"There's a dead girl in there," the man said, his eyes on the money.

"Oh, God," Catherine whispered. "Give him the twenty and let's go."

"Can you describe her?" Dylan asked, ignoring her hand on his arm.

The man gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Dylan, give him the money," she repeated forcefully. "Just do it. Please. And then get us out of here."

Dylan hesitated, then handed the twenty over to the man. "Catherine, I know you're upset, but I have to find out if that's Erica," he said, driving slowly away from the scene. "I'll just park and get out-"

"Dylan, think for a minute," she said, cutting him off. "If you go back there and identify Erica, they're going to want to know who you are. How do you think it will look when they find out you were under suspicion of having killed Erica in Tahoe, and now you happen to show up in the middle of the night right after she's actually been killed?"

"This should prove I didn't do it. It happened here."

"Where you are." She saw her words sink into his brain.

"Damn. I should have thought of that," he muttered.

"Yes."

He hit the gas and drove quickly around the next corner. "I'm usually the logical one. Thanks for saving my ass."

She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight with the certainty that Erica had been killed just a few yards away from them. They were too late. Her vision had been in real time. For the first time in her life she'd tried to chase the nightmare and she'd failed. She might as well have stayed home, hiding her head under the covers. Or maybe if they'd left earlier, right away, if she hadn't taken the time to stop and draw the park . . .

"It's not your fault," Dylan said.

She shook her head and stared out the window, on the verge of breaking down.

"It might not have been her," Dylan added. "There were lots of homeless people in the park. It could have been someone else."

"It wasn't. Oh, God." Another vision was coming into her head, and she didn't want to look. But she couldn't push it away.

One red high heel lay abandoned on the wet grass. The other shoe was still strapped to her foot. Her red toenail polish mixed with the blood dripping down her bare leg. The short dress was hitched up to her hips. The spaghetti straps fell halfway down her arms. Brown hair framed the lifeless, bloodless face, her dark eyes still stamped with the horror of death.

Along with the image came an odd sense of satisfaction, victory, the taste of success. It was a job well-done.

She wasn't in Erica's head anymore. She was in his. She was looking through the eyes of a killer. And she knew he wasn't done yet.

Chapter 11.

"Stop!" Catherine screamed. Dylan hit the brake so quickly she would have struck the windshield if she hadn't been wearing her seat belt. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded. She tugged off her seat belt, jumped out of the car, and made it to the edge of the bushes before she threw up. A moment later she felt Dylan's hand on her back as she got rid of the evil, sick taste in her mouth the only way she knew how.

"Are you all right?" he asked when she was done.

She wiped her mouth with the edge of her sleeve, more than a little embarrassed. "I'm okay. I wish you hadn't seen that."

"I've seen worse." "We can go now." "Catherine-" "I just want to get out of here." Maybe if she left the park she could put some distance between herself and him.

Dylan kept his hand on her shoulder as he walked her back to the car. Within minutes they were exiting the park. Catherine blew out a breath of relief at the sight of storefronts and apartment buildings.

"I'm sorry about that," she muttered, afraid to look at Dylan. "And utterly humiliated."

"Don't be. You were thinking about Erica, weren't you?"

She didn't know how to answer the question. She couldn't tell him what she'd seen. It was too horrible, and what was worse was how she'd envisioned the scene.

"I don't want to believe it's her," Dylan continued. "If I'd seen her with my own eyes, maybe I could, but right now it just seems impossible. It's unimaginable that she's dead."

"Yeah, I know," she said. But she had seen Erica, and the woman's image was indelibly imprinted on Cather-ine's brain. She didn't know if she would ever forget Erica's face. Why hadn't she been able to find her before her death? Why hadn't her visions brought her to the park earlier? Catherine felt so angry, so frustrated, so helpless . . . and so dirty. The stench of evil still lingered in her senses. She'd been in his head. She'd felt his joy. God, he was sick. And maybe so was she.

She dug her fingernails into her thighs, feeling the sharp sting of pain. She wanted that pain. She wanted to punish herself or him. Someone deserved to hurt. Someone besides Erica.

Dylan grabbed her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. He held on tight until they pulled up in front of his grandmother's house. Then he finally let go. They made it into the house without incident, but Catherine couldn't forget the fleeting thought that had run through the killer's mind-that it was time to move on to the next target. Was that target Dylan? Was the danger about to come closer?

Dylan turned on the light in the hall and set the flashlight on the table. Catherine walked into the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the tap. It would be dawn soon, a new day, time to start over-again. She couldn't wait to see the sunrise. Maybe everything would be different in the morning. Perhaps she just thought she was awake when in fact she was in the grip of another nightmare.

But Dylan felt real as he came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. He rested his chin on her head. "Can I help?" he asked.

She shook her head, her throat too tight to speak.

"Let me try." He forced her to turn around, but he didn't let go of her, his hands sliding to her hips. "I could distract you. I have a couple of ideas."

The thought was more than a little tempting, but she felt too . . . dirty. "I need to take a shower."

"What's wrong, Catherine?" His sharp gaze bored into hers. "I'm not as good as you are at reading minds, so you'll have to fill me in."

"I can't tell you."

"Well, now you have to tell me, because I can't stand secrets."

She should have known better than to wave that red flag in front of Dylan.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. She closed her eyes and wished things were simpler between them. "Don't." She tried to pull away, but he had her trapped between him and the kitchen counter.

"Then talk."

"I saw Erica's body on the ground. The blood from a bullet hole in her forehead dripped down her body. I think he shot her in the heart, too."

He drew in a quick breath. "You saw that in your mind? No wonder you got sick."

"It wasn't just the sight of her," she said, knowing she had to finish it. Dylan needed to know all of it. "I was in his head, the killer's head. I felt his satisfaction at the success of his job. I felt his evil run through me." She was afraid to look into Dylan's eyes, terrified she would see contempt or dislike or revulsion. But he was quiet for so long she finally had to lift her gaze to his. His eyes were thoughtful, speculative, but not condemning. "You don't believe me, do you?" she asked. "After everything I've told you, you still think I'm conning you?" Anger took the place of embarrassment. "How can you think that?"

"Whoa, slow down. You're hitting me with way too many things at once."

She tried to push past him, but his grip on her tightened. "I believe you, okay?"

"You're just saying that."

"I never just say anything," he told her. "You should know that about me by now."

"And you should know that I don't lie."

"I do know that. It's hard for me to accept your extrasensory abilities, but I'm trying."

"It doesn't matter if you accept them or not. I'm the one who has to live with them."

"You're not evil," he said.

"No, I'm just crazy."

"So am I."

"Hardly. You're normal and almost damn perfect."

"You are rattled if you're calling me perfect now."

"I just wish the visions would let me help someone. It's so frustrating to see people die, and I can't stop anything from happening. Why can't I be tuned in to nice people instead of murderers?" As she asked the question, she realized she knew the answer, and before she could hide her expression Dylan's gaze narrowed.

"You know, don't you?" he said. "You said the visions started when you were a little girl, and the only thing I know about that little girl is that at one point she was surrounded by blood and then taken away in a police cruiser."

"I can't go there, not now. I need to get some sleep, and so do you. It will be morning in a few hours, and God only knows what's coming next." She slipped from his embrace.

"You won't always be able to run from me, Catherine."

His words came after her, but she didn't stop moving until she'd reached the upstairs bedroom. She shut the door and sat down on the bed, trembling from the force of her emotions. Dylan didn't know it, but by running away she'd just done him a huge favor. She might not be able to protect the people in her visions, but she could protect Dylan. The last thing he needed was to get sucked into her nightmare.

"It's done. She's dead," the man said as he kicked his feet onto the coffee table in front of him and leaned back against the couch. He could hear waves crashing on the beach not far from his motel room. The steady beat echoed the now calm thump of his heart. It had been only a short while, but already he missed the adrenaline rush. He could still see her face, her eyes widening with the realization that she was about to die. He wished he could have taken a little longer with her, but she wasn't a pleasure kill. She was a job-a job he'd done well. "The police have already found the body," he continued. "It should be on the news tomorrow."

"It took you long enough."

"I got the job done. That's all that matters."

"Half the job. There's still more to come."

Another murder? He wasn't surprised. The plan had always been fluid. As long as he got paid he didn't care how many other people died. And he'd always liked San Francisco. Not that he stayed anywhere long. He'd lived in too many towns to count, and had been called by a lot of different names. The man he'd once been had vanished years ago, and he didn't miss him one bit.

It bothered him that he was even thinking of that man now. A lifetime had passed since he'd tried to live up to expectations, to fit into a world that wanted to control him. Now he was his own man. He took the jobs he wanted. He called the shots, and he got paid well for what he did.

"When do you want him to die?" he asked.

Silence met his question. Finally the answer came. "I want him to suffer more. I want him to be afraid, to realize there is nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. He's trapped. And soon he will die . . . like everyone else."

There was passionate lust in the voice that gave him his next instructions and the name of his victim. Dylan Sanders had made one hell of an enemy.

Dylan woke a little after nine thirty in the morning. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late, but then again, he'd gotten only about three hours of sleep the night before. He was actually surprised he'd slept at all with so much going through his mind.

Getting up, he jumped in the shower, reviewing what he needed to get done. First things first-strong coffee. He needed caffeine, and he needed it badly. After throwing on some clothes, he headed down the block and picked up coffee, tea, bagels, and the morning newspaper. He also called Mark from a pay phone to update him on what was happening. When he returned to the house all was quiet, so he figured Catherine was still asleep.

He entered the kitchen and turned on the small television set on the counter, eager for his morning news fix. Unfortunately it was just about eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning, and the only news was on the national cable channels. He opened the newspaper, skimming the front-page headlines. There was no report of a murder in Golden Gate Park, which wasn't surprising, since the paper had probably already gone to press before the police arrived at the scene.

Damn. He wanted to know if that woman in the park was Erica. He had some friends on the police force whom he often used to get the news, but he was leery of announcing his presence in the city, especially to the cops. However, he might take a risk and call the station. They'd be preparing the story for the evening news.

He hoped it wasn't Erica in the park, but he was starting to trust Catherine's instincts as much as his own, and she was so certain, how could he doubt her? He was lucky Catherine had been with him last night. He could have made a huge mistake by getting out of the car and putting himself at the scene of the crime. He was still kicking himself for acting on instinct instead of thinking things through. He was usually practical, logical, thoughtful-well, maybe not always. He did have a tendency to act first, think later, but not when the stakes were this high and this personal. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

He glanced up as Catherine entered the kitchen. His stomach clenched at the sight of her. It had been a long time since he'd had such a powerful reaction to a woman. They'd been together almost every minute of the last two days, but a few hours away from her and he almost felt as if he'd missed her. How stupid was that?

Frowning, he picked up his coffee, trying not to look at her, but he couldn't help noticing that she'd taken a shower and changed into a pair of blue jeans and a tank top, both of which molded nicely to her curves. Her reddish blond hair was still damp from her shower, the ends curling around her face. Her blue eyes were bright and sparkling, and he appreciated the absence of fear. She'd recovered from the night before. He wished he could say the same about himself.

"How are you doing?" she asked. "Did you get any sleep?"

"An hour or two. How about you?"

"The same. I must admit I'm always relieved to see the sun come up. Is that tea?" she asked, tipping her head toward one of the paper cups on the table.

"Decaffeinated, some sort of herbal thing."

Her smile broadened. "Thank you. That was thoughtful."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want to hear you complain."

"When have I complained?"

"I'm sure you would have."

"You're in a grumpy mood."

"I am not," he snapped, knowing he was taking his restlessness out on her. He had two choices: yell at her or kiss her, and at the moment yelling was probably safer.

She sat down across from him, took a sip of her tea, and pointed to the newspaper. "Anything about Erica?"

"No. And there's no local news on this morning." He checked his watch. "Although there should be a news break coming up at eleven, with the sound bites for what will be on at five. We've got about ten minutes."

She pulled a bagel out of the bag and covered it with cream cheese, then took a bite. "Mmm, good," she muttered as she swallowed. "I'm always starving in the morning All the dreams, probably. I think I burn up more calories when I'm asleep than when I'm awake." She paused, studying his face. "You wish I hadn't stopped you from barreling into the bushes last night, don't you?"

He shook his head. "No, you were right. I'm just frustrated that I don't know for sure that it was Erica who died. The idea that someone could have really killed her boggles my mind."