by Karen Rose
Decker grabbed the grips on Stone’s wheelchair. ‘Hang on.’ Pausing long enough to open the double doors, he gripped the chair again and began running down the long hallway, using the chair for balance. He got to the front of the house to find the parlor deserted, empty teacups the only sign that someone had been there.
And then his heart stopped. Rifle fire. Outside. ‘Stay here,’ he barked to Stone, drawing his service weapon and limping to the front door.
‘Keith’s walking sticks.’ Stone pointed to the doorway. ‘Tall can by the door.’
Decker picked one with a brass grip, just in case.
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Friday 14 August, 8.40 P.M.
Kate was having a very nice chat with Jeremy O’Bannion. She could see why Deacon liked him so much. The man was obviously brilliant, but self-effacing, and he loved his children. He just glowed with pride – and worry – when he talked about Marcus, Stone, and Audrey, who Kate hadn’t met yet. She had been keeping him entertained with stories of the cases she and Deacon had worked in Baltimore when he’d shocked her by re-asking the question she thought she’d dodged.
‘Why were you crying, Kate?’
A glance told her that he wouldn’t allow her to evade the question a second time. ‘I had to do a death notification right before we came. The boy was sixteen. His parents . . . they fell apart.’
Jeremy seemed to sag where he sat. ‘I know what that feels like.’
‘I just never know what to say. I can’t make it feel . . . better.’
He surprised her by reaching across the table and covering her hand with his, still wearing the black glove. ‘The fact that you wish you could? That comes through. The bereaved parents will feel it. Maybe not when you’re telling them, because there’s just a mental wall, a fog. You can’t hear anything except that your child is dead. Afterwards, though, you remember.’
‘Thank you.’ Kate’s eyes stung and she really didn’t want to cry anymore, so she reached for the teapot to refill her cup, nearly spilling it when Jeremy surprised her again.
‘Are you planning to arrest Stone?’
Kate bobbled the pot, splashing tea onto the silver tray. She met his eyes. ‘No. I’m not. But I don’t think he’ll be a happy man.’
Jeremy nudged her hands aside, taking over the task of cleaning the spilt tea. ‘Stone has never been happy. I’ve seen him content. I’ve seen him impassioned over a cause, but I’ve never seen him happy, and that is a hard truth for any parent to bear.’
‘You’re very . . . young-looking. Are you his stepfather?’
Jeremy’s lips curved. ‘I guess I should be flattered that I’m still considered “young-looking”.’ He chuckled when Kate winced. ‘It’s okay. I married their mother when I was only twenty-one. Marcus was ten and Stone was eight.’ He sighed. ‘And broken already. He learned to pretend to be fixed, but he’s still broken. What has he done, Agent Coppola?’
‘I think you should ask him that, sir. I don’t want to make things worse for any of you.’
‘See? Good heart. I hope you and that very handsome man of yours find happiness.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled slyly. ‘He is very handsome, isn’t he?’
‘He reminds me of Thor in the movie,’ Jeremy confided.
‘I thought the same thing.’ She settled back in her chair with her tea, but quickly came to attention when Keith thundered in from the kitchen, his walking stick thumping so hard the floor shook. He looked grim and urgent. And held a rifle in his hand.
‘Coppola, someone’s tampering with your car.’
She set the cup down and jumped to her feet. ‘You stay here and call 911,’ she said to Jeremy, drawing her weapon from its holster. ‘Where’s the side door? I don’t want to go out the front.’
‘Follow me.’ Keith led her to the garage and pointed at a door, then held out the rifle. ‘Here. Use this if you need it. You got Kevlar?’
‘Under my blouse.’ She holstered her handgun and took the rifle. ‘Please stay here.’
He pulled his gun from its holster. ‘This is my home. I will defend it if need be.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Fine. Can you see the camera feed from in here?’
‘On my phone.’ He held it out, her car at the center of the screen, a shadow to the left of the vehicle, low to the ground. ‘He’s putting something under your car.’
She frowned. ‘There’s a camera there. Why is he taking that risk?’
‘You can only see the camera from a certain angle, like from the front seat of your car. Otherwise it’s hidden by the eaves.’
‘Makes sense.’ She slipped out of the side door, keeping close to the house. She’d gotten to the end of the wall when she heard a noise. Raising the rifle to her shoulder, she edged around the corner. And found herself staring at the man Sidney Siler’s roommate had described. The Professor.
He was standing behind her car, his own weapon drawn and pointing straight at her.
‘Put the gun down,’ she commanded.
He smiled at her.
And fired.
She grunted with the impact of the bullet against her Kevlar, then fired back with the rifle. But he’d already dropped behind her car, out of sight. She didn’t fire again. He was still there. Waiting for me to come out so he can shoot me again. Asshole. I can wait too.
A noise caught her attention and she glanced down and cursed. A small canister had rolled to her feet. Grenade was her first thought, and she reflexively sprinted away, toward the door through which she’d come. Away from the car where he was hiding.
Fucker. Where did he get a goddamned grenade? But it didn’t blow. It slowly began spraying smoke, the wind carrying it away from her, thank God. She ran into the house, slamming the door behind her. ‘Let’s go! Get away from this room!’ She swore again when she saw Decker jogging from the garage into the house, using one of Keith’s walking sticks to propel himself forward. She followed, making sure Keith was behind her.
‘He’s running,’ Decker called over his shoulder. ‘What was it he threw?’
‘We saw him on the camera,’ Keith said.
‘A gas canister,’ Kate said and ran after Decker. ‘Get everyone to the opposite side of the house. If you have surgical masks, use them.’
‘What kind of gas?’ Keith called after her.
‘Maybe smoke. But maybe ricin.’ Shit. She needed to take precautions. ‘I’ll need a change of clothes and a plastic garbage bag. And a shower.’
‘I’ll take care of it. He’s gone, Agent Coppola. Stay here and take care of yourself.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ she promised. ‘The wind carried it away, so I didn’t get hit with it.’ And even if she had, she had to find Decker. He’s gone after him. Unprotected.
Decker was standing at the front window. ‘He’s gone. He ran down the street wearing a gas mask, then drove by again in a dark green Mercedes.’ His expression turned grave. ‘You should have waited for me. What were you thinking, going after him without backup?’
She stared at him, gaping, and her temper boiled over. ‘Oh I don’t know! Maybe that you were in a fucking coma two days ago? Goddammit, Decker!’
He didn’t raise his voice. ‘I could have covered you. You should have waited.’
She opened her mouth to argue, then realized . . . He’s right. He could have covered me. She sighed. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I keep doing that. Forgetting that you’re . . .’
‘Capable?’ he said, his jaw taut.
‘Shit. No. I didn’t mean . . .’ She sighed. ‘I should have waited for backup. I keep seeing you . . . hurt. I don’t want you to be hurt.’
‘And I want you to be?’ He shook his head. ‘Just go, Kate. I’ll call this in. You go take care of your clothes and shower off. You coul
d be contaminated.’
‘The wind changed. I’m probably fine.’
‘And if you’re not?’ he asked sharply. ‘Rawlings’s kid swallowed it and he might die. But if you breathed it in? You’re dead already.’
He was right again. Dammit. Damn me. She’d behaved impulsively, going after the intruder alone. She drew a deep breath that made her wince. ‘Ouch,’ she muttered.
She’d been shot. Luckily in the chest. If he’d aimed for her head, she’d be dead.
‘I heard two shots,’ he said, his eyes cold for the first time. ‘One his, one yours?’
Her heart sank. She’d wounded Decker. Wounded his pride. We can’t work together like this. Emotions are involved. His. Mine. ‘Yes. Got me in the Kevlar. Knocked the breath out of me.’
A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘Which is why you missed your shot.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I fucked up.’
‘Yeah, you did.’ He drew a breath and she waited for him to say more. To be angry. To tell her she was no good. That she’d lost them their only chance to catch the bastard who’d killed so many people. But he said nothing, and she opened her eyes to find him looking at her with such sadness it made them sting yet again.
‘We’ll talk more about this later,’ he said quietly. So very gently. ‘In private. Okay?’
She swallowed hard and nodded. ‘I told Jeremy to call 911.’
‘He did. They’re on their way,’ Stone said, and they both turned to see him in his wheelchair, watching them. ‘You two okay?’
Kate blew out a breath. ‘Yeah. I think.’ She risked a glance up at Decker. ‘You?’
But Decker was staring at her chest, his throat working. ‘There’s a bullet hole in your shirt,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘Over your heart.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She frowned. ‘He was aiming for my heart. Why?’
Decker’s reply held an edge of panic, like it was finally sinking in. ‘To fucking kill you?’
‘Well, yeah, but why my heart? He was fifteen feet away. He shot Eileen Wilkins dead center of her throat from across a meadow. Couple hundred feet, easy. He’s a crack shot. He had to have known I’d be wearing some protection. Why not aim for my head?’
Decker closed his eyes, breathing hard. ‘I can’t do this. I cannot do this.’
‘I’m okay. I’m not hurt.’
‘You could have been.’
‘But. I’m. Not.’
‘It’s because Diesel hit his arm with a knife,’ Stone said from his chair.
Decker’s chest expanded as he drew a deep breath, and when he spoke, he was calm again. ‘True. Hit his right arm. He was holding the gun in his left hand just now, but he held the knife in his right when he went after Dani. I bet he’s right-handed and didn’t have the accuracy with his left. He went for the broadest target.’
‘But he came prepared,’ Kate said. ‘I need to make sure that canister is safe and that no one goes near it, then call in the bomb squad. They’ll have the equipment to properly contain it so that it can be tested.’ She tilted her head. ‘Cover me?’
Decker’s laugh was strangled. ‘Jesus, Kate. Why the hell not? Throw the dog a bone.’
She frowned, troubled by the blatant sarcasm in his voice, but Keith came out of the kitchen before she could address it. He was carrying a large pot in one hand, a man’s shirt and sweatpants folded over his arm. He gave her the pot. ‘You can use this to cover it. There are gloves and two gas masks inside. Like I said, I take my duties seriously.’ He glanced at Decker. ‘You’re looking a bit green, Davenport. Maybe you should sit down.’
‘I’m fine,’ Decker insisted.
Kate handed Decker the rifle and one of the masks, so that he could cover her, then she put on the other mask and went out the front door, carrying the pot in hands that trembled. Later, she told herself. Fall apart later. And if Decker stayed angry with her?
Later. Think about that later.
She upended the pot over the canister, which lay inert on the grass where the Professor had tossed it. Asshole. She was walking around her car, giving it an extra wide berth in case he’d put something even worse under it, when an old car rattled to a stop in the street. A tiny blonde popped out of the driver’s side and whistled for an enormous dog, which followed her up the driveway, sticking to her side even though she used no leash.
Delores stopped in her tracks at the sight of Kate wearing the mask. Kate gestured to her to quickly move into the house. Decker waited on the front walk until everyone was inside, then followed them in and closed the door. He set the rifle by the door and took off his mask, and waited for Kate to do the same. ‘Zimmerman’s sending a bomb squad and HazMat.’
Jeremy hurried to join them. ‘Everyone, come in. Please. Away from the windows.’ The huge dog bounded up to Stone, tail wagging. Stone leaned down and the dog licked his face. Then he looked up and smiled at Delores. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi yourself,’ Delores said, then looked at the tense faces around her. ‘What happened?’
‘Intruder,’ Kate said. ‘He got away.’
Delores’s eyes widened. ‘Mercedes? Dark green?’
‘Yes,’ Decker said. ‘Did you see him?’
‘He nearly ran me off the road!’ Delores exclaimed. ‘I thought he was rude, but . . .’ She trailed off, her eyes growing even wider as she stared at Kate. ‘You have a bullet hole in your shirt. He shot you.’
‘Kevlar,’ Kate muttered, not wanting to set Decker off again.
Delores let out a breath. ‘Holy shit. I need to sit down.’ She sat on the sofa, still staring at Kate’s shirt. ‘I . . . I followed him.’
‘You what?’ Stone exploded, then winced when Delores flinched. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, gentling his tone. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because I wanted to get his license plate. He was a bad driver. He could have killed me! But I didn’t know he had a gun. He really could have killed me!’
Stone wheeled his chair to the sofa and took her hand. ‘Did you get the plate?’
‘Yes.’ Delores held out her arm, which was covered in scribble with a black marker. She was visibly shaking. ‘I wrote it down.’
Kate copied the information into her notebook. It was unlikely that he’d use his own car or his own plates, but if he’d been desperate enough to come that close to her car, he might be making more mistakes. ‘I’ll run the plates. Thank you, Delores.’
Delores nodded numbly. ‘I came to see you, Stone. Diesel said you might need me.’ Then she grimaced. ‘Darn it. I wasn’t supposed to say that.’ She peered up at him through her bangs. ‘We can just forget I said that, right?’
Stone laughed and suddenly looked years younger. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We can forget it. I’m just happy you’re here and okay.’
Jeremy was looking at Stone, his expression one of wonder tinged with hope. Because Stone really did look happy.
Then Keith turned from the front window, where he’d been standing, watching out front. ‘Cops are outside,’ he said. ‘I’ll show them in.’
Smile disappearing, Stone turned to Decker. ‘Give me a minute to talk to my dad, okay?’
Decker seemed to understand. ‘Take all the time you need. Kate, go shower and change your clothes. I’ll handle things until you come back.’
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Friday 14 August, 10.15 P.M.
‘Mallory! Mallory!’
Oh wonderful. He’s home. And he sounded angry.
Mallory backed away from Roxy’s bedside, ashamed to be grateful for the temporary reprieve. Because the sheets needed changing. Again. And it made Mallory gag every time. I am so not a nurse. She had the feeling she was hurting Roxy every time she touched her, and Roxy had always been nice to her, so she hated hurting her.
&n
bsp; Mallory backed as far as the doorway, her hands still gloved up from washing the poor woman’s bedsores. ‘Yes?’ she called down.
‘Don’t yes me! Get your fucking ass down here now!’
‘I’m coming,’ she called. Then softly added to the woman in the bed, ‘I’ll be back when I can. I’m sorry.’ She carefully peeled off the gloves, folding them so that the outside was tucked against itself. She’d dispose of them downstairs.
She hurried down the stairs, wishing she had the courage to simply put a pillow over Roxy’s face and end her suffering. But I’m a coward. I can’t do that. At least it wouldn’t be long now. Mallory didn’t know how she knew that. She’d never been around anyone sick before.
She walked into the kitchen and stopped short. He was sitting at the table, struggling with his shirt. His right arm was bandaged, and blood had soaked through the gauze. ‘I’m here,’ she said quietly, knowing better than to ask what had happened. ‘How should I help you?’
He glared up at her. ‘Get some scissors, two pairs. Disinfect them with alcohol. And get the first aid kit. Hurry.’
She scrambled to obey, running back upstairs for the kit, then back down to where he sat muttering to himself. ‘Fucking bitch. Come at me with a fucking rifle. Goddammit.’
She went to the sink and put the two pairs of scissors on the counter, then opened the alcohol and poured it liberally over them. ‘What next?’
‘Cut this shirt off my arm. And if you cut me, I will kill you.’
She didn’t doubt him. ‘If you shout at me, my hands will shake. So please don’t shout until I’m finished,’ she requested, keeping her tone respectful.
He stared at her, then huffed a laugh. ‘Fine. Just hurry.’
She obeyed, gently sliding the shirt away. It was dirty and smelled like sweat. Sour sweat.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘wash your hands well. Put on a pair of gloves, take the other scissors and cut the bandage off. Carefully.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Again she obeyed, willing her hands not to shake as she worked. Trying not to grimace at the sight of his cut. It was long and deep. Someone had sewn it up clumsily. The stitches were uneven, the edges of his skin puffy and red.
