Silent Fall

want to do? She was in the bushes. We might not be able to see her from the road."
    "You said she was up against a building."
    "There are lots of buildings."
    Dylan shot her a puzzled look. "Why are you trying to get me out of here?"
    "I’m scared," she admitted.
    "I won’t let anything happen to you. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe."
    She wanted to have faith in him, but the need to leave bubbled up inside her. She tried to breathe through her panic as Dylan continued down the road. A moment later the dome of the Conservatory of Flowers came into view. It reminded her of the other dome at the Palace of Fine Arts. Why had Erica chosen to hide herself in these tourist locations? Surely she would have known that the areas would be deserted at night. She must not have had a choice. She couldn’t go home. Whoever was after her knew where she lived. She’d already been to Dylan’s place and the person had found her there. Whoever was tracking her was very, very good.
    Catherine shivered as goose bumps ran down her arms. A second later they saw two police cars, strobe lights turning, and an ambulance. A man pushing a shopping cart stood by the side of the road, watching the activity in the bushes.
    She felt suddenly short of breath. In the distance she saw the wall of the museum. She’d been here before -- in her dream.
    Dylan stopped the car.
    "What are you doing?" she asked, grabbing his arm.
    "Getting some information." He rolled down his window. "Hey, buddy," he called to the man. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and waved it at the guy. "I’ve got a question."
    The man ambled over to the car, pushing his cart. His clothes were ragged and worn, and he appeared to have a bunch of recyclable bottles in his cart.
    "What do you want?" The man stopped a few feet from the car, giving them a suspicious look.
    "What’s happening?" Dylan waved his twenty in the air.
    "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