He gave a self-derisive snort. "Tough macho cop can't bring himself to join the world of the living enough to even risk saying more than a polite hello to the beautiful woman two doors down. What do you think I was afraid of?"
"Getting hurt," she whispered. "But I wouldn't do that to you. Not ever—"
He nodded. "I know that now. But Jesse Nightwalker was scared of falling in love…of living…of taking a chance that you might love him, and that he might get knocked down if it ended." He broke off with a sigh. "And look where that got us."
"I do, you know. Love you."
He remained silent, letting his anger at himself evaporate. There wasn't time for that, now. His heart had come alive and was shattering in his chest. He had never hurt this badly. To have Lindy so near, admitting her love for him, and to know it could never happen—that they had no future—was crueler than anything Tabor Hardin could ever envision in his wildest, most sadistic dreams.
She gently lay down beside him on his right side, her head resting on his chest. He brought his hand up to finger her hair. It was like silk. There were no words to say what he wanted, no way to tell her how much her steadfast strength—and love—meant to him.
"I'd never hurt you, Jesse," Lindy whispered. "Not in a million years."
He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the honeysuckle scent of her. He wished he could have this day back, but knew he wouldn't have done anything any differently—with one exception. He could fix that right now. It was time he was completely honest with himself and with Lindy. He could do it with a few words, and he knew, now, the true meaning of the phrase he'd never wanted to say to another woman—not after Erica.
Lindy raised her head and looked into his face. What he wanted her to know was written plainly in his eyes. But he needed to speak the words. She would wait, but they might not have the time. Hardin was capricious in his whims…and nothing was certain.
Jesse's lips curved up. "I wish I'd known you came in here on Fridays a year ago." He sifted through the strands of her hair with his fingers.
"It might've made things easier. Different, anyhow." She bent to kiss his chest, then returned her gaze to him expectantly. "But it wouldn't have changed this."
Jesse took a deep breath. She understood him more than he’d thought possible. She was prepared to live with him—or to die with him. No matter which way it went, she wasn't going to leave him. Ironically, she was the only person who had ever stayed—no matter what.
"I love you, Lindy."
There was so much more he wanted to tell her, but right now, that was the only thing that mattered. It was enough.
Chapter Twenty-One
A soft knock sounded at the bedroom door. "Come in!" Lindy called as she sat up. The door opened slowly. Mrs. Montgomery held Nash's hand as he stepped into the bedroom, uncertainly eyeing the bed.
Jesse smiled at him, his son's questioning expression making his heart turn over. "Hey, big guy."
Nash gave him a wide grin. "You really are okay!" He scrambled to get to the bed, but Lindy stopped him from climbing up, taking his hand in hers.
"Just a second, Nash. Let me get out of the way and help you so you don't bounce the bed around too much. Your dad's feeling lots better, but it still hurts him to move."
Jesse registered the easiness between Nash and Lindy, the ready way she'd said "your dad". No way could she understand how beautiful it sounded to him—the sweet tone of her voice coupled with her innocent use of those particular words. He realized he had been missing Nash for a lot longer than the past month. He'd given a whole part of himself away when he let Jake and Melissa take his son.
Lindy lifted Nash to the bed, cautioning him to sit very still. His leg touched Jesse's hip and he carefully moved it so there was no physical contact between them. Jesse felt the loss of it, glancing down. "It's okay, Nash. You can touch me. I'm not gonna break."
Lindy stepped away to speak with Mrs. Montgomery as the other children lined up beside the door, each waiting their turn to use the bathroom.
"Everything okay?" Jesse scanned Nash's body quickly. He doubted Hardin would do anything to a kid, but he wasn't predictable in any way save one…his cruelty.
Nash nodded. "He didn't hurt me, Dad. I'm fine."
Jesse took his hand. "I know you're scared. There's a lot I want to say to you, but not much time, son."
Nash watched him somberly, and once again, Jesse had the feeling his son had grown up too fast, even before today. "Nash, no matter what happens…" He moistened dry lips, his throat tight as he spoke. "I want you to know I love you."
When was the last time he’d told his son he loved him? He couldn't remember. I should've said it more. So there wouldn't be any doubt. Trying to cram it all into a fifteen-minute time slot was inexcusable. How much of this would Nash recall once Tabor Hardin killed him? "If you don't remember anything else, remember that."
Nash looked puzzled. "Okay. I'm glad you're my dad," he added shyly. "Really glad."
Jesse squeezed his hand. "Me, too."
"Can I come live with you?"
The question was direct. Nash sat poised beside him as if everything depended upon this answer.
"I'll do my best to make that happen." He brushed Nash's dark hair out of his eyes. "I want you with me." He hesitated. How much could Nash handle? "I want you to remember that…in case things…take a turn for the worse."
"Dad, they were cutting Officer Johnson. They had a funny kind of knife."
Jesse's eyes narrowed, his body tensing.
"Mrs. Montgomery took care of him."
"Nash—" He reached for his son and guided him to lie beside him on the other side, away from his throbbing shoulder. Nash came down carefully, his head pillowed on Jesse's right shoulder and upper arm.
"I'm afraid."
"I know, son." Somehow, the words came easier, now that they weren't looking at one another. Jesse could feel Nash trying to steady his breathing and knew he was holding back tears.
"Are they…gonna kill you?"
Jesse closed his eyes. How could he answer that? "I don't know."
"They are, aren't they?" Nash's voice was raspy, and Jesse felt the wet streaks on his shoulder, almost immediately. "It's because you're a cop, isn't it?"
"That's part of it."
"What's the rest?"
"Too long to tell right now. And not important. Not like the other things we need to talk about." Nash was silent, so Jesse pressed on. "Nash, I want you to do what I tell you. If I say 'go,' I need you to go."
"Or if you say 'stay,' I stay."
He smiled. "Yeah, just don't decide you're gonna get stubborn on me and stay when I say go. Got it?"
"Got it."
"Okay."
"And I'm coming to live at your house."
Jesse's gut twisted at the certainty in Nash's voice. His lips drew tight for a moment as he composed himself and answered in a steady tone. "We'll make it happen."
"Can I have a bunk bed?"
Jesse laughed. "No bargaining. We'll figure out something. Go on, now…Mrs. Montgomery's motioning for you."
Nash struggled to sit up carefully, his hand pushing hard against the mattress. "Ow. Hey, what's that?"
Jesse looked quickly into Nash's face. There was something, by his son's expression. He didn't want to start hoping again, after Lindy had searched in vain. As soon as Macklin and Hardin left earlier, she'd lifted off all the pillows and looked thoroughly, but found no gun.
Jesse hadn't been surprised—not really. The more he thought about it, the less assured he became that the gun would be the equalizer Lindy hoped it would be, anyway.
The men they were dealing with had no abiding loyalty to each other. So, if Lindy did find the gun, then what? They couldn't possibly shoot the four convicts before they killed some of the hostages, and the most likely, easiest targets would be the manacled police officers and the unsuspecting children. Semi-automatic weapons could do a lot of killing in a few seconds, an
d a lot quicker than a Bass .44, even had it been where Abe was so sure he'd left it.
"What does it feel like?" Jesse asked, moving to turn slowly toward Nash.
"It's hard. Like metal."
"Okay. Don't touch it." He reached to lay his palm atop Nash's curious, exploring fingers, pulling his smaller hands away. The gun was not at all where Abe said he left it. It was in a crevice in the mattress, a place perfectly cut for the concealment of the weapon, the sheet stretched over to hide it.
"Maybe it's a toy!"
Jesse shook his head. "No."
"We could look and see—"
"Nash!" Jesse held onto Nash's hands, his tone brooking no further argument.
Nash stopped moving, looking up at him with a mixture of puzzlement and hurt. Jesse gave him a light pat, before Nash turned away and slid off the bed without a backward glance, heading for Mrs. Montgomery. Jesse sighed, watching Nash head for the bathroom.
Mrs. Montgomery said something to Lindy, then made her way across the room toward him. She glanced at the closed bathroom door. "Nash seemed a bit upset."
"My mistake, Mrs. Montgomery. He accidentally discovered the gun Abe was talking about. It wasn't where Abe said, but it is here. I was…kind of short with him. Didn't mean to be, but that's how it came across."
"I can't imagine why you were 'short,' Jesse. Not with what you've been through." She gave him a wry smile and paused. "What now?"
"We'll wait and see. Nash said Leon Jackson's been carving on Johnson again, but it won't do us any good at this point to go in there shooting." His hand drifted across the bed where the gun rested under the sheet. "This is some comfort, but it's no match for semi-automatic weaponry like they have. I'll try to think of a plan."
She nodded. "I understand. I'll make things right with Nash; don't worry. Are you hungry? I'm getting ready to find something to feed the children, since it doesn't look like this is going to be over by dinnertime."
"You've got your hands full, Mrs. M. Just keep doing what you're doing." He hesitated a moment, thinking of what Nash had said. "Tony…how is he?"
"Well, I think he'll be all right physically, but…I'm not sure about…" Mrs. Montgomery shook her head. "Mr. Jackson can't seem to leave him alone."
Jesse's lips tightened. He knew what her reluctance meant. "Bet Caspar's fit to be tied."
"Yes." She nodded grimly, sighed, and squared her shoulders, touching Jesse's bare wrist. "If it's any consolation, Mr. Hardin seems to keep Jackson in check until it suits his own purposes."
"I guess that's something." He let his eyelids drift shut. "Not much, but something."
"Jesse, that trap door Abe mentioned—"
Jesse followed her look to the place in the floor where the rug seemed to bubble up in a gentle rise, then fall again. He met her eyes as she looked at him with a clear, purposeful gaze.
"You're sure?"
"I raised the door a couple of inches, but I don't know what's down inside there."
"And…would you be willing to take the kids?" Maybe there was a chance.
"I've thought of that. But, surely, you can see it would anger Hardin and, with his need for vengeance, he'd kill every living thing left up here!"
"Some of us aren't going to make it. There's no denying that," he said quietly.
Mrs. Montgomery shook her head stubbornly. "The children are important, but so are the adults—you, John, Tony. And what about Tommy? He would be one of the first to die, as badly as they hate him. Then, there's Lindy." Her tone grew smug. "She won't leave you, you know."
"That's what she says," he muttered. "I think she means it."
Mrs. Montgomery smiled at his dry tone. "I know she means it. It's not over yet. Things have a way of working out, in ways we never expected."
He didn't reply. This day had, indeed, taken a turn he’d never expected, but he wouldn't call it "working out".
"You'll see. But now, I need to go to the children and get them something to eat. Just rest and get stronger, young man. None of us knows what the future will hold for us."
Jesse watched as Lindy knelt to talk with his son; the two people he loved most and would be losing in the next few hours, if Hardin had his way…if things didn't 'work out.'
"I wish I could believe that."
* * * * *
The tunnels proved to be slow going.. Ryan and the two officers who accompanied him moved laboriously through the cramped space, sometimes made even more confining by the years of sediment that had collected. There was no pattern to it, and in places the sandy residue was still damp.
Ryan understood the implication. Rain water could find its way through these very tunnels, including the ones built as part of the old system. He realized now it had been a fool's errand to come so ill prepared. Hollowell had suggested they come down with a GPS tracking device. Obviously, they had nothing to worry about where complexity was concerned; the issue was more the fact that the tunnels were constructed simply. They were there to carry away the runoff of water from the streets above, with no ornate pattern to their design. These tunnels were an "urban myth" only because of their pure simplicity and usefulness. The few workers who came down here for maintenance probably didn't realize these were the very tunnels they'd heard about—if they had heard that particular myth at all. To them, it was a workplace.
Physically, he was feeling some better—temporarily. He'd noticed the pattern of this sickness—whatever it was—was tricky. He thought, at first, it was leaving him when he'd begun to feel better during the previous night. But then, it came back with symptoms even stronger than before. The fever had spiked toward morning, leaving a pounding ache in his temples and muscles. His mouth was as dry as cotton, his stomach pitched and rolled worse than a new cabin boy's on the high seas. That had happened again, earlier this morning. So, now that it had begun to recede, he knew he only had a couple of hours, at most, to make progress toward getting the hostages freed. When the ailment redoubled the next time, he wasn't sure what would happen—only that he wouldn't be good for much of anything.
The damp grit bothered him most. If it rained, they could be trapped down here like rats on a sinking ship. Finding their way to where they needed to go couldn't have been easier though. It was a straight, black shot ahead of them, not turning or curving, seemingly endless.
And that would be the next problem—realizing when they'd gone far enough without overshooting the mark.
They should be close to halfway there by now. With his height, Ryan was forced to walk stooped to clear the concrete overhead. It wasn't easy, and he felt it. His breathing came labored, rasping, and Lanham and Wallace exchanged a brief glance.
After a moment, Wallace turned to Ryan. "Are you gonna make it, Captain? Level with me, now. Brett and I can go on alone, leave you here; or we can go on as far as you can make it; or we can all turn around and go back."
He glanced at Wallace in the dim glow of their flashlights. He could see how bad he must look in the way the older man's expression hardened. "Let's go on. I can do it."
Wallace shrugged and motioned Lanham to lead off, but he stayed close to Ryan. From overhead, they could hear the faint noises of traffic on 54th.
"Hear that?" Lanham turned to face them. "We're getting close to a grate. Noise is picking up some."
"Yeah…" Wallace cocked his head and stopped, listening. "Something else, too. What is that?"
"Shit." Ryan stopped, slumping against the concrete wall. No mistaking that sound. The only reason he'd picked up on it so quickly was the rhythm it kept with his pounding head.
"What?" Lanham's grin faded.
"It's rain."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lindy slid her hand under the sheet, her fingers touching the smooth metal of Mr. Silverman's hidden handgun.
She grasped the barrel, then gingerly felt her way to the grip, pulling it out gently. She sat down on the edge of the bed to examine it, holding it up to feel the balance in her palm. An old Bass .44. Her
father had owned one of these, in his collection. She broke open the chamber expertly, making sure it carried a full load of firepower. Six rounds wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. It would go a long way toward evening things up.
"Well, I'll be damned." Jesse's voice cut through her thoughts, the quiet note of admiration catching her attention more than anything. "You know how to use that thing?"
She grinned at him. "Told you, my dad was a cop. We practiced targets a lot."
"How good were you?"
Trust Jesse to ask that. She quirked a brow. "I was good." She leaned across to kiss his hot forehead, then let her fingers trail through the dark fringe of his hair. "I'm not afraid, Jesse. I'll do what I have to do."
"Including killing Hardin or his men?"
"My father taught me early on that if I picked up a gun, I better be ready to use it." Her eyes caught his and held. "So, yes, especially Hardin and his men." She laid the gun on the bed, pushing it under the pillows. "It's right here."
"You ever kill anyone before?"
Lindy glanced at him quickly, drawing a steadying breath. How could he have known? Her lips curved up. "That's four questions. I thought we were only allowed three each."
"No." His expression turned grim. "We'll make an exception again. You answer this one, then it'll be your turn to ask."
She was aware this could be the most important question of all. If she had killed before, she might remember the horror and freeze at the crucial moment. If she hadn't, well, in essence, the same scenario could take place—only it would be the fear of taking another life that would prevent her from pulling the trigger.
Should she answer him straight? What would he think of her if he knew? But, what would he think of her if she lied? If they survived…
She hesitated a moment longer, her gaze fixed on the pink floral sheet, wrinkled over the place where the gun had been stashed.
"Lindy?"
The questioning tone was raw, as if by her reluctance, he knew the truth. But he had to hear it from her. It wasn't right not to tell him, no matter what he thought.
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