“Kathryn, stop. I want to be inside you when I come,” he grated.

  “God, yes.”

  Raising her head, she looked into his smoldering eyes, her gaze locked with his as she straddled him, using her hands for balance as she lowered her body onto his.

  He cried out—half curse, half thanks—as she brought him inside of her.

  Going very still, she stayed where she was, her eyes drifting closed, as she focused on the wonderful feeling of his penis filling her so completely.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, his voice husky.

  She opened her lids to see that his eyes had darkened with passion. He gave her a slow smile as he took a visual tour of her body, starting with her face and slowly moving downward.

  She might have felt vulnerable and exposed. But his words were too warm for that. “Lord, what a beautiful view,” he whispered.

  “Of you, too. You are so beautifully made. So masculine.”

  Slowly she began to move, building her own pleasure and his. With his good hand, he reached up to caress first one breast and then the other, his touch inciting her to quicken the pace.

  His eyes held hers as she climbed the high peaks, knowing he was taking the journey with her.

  She felt his body go rigid below her, heard his shout of pleasure. Then she was driving for her own climax, her movements frantic now until release seized her. Her whole body seemed to vibrate in a series of strong contractions that shook her to her very core, then left her limp and panting.

  She would have collapsed on top of him, but she remembered his injured shoulder and shifted to his left side, sliding down onto the bed beside him.

  His arm came up to clasp her close. Her eyes drifted closed, and she dozed, warm and relaxed in the aftermath of passion.

  SIMON sat in his easy chair, reading more on astral projection. But his mind was only half on the book. He was open, alert, waiting for the opportunity he knew would come. This morning he’d felt the need for action. Now he knew he only had to wait for the next time the redheaded bitch and the cop dreamed together.

  The minutes ticked by as he crouched like a spider in the center of its web, waiting for a hapless insect to come along.

  Finally, it happened. The delicate strands of the web sent out a vibration. His body jerked, and he knew the time had come. They were both sleeping. Their guard was down.

  His face contorted. They’d been having sex again. He could feel that, too, feel the satiety and the lazy relaxation of their minds and bodies. And feel their vulnerability.

  They had fled Montgomery County. He had felt them moving farther from him—in distance. But they could never get far enough away.

  They were his.

  He closed his eyes, watching them. They were in a rustic-looking room. Snuggled together in a pine bed covered with a much-washed quilt.

  They thought they were safe. Let them dream on—for a few more minutes—until he got there. This time he sensed that they were sleeping in the dream world, too. He could sneak up on them, plunge his knife into the woman, and be gone before the cop could do anything about it. And then the triangle would be broken—and he would be free to go after the demon.

  Quickly he left the library and hurried down to the ceremonial chamber, ready to say the spell that would bring him into their dream.

  JACK stirred. He had been lying snug and warm, his arms around Kathryn. Both arms, which meant this must be a dream, because in some corner of his mind he remembered that he’d been in an automobile accident, and his right arm was in a sling.

  But when he reached for her, she wasn’t there.

  He heard her scream—a bloodcurdling sound that he felt from the roots of his hair to his toes.

  He was out of bed in an instant. Not the bed in the cabin. The bed in the Greek pavilion where they’d first made love.

  He dashed outside, looking wildly around—seeing a wall of flame shoot up to his right. And through the flames, he could see Kathryn, tied to a stake, the fire licking at her white skin, searing her flesh even as he watched.

  “No,” he cried out, running at full speed toward her, determined to snatch her from the inferno. Before he reached her, the dream dissolved around him, and he shouted out again in renewed panic.

  Then his eyes blinked open, and he found himself in the bed again. Kathryn was lying beside him, tears leaking from her eyes.

  “Oh, God, sweetheart, sweetheart,” he crooned, holding her against himself as best he could, cursing the damn injury that kept him from pulling her fully into his arms.

  He felt her trying to rein in her tears and finally bring herself under control.

  “It’s okay,” she finally murmured.

  “What do you mean, okay? How the hell is that okay? You were in the middle of a fire—tied to a stake.”

  She gulped in air. “It saved us. Black Trousers was coming, like he did the last time we dreamed together, and the thing woke us up in time.”

  Jack stared down at her. “You saw him?”

  “I felt him. At the end, I felt him. He had to wake one of us. He seems to pick on me.”

  Jack let loose with a string of curses. “And he’s getting more violent. What the hell does he want from us?”

  “You know what he wants! We have to find Black Trousers. Because either he’s going to get us—or the demon is going to push us beyond what we can take.”

  “Yeah. Great.” Jack heaved himself up and reached for the jeans that had ended up draped over the foot of the bed.

  Kathryn pulled on the tee shirt and panties she’d been wearing. She was covered up before he’d finished struggling into his jeans.

  “Find Black Trousers. Sure,” he spat out as he paced back and forth across the cabin. “He’s been killing people for months, maybe years, and nobody’s found him. He’s a clever bastard. He makes sure his victims don’t fit any particular pattern. He uses a bunch of disguises. He has different cars and vans. Which probably means he has plenty of money.” He stopped, and dragged his good hand through his hair. “And I can’t protect you from him. I can’t protect my family. I had to leave them with Ross Marshall.”

  She crossed to him, took him in her arms.

  “Do you know how it makes me feel that I can’t protect you?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You said you’d discovered what kind of woman I am. I always knew what kind of man you are. Steady. Responsible. Strong. And beating himself up for not cracking this case. Jack, you’re the one who figured out he’s a serial murderer.”

  “With your help.”

  “Okay, then. We make a good team. So let’s get to work.”

  Easing away from him, she walked to the kitchen, where she began opening bags of snack foods. Willing her hands to steadiness, she poured pretzels, cookies, corn chips, and salsa into bowls she found in the cabinets.

  By the time she’d carried it all to the table, she was feeling more grounded. “Something to drink?”

  “Dr. Pepper. It’s perfect for this place.”

  She poured the drinks while he brought his laptop computer to the table.

  “Come sit over here, so you can look at the screen with me.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “See if two brilliant minds can come up with his picture.”

  “But he’s always been disguised.”

  “Let’s see if we can work around that.”

  She pulled over a chair, drawing close to Jack. He turned and kissed her ear, and she snuggled closer. “I like working with you, Detective,” she said.

  “But I’d better keep my mind on business.” He brought up a program that let victims of crimes build a picture of the perpetrator. Pulling the computer close to his body, he typed with his left hand and used the fingers protruding from his sling to press the shift and control keys.

  “Want me to type?” she asked.

  “I can do it.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll be right back.”

  Probably, he thought, she was going to the bathroom. Instead, she opened her overnight bag and got out the magic wand. Jack watched her carry it back to her chair, then turn it slowly in her hand as they began to work.

  “You think that will help?”

  “It can’t hurt.”

  He turned back to the computer, starting with a general face shape.

  “Long but not too narrow,” she said, pointing with the wand to one that looked right.

  They progressed from that to hair—dark and long.

  She and Jack both had excellent visual memories—she because of her art background, he because he’d trained himself to observe people. And they had no trouble building a picture of the man who’d come to the hospital room.

  As his face emerged, Kathryn felt goose bumps raise themselves on her arms. They were finally getting somewhere! Doing something constructive.

  Unless he’d worn contacts, he had gray eyes. Narrow lips. An average sort of nose. Slightly hollow cheeks. A face that looked smooth—except for a big mustache.

  “Take the mustache off,” she murmured. “It doesn’t look right.”

  Jack followed directions.

  “That’s him,” she whispered.

  Jack didn’t seem so certain.

  “What?” she asked.

  “The hair is wrong,” he mused. “It was long and dark in the hospital. But remember, I saw him doing that ceremony in the privacy of his own torture chamber. He’s got short blond hair.” With a few keystrokes, he changed the hair. “Yeah. That’s better.”

  Jack copied the face into another file, then added other details—coming up with the old man who had stopped to ask directions, then reported them to the police department.

  Again, Kathryn felt spooked. “He changes his looks, but when you’ve got the eyes and mouth, you can see it’s the same guy.”

  Jack nodded and saved the files. “You want to go on and do the workman you saw around your neighborhood? The man in coveralls?”

  “I don’t think we have to bother. He looked like a cross between the young image and the older one.”

  “Okay. Then bring me the phone,” he instructed.

  Kathryn watched him unhook the instrument, then plug the computer into the connection.

  “A modem?”

  “Yes.” He wrote Granger a memo, explaining that these were two composite pictures of the guy who had tried to murder him—one as he usually looked and one in his old man persona.

  Almost as soon as he’d sent them, he was surprised to receive a reply, thanking him for the pictures and adding, “The lab identified the drug from the hospital as insulin. In sufficient quantity, it would be lethal. We’re not sure how much he was intending to inject into your IV line because some of it spilled on the floor.”

  After returning the captain’s thanks, Jack rocked back in his chair. “Sounds like he’s joined the team.”

  Kathryn seesawed the wand in her hand. “Want to tell him about the demon?”

  Jack laughed. “Sure! Just when he’s acting like we’re not insane. Let’s see if we can feed him some more information.” He switched to a web site with various makes and models of automobiles.

  “We already know he’s got an ’88 Crown Victoria.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I’m a cop. I know cars. So let’s figure out the one you saw at Sugarloaf and across your driveway. What was the shape?”

  “Angular. With a strange kind of projection at the rear window. Something unusual.”

  “Speaking of the rear—how many taillights? Three—or just two?”

  She answered quickly. “Three.”

  “Then it’s a newer model—after the upper taillight law came into effect.”

  He brought up another web page with premium models, and they began paging through the pictures.

  SIMON clenched and unclenched his fists. He had missed his chance to kill the woman while she was in the dream. The demon had woken her up. With fire.

  He’d felt the heat. Heard her gasps of pain. That was something, anyway. The demon didn’t mind hurting her. The damn thing was getting desperate. Driving Reynolds and Thornton to the limit. Maybe the creature would make a mistake and kill them.

  Simon chuckled. That would be a nice irony. The demon was flailing around in its death gasp—and it didn’t care whom it hurt. Even the man and woman it had chosen to save its miserable hide.

  He felt a tug on his consciousness, and the focus of his thoughts quickly changed.

  For a moment, a picture of his own face floated in his mind. Not a photograph. A drawing—that looked like it could have come from a computer.

  Reynolds and Thornton had worked up his image. And not just one drawing—two. Himself as he looked now. And himself as the old man.

  As he stared at the two images in his mind’s eye—so real, so accurate—he felt his heart blocking his windpipe.

  He’d been careful with his disguises. But he’d made a mistake at the hospital. He’d figured nobody was going to identify him. So he’d only relied on the mustache and the wig.

  Christ! They’d nailed him.

  The walls of the library seemed to close in around him, and he took several breaths, then crossed to the window and flung it open.

  He stood staring out at the woods in back of his house. He’d thought he had time to plan his attack.

  And now he was going to have to move fast. Very fast. Not just with magic ceremonies. With modern technology.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  HE SAT FOR a long time, sending his thoughts toward the man and woman in the small, rustic bedroom.

  A cabin in the woods. About an hour away, he guessed.

  He smiled, thinking that the connection was growing stronger—thanks to the demon. The creature had thought it was so clever, sending their image to screw up his concentration the night he’d used Heather DeYoung in the ceremony.

  But it worked both ways. He could watch them easily now. They had finished with the composite drawing. And they were looking at pictures of cars.

  He cursed again. They had looked at the Ford the old man had driven. They had the make and model.

  He gritted his teeth, ordering himself to think this through. He was so close to success. One more ceremony, that was all he needed. The demon was weak. It couldn’t hold out against another direct attack.

  He looked around the library. He loved this room. Loved the house he had decorated to his own specifications.

  Was it time to leave? Yes, he’d better go to one of his other residences. For now. When he had all the power a man might need, he would come back and reclaim his rightful place.

  But first he had some things to do.

  JACK brought up some pictures of Acuras.

  “Any of those look familiar?”

  She peered at the shapes. “I don’t think so.”

  They went on to Mercedes-Benzes.

  She leaned forward, peering at the screen. “Not that.”

  When he brought up Saabs from the early ’90s, she gasped. “Yes!”

  “It’s got the strange projection over the back window, all right. And there’s nothing else quite like it. I should have thought of it myself.”

  He was typing in another web address. It turned out to be the Department of Motor Vehicles. After giving his police authorization, he waited for a menu to appear.

  First he went into the database of vehicle registrations. In the state of Maryland, there were only eight men who owned all of the cars in question—an early ’90s Saab, an ’88 Ford Crown Victoria, and a van.

  Jack marked their names, then went to the register of licensed drivers.

  Kathryn watched, her heart pounding, as he brought up the driver’s license of the first guy, James Butterworth.

  They stared at the picture. Butterworth was a sixty-year-old black man. Definitely the wrong guy.

  They went on to Timothy Folger. He was white. But he had close-cropped red hair and had gotten his license only two years earlier—as soon as he was of legal age.

  “Simon Gwynn.” Jack read the next name on the list, then brought up the picture on his driver’s license.

  Kathryn gasped as she stared at the color picture. “That’s him. Without the wig and the mustache or the old-man makeup.”

  Jack let out the breath he must have been holding. “One and the same.”

  They looked at each other, and she felt the sense of triumph bubbling between them. He jumped up, picked up his cell phone from the table, and pressed the activation button.

  “You’re calling Granger?”

  “Yes.” He punched in the number, then waited, tapping his foot. When the captain came on the line, he said, “I’ve identified the bastard through his car registration and driver’s license.” He walked back to the computer screen. “His name is Simon Gwynn. He lives at 2935 Tilbury Way. A pretty swanky address.”

  In response to something Granger said, he answered, “Then bring him in for questioning. Kathryn and I will come down there and identify him as the guy who tried to inject the insulin into my IV line.”

  He hung up, turned to her. “Granger is sending Culligan and two uniformed officers to bring him in.”

  “So we’re going back to Rockville?”

  “Let’s wait until we hear from the captain.” He looked at the phone in his hand. “I want to stay out here where Black—uh—Gwynn won’t be looking for us, and I want to see how the kids are doing at Ross’s.”

  He punched in another number, and the phone was answered almost immediately.

  “So how is everything going?” Jack asked.

  She saw him grin, then listen some more. “We may be able to pick them up tomorrow. But don’t say anything yet. I’d like to talk to Craig and Lily, if they’re not too busy.”

  She smiled as he spoke to each of his children in turn. It was obvious that the kids still needed reassuring. And Jack told them that he’d be seeing them soon.

  When he had completed the call, he looked better than she’d ever seen him. More at ease. “When Granger picks up Gwynn, he’ll call us.” He looked at his cell phone. “There’s no reason why we can’t go out for something to eat.”