The gunman was so close she could hear his rasping breath through the thin door.
But she was no longer sure if the man on the other side of the door was a homicidal maniac clad in black body armor or an eighteen-year-old kid with a pump shotgun, ski mask, and mirror sunglasses.
She wasn't functioning as a cop.
She was barely able to function as a human being.
The jittering sound of the doorknob being tested and the door rattling against the heavy table echoed in the strippeddown room. Then ominous silence…
Gunfire tore through the corridor wall and needles of sunlight pierced the back of the room as bullets chewed through the Sheetrock. Micky stared at the tiny beams of light and wondered why the builder had chosen wood here and not concrete.
But, miraculously, the multiple layers of the steel table deflected any stray bullets from her. She ducked her head down between her legs, keeping the Glock pointed forward.
No problem.
It's the black-suited man.
It isn't the kid.
The kid's gone.
Maybe he's back.
The kid was never caught, never brought to justice.
What if this is him?
What if he came back for me?
If they couldn't stop him the first time, how are they going to stop him now?
The firing ceased, the remains of the door crunched against the table again. The table moved a millimeter. She leaned against it, pressing her full weight toward the door.
Something rattled on the corridor floor.
Another clip. Maybe the bastard was out of ammo.
Snick.
The sound of another clip ramming home.
Cachack.
The bolt slamming shut.
She jerked as more holes blossomed in the wall inches from her elbow. Dust from disintegrated drywall and insulation and siding filtered across the room, making the shafts of sunlight look like high noon in an old Peckinpah Western. To her right Micky heard the sickening crash of breaking timbers.
The bastard's using the gun to blast his way right through the fucking wall.
Outside, tires squealed. The cops must have discovered that they had lost one of the perps and figured out where he was. But she had no hope now that any of them would get to her in time. They didn't know where she was and they were just as likely to kill her, firing through the back wall. She tried to scrunch down even more but she was as small as she could get.
Pistol and shotgun fire erupted down the corridor.
The machine pistol answered.
My God! Are the cops inside the bar?
Two-by-fours shattered as the gunman burst through, into the cubicle. He was only a couple of feet from her, firing out into the corridor.
She knew what she had to do.
She hurled herself up over the top of the table.
The hulk looked more like a gorilla than a man in the thickly quilted body armor.
The room overflowed with sound and dust, the odor of gypsum and old sex and gunpowder and sweat. The space swelled around her where before it had been constricting, crushing her in its stifling embrace. The entire building seemed near to bursting, unable to contain so much violence.
She had to leap up and get her hands around the bastard's head. Had to expose something vital. As it was, the man was impregnable. She had to rip his helmet off, press the Glock against his neck, and blow his fucking brains out.
Unaccountably she found herself staring at her knees, right in front of her face.
But I'm standing.
Aren't I?
No.
She wasn't.
She had only been imagining leaping up and attacking the man.
But it was a good plan!
Yes. It was.
Unfortunately her body wasn't in agreement.
The Glock nestled in her hands, resting on top of her knees. She could just see the back of the man's helmet now, over the tabletop. Sooner or later he was going to turn around and spot her. Or the cops outside were going to start blasting through the back wall.
Either way, I'm dead.
Get up!
Get up and do something!
Now!
While his back is turned.
Her mind raced but her body was a shivering mass of jelly.
She had pissed her pants.
Embarrassing warmth coated her bottom.
The acrid odor of urine assaulted her nostrils.
The gunman moved toward the back of the cubicle. Toward her. The table provided less and less cover. She could see the man's shoulders and torso as he stepped directly in front of her. She tried to squeeze the trigger but even her trigger finger was paralyzed with fear.
No problem.
A shotgun roared in the corridor and insulation and bits of suspended ceiling showered over her in slow-motion snow.
She jerked and the pistol fired.
The sudden movement and noise jolted her out of her paralysis and she pumped off shot after shot. The bullets didn't penetrate the padding, but the bastard was knocked off-balance, shuddering against the wall.
But she was running out of bullets.
She had only a split second to live.
When her firing pin clicked on an empty chamber, she dropped the pistol between her legs and sat still, tears on her cheeks, blood on her face, piss on her butt, and fear and hatred welling in her chest.
The man shook himself off and twisted toward her.
For the first time she saw a face behind the bulletproof plastic helmet and the eyes that focused on Micky would haunt her forever.
There was nothing in them.
They were the same lifeless eyes she had first seen on her sixteenth birthday. She remembered staring into her attacker's mirror sunglasses, waiting for the bastard to pull the trigger. She had been lucky that day. The ski-masked killer hadn't seen her through the louvered door where she cringed in the tiny storage closet. She could never forget the painful feel of the rough terra-cotta pots pressing into her back. The knowledge that the slightest movement from her would cause them to sound against each other in one of their back-shiver grating noises.
But now her luck had run out.
The snub-nosed barrel of the black machine pistol swiveled in her direction.
The nasty hammer of automatic weapons fire erupted.
But it wasn't coming from in front of her.
It was tearing more glimmering holes through the rear wall of the room.
The bullets drove the man toward the corridor. He looked as though someone had slapped him on the back.
He turned toward the rear wall, ignoring Micky, as though she were already dead.
The gun bucked in his hand, ratcheting out a threesecond burst that emptied the magazine again.
She knew that this was her last chance.
But all she could do was sit stupidly, watching the man reach for another clip.
Waiting her turn in front of the killing machine.
He slapped at the back of his suit with his free hand, looking like a big old bear, trying to brush away a swarm of angry bees. She realized that he was fumbling for another magazine and the only one left was strapped on his shoulder just an inch out of his reach. Until he could free it, he couldn't reload.
It's now or never.
She sucked in a breath as dry as desert cobwebs and tried to shake off the fear that was paralyzing her.
A giant of a uniformed cop burst out of the corridor and landed on top of the man like a cougar dropping on a sheep. Then another. The gunman was powerful and probably hopped up on drugs, but he was encumbered by the unwieldy suit. The two officers pinned him between the table and the wall, struggling to rip the helmet off his head. One of them turned to her and the shock on his face was almost humorous but he quickly went back to subduing the man.
It was over so fast that Micky was still sitting frozen in place after the gunman was led handcuffed from the bar. One of the officers staye
d with her until the paramedics arrived.
No problem.
She managed to walk out with the medic's help; into the daylight.
Past the dead dancer.
Past the wrecked cruiser.
They hurried her by that, though she couldn't help but notice that Wade's hand was still sticking out of the window.
But as the blazing sun burned her eyes, she wasn't seeing Wade or the girl or the scene of violence and confusion out front.
All she saw was empty, lifeless eyes.
HOUSTON, JULY 26
THE MAN WAS TALL and whipcord thin and his skin was weathered from the sun. But only his white hair revealed his years. He wore faded jeans and worn boots. An oval silver buckle the size of his fist graced his belt. “There's an armed guard in the corridor.”
Micky stared at the suspended ceiling of her hospital room.
A bullet had passed through her shoulder, just missing the collarbone. She'd gotten that wound at the same time the dancer was shot. Another bullet had creased her cheek and her doctor said she'd have a hairline scar. She had a slipped disc, three broken ribs, and a concussion.
“They had armor-piercing shells,” she said.
“So does the guard.”
She turned on the pillow.
“I checked,” said the big man.
“I don't know what to do now, Uncle Jim,” she whispered.
He took her hand.
“First we get you out of here. Then you come back home. We'll figure it out from there.”
“It was the same man,” she said, turning back to the ceiling.
“Who?”
“The same man who killed my parents.”
He squeezed her hand. “That was a long time ago, sweetheart.”
“I don't know what to do,” she repeated.
Silence hung in the room. Micky knew that Jim would stand like that, holding her hand forever if she needed him to.
A nurse clattered a tray onto the bedside table and glanced meaningfully at Jim.
“I think she's here to give you something,” he said.
“Wade said I was like one of my stained-glass pieces. He said he wanted to hang me on the wall.”
“Wade loved you,” said Jim.
The nurse withdrew clear liquid from a vial, then inserted the hypodermic into a plastic valve in Micky's IV.
“You're all I've got,” said Micky.
Jim squeezed harder.
When she awakened, Jim was smiling down at her and she wondered whether she had only dozed briefly or if he had left and returned. The sun blazed through the thin curtains behind him.
“There's someone here to see you,” he said.
She turned her head.
Damon Kress stood on the other side of the bed, his big hands resting on the stainless-steel rail. He had a twoday growth of blond beard. His icy blue eyes were bloodshot.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he said.
The sight of Damon shattered her defenses. Tears welled in her eyes and she choked down a sob. “Wade…”
“It's all right,” Damon said, bending to stroke her cheek. “Jim told me what happened.”
“I couldn't do anything. I just ran.”
“I know,” said Damon, leaning to kiss her cheek. “There was nothing you could do. Don't beat yourself up.”
“You don't understand,” she said, turning away. But Jim was there. There was nowhere to hide.
“I'll leave you two alone,” said Jim.
When he was gone, Micky forced herself to look at Damon. She and Damon had met the year Micky joined the force. Micky had to testify in a murder case and Damon, as a psychologist, was called on as an expert witness for the defense. Even though they were on opposite sides of the fence, initially Micky and Damon had been attracted to each other. But they quickly realized that their personalities were too different. Damon was driven, goal oriented, and ambitious, while Micky tended to be more introspective and undecided about any future beyond her job.
Still, Damon had been the person she turned to when she began having nightmares about her parent's death again. Damon had treated her confidentially and with the kindness of a friend, not a doctor. The nightmares became fewer. Less intense.
She told him they were gone.
Damon had made a name for himself after that, working with severely disturbed patients. Micky sometimes wondered if her own past ever intruded on his diagnoses. But she and Damon had a long-standing pact.
Damon never mentioned her past.
His days of analyzing her were over.
“I don't have to understand,” said Damon. “It's me. Remember?”
“I haven't seen you in a while,” she said, at last.
“Been traveling again,” he said.
“Doing?”
“Working with severely disturbed patients mostly.” His frown was more in his eyes than on his lips. Damon was eight years older than her. But she had never noticed his age before.
“That's me,” said Micky.
“They haven't locked you up yet.”
“Maybe they should.”
Silence hung over them.
“The patients inside are there for a reason, Micky. Believe me, you don't belong there.” His voice was cold, withdrawn. His face suddenly ashen.
“What's the matter, Damon?”
“A lot of things happened, Mick. None of them good. When you do the kind of work I do you start to get a little hard, that's all.”
“You were never hard.”
“People get hurt when they're locked up. More than they already were. Let's talk about you.”
“Let's not.”
“You're not going to get crazy on me, are you?”
“I thought you head doctors didn't like that word.”
“We use it among friends.” He tried smiling again.
A bedpan hit the floor in the corridor.
Jim glanced in, shaking his head. He closed the door.
“I can't think straight, Damon.”
“Are you all right?”
“I'm not going to kill myself.”
“Promise?”
He leaned down until she had to look directly into his eyes. His face was more chiseled than she remembered it, cheekbones closer to the surface. But it looked good on him. He was getting better with age.
“Promise?” he repeated.
“I promise.”
“Good. Want something to drink? There's some water.” He nodded toward the blue-plastic pitcher.
She shook her head. “Are you going to keep working with your patients?”
“I thought we were talking about you.”
“I'm changing the subject.”
“I don't have patients, per se. I consult. I have consultations. One of them was about a man named Melrose, in Cordelia, Mississippi. He tried to commit suicide with a dinner spoon.”
She winced.
“That was the good one,” he said.
“There were worse?”
“Vegler.”
“Oh, my God,” she said. Martin Vegler had started splashing the headlines across the country three months ago. He was a quiet, unassuming man who lived in a suburb of Chicago. None of his neighbors knew him at all but they seemed genuinely surprised to discover that the innocent-looking little guy had twenty-two bodies neatly buried beneath his crawl space.
“How did you end up with him?”
“I was hired by his attorneys.”
She frowned. “To say he was insane? So he could get off?”
“Basically.”
“And did you?”
“I quit.”
“Good.”
“It takes something out of you. Just being around someone like Vegler.” He poured himself a plastic cup of water and took his time drinking.
“I wish you wouldn't work with people like that. You aren't the kind of person who can deal with things like that and not be hurt by them.”
There was an unfamiliar edge to his voic
e. “And you are?”
“You have too much heart,” she said. “Even if you don't show it.”
He sneered.
“I don't know if that was ever true, Micky. It isn't now.”
“You can't do anything for people like that. You've said so yourself.”
“I don't think I can help a man like Vegler. But if someone had seen it coming earlier, they might have controlled his episodes.”
“Controlled? You believe that?”
Damon shrugged. “I don't know what I believe anymore.” His eyes were distant, his face harder than she had ever seen it.
“Some things nobody should experience.”
Damon's face softened. “You're going to move in with Jim. Right?”
“I guess. For a while.”
“Good. It'll kill him if you don't.”
She shut her eyes.
“Sorry,” said Damon. “I shouldn't have put it like that.”
“I just feel lost.”
“You aren't lost. I found you.”
Damon was there every day for the six weeks that she was hospitalized. He visited her at Jim's every day for three weeks after that. Micky still wore a bandage on her shoulder but the wound was healing. Her back was getting better too.
But not her heart.
She didn't cry every day. Not so anyone could see. And she didn't walk around bumping into walls anymore. She supposed that was an improvement. She was getting better at covering up her grief again.
One day she and Damon sat on the veranda, not speaking, watching Jim tend the horses.
“Don't you need to be back to work?” she asked. The sun had fled and storm clouds climbed to impossible heights over flat expanse of Texas prairie.
“One of the few benefits of being a consulting psychologist,” said Damon, studying the thunderheads. “I come and go as I choose.”
“So you're independently wealthy now.”
“Like the Kennedys.”
“Seriously.”
A frown replaced his usual smile. “I'm kind of in flux right now.”
“In flux? What the hell does that mean?”
“I don't want to leave you.”
“I'm all right.”
“Is that why you carry your gun around with you?” The Glock lay on the earthen tile, close at hand between them.
Micky refused to follow Damon's eyes to the pistol.
“Is that why you haven't left this house in three weeks?” he said.
Cold Heart Page 3
