He returned his focus to me. "We're working in conjunction with the cancer center, lending our expertise in AI and security. Patient privacy must be protected and the results un-hackable if patients are to trust the app. Our research using AI to predict hacking and threats gives us valuable experience to add." He went on, getting more technical.
It was an interesting discussion. Though she was usually tight-lipped about her research at work, Erica joined in enthusiastically. I learned more in a few minutes that I had in weeks on the job.
I was engrossed, deep in the conversation and beginning to relax as more guests arrived in a steady stream. Though I wished Bob would relinquish Austin. This wasn't exactly the evening I'd had in mind.
As the room filled, the din of conversation grew. We had to speak louder over the buzz. The room grew warmer. A fine bead of perspiration formed on Dan's brow. We were pushed closer toward the entry. I had my back to it and was constantly jostled as people pushed past, working their way to the center of the party.
Suddenly, there was a commotion behind me, shouting and a scuffle. As I turned to look over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Austin, still at the windows across the room, facing me as he talked to Bob. His expression froze. He started toward me.
"Witch! Witch! Where's the witch who refused to treat my son?" A knife-wielding man pushed past the rented security guard who'd been innocuously posted by the door.
The man looked around wildly. "Dr. Price! Where are you? Come forward. Surrender and no one will get hurt."
Dan pushed Erica behind him and tried to hand her off to a man near us. "Get her out of here! Now."
The whole thing seemed to be happening in slow motion, every movement clear and distinct. Everything was slow, including my reaction time.
Just as my feet started to move, the knifeman grabbed me from behind and yanked my arm behind my back so brutally I thought he meant to dislocate it.
He threw his arm around me and pressed the blade of his knife to my throat. "Everybody freeze or I slit her throat."
The room went deathly still. My pulse roared in my ears. Worse, I felt it hammer against the cold steel of his blade. Every heartbeat felt like it could drive that knife into my carotid artery. One thin slice and I'd bleed out.
I should have been more frightened. Despite the racing of my heart, adrenaline and training took over. I became clinically cold and detached from the danger to myself.
I had seen desperate, distraught men like this before, both during my stint as a paramedic in college, and when I did my rotation in the emergency room late at night during my residency. Guys who snapped during the long wait for treatment and demanded to be put at the front of the line. Men who saw violence as the only solution to their problem. Men who were strung out and high or mentally ill. Dangerous because of their hallucinations and unpredictable behavior.
Fortunately, there was only a trace of alcohol on my captor's breath. Probably a shot for courage. I didn't think he was drunk. Or high. He didn't smell like weed. And he didn't exhibit the symptoms of hallucinogenic or opiate drugs.
"I said—where's the witch who refused to treat my boy!" He sounded almost as nervous as he was menacing. But either could do me in just as easily. Nervous, jumpy people were unpredictable and liable to be spooked into action. "This is her house, her party. She has to be here."
He jostled me, scanning the room for Erica. I tried not to give away the direction she'd been shuffled off to.
"Calm down, sir," I said, using as soothing a voice as I could manage. "There's no need to use violence here. There must be some mistake—"
"There's no mistake," he yelled in my ear and at the crowd. "She led us on, promising to treat him, then pulled back, saying there was nothing she could do at the last minute. He was beyond help." He shook me.
I closed my eyes, trying not to think about the blade at my neck, hoping he didn't shake me right into it.
"Her software model. Her damn model says there's no good long-term outcome for him. He's sixteen fucking years old. There has to be something. Something." His voice cracked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his white-knuckled grip on the blade. He tensed, pulling me tighter against him. I felt the sting of his blade, a slice as thin and shallow as a paper cut. But enough to draw a bead of blood.
A gasp traveled through the crowd.
He must have seen what he'd done. Momentarily surprised, he let up on the pressure of the blade against me.
I saw a movement in the crowd, so slight it might have been my imagination. When I followed it, Austin was stealthily making his way toward us. Our eyes met.
It was another one of those instances in time when you see what your life could be. Who you could share it with. What might be if you let it.
The connection between us practically arced through the distance between. It would have taken my breath away if I'd had any to lose. He nodded ever so slightly, silently asking me to trust him, signaling his intent to rescue me and keep me safe.
I had no real reason to trust him. Certainly not with my life. But I did. I had no other choice. He was the only one coming to my aid. Everyone else was frozen in fear.
I averted my gaze from him, not trusting myself not to give him away. I had to distract my captor.
"I'm a doctor at the cancer center," I said, in a voice that came out surprisingly confident. "An oncologist. A damn good one. Release me and I'll take a look at his case. I'll see what I can do to help him. I promise."
I would have taken a deep breath to steady myself, but I was afraid of that blade. Instead, I breathed shallowly, hoping I didn't hyperventilate in the process.
"You'll have to drop the blade. If I'm going to help you, you have to let me go."
He hesitated. "No. It's a trick. All you doctors stick together."
"It's not a trick," I said. "Let me go and I promise to see what I can do for your son."
He wrenched my arm tighter. I let out a gasp of pain. He wasn't going to be easy to cajole into letting me go.
At the hospital, and almost everywhere I went, I usually carried a tactical pen. It was a working ballpoint pen, but it was made out of airplane-grade anodized aluminum with a sharp point. It was a very real weapon. Strike at pressure points and you could disable your opponent. After being held hostage once, briefly, as a paramedic, I'd learned to carry the pen. I regretted not having it on me now. One quick jab and I thought I could startle him into letting go.
He was wearing tennis shoes. I had on fashionable knee-high boots with spiky heels. If I got the opportunity, there was a pressure point on the top of the foot. I could use my heels and stomp on it. But I'd only get one chance. And it might be the last thing I did.
I had to keep him talking. "Tell me about your son. What kind of cancer does he have? What have you already tried?"
He began talking, spewing facts and cursing. Almost crying. I had meant to calm him down, but instead I'd riled him up. I let him talk and rant without interrupting, hoping he'd wear himself out and drop his guard as Austin worked his way near until he was in the guy's blind spot, just feet away.
As the man described how long his son had been given to live, he broke down, sobbing. He relaxed his grip on me and let up the pressure on the knife blade even more.
As I was calculating my odds of success if I stomped on his arch, he suddenly released me, tossing me away onto my knees on the floor. "You promised. You keep your word."
I nodded and rubbed my neck. My fingers came back sticky with blood. "I gave my word. I won't break it. Put the knife down."
For an instant, he looked like he was going to. Until the blare of approaching sirens pierced the stunned silence, followed by the squeal of tires and the police getting out of their cars.
I looked up at the man and cursed fate for such bad timing.
He pointed the knife at his own gut.
"No!" I screamed just as Austin sprang forward and plunged a pen into the man's shoulder.
Surprised, the man flinched and dropped the knife. Austin grabbed him and tried to wrestle him to the floor. Fueled by adrenaline and desperation, the man fought back like he was possessed, yelling obscenities, throwing punches as fast as Austin dodged them.
Dan jumped into action and kicked the knife out of the man's reach. He threw a punch to the man's jaw, looking like he relished the fight.
The man staggered. Dan punched him again and again until he'd bloodied the man's nose and mouth. Until it looked like he wouldn't stop until the man was nothing more than bloody pulp.
"Stop!" I screamed. "Stop."
"Dan!" Austin took his arm and pulled him off the guy.
As law enforcement stormed the entrance to the mansion, Austin got a grip on the man, who was staggering now almost drunkenly. Dan had given him a severe beating—more severe than was needed to subdue him. I saw signs of a concussion and cursed beneath my breath. Austin helped him to the floor.
The man looked over at me from eyes that were swelling and blackening. "You promised. You promised."
Erica appeared from out of nowhere with Bob, wheezing and out of breath, beside her. She put her hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay?"
The man cut me off before I could answer. "You're friends?" His words were slathered with betrayal. He glared at Erica. "Witch!" His gaze switched to me. "Evil, heartless witch. You're both witches."
Chapter 5
Blair
As the police led the man away, I began trembling uncontrollably.
Austin fell to his knees beside me and pulled me into his arms and onto his lap, cradling me against his chest. "Hush. Hush. It's all right. You're safe. They have him. They have him. You're in shock." He squeezed my hand. "You're freezing." He stroked my hair. "Someone get her a blanket. A sweater. A coat. Something. And a drink. Something stiff. Scotch would do the trick."
There were lights. Cameras. A news crew. Police crawling all over. Interviewing people. Gathering evidence. Talking to Austin.
It was all a buzz in the background. I knew I was in shock, evaluating myself almost as an impartial outside observer. Seeing myself cower into Austin. Watching my mind put up its defenses. Blocking out what might have happened. Erasing worst-case scenarios by cold numbness.
Someone handed Austin a throw blanket. He wrapped it around me, then he was pressing a glass to my lips and into my hands.
"You're in shock, Southron. It's whisky. Drink it. It will calm your nerves. You're a doc. You know that."
I nodded, my hands shaking. I took the glass from him and somehow managed to take a sip without spilling it all over myself.
"There you go," he said. "That's Bob's good stuff." He glanced up at someone, presumably Bob.
Bob muttered something, an agreement, probably.
"Fine, aged scotch," Austin said. "Smooth all the way down. Take another sip. Just one more."
"One more hell," I said, finding my voice. I tipped the glass up and drained it.
"Well, that's one way to savor it," Austin said. "A good use for fine scotch." He took the glass from me and set it on the floor next to us.
Someone handed him a clean cloth napkin with a corner that had been dipped in water. He gently wiped my neck clean. But not before I'd streaked his shirt with my blood, ruining it. That blood would be dry long before that shirt ever saw the wash. And it seemed silly and trivial right now to ask if anyone had a stain-stick on them. Somehow concentrating on insignificant "crises" took the edge off the fear and allowed my mind to confront the trauma without facing it directly.
There was a buzz of voices around me, a thrum that made little sense. Someone asked if they should send me to the hospital for observation.
"I'm fine," I said. What the hell would they do for me there? I could dab my own neck with antiseptic, thank you very much. "There are a dozen doctors here who could verify that. I'm a doctor. I can evaluate myself. And I say I'm fine." Where the hell were all of my colleagues?
"She's okay." Austin pressed my head against him. "I'll stay with her and make sure. If she needs help, I'll get it."
A policeman took my statement. I rambled, but I thought I made some sense. Anyway, he seemed to understand.
"Is this really necessary?" Austin said when the police pressed for more. "She's been traumatized. There are hundreds of people who saw what happened."
The cop backed off.
I shielded my eyes from the glare of the lights. Several reporters stood off to the side with a running commentary. One of them stuck a mic in Austin's face.
He pushed it away. "Not now. She's been through too much." He cradled me and whispered in my ear, "I'm taking you home."
"Yes." I nodded. "Not to Beth's. To my condo. I have a shift tomorrow morning."
Austin yelled something to someone. My coat and purse appeared. He helped me into my coat and got me to my feet. My legs were wobbly beneath me.
He swore beneath his breath and scooped me into his arms. I looped my arms around his neck and leaned against him. The cameras followed us as he carried me to his car, which the valet had waiting for us.
"Your friends really know how to throw a party," he said as he helped me into the passenger seat.
His quip broke through my shock. I laughed, and not hysterically, either.
"Yes, they do," I said. "They really do." I took a deep breath and felt the freedom of doing so without fearing for my life intensely. "I should talk to Erica about her choice of guests."
I glanced at Austin as he drove. "I feel for you. Dan is a brute. Is he like that as a boss? I think he enjoyed pounding the crap out of that guy. He went too far. I'm glad you stopped him."
He signaled his intention to turn, checking for traffic. "Dan's not so bad. He's always been fair and believed in my work when others made false accusations. Cut him a break for my sake. Adrenaline got the better of him. I know. I felt it. The urge to keep fighting until the threat is annihilated. To make sure the innocent are protected." He gave me a sidelong glance.
"But there's the difference. You did control your urge," I said.
"Barely."
"Barely counts."
My phone had been going crazy in my purse. I'd been ignoring it, too fragile to deal with it. But I realized the story was probably all over the news by now. Beth, even buried in her Bunko game, had probably heard.
I pulled the phone out. "My aunt," I said to Austin, and answered it. "Beth. Yes. Sorry. I know. I should have called. I was too shaken. I'm fine now."
"Well, I could see that for myself on TV," she said, sounding put out. There was something sly in her voice beneath the worry. "Which is why I'm not blistering your ears in the first place. I saw your Scot carry you out of the party, Rhett Butler style."
"Rhett Butler style?" I teased, ignoring her reference to Austin being mine, and hoping he hadn't heard.
"You know very well what I mean," she said, relief evident now that she'd spoken to me. "In his arms in the movie poster with Atlanta burning behind him."
"Apt enough," I said, shooting a smile at Austin. "But I thought you would have compared it to Jamie carrying Elinor out of the burning cottage. Though both seem to involve fire and there was none of that tonight at the party."
"Child!" she said like she did when she was both exasperated with me and relieved. "You do vex me exceedingly. But I take your point. An apt picture, except that he wasn't wearing his kilt. The fans will be disappointed." She chuckled. "Where are you now? Are you on your way home?"
I could hear the voices of her friends in the background, crowding close, asking about me, wanting details.
"I'm with Austin. He's taking me to the condo, just like we planned. Nothing's changed. Stay and enjoy your Bunko game. I'll tell you everything when I get home tomorrow evening."
"The hospital won't give you the day off after what happened?" she said. "Take a sick day."
"I can't," I said. "I have to keep a promise I made."
"You work too hard, Blairest." She sighed in the
way moms do when they don't get their way and are worried about their babies.
It was cute. Maybe someday, when I had children of my own, I'd understand it and find myself doing the same thing.
"All right, then. Get some rest," she said with a wink in her voice.
Beth.
"Austin," she yelled into the phone. "If you can hear me, take care of my girl." With a relieved laugh, she hung up.
I turned to him. "Did you hear that?"
"I think I love your aunt," he said. "We think alike."
* * *
He insisted on walking me into my condo. I was glad he did. I was still jumpy. I didn't realize just how much until I was letting myself in and a car backfired in the parking lot outside. I jumped and started trembling uncontrollably. I nearly dropped my key.
Austin took the key from my hand and opened the door for me. "Would you like me to come in for a few minutes?"
I nodded. "You read my mind. Would you? I don't want to be alone just yet."
My condo was as sterile as usual. The cleaning lady had been in. It smelled of cleaning supplies. The sparkling clean emphasized the impression that it was more a hotel or model than someplace I actually lived.
I tossed my coat on the sofa and encouraged him to do the same. He looked around and made a bland remark about it being nice.
I shook my head. "Liar. It's awful." I frowned as I surveyed the living room. "It could be nice. If I ever take the time to move in properly and do some decorating. Buy something homey. Maybe a fancy vase. Fill it with flowers. Put some personal touches on the place. Finish unpacking."
The truth was that my heart had been too dead for me to care. And I'd been too busy at the hospital and making sure Beth got her strength back after her bout of pneumonia. I barely noticed the place. Now, seeing it with his eyes, I made a note to do something about it.
I went to the bar. The effects of the scotch had worn off. I wasn't generally a drinker, but I needed something. "Can I get you anything?" I opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka.
Almost Elinor: A Jet City Novel Page 5
