Closing her eyes again, she drew in a deep breath. She'd been in the killer's mind before. She just had to get back there. Opening her heart and her mind, she listened....

This was a stupid-ass way to kill someone. A nice clean shot to the head and he could be having lunch by now. She'd be dead, and so would her pal. But, no, he had to play out some ridiculous scenario with so many possibilities for failure. He didn't like it. He'd stayed alive and free this long by following his own instincts. But he needed the cash owed to him, so he'd do what he'd been told-exactly as he'd been told.

He pressed down on the gas, and the car shot forward. The turnout was just ahead. So was the rest . . . the small cottage, the bird feeder on the front deck, the stone chimney, the sweeping vista of the water. It had to happen there, he'd been told, so that was where it would happen.

It wasn't a bad place to die. She was lucky. Well, not that lucky, he thought with a laugh.

Dylan saw an image in his head. A hummingbird danced around a bird feeder that hung on the front porch of a cottage clinging to a cliff on the sea's edge. He saw a stone chimney, a path leading to the water, a long, rickety pier.

His eyes flew open and he started the car. He'd been to that place with his mother many times. They'd gone to visit someone-a man. His breath caught in his throat. Was the man his father? Was he being drawn to the place where it had all begun?

It made sense that there was a method to the madness. The plan had been so well orchestrated up until this point. Why would it change now?

But wasn't he just continuing to march to the beat of someone else's drum? He could be walking into a trap. They could be waiting for him. In fact, he'd bet they were waiting for him. He had to be smarter.

Driving down the road, he searched desperately for signposts, memories from his long-ago past. How on earth was he going to find that house on this big island?

Think, he ordered himself. Make something happen.

There was a hill that led to the cottage. That narrowed it down. He saw the mountain rising before him like a beacon calling him home. He heard Catherine's voice telling him to turn one way, then the other. Somehow he would find her.

I'm coming, Catherine. Hang on.

The car stopped. The trunk opened a moment later. Catherine blinked, momentarily blinded by the sunlight. She couldn't see much beyond the hand that grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the trunk. She hit the ground, landing on her knees. He hauled her to her feet, his grip tight on the arm he pulled behind her back, facing her away from him.

She strained to see him, but he was standing behind her now, one hand on her arm, the other on the back of her head. She could feel the size and power of him. He was tall, broad, strong, and there was a hint of whiskey on his breath.

"Move," he said, shoving her forward toward a path that went off to the side of a house.

It was the house she'd seen in her head, or his. .. .

This was the place where he was going to kill her. She stumbled, trying to slow down the inevitable, but he pushed her along.

"I'll shoot you right here if you don't keep going," he growled, his voice low and hard next to her ear.

She recoiled at the sound of that voice, so loud, so intense. Pain shot through her as he gave her arm another vicious twist. At the end of the path they reached the pier. It extended out over the water a good dozen or so feet. It was old, the boards showing signs of weather and age. She tried to look around, to seek help from a neighbor, but there was no other house, no other person anywhere in sight.

She was alone with a killer.

He shoved her onto the pier, taking her right up to the edge. The water was ten feet below, the waves lapping at the columns that supported the dock. It was cold, windy. Her hair blew across her face. She reached up with her free hand to push it back.

"Just tell me why," she said. "Tell me who you're working for. If I'm going to die, I deserve to know who wants me dead."

"Stalling. Women always like to stall," he said.

Something caught in her chest. His voice again-it was so familiar. She'd heard it in her head, but had she also heard it somewhere else, somewhere real? She itched to see his face.

"Just tell me, what's it to you?" she asked. "You're working for someone else. You don't have to protect their secret. I'll be dead, right? What does it matter what I know?"

Squawking birds flew by, two of them diving into the water. In the sudden commotion he eased his grip on her arm.

Catherine yanked herself away, turning around, facing him head-on.

Her heart thudded to a stop. She couldn't breathe.

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be him.

He stared back at her. He was now pointing a gun at her head. But as he looked at her something in his eyes, his dark eyes, fluttered and caught. He knew her, too.

The moment she'd been dreading her entire life had finally arrived. He'd come back to kill her.

"You," she whispered. "Is it you? Are you really my father?"

"Catherine?" His voice revealed his shock. He hadn't known. Why hadn't he known? "No." He shook his head. His hand wavered slightly, but still he didn't lower the gun. Her back was to the water. He stood between her and the only way off the pier. There was nowhere to run. So she wouldn't try. Instead she would take her moment of truth.

"You killed her, didn't you? You killed my mother and you tried to kill me."

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. She saw the answer in his eyes.

The images from the past suddenly rushed back into her head.

They were fighting, screaming terrible things at each other. He called her mother a witch and a whore. He told her that she was crazy, that the devil was inside her.

She said he was the devil, the one filled with evil. He took out the large kitchen knife. She put up her hands, terror on her face.

"No," she screamed. "Don't do it."

The knife plunged into her chest. Blood spurted everywhere. She stared at him in shock. "Die, demons, die," he cried over and over and over again.

Catherine ran. She knocked into the door on her way out. She heard him call her name. She had to hide before he killed her, too.

"You killed my mother," she said again, facing him now with more anger than fear. "She saw you for what you were, and you couldn't stand that."

"You're just like her, aren't you?" he said with a sneer. "I knew you were out there somewhere. I should have gotten rid of you before this."

"How can you talk about me like I'm nothing to you? I'm your child. Your daughter."

"Her daughter. Her demon child."

"I have your blood, too."

His fingers tightened around the gun. "This isn't about the past. You're just a job I have to finish."

"This is what you do? You kill people? Did it get easier after you killed her?"

"It was always easy."

Suddenly it made sense. The murders she'd seen in her dreams had been tied to her father. He'd been killing people for the past twenty-four years, people she couldn't save. And now she might not be able to save herself. He was going to win again. She couldn't let him. She had to find a way out.

"I'm good at it," he said. "Everyone dies sometime. I just make it happen sooner."

"Who told you to kill me? Did you know it was me?"

"Actually, I didn't. Not that it matters. But life is funny sometimes."

"You think this is funny?" She shook her head in disbelief. "I know you weren't always like this. You had to have been human sometime. People told me when I was a little girl that it was the drugs that changed you, that you weren't born evil, that somewhere inside was a decent person."

He laughed. "They told you a fairy tale."

She saw the wild light in his eyes and knew that it hadn't all been a fairy tale. "You're high now, aren't you? You feed on the drugs and then you kill and then you get more money to buy more drugs. It's a never-ending circle."

"Pleasure after pleasure," he said, his voice silky. "It's a hell of a way to live, baby girl."

"Don't call me that. Don't stand there and say you're going to kill me and then call me your baby."

"You have a lot to say for someone who's going to die."

"Someday someone will catch you. They'll make you pay," she told him, her anger driving her on. She couldn't think about whether or not she was saying the right thing. She just had to say what she felt.

"No one ever catches me. I'm invincible."

Looking at his face she could see that he believed everything he said. He was the god of his own mind, the ruler of his own world. And she knew without a doubt that, daughter or no daughter, he would take her life. She hated to plead, but she wanted to live more than she wanted to save her pride. "You could let me go. You should let me go," she amended. "I'm your child. You owe me that much. You took my mother away. I grew up alone, without anyone."

"You were better off without her."

"When will it stop? You're not a young man anymore. You're . . . old," she said, noting the gray in his hair, the sag in his cheeks, the lines around his eyes. The monster was suddenly beginning to look more human.

His hand shook ever so slightly. "I can still take you out."

Catherine held her breath, her gaze fixed on his finger and the trigger. She could be dead in another second, or- She didn't have time to finish the thought. A large rock hit her father square on the back of the head. He fell to his knees, the gun hitting the deck with a clatter. She reached for the weapon as Dylan came storming down the pier like a linebacker intent on making the hit of his life. Her father had barely gotten to his feet, blood streaming off the back of his head, when Dylan barreled into his midsection. The force of the tackle took them both to the edge of the pier.

Her father took a swing at Dylan's face, connecting with his nose.

More blood.

Dylan punched back with a roar of fury.

The two men grappled with each other as they skidded off the deck.

Catherine screamed in terror as they lost their footing and went into the water. She ran to the edge, gun in hand. If she could just get a clear shot she would take it.

Wouldn't she?

Doubt flashed through her head. Could she kill her own father?

For Dylan . . . for her mother . . . for all the people her father had ever hurt. She could do it, and she would.

But she couldn't risk hitting Dylan. The men were fighting, fists flying, the water swirling around them, as they each tried to push the other under the water. The waves from their struggle sprayed her face with a fine mist. She wiped her eyes just as they disappeared under the dock. Then she heard a couple of heavy thuds.

Kneeling down, she searched the water, her gut clenching as blood turned the white edges of the waves red. She could no longer hear their battle. It was quiet, very, very quiet.

"Dylan!" she screamed.

He didn't answer. No one did.

Chapter 20.

For long, tortured seconds she watched the waves. Where were they? Dammit, she was not going to stand by and let Dylan die. Without any more thought she kicked off her shoes, threw off her sweater, and jumped into the water.

The icy cold stole her breath away, but she dove under the next wave, searching for Dylan.

It was so dark, so deep. She couldn't see anyone. She had lost him. Her heart shattered. She wanted to die herself. But she couldn't give up. It couldn't end like this.

She dove down again, swimming under the pier. Then she saw him sinking into the water facedown, his body limp. He wasn't fighting. He wasn't moving. She grabbed him around the neck and pulled him to the surface. It seemed to take forever to get to shore. She didn't think he was breathing, and the thought terrified her.

"Don't die," she prayed. "Please don't die."

Finally her feet touched sand. She dragged his heavy body out of the water up on the rocks, and rolled him on his back. His lips were turning blue, his face white. She cupped his chin and tilted his head back, trying to remember what she'd ever learned about mouth-to-mouth. She squeezed his nostrils shut and then leaned over and breathed into his mouth-once, twice, short, quick breaths. Pausing, she pulled back and put her finger on the pulse point on his neck. It was slow and weak, but it was there. She pressed on his chest, trying to keep his heart going, then breathed into his mouth again, rotating her movements, not sure whether she was doing it right but trying to find some rhythm.

"Breathe, dammit!" she yelled. "I'm not going to lose you, too."

She put her mouth over his again, willing him to live, focusing on the connection between them, breathing her life into his body.

He jerked, then coughed. She pushed him over onto his side, pounding him on the back as seawater poured out of his mouth. When he finally seemed able to breathe on his own, she crawled around to face him.

He was alive!

She stared into his dazed eyes, noting the gash on his head. He must have hit the edge of the pier when they were fighting and been knocked unconscious.

She sat on her knees and brushed the hair away from his eyes, delighting in the fact that he was alive. He was going to make it.

She loved this man. She loved him more than she'd ever loved anyone in her life.

"Where . . . where is he?" Dylan asked, choking out the words. "Did I kill him? I had my hands on his throat. And then my head must have hit something hard.. . ." Dylan struggled to sit up and look around.

For the first time she remembered her father, the man who'd been intent on killing her. "I don't know. He disappeared under the water. I went after you. I didn't see him anywhere."