in a harbor, not very far away from this Simon’s address.

She thought about that and looked over maps of exactly where the body had been found versus where this guy’s apartment was. They were less than half a mile apart. Still, in that area, half a mile was a long distance, as that area had a high-density population. She wasn’t even sure what to do with this information from Simon. She was pretty damn sure her sergeant didn’t want to know anything about it. It’s not like Simon had offered anything helpful, but still, she felt duty-bound to report it. Even if not credible. Besides, she knew all about charlatans. He might not look like the normal ones they saw at the station, but that didn’t change anything.

She also didn’t know what to do about the little boy Simon had called Timothy. Timmy. Just the mention of her brother’s name caused a lifetime of hurt.

It was just about lunchtime, so she would stop to talk to her boss on her way out. She grabbed her wallet, pulled out a few bills to stuff into her pocket, tossed her wallet back into her desk drawer, and walked down the hallway, heading for the front door. She would grab a bowl of soup around the corner at her favorite Jewish deli. She absolutely loved their food, and it didn’t matter what the special was, she’d have it and consider herself lucky. As she walked toward Colby’s office, her footsteps slowed. When she got there, she saw through the glass window that he was alone.

He called out, “Come on in, Kate.” She opened the door and hesitated. “Come in.” She came in, took a seat when he motioned to it, and asked, “What’s up?”

“Three days ago we had a guy walk into the station,” she said. “He had these nightmares.”

His eyebrows shot up. “So we’re talking to people about nightmares now?”

“I heard him out,” she said. “It was about him seeing a series of children in his nightmares, from a little boy that he said the vision seemed to be from years ago to another little boy, who he said was more recent. Several others popped in and out in a continuous stream of ugly situations. The recent boy appeared dead in his dream, and the name on the bed above his body read ‘Jason.’”

Colby leaned forward. “Jason?”

“Yes,” she said. “When I heard that, I went and double-checked the records to see if his statement followed the description of Jason Holloworth,” she said. “Apparently he was already very, very skinny and had a great deal of trouble gaining weight. The stranger who walked in”—she looked down at her fingers as she tried to remember his name—“Steven St. Laurant, I believe. No, Simon St. Laurant,” she corrected. “He had put his age at six and very emaciated.”

“This guy sees himself as some kind of psychic?”

The corners of her mouth quirked up. “I did ask him that,” she said. “He was almost offended.”

“Why?” her boss asked. “Unless he was involved? Knew the victim? Knew the family? Saw the boy alive? Dead?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know what he said.”

“Have you done anything with his info?”

“I logged it, but that’s it,” she said. “We got a little busy with a couple other cases, so I haven’t followed up.”

“It is crazy right now. Check the details that he gave you on the other children, when you get a moment,” he said. “Maybe something else will line up too.”

“And if it does?”

“There’s the question, isn’t it? At that point we’ll get the team on it. First make sure he isn’t the person behind it all,” he snapped, as he stared out the doorway. “We’ve seen that happen a time or two.”

“I don’t understand the psychology behind letting the police know about these cases if you are the one actually perpetrating the crimes.”

“The psychology of the criminal mind is something we could spend lifetimes trying to understand, and we still never really will. Talk to our psychologist on staff about the subject someday. You’ll never get her to shut up.” he said. “So we don’t believe this guy, check it out, and make sure that we have some understanding of where and what he’s doing,” he said. “Then we’ll haul him back in and have a more detailed conversation with him.”

“Will do, when I get back,” she said. “I’m heading down to Marco’s for the special today.”

“Oh, what’s on special?” he asked, looking up with interest.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I always love it anyway.”

He laughed and waved her off.

She took the stairs, needing the exercise and the stress relief. Since she’d joined the division, it seemed like she worked harder, longer, and more intensely than she ever had. She’d spent twelve years on the force, trying to make detective. Now that she was here, for some reason she thought some of her stress would reduce. Instead, she was in this constant battle to prove that the department had made the right decision in hiring her. Too bad no one else seemed to agree with that decision, but they would eventually.

*

He walked along the shoreline, loving the fresh roll of the waves, the smell of the sea, that salty tang to the air. It made him feel refreshed, renewed. His life was one long sad history, but he was making the best of it, finding little areas to make himself smile. Somebody should have taken him out a long time ago; he’d even gone looking for help at one point. But nobody seemed to care; nobody seemed to have the budget; nobody seemed to want to help, so he just turned to his nature and embraced it instead. A part of him hoped one day he’d get caught, but another part knew that, at this point, he’d do anything and everything he could to stay free to continue playing his games.

He was well past being fixed or rehabilitated or whatever society thought they could do with him. And he wasn’t ready to give up his pastime just yet. As he wandered along, he smiled to see the groups of families with children. It wasn’t quite warm enough to be in the water, but people had sand buckets, digging and making sandcastles and just generally having fun. He watched one father sit beside his two young sons, and he murmured, “Good job, Daddy.”

On any given day, he’d easily find half-a-dozen children unaccompanied or whose parents were otherwise distracted, either fighting or on their phones. On any given day he could walk into a park or a beach somewhere and see another potential guest at his place. Somebody to put a stab at happiness into his dark world.

It’s not his fault that he needed to snuff out the life in them within a few days to weeks. He tried to keep them longer. Especially Jason. Something was supremely sweet about that little boy. But he was obviously sick right from the beginning. He’d been skinny and had gotten skinnier over time. It was really too bad because his parents should have taken him to the doctor a long time ago.

As it was, he’d given Jason the nicest few months that he could. But still, Jason had died, and he’d hadn’t even had to do the job himself. Poor Jason; he’d deserved so much better. He shook his head. Life was a bitch.

He turned to watch a toddler heading toward the water. He looked around for a parent and didn’t see anyone. He watched, open-mouthed, as the little one went crashing into the water and fell headfirst. Then he laughed because his mom had been in the water, and she had scooped up the little one, who was laughing and crying at the same time.

He smiled at that. “Don’t see that too often,” he said. But the toddler was screaming from the cold water and yet laughing with happiness.

With a smile, touched at the obvious love between the two of them, he turned and walked down the path a little farther, feeling lonelier than ever.

The beach here wasn’t groomed on a regular basis, which was nice, so he could always find driftwood and shells, little bits and pieces that floated in on the tide. He was out here more for himself, rather than looking for anybody to join him again. Jason’s death had hit him hard. He’d been a good little boy, a happy little boy. He hadn’t liked his new owner very much, but that was to be expected.

Something about Jason’s soul made him feel like he could reach out and touch that happiness. He often wondered, if he could maybe just capture the light in these children, their innocence, if it would help redeem him. As if what he was doing was somehow helpful. Positive. But then he just shook his head and laughed at his foolishness. He’d realized quickly enough that anytime he snuffed out one of those little lights, nothing else happened. Death was death, and, once they were gone, they were just garbage to be taken out and disposed of.

He didn’t even know how many he’d disposed of over the years, but there’d been dozens. Twenty-five, maybe even thirty. He kept a book, but he didn’t like to keep count. That was too egotistical. He didn’t like to compete against others either because he didn’t really see himself that way. And he didn’t want anybody to remember him by his numbers. Nobody would remember him kindly. Too many dead children now. He’d been doing this for so long; why should he stop now?

If his mother knew, she’d be horrified. His sister knew, but, well, she would understand because she had a twisted bent herself. They’d inherited it from their father. But somehow their sweet little dense mother had never really understood. She wasn’t quite all there now either. Last time he’d spoken to her, the Alzheimer’s had kicked in pretty heavily, and she kept asking him if he would bring home cat food. They never had any pets.

He couldn’t remember even bringing home a stray. Well, a turtle one time. Maybe when he had been what, fourteen? He didn’t know what age she was stuck at in her own mind, but it was obviously decades ago. He’d ignored her for years after that, just like she had ignored him when he was younger. His sister had called him a week ago to say Mom’s health was failing. He hadn’t been sure what she wanted from him on that. Finally she burst out and asked, “Will you even be sorry when she’s gone?”

“She was a pretty minor aspect of my life,” he said. “She’ll be even more minor in her death.”

His sister had found that hilarious. He smiled because she was just like him.

“Dad’s dead, you know?” she said.

“You’ve told me that dozens of times,” he said patiently. Again he didn’t know why she kept bringing it up. But he figured it was just to get a rise out of him.

“You never could prove yourself to him.”

“Good, then I don’t have to bother trying, do I?”

“But I wish you’d stop trying to be like him,” she said in frustration. “You’re better than that.”

He smiled a secret smile, knowing she couldn’t see it. “Of course I am,” he said. “I’m the devil’s spawn.”

“What does that make me then?” she retorted. “The devil’s spawnee?” She giggled.

He didn’t even crack a grin over that one. “No, we’re both the devil’s spawn,” he said, “two peas in the same pod.”

“We are twins for sure,” she said, “but I don’t think we’re all that much alike.” Her tone had been very doubtful.

“Oh, I think we are,” he argued. “We are very much alike.”

“No,” she said. “You have that weird twisted side to you. I’m nothing like that.”

“Give it time,” he said. “You just won’t indulge in your hobby yet. With some time and a bit of freedom, you will.”

“No, it’s nasty,” she said, “and it’s not my hobby. It’s yours.”

“Yes, but you like to hear all about it, don’t you?”

He caught her there because, although she didn’t dare do what he was doing, preferring instead to be outraged and disgusted at his “hobby,” she always wanted to hear the details. And maybe that’s all she could do. Maybe she couldn’t be honest with herself or with him; maybe that’s just how it worked. He was okay with that too. He knew how deep their connection went, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge it.

“Jason died,” he said abruptly. “A few days ago.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know how special he was for you.”

“Very special,” he said, his voice softening. “I’ll really miss him.”

“He was ill already, you said.”

“Yes,” he said. “I knew he wasn’t long for this world. I just wanted to make his last few months the best they could be.”

“And the best that they could be for you too,” she said in a dry tone.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss him.”

“No, I’m sure you do.”

“I’ll replace him,” he said suddenly, knowing that question was coming up. It always did.

“Don’t you think,” she said, “maybe it’s time to walk away from your hobby?”

“No,” he said. “I just don’t want a long-term guest again. It really hurts to lose them.”

“Well, if it hurts you, think about what it’s doing to all the families.”

He’d no civil answer for that one.

Even now he smiled, as he walked along the beach. It was nice to talk to her about it; it was nice she understood. She was the only one who would. It made him feel not so alone. And he kept telling himself that he really didn’t want to have another guest for a while. He still felt the effects of Jason’s death. And it really did hurt.

It wasn’t fair; Jason had been so young and so innocent and had only wanted to have a decent life. But, of course, with his parents, that was a whole different story. They hadn’t looked after him; they didn’t deserve him. They should have taken him to specialists and made sure he got the help he needed. But they hadn’t cared enough. How sad was that?

At least he’d cared, so, in the end, Jason hadn’t died alone.

*

Saturday Morning

Simon woke up Saturday morning and stretched slowly in bed. The sheets slid gently across his smooth naked skin, making him feel luxuriously awake, as he slowly registered the fact that he’d actually slept last night. It was his third—no, fourth—peaceful night after visiting the police station. Maybe that’s all it took. Maybe he only needed to talk to the cops to have it all off his shoulders. Smiling, he sat up, wondering what he wanted to do for the day. When he’d gone to bed last night, he’d deliberately not made any plans, wondering if he would have a decent night or not.

Then he looked over and found he wasn’t alone.

He glared down at the woman, wearing just panties, sprawled across his bed. He shook her shoulder. “Annalise, what are you doing here?”