As he lay with her, the sudden coolness of the air-conditioning was sweet against the heat of his damp flesh, and he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to be reminded that his world was a place where the ugliness of day could intrude on the beauty of the night, where there was no escaping who he was or what he did.
She nudged him. “I need to get back to the Longhorn,” she said.
“No,” he protested.
She rose up on an elbow and smiled. “Logan, you know I have to go back. You’re the one who’s so convinced it all has to do with the Longhorn.”
She looked down at him, the fall of her hair curling around her naked breast, her eyes that extraordinary green, even in the darkness.
He reached out for her and drew her to him, his lips just an inch from hers when he whispered, “Not yet.”
She eased against him as their lips met in a slow kiss that became deep and passionate. Time stood still and yet passed by swiftly. And when she lay beside him again, they didn’t speak, and she didn’t move. As he held her he began to drift off… .
He saw nothing but darkness before him, and then he felt as if he’d zoomed in somewhere with a camera, going in close. He wasn’t immediately sure where he was. Then he saw that he’d zoomed into Room 207 at the Longhorn, and that he was standing just inside. It was as though a movie began to unfold. There was someone speaking in a raspy voice and he recoiled. He needed to watch, but he didn’t want to, because he was human, and it was agony and anguish to watch another person’s pain and do nothing to stop it.
A shadow was coming from the wall. But Sandy wasn’t there, and neither was Jeff Chasson. Just the shadow. He thought he’d see Rose Langley step forth in a corset and garters and chemise, and that he’d witness Matt Meyer placing his fingers around her neck, killing her.
Because she wouldn’t give him the Galveston diamond.
But it wasn’t Rose, and the woman wasn’t clad in anything old-fashioned, although he couldn’t have sworn exactly what era, if any, such a simple white gown belonged to. He didn’t need to pinpoint the age of the clothing, however; he recognized the woman’s face. He’d seen it in his files, on the news, perhaps even on a TV screen, but he hadn’t been affected by it back then as he was now. Crime had gone on when he’d left the world for his grandfather’s land and enclosed himself in his circle of mourning. Horrible things had happened but they hadn’t really touched him, hadn’t seemed personal.
He’d since learned that the world was shared, that he’d gotten into law enforcement with a true desire to find justice, to save the vulnerable and innocent from the brutal and vicious.
He knew the face. Sierra Monte’s.
The shadow coming from the wall seemed to be looking straight at him. Her smile was sad, and her whisper was broken and pleading as she whispered, “Help me. Help them. Help her.”
She didn’t fade away, but rather disappeared in an explosion of flapping wings. She’d been a shadow, and then she’d been form, and her form had burst into dozens of black crows that flapped their wings and flew away. He started, and realized he’d been sleeping and that now he was awake.
Kelsey was gone.
He leaped out of bed and ran naked down the hallway, to the kitchen. Her clothing no longer lay strewn about.
He raced back into the bedroom and looked at the clock. He thought he’d barely closed his eyes, but it was 3:00 a.m.
He was suddenly so anxious, so desperate to find Kelsey, that he nearly dashed out of the house nude. He remembered the shadow with Sierra Monte’s face whispering to him.
Help me, help them, help her.
Kelsey was her, and Kelsey was in danger.
He managed to jump into his jeans and moccasins, grab a shirt and buckle on his gun belt. Then he tore from the house.
San Antonio was different by night, especially in what Kelsey considered the heart of it—Alamo plaza. The Alamo shone beautifully in the night lights, while across the street and grass and trees of the plaza, some neon still burned. Ripley’s Believe It or Not offered the visitor a trip through the extreme and the exotic and the plain old weird, and ghost tours were, needless to say, available. Tomb Rider 3D promised to be an entertaining attraction, and for those who wanted a good scare, there was Ripley’s Haunted Adventure, where guests could ride a haunted coffin cage into a world of “bone-chilling” special effects, animatronics and live-action thrill-chill actors.
But it was three in the morning, so there was no one about. Kelsey decided she loved the city this way.
She was surprised that she’d been able to slip out of bed without a protest. She’d noted before that Logan seemed to wake at the slightest movement or sound. Not tonight.
He wanted her to stay, she knew, but men went into protective mode, especially when they were sleeping with a woman. They both understood that she had to stay in Room 207, and that her talents and abilities were why she’d been chosen, why she was with him. Talents and abilities she had to use…
They all realized there was something in Room 207. Even if she hadn’t already seen the past reenacted there, they’d watched the film.
Logan would have to forgive her for walking out—and he would, because it was the right thing for her to do. He wanted to come to Room 207 to be with her, but she knew innately that neither one of them wanted to make love in that room, tainted as it was by pain and brutality, so they’d gone to his house with wordless consent.
It didn’t change the fact that she needed to be in that room. She didn’t mind if he came back with her; she’d actually like it if he did. It was just that…
He’d been sleeping so deeply. He’d been at rest and she thought that, for Logan, such a deep and encompassing sleep was rare.
A moon rode high that night, casting a gentle glow along with the streetlights. Turning from the modern attractions to the historical ones, Kelsey saw the old chapel of the Alamo gleaming. With the modern world at her back, it seemed even more hallowed.
Not until she’d crossed over toward the old chapel was she aware of being followed.
She paused for a moment, pretending to adjust a shoe. There was no sound. Straining to hear, she caught the rustle of leaves, the sighing of a breeze at night. She straightened, reminding herself that she was a U.S. Marshal. She was armed and deadly with her weapon, and she was smart enough to be a little afraid. It also occurred to her that she just might have a chance to lure someone who might be a killer.
As she began to move again, she heard a click. Click, click, click.
Up ahead lay the historic Menger Hotel and other buildings. She needed to move away from the open plaza and find a place to wait.
Once more she pretended to stop, just to gaze at the chapel in the moonlight, and reflect upon its sanctity and beauty. She listened and thought there might be someone between her and the side of the plaza.
Kelsey resumed walking, and when she’d cleared the open area, she crouched close to the buildings on her way down the street.
She slipped into a tiny alley and waited, drawing her Glock, releasing its safety.
She looked back and heard another sound.
Not close yet.
Kelsey leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, and prayed for strength and intelligence in every move, then peered out carefully.
There was someone there. All she could see was a silhouette, moving slowly, stopping, moving slowly.
She felt her heart beating and wondered, Could this be the man? A killer, stalking by night?
She prepared to meet him. She looked out again.
He was coming closer and closer, and the shadow he cast seemed to dwarf the chapel of the Alamo and the street itself.
She braced herself to accost him. She turned and faced the man with the mammoth black shadow.
Chapter Twelve
Before she could open her mouth, Kelsey heard Logan Raintree’s voice in the night.
“Stop! In the name of the law, stop. I have a Colt aimed at your back and will shoot to kill or cripple. Hands above your head. Turn slowly!”
Kelsey stepped out from her hiding place. By the glow of the moon and the streetlights she could see that a man stood in the plaza. Logan’s gun was aimed at him, and he was slowly turning, as ordered.
She walked out, her own weapon drawn. She saw that the man was big—tall and big, not fat, but heavily muscled.
Corey Simmons.
“Logan!” Corey said with relief. “What the hell?”
She could see that Logan wasn’t smiling. As she walked back to the plaza to skirt around Corey and join Logan, she saw that Corey was starting to lower his hands.
“No! Keep them up!” Logan shouted.
Corey did. He now had a Colt and a Glock aimed at him.
His handsome face appeared puzzled.
“What’s wrong? What’s this about?” he demanded.
“You carrying a weapon?” Logan asked Corey, flashing an angry glance Kelsey’s way.
She frowned in return, indicating her own grasp on the Glock.
“I got me a little peashooter here, and it’s legal! Totally legal. Hell, Logan, you know that. This is Texas!” Corey said.
“Get his gun,” Logan told Kelsey.
She went over to Corey. He was carrying a Smith & Wesson, stuffed into his waistband.
As she took it, she saw his eyes on her, wide and disbelieving. “What’s this all about, Kelsey?” He sounded hurt and confused.
She backed away from him. “Why were you following me?” she asked.
“I just left a bar up the street, over there, on the other side of Ripley’s.”
“The bars are all closed now,” Logan said.
“Yes, it’s closed. That’s why I left!” Corey returned indignantly. “Smell my breath!”
He exhaled a rich plume of alcohol that spoke for itself.
“So, why were you following me?” she asked again.
“Hell, I didn’t know I was following you. I didn’t intend to follow anyone. But if I was following you—or anyone else—it would be to make sure you got where you were going safely! Some bad things have been happening here, which you know! Can I put my hands down now?”
