“Cops should already be here.” Frank frowned, realizing they were probably right about him being cut up. His thighs and calves stung from multiple wounds and something wet rolled down his legs. Quite a lot of something wet.
“Come on, big guy.” The Coach tightened his grip on his waist. Frank started to tell him he was fine and could damned well walk on his own, but the room decided to roll sideways. He shut his mouth as his lover and her father helped him across the hall to a pretty little bedroom decorated in bows and floral prints. He resisted their efforts to push him inside. “I’ll bleed all over everything.” He glanced down, concerned for the pale gold carpet. “I’m probably leaving a blood trail.”
“That’s why there are carpet cleaning companies, boy.”
His knees gave, and the Coach pivoted, half carrying him as Alex stepped out of the way. “Bathroom might be better, at that. Need to clean him up, see how deep the cuts are.”
Frank frowned, belatedly recognizing the symptoms of a really nasty injury from past battlefield experience. He stopped resisting the Coach’s efforts to help him walk.
Ken was pretty strong for a guy over fifty.
He sat down on the toilet in the surprisingly spacious bathroom with a sigh of relief. “I’m usually not this much a fuck-up, sir.”
“Last I checked, we’re all still alive, except for the asshole I wanted dead anyway.” There was weight in the coach’s gaze that said his words weren’t just polite social bullshit. He meant them. “You saved our lives, Frank. You saved my wife and daughter, and you could have died doing it.”
“I had to.” Something told Frank he needed to shut up, but his mouth kept running anyway. “Gonna ask her to marry me.”
Ken stared. “I thought you’d only known one another a week.”
Frank smiled at the man he hoped would be his future father-in-law. “If the Archangel Michael had personally taken my order for the perfect woman, she wouldn’t be as perfect as Alex.” Pretty good speech, he thought smugly, considering the blood loss.
They were all staring at him now.
Then he blew it. “Sorry. Gotta . . .” Putting his head between his legs, he fought not to topple off the toilet.
“Oh, hell.” There was an unfamiliar note of panic in Alex’s voice. “Call for that ambulance!”
“Already on the way,” an unfamiliar male voice said.
Frank jerked his head up and scrabbled for his weapon, only to realize belatedly that someone had taken it. Just as well, because a man he belatedly recognized as Lieutenant Chris Davis was standing in the bathroom doorway, eyeing them all with a mix of relief and irritation.
“I’ve got half the cops in Morgan County surrounding this house, and you’ve already got the bad guy dead in the bedroom. Is there something you want to tell me, Murphy? Rogers?”
Which was when the darkness closed in, and he passed the hell out.
* * *
Frank’s most serious injury was a four-inch cut down his thigh that just missed the femoral artery. If he’d hit that, he would have died about the time he killed Bruce. There were also a couple of shallow cuts on his face—those should heal up without scarring—and one across his right shoulder and down one arm. Though Kevlar was generally little protection against being stabbed, his thick bulletproof vest had saved him from any life-threatening torso wounds. As it was, he ended up with dozens of stitches, a blood transfusion, and an hour or so having a physician’s assistant pick glass out of his skin.
Alex, for her part, got a CT scan and a diagnosis of a concussion from exchanging punches with Bruce.
Her parents were similarly bruised and battered, and Alex suspected they’d have nightmares for years. Other than that, though, their injuries weren’t serious.
There was a certain grim satisfaction in the knowledge that it had been Ted’s training that had let her hold her own with the bastard. Just as it had been Diane Gaffney’s bullet that had ultimately forced the final confrontation. Otherwise, who knows how many people he’d have killed? Alex had no doubt she and Frank would have eventually been his targets again. Next time, Bruce might have had better luck.
Instead, Bruce was dead, and the nightmare was over.
Now they had the aftermath to survive.
The ER doc was a cautious soul who wanted to keep an eye on Alex and Frank, given her concussion and his blood loss. She admitted both of them, which didn’t thrill Alex for a couple of reasons. First, she wanted to have a long, private talk with Frank, something that wasn’t happening with all the nurses, doctors, and cops hanging around.
Especially the cops. Two agents from the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division—also known as SLED—had already been by to grill her about every last detail of the incident. As was standard operating procedure in South Carolina whenever a cop shot anyone, the sheriff had asked for SLED’s help. Ranger had three dead cops on his hands. The last thing he needed was to create the impression of a conflict of interest.
As it was, Frank had been put on paid leave pending the results of the investigation—more a matter of SOP than because anybody thought the shooting was unjustified. Bruce had, after all, left his blood all over Diane Gaffney’s murder scene. That would prove he had indeed done the killings, as soon as the DNA results were back.
Then of course, there was Diane’s bullet in his thigh, which the pathologist had already recovered during the autopsy. Ballistic tests would be done on both the sergeant’s weapon and the rifle the Crime Scene Unit had recovered from Bruce’s car.
In the meantime, the media had gotten their teeth into the case and were doing their usual gleeful job blowing an already bad situation out of proportion. The fact that Harrison High’s legendary Coach, his wife, and daughter were involved only poured gasoline on the fire. The sheriff had been forced to post a deputy on the door to ward off reporters.
Alex was making a point of avoiding the Internet, though she’d taken calls from Cal, Cap, and his wife, respectively. All three said they were glad it was over, but were shocked Bruce had been behind Ted’s murder.
“You keep your head down, PoPo,” Cal told her. “It’s probably gonna get a little nasty for a while, but—”
“Hey, we survived Bruce, baby. After damn near taking a bullet, a few bitchy Tweets don’t rate more than a yawn.”
“Good for you, hon.” He hesitated, then added more seriously, “But if you need someone to talk to, I’m here for you.”
Alex had thanked him sincerely, then promised to visit as soon as her duty schedule allowed.
“What are you going to do about Frank?” Mary Rogers asked now, her tone hesitant. She and Alex’s father had planted themselves in Alex’s hospital room, apparently determined to ride herd on visitors, whether they were her brothers or her cop coworkers. “If he does ask you to marry him, I mean.”
“Ahh, that was the blood loss talking, Mom. He didn’t mean it.”
The Coach gave her a long, thoughtful look. “Yeah. Because most guys jump through plate glass doors when there’s a jerk with a gun waiting to shoot them.”
“Frank’s a compulsive hero, Dad. He was awarded a Silver Star fighting in Afghanistan, for God’s sake. He’d have come to anybody’s rescue the same way. Especially given that a fellow cop and her family were the ones in danger.”
“I was looking in his eyes when he said what he did, Alex. Yeah, he might have been a little woozy, but he meant every word.”
“And I thought you said he was an abusive jerk.”
“Abusive jerks don’t risk getting killed to save somebody else.”
“Your father and I were talking about this,” Mary told her. “We don’t pretend to understand your . . .”
“Love life?”
“That’s one word for it.” The Coach shook his head. “But you were right when you pointed out you’re a grown woman. I don’t ask your brothers what they do in their bedrooms . . .”
“Mostly because we don’t want to know.”
“R
ight back atcha, Mom.”
“Point is, we think he does love you.”
“Dad, I’ve only known the man a week. And given that we’ve been under fire most of that time . . .”
“You get to know somebody pretty well when somebody’s been shooting at you,” the Coach observed.
“Sweetie, you love him,” Mary told her quietly. “I saw the look on your face when you realized how much he was bleeding. That’s not the look you get over somebody you’re just . . . dating.”
Alex gave up trying to put up a front. “Look, I care about him, but . . . my judgment when it comes to men may not be the best. First Gary, now Bruce . . .”
“You haven’t been with Bruce since high school,” Mary pointed out. “And you might not have dated him then if Amy and I hadn’t pushed you two together. Maybe if we hadn’t—”
“This whole mess would have ended exactly the same way,” the Coach told her tartly. To his daughter, he added, “The point of us sticking our noses in your love life is that we didn’t want you to hesitate to do what makes you happy because of us. We’ll support you whatever decision you make.”
“Not sure my big brothers will agree with you.”
“You let me handle your brothers.”
Alex smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
Mary stood and put a hand over hers. “Sometimes you have to trust your heart, Alex, even when your head’s afraid.”
“I hope I’m not the one you’re worried about,” Frank said from the room’s doorway. “You never have any reason to be afraid of me.”
“Frank!” Alex straightened against the pillows, a grin of pure delight spreading over her face. “I was about to come see you.”
He limped in. He wore sweatpants and a MCSO tee, a dark blue bathrobe playing up the blue in his eyes. “Did the SLED agents give you a hard time?”
“No more than you’d expect.” If her parents hadn’t been watching, she’d have lured him in for a kiss. “You?”
“Hey, it was more fun than a fight with the Taliban. The conversation with Lieutenant Davis, on the other hand . . .” He exaggerated a shudder. “Never piss off a SWAT lieutenant. I’m lucky the sheriff likes me. I don’t think Davis does.”
“We’d be dead if you’d waited for them.”
“Lucky for us, you didn’t.” The Coach straightened and held out a hand for his wife. “Mary, I’m getting hungry. Let’s go find out if they’ve put out anything more appetizing in the hospital cafeteria.”
“Yeah, good luck with that, Mr. Rogers.”
Ken paused beside him on the way out. “Call me Coach, son. Everybody does.” He offered his hand for a short, strong handshake, then guided his wife out the door, swinging the door closed behind them.
“Which is my cue for a kiss.” Frank started toward her, only to break step. “Unless you don’t want me to . . .”
“Oh, fuck that.” Alex slid out of bed and went into his arms. His lips were ravenous, hot. With a soft moan, Alex forgot everything else and let herself melt into him.
God, he felt so good. So bone-deep delicious, hard and broad and strong. Moaning in need and delight, she kissed him, drinking at his mouth like a woman in the grip of deepest thirst. Kissed him until they had to draw apart to breathe.
“I can’t wait to be alone with you again,” Frank murmured against her hair.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I want to make love to you.” Stroking a hand down the length of his back, she added, “Gently. I don’t think either of us will be up to sceneing for a while.”
“No. But I don’t need whips and handcuffs when it comes to you. You’re enough for me all by yourself.”
“That door does have a lock . . .”
He looked tempted, then shook his head regretfully. “I would love to, but given your concussion, I don’t think you’re up to it tonight.” Stepping back, Frank grimaced as his weight came down on his injured leg. “And much as I hate to admit it, I’m not sure I am either.”
“Well, there’s always tomorrow.” She led him toward the window seat. “But maybe we can spend a little time together tonight.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.” He smiled down at her and sank onto the seat, drawing her down into his powerful arms.
With a sigh, she relaxed against him as he leaned against the wall. They’d survived. They’d saved her parents and stopped a killer despite the odds.
Tomorrow they’d celebrate.
* * *
Getting out of the hospital through the lurking phalanx of reporters made Alex feel like a Cold War spy in a Tom Clancy novel. Her parents volunteered to act as decoys while Ben Tracy gave Alex and Frank a ride home; both were under orders not to drive for a couple of weeks.
They gave Alex’s folks a five-minute head start before taking the elevator down. When the three of them got out, the Coach was holding forth in the lobby, doing the hail-fellow-well-met act he’d perfected over decades as a high school football coach. Dad had learned how to talk to the media about everything from embarrassing losing seasons to winning state championships. Being held hostage by a killer cop wasn’t exactly in Ken’s wheelhouse, but from the sound of it, he was holding his own before the dozen cameras pointed in his direction. Including those from all the major national news services.
Frank’s hand landed in the small of her back, pushing her gently down the corridor. “Don’t look back,” he murmured. “You’ll turn to a pillar of salt.”
Alex swallowed a giggle and hurried after Tracy’s broad shoulders. All three of them were in civilian clothes, but that might not keep them from getting caught. The local sports reporters knew Alex by sight, having watched her grow up cheering her father from the stands. Hopefully they were too enthralled with the Coach’s account of the ordeal to spot them escaping.
The three cops strode down the corridor to the hospital’s huge revolving doors and out into a gray October day. Leaving the redbrick building, they headed across the street to the parking garage where Tracy had left his car.
Which was when a slim blond fairy of a woman stepped out of the shadow cast by one of the garage’s support columns. “Hi, there, Alex. Good to see you’re alive and well despite the asshole’s best efforts.”
“Hi, Cassie.” Alex smiled. She supposed if they had to be ambushed by a reporter, they could have done worse than Cassie York.
“Back off, Cassie.” Glowering, Tracy pushed into the pixie’s personal space and loomed there, emphasizing just how much bigger he was than the reporter. She didn’t look intimidated in the least. “Leave these folks alone. They just got out of the hospital, for God’s sake. And why aren’t you inside with all the other piranhas?”
“Because I’m not a piranha.” Cassie smiled, cheerfully refusing to be offended. “I’m more of a dolphin kind of person.”
“Riiiiight. Because it’s not like I’ve got your teeth prints in my ass, or anything.”
“I wish.” Cassie laughed wickedly, then considered Alex, head cocked. “Bruce was a sad guy, wasn’t he?”
The girl was a hell of a lot better informed than your typical blogispheran. Then again, the Yorks had specialized in knowing where all the bodies were buried in Morgan County for the past century and a half. The Morganville Courier had been a weekly newspaper since the city was just a couple of mill villages, three churches, and five or six bars. Five generations of the York family had operated it until it had gone under in the great print apocalypse.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “He was. A vicious killer who kidnapped my parents and tried to strangle me to death, but he was also a little sad.”
“I found the story we did on the deaths of Greer’s parents nine years ago.” Cassie’s clever eyes narrowed thoughtfully over the cell phone she was using to record the conversation. “Your folks were involved, too. Did he blame you for what happened? According to the story, y’all were dating back then. Were y’all going together more recently, too? Was he jealous?”
“No, I wasn’t dating
Bruce. He wasn’t my type.”
“Which speaks well of you. Greer’s daddy was a white supremacist,” Cassie continued, still digging away with a terrier’s determination. “Was Greer?”
“I didn’t think so until yesterday. Pretty sure the sheriff didn’t either.” Alex sighed. “Greer never said anything overtly racist or homophobic in my presence.”
“How long did you two work together?”
“Two years. I thought he was doing a good job of putting everything behind him.” At least until he’d snapped and beaten Gary to death. Apparently that had been when he’d just given up trying to be anything other than the killer his father had raised.
“I wonder if it had anything to do with Gary Ames being beaten to death back in September. Another friend of yours, I gather?” Cassie asked thoughtfully. “Have y’all tested Bruce’s Maglite for DNA, Ben? You did tell me you thought it could have been a flash the killer used.”
“Shit.” Tracy’s glowered at her. “We haven’t released anything about the flash, Cassie. You keep that out of the story until it goes official.”
“Hey, I’ve got more than enough stuff as it is.” The blogger turned her phone toward Alex again. “What would you like to say, Deputy?” The humor had drained from her voice, and she sounded almost gentle.
Hell with it. Cassie had already put most of the story together. Might as well give her a quote—especially since Alex had something she wanted on the record. “Greer killed two damned good cops who had done absolutely nothing to deserve it. It’s satisfying to know I fought him using hand-to-hand techniques Ted Arlington taught me. Otherwise I couldn’t have kept him from killing us all until Frank could break in and shoot him.”
“What do you think triggered all this?” The look in the reporter’s eyes said she definitely had her suspicions.
Alex paused a long moment. “I don’t know for sure—the only one who could have told us is Bruce, and that assumes he’d have told the truth anyway. But I think he let his father’s expectations twist him until he broke. And then he started killing.” She slanted a smile up at Frank. “If Deputy Murphy hadn’t stopped him, he’d have kept killing. Frank saved lives, and he almost lost his own doing it. He’s what a cop should be.”
Without Restraint Page 31
