Gasping for breath, she jammed her hand into his nose. He fell back and cursed again. Blood rushed from his nose, splashing her. She scooted up again, toward the officer. Scrubs grabbed her again just as she got hold of the gun. She let him flip her over again, using the momentum to swing the gun up. As soon as it hit the body, she pulled the trigger.
Scrubs collapsed on top of her, blood seeping from his fatal chest wound. She dropped her head back to the officer. Shadow figures raced toward her from down the corridor of a hospital she didn’t recognize. Indistinguishable voices called out. Her nausea increased tenfold.
She shoved Scrubs off and grabbed the fallen officer’s hand. “Hang in there, buddy. You’re going to be all right.”
Patrick awoke to a throbbing ache in his hand. He sat up and leaned against his toilet. Lifting his hand, he examined the large dark purple bruise that covered his knuckles, the swelling, and the tiny cuts in his skin. He dropped his hand to his lap.
Light shone through the glazed window over the toilet, illuminating the can of Bloody Mary sitting open on the tile floor before him. He scowled at it and rubbed his eyes.
The events of the previous evening came rushing back like fall crowds at the circus. He remembered the panic in Elizabeth’s voice as she’d called out to him. He remembered watching her blink in and out, seeing her see it as well—the panic and confusion there. And then she was gone, like a candle flame that had been snuffed out. Happy birthday to him.
He’d wanted to go to her, to rush to her hospital bed, but Lee didn’t know what hospital she was in. No one knew. Her placement had been kept a secret for her own protection. A secret from everyone except the Assistant DA trying to kill her. He and Lee had made calls. Lee to warn Brown that Elizabeth was in danger, and him to beg William to get the Feds involved—to get them to her, to protect her.
Patrick hadn’t reached William, and none of his contacts would help. Lee had reached Brown, who had assured them he would take care of it. There had been an urgency in the man’s voice that had almost convinced Patrick he would. Except he couldn’t.
Patrick thought of Elizabeth’s pretty honey-hued eyes, of the fear he’d seen in them right before she’d vanished for good. The look there had been the same he’d seen when his wife had died.
And now, he got to live his life having suffered the loss of two women he loved.
He sat up and reached for the can of Bloody Mary—still heavy, still full—and stood. He stared at his shattered reflection in the vanity mirror he’d punched last night, and squeezed his sore fist. Holding the can over the sink, he tipped it and watched as the red contents, so reminiscent of blood, swirled down the drain.
The sight was oddly cathartic.
He couldn’t change what he’d done in the past, but he could do things differently now. Elizabeth was gone. But the sun was shining, and he no longer felt cold. And while he hadn’t been able to believe it before, he knew now she’d been a miracle in his life. He hadn’t believed in miracles until one had cussed him out for wasting his life.
Elizabeth. He cleared his throat.
Once the can was empty, he chucked it in the waste basket and made for the kitchen. He opened his refrigerator and removed all his six-packs, then took his vodka out of the cupboard. He drained each and every can. Before the last of them were empty, a tear streamed down his cheek. He reached up with his thumb and index finger and wiped it away.
Once finished there, he went back to his living room and stared at it, the emptiness of it. Elizabeth was gone. He’d been here for months. Months. And this was all he had to show for it. She’d been right: he was pathetic. In the end, she’d been so sure she was there for him. To help him. He wouldn’t be so ungrateful as not to accept that. He couldn’t.
He moved to his couch, where Zak had tossed the furniture magazine, and picked it up, its cool, glossy surface trying and failing to send ice back through his soul. Even though every part of him rebelled against the idea, it was time to live. And he’d keep his promise. He’d find her brothers, and he’d make sure they were looked after.
Chapter Twenty-One
Three Weeks Later
The spring showers that so often kept the circus from opening had all but gone, and the circus filled with happy people, music, and delicious food. Patrick grinned at a young couple two booths down from where he stood as they won a large purple dragon. The trapeze act was about to start a show, and people hurried from all over to see it. Tiny colorful lights covering the Ferris wheel, combined with the lights from the other rides and Edison lights strung up around the fairgrounds, lit the night sky.
The whir of the ride’s engine and hoots of happy passengers filled Patrick’s mind of memories from long ago. Memories of when he’d first met Katelyn. Memories until a month ago he couldn’t endure without drinking himself into a stupor.
Leaning against the side of one of the game booths with his hands in his pockets, Patrick stared at the compacted dirt and hay below his feet. What was he doing here? He wasn’t ready for this.
“Paddy!” Zak’s deep timbre called out from across the crowd.
He smiled at his friend, though he wasn’t feeling it.
Zak stopped in front of him. “You made it. I was taking bets.” He slapped him on the back. “Happy belated birthday, pal.”
Patrick dropped his gaze again. This whole idea was a mistake. Sure, he was all for moving on with his life—not doing that was how he’d made such a mess of it before—but he’d made a promise to Elizabeth and had yet to fulfill it. “Listen—”
“Oh, no,” Zak said. “Don’t do this to me. Do you know how hard it was to convince Valerie’s friend to meet you?”
“Couldn’t have been any harder than getting me here.”
Zak tilted his head from side to side. “Good point. Still, you promised.”
“She’ll be more comfortable without me here.”
“What’s happening? I thought you were ready for this. I thought this was what you wanted. Starting over, moving on, being happy? What’s this about?”
Patrick took a deep breath, the sweet smells of his childhood swirled about him. Cotton candy. Funnel cake. Hot dogs. They calmed him. “Elizabeth.”
Zak nodded. “You’d think after three weeks someone, somewhere, would be able to tell you what happened to her.”
Patrick knew what happened to her. She’d passed on. And now, after having met her, he found it strangely easy to believe she was in Heaven, even though he hadn’t believed in it before. He could believe she was happy.
What he worried about were her brothers. From what he gathered from Lee, the rest of the threats within the remaining Tourneau cartel had been rounded up—there was no one left to keep them away. So where were they?
Zak had caught Patrick earlier today at a good time. He’d spent several hours calling every single one of his contacts, looking for any kind of lead on them, and nothing. So when Zak had asked him to double, he’d said yes. Dating was part of living a normal life.
The one thing he’d miscounted was that it was too soon.
“I’ve had a long day, and I have an early morning tomorrow,” Patrick said.
Zak nodded. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
“Sergeant Brown, Elizabeth’s boss, called me a couple hours ago and asked me to come in in the morning.”
Zak smiled a big, cheesy smile, showing all his teeth. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Maybe he knows something.”
Patrick shrugged. He doubted it. The man seemed even more clueless about what was going on than he did. If that was possible. “I’m not getting my hopes up.”
“Heaven forbid.” Zak chuckled.
Actually, Heaven permit, Patrick thought. Heaven grant. Heaven allow. But that didn’t mean he would.
Patrick stared at the top of Brown’s balding head from his seat across the desk, the florescent light giving the appearance of a shiny cue ball. The man placed his gun, in its holster, on his desk with a loud metalli
c thud. An intimidation tactic that was working a little. Brown wouldn’t shoot him, but he hadn’t thought the man would punch him in the nose either, and that’d happened.
“Thank you for coming in,” Brown said.
Patrick wiggled his nose. “You’re welcome.” Unless he got punched again. If he got punched again, he would hypnotize the man into thinking he was a runway model and watch the fallout as his men saw him flouncing around the office.
“I’ve heard the tape.” Brown unclipped his gun’s holster and re-clipped it.
“What tape?” Patrick knew what tape he was referring to, but enjoyed watching him squirm.
Brown leaned back in his chair. “The one at Striker’s house.”
“Ah,” was all Patrick would give him. The less he said, the more obligated Brown would feel to keep talking. It was a tactic many officers used to get confessions that Patrick had adopted. It was a fine trick.
“What you did there was stupid,” Brown said.
Patrick twisted his face up. “Whoa, hey there.”
Brown lifted a staying hand. “Lying about the FBI’s involvement, talking my guy into participating, taking another civilian, and—I’m guessing here, so feel free to correct me—for the sole purpose of entrapping Striker?”
Yeah, okay, that was why he’d brought Zak, and he hadn’t told Zak the truth about why he was going, but it was more fun that way, and Zak’d held his own. Patrick shrugged and looked out the window.
“It was downright dangerous, illegal in some instances, and risky—if she hadn’t confessed, Lee would be on suspension, and you and your friend would be in jail,” Brown said. “If I’d known what you were going to do, I’d have put a stop to it.”
Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you. “You asked me here to scold me?” Patrick stood.
Brown motioned for him to sit. “I’m not finished.”
Patrick hesitated but sat.
“Which is why I’m glad you didn’t tell me.”
Patrick tapped his index finger to his lips. Well, this was a surprise.
Brown rested his arms on his desk around his firearm and interlaced his fingers. “Striker needed to be taken care of—by any means necessary, as far as I’m concerned. I fear we’ll be cleaning up after her mess for years. I’m glad I don’t work in the prosecutor’s office. They’ll be going over every case she ever worked on for years. I don’t hold to your claims of being a psychic, and generally think civilians have no right working on police investigations, but you did good. And on top of that, you saved Detective Shea’s life.”
Saved Detective Shea.
“I’d like you to consult with us.”
Patrick’s eyes went wide, and he leaned forward in his chair—his movement so fast, Brown reared back. “Elizabeth’s alive?”
Brown frowned. “No one informed you?”
“Wait, how? We didn’t know what hospital she was in, and Striker sent someone to kill her.” He’d seen her die. He was sure he had. Her gaze had gone blank; she’d vanished, taking all the tingles with her. It’d been just like when Katelyn had died. Just like it.
Brown sat a little taller, puffing his chest out. “She woke up right as Striker’s man came in. He tried to kill her, but she got to him first and saved the officer who’d been guarding her room in the process. In fact, the mayor intends to give her a medal for her quick thinking and courage.”
Patrick grabbed the armrests of his chair and stared at the green linoleum floor. His breathing came fast. She’s alive.
“Are you all right, son?” Brown asked.
He couldn’t have been more than ten years older than Patrick. Calling him “son” was condescending, and it was meant to be. At any other time it would have riled him, but not now. He looked up. “Where is she? Is she here?” He glanced out the office window to the bullpen. Lee sat at his desk, but Elizabeth’s was empty.
“No, she took the day off.”
He stared at Brown again. “Took the day off? How long has she been back?”
“A week, give or take a day or two. She spent another week in the hospital after she woke, and last week she was with her brothers in protective custody.”
A week? She’d been back an entire week and hadn’t so much as called him. He swallowed thickly, relaxing back in his chair. How could she do that to him? Let him think…
“She’s been through a lot. She’s still trying to get her feet under her.” Brown cleared his throat. “So, what do you think of my offer?”
“What offer?” If their roles had been reversed, he’d have gone to her straightaway.
“To be our consultant?” Brown creased his brow. “When you’re not working with the Feds, that is.”
Oh, that offer. “I’ll think about.” He stood and headed for the door.
Brown stood as well and tugged his pants up by his belt. “You should know she requested you.”
Patrick rested his hand on the doorframe and glanced back at Brown.
“Elizabeth thinks you’d be an asset, and so does Lee.” Brown rested his hands on his hips. “Think on it.”
Patrick nodded and left.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Hello, Ryan.” Patrick crossed the lobby of his building and waved to his doorman.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Daley.” Ryan gave a little grin he appeared to be trying to tamp down. There was something going on with him, but Patrick was too tired to ask.
He counted the numbers as the elevator slowly ascended to his floor. Elizabeth had been back a week. If she’d wanted to see him or talk to him, she would have. He had to remember things were different now. She was no longer tethered to him, was no longer in danger or need of his help, and she had her body back. Assuming things could pick up where they’d left off was craziness.
He thought back to the first time he’d met her and how she’d cornered him here and how amused she’d been. How could she not be? She’d spent the last month surrounded by people and yet completely alone. Then he was talking or arguing with her, and she was happy about it, because he could see her, hear her, call her names, and tell her to go away.
He chuckled, thinking of how annoyed he’d been that Ryan hadn’t helped him.
The elevator dinged open, and he got off, shaking his head a little. What a different place he’d been in then that he’d expected Ryan to take care of a woman half his size.
Tingles shot up his spine, and he shivered. The feeling so similar to how he’d felt whenever she’d been near.
“Hello.”
Patrick came up short and stared toward his apartment.
Elizabeth sat cross-legged, leaning against his door. Her skin was flushed, tinted by the prettiest pink he’d ever seen, emphasized even more by the pale pink button-up she wore. Her honey-hued eyes sparkled in the well-lit hall, shining brightly in contrast to her raven hair hanging in barrel curls around her shoulders. She sucked in a deep, nervous breath, her shoulders lifting and diaphragm expanding. And it was a sight to see, her breathing.
She bounded to her feet and faced him.
He’d thought she was beautiful before, but seeing her now so alive was an entirely different plane for him.
“Um…” she said. “I’m sorry, I should’ve called first.”
He furrowed his brow and then realized he’d yet to say anything to her, and he had so much to say. “No—”
“Maybe I should go.” She clasped her hands together and stared at her feet.
She was here, within touching distance, and now he could touch her. “Stay.”
She glanced up, peering through her lashes, a small smile gracing her rosebud lips. “Okay.” Then before he could move, or even think, she launched herself at him. Her arms went around his neck, and the sudden force of her slamming into him knocked the wind out of him.
“Oof!” flew from his lips, but he didn’t care. He wrapped her in a tight embrace and savored the moment: the silky texture of her hair against his cheek, the strong but soft frame of her body
against his, the way her delicate hands pushed into his hair, and the scent of her, oh, the scent of her.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply the smells of jasmine and honeysuckle. As wonderful as she was before, he’d had no idea what he’d been missing.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Her breath tickled past his ear. “They wouldn’t let me call you, and I was with my brothers, and then I got back here, and I didn’t know what to say.”
He ran a hand down the back of her head and chuckled.
She pulled back to look at him, her lips an inch from his. “What are you laughing at?”
“You,” he said. “If you think for one second I’m anything but ecstatic right now, you’re crazy. I thought I’d lost you. And for someone who’s been where I’ve been and felt the way I’ve felt over the last two years, that’s saying a lot.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears and she buried her head against his chest.
“How are you here?” he asked. “How are your brothers?”
She looked at him and smiled. “They’re good. Safe. Happy I’m back. They want to meet you.”
“They do?”
She nodded. “I told them all about you.”
“And what about Striker? Did she shoot you or not?” The whole thing was cloaked in mystery.
She sniffed and wiped a tear from her eye. “She did shoot me, but turns out her aim isn’t great. She hit my bulletproof vest, and the force of the shots threw me backward into an I-beam. I hit my head. She thought she’d killed me until later that night when Brown told her I was still alive, but in a medically induced coma.” She lowered her hands to his shirt and fisted chunks of the fabric in them. “Apparently the blow caused a cerebral hemorrhage, and they had to reduce pressure on my brain. I’m lucky, though; they got me to the hospital quick enough there’s no permanent damage.”
Dead to Rights Page 14
