Never Alone (43 Light Street)

by Rebecca York

  Tonight, when he’d stood in the hall looking at her like a man balanced on a razor’s edge of tension, she’d known that all she had to do was reach for him and he’d come into her arms.

  But she’d been a coward—afraid of the consequences, afraid to ask for what she wanted because she knew he was going to break her heart when he walked away from her.

  Now, as she lay in her narrow bed, she was thinking consequences be damned.

  She’d fallen in love with the man. She ached to give that love physical expression. And it didn’t matter that he was never going to make a commitment to her or any other woman.

  Well, it did matter. His leaving would be terrible. But she wasn’t going to give up what they might have in the present because she feared the future.

  She wanted tonight with him. And every other night while he was living in her house.

  Eyes closed, she tried to focus on the relief she’d feel when he walked in the door. But relief was beyond her grasp.

  Instead, as the minutes ticked by, a terrible feeling of dread began to gather in her mind, in her body. It swirled around her like invisible fog, choking off her breath even as she struggled to hold on to her sanity.

  Then an arrow of pain pierced her skull, and she sat bolt upright in bed—a scream on her lips and a terrible image in her brain.

  “No! Oh God, no. Cal, get out of there. Please get out of there.”

  CAL FROZE IN PLACE. For a moment he felt dizzy, disoriented. And the thought came to him again that retreating would be an excellent idea. But he was too close to getting the information Lassiter needed to quit now.

  The light was so dim that the informant’s face was hidden. “Tell me again—what’s the name you gave me over the phone?” he growled.

  “Deep Throat.”

  So the man accepted him as Lassiter. Good. Cal tried to size him up. All he could see in the darkness was a vague shape—about medium height, medium build.

  “You said you have some information for me?” he prompted.

  “If you’ve got some dough for me.”

  “Are you planning to come and get it?”

  “How do I know you ain’t going to drill me?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Cal allowed. “Maybe we should agree that we’ve got some mutual interest here.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Then why don’t you start talking. What do you know about this drug kingpin?”

  “His name’s Sedgwick,” the informant said promptly. “I know about him because a friend of mine had a buddy named Chad Crosby who worked for him. Sedgwick killed Crosby. My friend is still working for Sedgwick, but that’s not the name he’s using now. Sedgwick, I mean. Anyway, my friend is afraid he’ll end up like Crosby. So he’s feeding me information, see? If you take Sedgwick down, my friend can get his life back.”

  Cal made an instant evaluation of the story. It sounded plausible, especially if you figured this guy was actually taking about himself, not a friend. “What else do you have for me?” he asked. “What name is Sedgwick using now?”

  “I’m not telling you any more until you give me the money.”

  Cal reached slowly into his pocket, pulled out the envelope and tossed it on the ground five feet from where he stood.

  The man quickly scrambled forward and pocketed it, then stepped back. He was dressed in black and wearing a cap pulled low over his eyes. When he was back in his original position, he said, “Sedgwick is calling himself Sierra. But that’s going to change. He’s in Baltimore making big plans. He’s going to be trouble for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Deep Throat opened his mouth to answer.

  Before he could speak, Cal heard a spitting sound, a shot from a gun with a silencer. The man pitched forward, and Cal knew instantly that there was nothing he could do for him.

  Ambush! Get the hell out of here, his mind screamed as he reached for the gun at his ankle.

  Then pain exploded across the top of his head.

  Chapter Nine

  Beth leaped out of bed, snatching up the paper she’d set on the nightstand, then ran barefoot to the phone and dialed 911.

  When the dispatcher came on the line, she had to take a breath before she could speak. “Cal Rollins has been hurt.”

  “Can you describe the nature of the injury?”

  “It’s his head.”

  “Is he conscious? Can he talk to you?”

  “He’s not here. He’s at a warehouse off Pulaski Highway.”

  “He called you?”

  “No.” She stopped, gulped in air, then rushed to explain because that was her only option. “He’s working with me on the Hallie Bradshaw case. I—I had a psychic vision of Hallie’s abduction. That’s how I started working with Cal. Now I know he’s in trouble. I know the same way I knew about Hallie.”

  “I’m not familiar with the Hallie Bradshaw case, ma’am. Are you saying you’ve had a psychic vision of Detective Rollins in trouble?” the dispatcher asked, his voice skeptical.

  “Yes!” she screamed into the phone. “Yes.”

  “Pulaski Highway is out of our jurisdiction, ma’am. I’ll transfer you to the Baltimore County Police.”

  In the next moment the line went dead.

  Great! They’d been cut off.

  She slammed down the phone, dialed information.

  This time she was smart enough to say she’d gotten a tip from an eyewitness who had called her on his cell phone to say a man in back of 231 Field Road had a serious head injury. Once she’d told the dispatcher what she could, she asked which hospital Cal would most likely be taken to. After finding out it was Mercy General, she slammed down the phone, pulled on her shoes and ran down the stairs.

  First she let Granger out. While he was doing his business, she filled his water dish and poured out dry food.

  Then she checked an area map to make sure she could find the hospital. Twenty minutes after she’d first leaped out of bed, she was speeding down the farm road.

  DAMIEN PUSHED the rewind button on the video recorder and waited impatiently for the machine to do its thing. He’d set the tape to record the broadcasting on Channel 13. And he’d kept it on through the evening news.

  “Ted Banner’s dead,” he said, speaking loudly because he was pleased with himself. “Too bad Jim Fitch is still alive. He should be dead, too.”

  And so should some of the others, like that loudmouth Ned Brentley.

  He smiled as he stared at the screen, watching the cute little girl reporter do her thing. She didn’t know what was going on. Nobody did. Nobody knew he’d walked into the restaurant, ordered a drink at the bar, then gone down the hall to the men’s room, and slipped into the utility closet next door, where the circuit-breaker box was located. He knew which circuit controlled the room where the meeting was being held because he’d scoped them out earlier in the week. With the night-vision glasses in his carry bag, he’d made it down the darkened hallway and into the room within seconds. He’d seen the turkeys flapping around in there—all in a panic—and it had been tempting to pick a bunch of them off. But he’d been afraid to stay more than a minute.

  And he’d been right. The guy who’d come with Beth had made for the door. And brought the police back, apparently.

  “But by then I was already out the front door and in the clear,” he congratulated himself.

  The camera switched to a shot of the restaurant, and in the background he saw Beth Wagner coming out with the man.

  “Beth!” As he watched, he slapped his right fist against the palm of his left hand. He could see the guy talking to the policeman on duty, like the two of them were working together, which they probably were because ten to one the guy was a cop.

  So Beth was working with the police, he thought as his fist slapped rhythmically against his palm.

  Back in school he’d liked her. And he’d never considered including her in his plans for the class members.

  Now a surge o
f raw anger swept through him. Anger that she’d fooled him about being so sweet and nice. Anger that she was working with the cops. He’d get her for that. Damn, he’d get her good.

  IT WAS AN HOUR RIDE to the hospital, counting the fifteen minutes when she’d gotten lost and had to stop at an all-night gas station to ask for directions. Finally she was pushing open the door of the emergency room and barreling toward the desk.

  “I’m here to see Cal Rollins,” she said. “Can you tell me where he is?”

  “Are you related to him?” the woman behind the counter asked.

  From the corner of her vision she saw several people moving toward her. A woman with rich brown hair and two men, both tall and dark. One had a comforting arm around the woman, the other looked pale and sick.

  “Who are you?” the sick-looking guy demanded.

  She whirled toward him. “Beth Wagner. Cal and I are working together,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

  The woman came forward and took her arm. “Come over here.”

  “Please, I have to see Cal.”

  “They’re working on him. We’re all waiting to find out how he is.”

  “We? Who are you?”

  “I’m Hannah Dawson,” she said. “This is Lucas Somerville and Sam Lassiter.”

  Beth rounded on the one named Lassiter. “This is your fault! You got him to walk into an ambush!”

  The man’s face contorted with a stomach-wrenching guilt. “Yeah, I did,” he muttered. “It should be me lying in there—not him.”

  She saw anguish suffuse his features and knew he had piled more blame on himself than she ever could. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you like that.”

  “No, you have a right to be angry with me. I screwed up. I asked him to come along for backup, then I got food poisoning and I was going to call the meeting off. He wouldn’t let me do it. He said he’d go in my place.”

  “It’s not Sam’s fault,” the woman named Hannah Dawson said softly, drawing Beth toward a corner of the room. “Cal was trying to help me and Luke. They both were. So if you want to get mad at someone, it should be me.”

  Beth sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking out my frustration on any of you. Please, just tell me if Cal’s okay.”

  “He was shot.”

  She gasped. She’d known it. Knowing it the way she knew about Hallie. But hearing it from Hannah made it all the more real.

  The other woman added quickly, “The bullet went across the top of his head. Not into his brain. Maybe he was ducking down or something. He was brought in here unconscious. They haven’t told us anything else.”

  “Can you tell me how it happened?” As Beth asked the questions, she squeezed her hands so tightly into fists that her nails dug into her palms.

  It was Lassiter who answered. “Cal went to meet my informant. Then somebody else crashed the party. Two guys, from what I could tell. The informant is dead. A bullet went through his back and into his heart. Cal was hit from the front.”

  “I felt it,” Beth gasped.

  “You felt what?” the one named Lucas inquired, studying her with unnerving intensity.

  She wanted to duck away, to fade into the gray walls. Instead, she raised her face toward him and moistened her dry lips. “I’m…I have…” She flapped her arm. “Okay, I have psychic abilities. That’s how Cal and I ended up working together. I saw a friend of mine being abducted. I mean, I wasn’t there…but I heard her calling for help. I reported it to the police, and Cal showed up at my house. Then tonight I couldn’t sleep. I was waiting for him and I…saw where he was. I felt him getting hit. Then nothing. Blackness. You can either take my word for it or not. I don’t care either way,” she added defiantly.

  “You’re here,” Lucas said quietly. “And you called 911, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess that’s pretty convincing evidence you’re telling the truth. Either that or you sent a covert agent to tail him.” The last part was said with a look that told her he had already discounted that possibility.

  At that moment a door opened and a doctor clad in a green scrub suit came out. He looked around the room, spotted the group and walked toward them.

  “Dr. Koenig,” Hannah said, her face hopeful. “Do you have some good news for us?”

  The doctor’s expression remained neutral. “We’ve cleaned up the wound and we have him stabilized. He’s in a room up in ICU, but he’s still unconscious.”

  Beth felt her chest constrict. “What does that mean, exactly? You’re saying the bullet didn’t go into his head? But he’s unconscious. Why?”

  “We can’t say for sure yet,” the doctor answered. “He’s had extensive skull X rays and an MRI. There’s a flesh wound but no skull fracture. And no internal bleeding. The best I can tell you is that the impact from the bullet bruised his brain tissue.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry. I simply can’t give you any more information at this time.”

  “Can he have visitors?” Sam Lassiter asked. “Can we see him?”

  “Only immediate family.”

  Beth took a step forward. “I hope that includes me. I’m his fiancée.” As soon as she said it, she realized what she’d done. The others in the group were staring at her, since the words that had popped out of her mouth were definitely at odds with what she’d told them a few minutes ago. But Dr. Koenig hadn’t heard her explanation and seemed to take the information in stride.

  “I can arrange for you to see him for a few minutes.”

  “I’ve heard that people who are unconscious retain their sense of hearing,” she answered.

  “Yes, that’s true. Sometimes. The ICU is on the third floor. You can see him for a few minutes now, if you like. When you get up to the desk outside the unit, tell them who you are and that I sent you.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Hannah said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “At least to the waiting room.”

  Beth glanced at her gratefully. The men appeared on the verge of insisting that they come along, too, but Hannah gave them a long look, and they both closed their mouths.

  In her present state Beth wasn’t sure if she was capable of finding ICU, but Hannah got directions and led her to the elevator. As soon as they were alone, she murmured, “I guess you and Cal have gotten close, working together.”

  “Yes. But what I told the doctor—that was a pretty brazen thing to say. We’re not engaged. If you know Cal, you probably realize that he doesn’t intend to marry me or anybody else.”

  Hannah nodded and said, “Things can change. Actually, Lucas and I met under similar circumstances—working on a case. He started off with no intention of getting into a relationship with me, but we’re going to be married as soon as the Naylor and Sedgwick cases are cleared up. It’s a long story, but I realized that the bottom line is if you love the guy, don’t give up on him.”

  Beth absorbed the words, aware of Hannah’s eyes on her. When the door opened, she stepped quickly out of the elevator. But the other woman caught up with her just as quickly.

  “You do love him, don’t you?”

  She felt slightly light-headed as she said, “Yes, for all the good that does me…”

  Hannah stopped her with a hand turned palm out. “Don’t make negative assumptions. I know him pretty well. I know about his childhood. I can also see you’re the right woman to change his mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you care for him deeply.”

  “How do you know?”

  “From the anguish etched into your face.”

  They reached the unit and stopped at the desk.

  Beth looked at the nurse. “I’m Beth Wagner. Cal Rollins’s fiancée. I was told by Dr. Koenig that I could see him for a few minutes.”

  The tall black woman led her through a set of double doors into an area with television screens that showed sleeping patients lying in beds.

  The rooms were clustered around the
central area. Each was brightly lit and had a glass wall and curtains.

  Cal was lying in a hospital bed pale and still as death. His head was bandaged, and tubes and monitors were attached to his body. The only sound in the room came from the wheezing of the equipment. Seeing him like that made her heart squeeze so painfully inside her chest that she could barely breathe. Lord, she’d been waiting for him to come home, thinking that she would finally tell him she wanted him in her bed. And now…

  “Cal,” she whispered, taking in the scene from the doorway. It was like an alien spaceship where they kept human captives alive so they could do terrible experiments on them.

  She shook her head and fought to shake the horrible chill that had settled in her bones. This wasn’t some alien torture chamber. This was a hospital, and Cal was here because they were trying to help him. Still, she felt as if she was invading forbidden territory as she took several hesitant steps into the room and stopped beside his bed.

  “Cal, it’s Beth,” she whispered, so overwhelmed that it was difficult to speak. “I’m here. I want you to know I’m here.”

  His hand was resting on top of the light covering. She looked down at it, large and strong, the tendons standing out against his tanned skin. Gently she laid her palm over his knuckles, needing the contact. His skin felt warm, and she thought she saw his lips twitch as she touched him, but she couldn’t be sure.

  He had touched her with the hand she was pressing now. Caressed her. She willed him to turn his palm upward and link his fingers with hers.

  But he didn’t move. Beth had the sudden terrible sense that he was far away from his body. Far away from her. Out of reach, even though she could feel the warmth of his flesh.

  Her voice rose in alarm as she begged, “Cal, come back. I’m here waiting for you. So are Hannah and Lucas and Sam. We all need you.”

  Again there was no change in his expression, nothing. A wildfire of fear blazed through her.

  Her fingers clenched his, and she stood beside the bed in a kind of daze, not realizing how tightly she was clutching his flesh, not realizing she was digging her fingernails into him until the nurse touched her shoulder.

  “Miss Wagner. Miss Wagner, you can’t be doing that.”