A Moment in Time (60 page)

When he found the French doors on the west side, his luck changed. The old lock was easily picked and soon the right side swung open on squeaky hinges.

Mike held his breath—what little he had—wondering if any of Milton's men might still be in the area. Every sound could be the last one he ever made or heard. He had to be more careful; his sister needed him.

Once the door closed against the damp outside air, he heaved a sigh of relief and gulped precious, dusty air into his starving lungs. Regaining some of his strength, he walked across a broad expanse of wood flooring, forcing the image of Barney's face from his mind with every step. The place was huge.

Looking up, he realized the area he now stood in must be at least three stories high. Dark shapes defined what he suspected were doors and stair rails as he turned in a circle.

Yeah, like I care.

Brushing cobwebs from his face and hair, he sought a place where he would be able to see all the possible entrances, then lowered himself to the dirty floor to lean against the wall. A deathly silence permeated the huge structure, making him shudder as he waited for his pulse to slow to something the normal side of critical. He shoved his weapon in its holster.

"Dammit, Barney." A lump formed in Mike's throat, threatening to gag him if he didn't release the grief boiling inside him. His gut burned as he struggled against the stinging tears behind his eyes.

A faint sound drifted to his ears, momentarily distracting him from his misery as he gazed around the dark room. It was distant, muted. He strained to listen more closely, trying to identify the sound.

Music.

Yeah, right. Maybe a funeral dirge.

Insistent tears pricked his eyes again. He hadn't cried since second grade, when he and Carrie'd first learned about their parents' car accident.

They were dead—just like Barney.

All he and Carrie had now was each other.

He closed his eyes against memories of the night he'd just survived. Remembering the blood, his partner's dead eyes, bile again rose in his throat. He'd seen more than his share of mutilated bodies in various stages of decay in his life, but this was different. Barney'd been more than a brother-in-law—he'd been like a
real
brother. A soul mate.

How was Mike ever going to break the news to his sister? He should never have let her marry a cop.

Barney was dead. Gone. No amount of hindsight, twenty-twenty or not, would bring him back.

The music suddenly ended as mysteriously as it had begun. An awesome silence filled the old mansion, crawling right inside Mike to incite his agony. The only sound he heard now was the heavy thud of his heart, beating out the tempo of sadness and dread. Fear. Terror.

His Dirty Harry Callahan imitation only went so far, then the real Mike Faricy came out to play.

God, not now.
He had to be superhuman.

Mike blinked, trying to focus in the dusty darkness. No sound, no movements. He was alone. Then what had he heard? Where had the music come from? As if on cue, muted sounds again drifted to his ears. Closing his eyes for only a moment, he focused on the noise. Definitely music—no doubt about it. A piano.

Was he losing his mind?

The music continued, fluctuating from faintly distinguishable to almost silent. It was real.

Breathing very slowly, Mike suspected he inhaled more dust than oxygen, but it didn't matter. He'd erupt internally before he'd let himself sneeze.

Seconds ticked by as he continued to search the room. The only distinguishable shapes were the French doors, where faint surreal light came through. His gaze was drawn to that light, where the gray fog played tricks behind the dirty glass.

What was that?

His heart pounded louder, faster as he watched the minimal movement of light and gray outside the doors. A darker, more solid shape stirred beyond the glass, then paused to turn toward him.

A face—a man—stared through the French doors.

They'd found him—he was a dead man.

Milton's flunky had mustered his courage, after all. Slowly, Mike reached across his chest and inside his open jacket. The hard butt of his gun offered a false sense of security. Mike knew he couldn't possibly win against all of Milton's men.

Still, he'd die trying.

The doorknob rattled, then the French doors slowly squeaked open. Mike swallowed hard, preparing himself to do battle again.

"Come on out, Mike," the man said in a deep, self-assured voice. "I mean you no harm. I'm here to help you."

Help, my ass.
That voice couldn't possibly belong to the one Milton's men had left behind. True, Mike had called for backup, but they wouldn't be looking for him in this dump. Besides, he knew everyone on the force and, despite the darkness, Mike felt positive this guy wasn't one of them.

"Hiding is pointless. I can see you."

It was a trick. Mike ground his teeth together, itching to pull the trigger. Suddenly, the need for revenge overpowered common sense. Mike felt a rush of hatred, so powerful it overtook all sense of reason. Like a slow but insidious poison, revulsion seeped through his veins.

Scrambling to his feet, he lunged toward the silhouette in the darkness, still clutching his weapon in his right hand. With lightning reflexes, the man gripped Mike's wrist with one hand.

"You ready to talk now, Mike?"

The man's bone-wrenching grip dug through Mike's skin and straight to the marrow. Forced to his knees, then immobilized, Mike clenched his teeth, struggling against the urge to drop his gun in surrender to this strange and powerful enemy. "Who the devil are you?"

The man chuckled—the sound echoed mockingly through the vast emptiness. "Ah, now that's an interesting choice of words. I probably should thank you for the promotion."

Mike shook his head, trying to determine which words the man found interesting. "Go ahead and kill me—get it over with, you bastard."

"Oh, rest assured, I've been called worse." The man sighed, then jerked Mike's wrist until his gun flew across the room as if propelled by some invisible force. "Your weapon is useless against me."

"Oh, yeah? Why don't we give it a try? I'd like to see for myself."

The intruder laughed again, a sick, menacing sound that made Mike shudder. "There isn't enough time for that."

"I've got all night," Mike said steadily.

"And I have tonight
and
eternity." The man sounded bored with life. "Trust me, even that isn't enough time."

Mike shook his head as his own mad laughter consumed him, shaking the foundations of his sanity. This was too damned much. Why the hell didn't his captor just kill him and get it over with—put him out of his misery?

What about Carrie?

"Yes, what about your darling sister, Mike?"

Mike's laughter died an instant death as he jerked his head around to stare through the darkness at the creep who still imprisoned his wrist. He blinked several times, continuing to gape at this strange man. "How—"

"There's something you want. My boss sent me here because I know there's some way I can be of...service to you," he said in an infuriatingly calm voice, though there was an intensity to it that belied his more obvious attempt at sincerity. "All you have to do is name it, Mike, and it's yours."

"Something I want?" Mike swallowed hard, feeling strangely desperate to reveal his need. It was a need more powerful and insistent than any he'd known in his entire life. It was almost as if this man drew it from him—reached right inside his core and yanked the truth from him.

"Yeah, there's something I want, but you can't give it to me. Nobody can," Mike confessed before he could stop himself. "I'd give anything..." What the hell did he have to lose?

"Anything at all to—shall we say—
turn back the clock?"
His voice took on a mesmerizing song-like quality, luring Mike into a trusting state.

"Turn back the clock?" Mike echoed, trying to resist being sucked in by this guy's hypnotic voice, but it was a constant battle. There was an odd, powerful presence about him, more significant than the superhuman strength which enabled him to hold Mike powerless at his feet.

"Of course." The peculiar man gave a dramatic sigh. "Really, Mike, how else can we undo
all
that's happened tonight?"

"What...?" A cold sweat popped out on his forehead. "You're frigging nuts, man."

"Let's see—today's June twentieth, so all we have to do is make it June nineteenth. Right?"

"Sure. Just snap your fingers and make it yesterday." Mike squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. God, how he wished he could really do just that. If only he could go back in time to stop what had happened, to make Barney live again.

"So be it."

Fool!
he chided himself, trying to regain control of his thoughts and actions. No one could undo the horrible events of this night. Not even God.

The man suddenly threw his head back and laughed out loud. It was a terrifying sound. Monstrous.

 
A streak of lightning illuminated the mansion, sending dancing sparks to the tips of the man's fiery hair. For a brief moment, Mike's gaze locked with his. The man's eyes were—

Impossible.

Another lightning bolt revealed the truth. The man's eyes were red, glowing with a feral power that left Mike paralyzed. The flesh around his mouth tingled and he felt hollow inside. Now, even in darkness, those red eyes glowed, holding Mike prisoner in his own body.

He had to fight this, whatever it was. This madman wanted something, and every instinct in Mike's body screamed in favor of escape.

Every instinct but one.

His need for revenge.

Common sense rallied, trying to seize control for a flickering moment. Mike jerked his wrist, but the stranger held him fast.

"I don't know who the hell you are or what you want, and I really don't give a rat's ass," Mike lied, unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Mike, Mike," the man said with that same taunting, strangely soothing tone. He was like a used car salesman moving in for the kill. "I'm here to give you your heart's desire—what you want more than anything else. I'm going to allow you to go back in time." He chuckled quietly. "You said you'd give anything..."

A sense of foreboding filled Mike, but he forced it into submission. "Yeah, anything. Everything." His voice sounded hoarse, barely more than a strangled whisper. Why was he buying into this jerk's sick game? Then the brilliance of those red eyes intensified, forcing Mike's doubts to whither beneath an onslaught of fierce hunger.

Blood-lust.

He would have his revenge. Satisfaction. And more importantly...Barney would live to raise his child. Madness claimed him and Mike barked a derisive, and strangely victorious, laugh. Though the bastard hadn't yet spoken the words, here it was, out in the open at last. Mike knew.

"Yeah, hotshot. Even my worthless, fucking soul!"

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