by Norah Wilson
~*~
For a moment, Suzannah thought her terror-stretched mind had produced the ultimate mirage to comfort her—John crouched in her kitchen doorway, the muzzle of a deadly-looking handgun trained on Rosneau. She took in every detail of him, from the fire in his eyes to the disarray of his shirt; from the steadiness with which he gripped the pistol to the corded muscles standing out in his forearms.
Then Rosneau grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back, hyper-extending her throat. “Just in time for the show, Detective.”
“Let her go, buddy. There’s no way out, and backup is on the way. Your situation will only get worse if you don’t put that knife down.”
He was real, not a figment of her imagination! John was really here.
Rosneau moved the glowing blade closer to her face. “Worse? How could it get any worse?”
“Maybe my putting a hollow-point bullet between your eyes?”
“Yes, but could you do it before I slit her pretty throat?”
Suzannah couldn’t see Rosneau’s face, but she heard the smile in his voice. What she could see was John’s weapon lowering slightly.
“Don’t listen to him, John! Don’t surrender your weapon. He’ll kill us both.” Rosneau gave her hair another vicious tug, bringing tears to her eyes.
John lowered his weapon another inch, his eyes begging her to understand. “It’s too risky. It’s that bases loaded, three-two count again, honey.”
What was he trying to tell her? Can’t throw the fastball because Rosneau would be sitting on it. Can’t afford to miss with the breaking ball. Throw him something off-speed. Something that looks like the fastball Rosneau was expecting...
Of course!
John held up both hands, then started to lower his gun toward the floor.
Suzannah lifted one leg, planted a foot on the edge of the table and shoved backward in the chair as hard as she could. She felt Rosneau’s surprise, heard him shout, felt the kiss of hot metal on her neck as she went down with the chair. Then the muzzle flash of John’s gun, twice, so shockingly close, the reports deafening in her tiled kitchen.
As if in slow motion, she saw two crimson blooms appear dead-center of Rosneau’s chest, one right after another, knocking him backward. She watched him hit her refrigerator. Incredibly, he stayed on his feet for a few seconds, looking as though he might roar right back with the blade he clutched. Why didn’t John shoot him again? Then the knife clattered to the floor, followed a few seconds later by Rosneau. He landed right beside her, his lifeless eyes looking straight into hers.
Shuddering, she tried to roll away, but with her arms still trapped behind the overturned chair’s back, she was pinned painfully in place.
“Suzannah, are you all right?” Hastily, he holstered his weapon.
“Get me up!”
Even as she spoke the words, he was reaching for her, lifting her chair and all, moving her away from Rosneau. Then his hands were moving over her as though to assure himself she was intact. “Thank God! The knife ... I thought he cut you.”
“Just a burn.”
He tipped her chin up, swore. “If I thought I could resuscitate the bastard, I think I might do it just so I could kill him again.”
She shivered. “He is dead, isn’t he?”
“Two rounds in the chest. Not much question about it, I don’t think.” Abruptly, he stood. She watched him press two fingers to Rosneau’s neck. “Gone,” he confirmed, then proceeded to rifle through the dead man’s pockets.
“What are you doing?”
He held up a small key. “I’m gonna get you out of those bracelets before your shoulder sockets pop.”
A few seconds later, he slid the cuffs off. She stood, rubbing her numbed wrists. Lord, her shoulders ached from going down backwards like that. Her right elbow stung, too, as did the burn on her neck. But she was alive. And Rosneau wasn’t. She forced herself to look at the man.
“Should we try CPR or something?”
“The bastard tried to kill you. He killed my dog.”
Her eyes filled. “I know. I’m sorry. When he came at me, Bandy leapt to my defense. Rosneau shot him point blank.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “I saw.”
She drew a deep breath, wiped her eyes. “Still, aren’t we supposed to do something?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, I don’t think we’ve got anything to work with. Paramedics will be here in a few minutes anyway.”
“Backup, too, I suppose?”
“You know it.”
“Three times inside of a week I’ve had a visit from you guys.” She smiled. It was a weak, teary thing, but still a smile. “Four times within a month, if you count the time my car was torched. The For Sale signs are going to be sprouting up like dandelions on my neighbors’ lawns.”
“I’d laugh, but I’m using my remaining resources to combat the shakes.” He exhaled, sounding just as shaky as she felt. “God, if I’d been any slower...” He allowed his words to trail off and sank down on a chair.
Suzannah remained standing. Not because her own legs weren’t trembling with reaction, but because she couldn’t quite bring herself to sit on one of those chairs yet.
“Not that I’m complaining about the timing or anything, but why did you come back?” she asked. “I didn’t think ... I mean, after what I said...”
“No injury on Mann’s hands. If he’d been the one you stabbed with your trusty Cross pen, no way could it have healed yet. That’s when I finally tumbled to it—there were two guys, not one split personality. One a harmless admirer, the other, evil stalker guy. Speaking of which, who is our stalker guy?”
“A former client and mutual acquaintance, Remy Rosneau.”
“Rosneau?” His voice rose on a note of incredulity. “The guy I popped for getting creepy with a young girl?”
She nodded, massaging her wrists. “His cousin.”
He studied Rosneau’s smooth-skinned face, now slack. “Doesn’t look much like the guy I remember.”
She bit down on lip, lest she give in to the hysterical laughter welling in her chest. “It’s a long story.”
“But you got him off on that sexual touching charge. Eventually.”
“Evidently that was the problem –”
John cocked his head, held up a hand. “Backup’s here.”
She frowned. “I don’t hear sirens.”
“Couldn’t have them roaring up to the door while our friend Remy was still at the controls.” He stood. “Stay here. I left the front door open, but the boys aren’t expecting a warm reception.”
Suzannah slumped against the table. A blue flame still burned low on her gas range, five knives fanning out from it. The air smelled like overheated metal and cordite and death, and Remy Rosneau’s blood was seeping into her tile grout.
But it was over. It was finally over.
