by Mallory Kane
Hers.
Her stomach turned over…and over…and over. She staggered against the car door. Now her neck was stinging. She touched it with her other hand. More blood.
The stars multiplied, and she swayed. Oh, lord. But she couldn’t faint. She had to get to her phone. Then she had to check on Mr. Daniels. Maybe she could crawl. She let her body slide down the car door almost all the way to the ground before her knees gave out and her bottom plopped onto the pavement. Uttering a quiet whimper, she reached again for her cell phone, but it was too far away.
“Mr. Daniels?” she called out. “Are you awake? Hello?” He didn’t answer. If she strained her ears, she could convince herself that she heard him breathing.
“Hold on. I’m getting help.” Her head still spun alarmingly. But she had to get to her phone.
Feeling like an invalid, she used her uninjured hand and her legs to scoot forward until the tips of her fingers touched her phone, but her hand was too slippery with blood to latch onto the plastic case. She reached farther, grunting with effort, and managed to grasp it between a finger and thumb. It was distressing how hard it was to tighten her grip on the phone and drag it to her. Finally, she had it.
She needed to call—who? She blinked, but she couldn’t even read the buttons. What was wrong with her? Weren’t the numbers always in the same place? Tears stung her eyes, making it even harder to see—and to think. Finally, grunting in frustration, she just jabbed at the buttons, trying for 911.
Ages later, she heard a faraway ringing, then a voice.
“Please,” she said hoarsely, nausea and lack of oxygen making her voice rough. “It’s Reghan C-Connor, at WACT. I’ve— The security guard and I have been…attacked. Please. Help.”
The rumble of her own voice sent a rush of nausea through her. “Parking lot, help—” she whispered hoarsely as the phone slipped out of her hand and all the stars went out.
…
Dev walked into the office at the center in time to hear the last words on the phone’s speaker.
“Parking lot, help.”
He’d never mistake that voice. Connor!
Penn, standing beside the desk with a look of shock on her face, was reaching for the handset, a stack of papers balanced precariously between her other arm and her side.
Dev lunged for it. “Hello? Connor? Connor. You still there?” He heard static then the phone went dead. He cursed as he looked at the desk phone’s display. No caller ID.
“What did you hear, Penn?” His heart was pounding like a jackhammer. The voice had been raspy, but he was sure it had been Connor’s.
“I just walked in. I heard ‘Please, it’s Reghan Connor,’ something, ‘please help.’” Penn adjusted the stack of papers and frowned at Dev. “I’m pretty sure she said WACT.”
“Why’d she call the office phone? You didn’t hear from the security guard?”
“No. And I’ve had my cell with me the whole evening.”
Alarm shot through him. “I’ve got to get over there.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. Stay here. Talk to her.” He hit redial on the desk phone, hoping Connor would pick up, but after four rings voice mail answered. He handed the receiver to Penn. “Keep trying. If you get her, find out exactly where she is.” He slapped his pockets, searching for his keys. “Damn it, I shouldn’t have left her here alone.”
“Dev, you can’t—”
He waved off Penn’s words. “Got to get going.” He jumped into his car and drove recklessly toward the WACT parking lot, doing his best not to imagine the worst. Her voice on the speaker had sounded…terrified. The hum of danger began in his head. Connor wouldn’t be that upset about a fender bender or a flat tire. Something bad had happened. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. What was he thinking, driving up to Angola and leaving her alone? He should have been here for her. She’d been targeted twice already. He should have known she wouldn’t be safe without him.
He maneuvered the Chevy in and out of the sparse late-night traffic like a stunt driver in a car-chase movie. Penn’s phone sat like a lead weight in his pocket. He wanted to pull it out, wanted to call Connor’s cell to see if she’d answer, but he’d told Penn to call her. If he tried, they might get their connections crossed and then neither one would be able to reach her. He needed to let Penn do what he’d told her to.
The WACT building loomed ahead, its night-lights warring with casinos and tall hotels for attention. His tires squealed as he yanked the steering wheel to the right, turning into the parking lot. The white BMW sat alone in the lot like a single sailboat in a night sea. He pulled up on the driver’s side, his gaze taking in everything around him as he slammed the stick into neutral, cut the engine, and jumped out. Where was she? The humming in his head was getting louder and louder.
“Connor!” he shouted, then listened. He heard a cough coming from the other side of the Beemer. His hand went automatically for his weapon. He stepped around the car and saw her crumpled on the ground. Beyond her, a security guard lay on the sidewalk moaning, his body jerking.
But Connor wasn’t moving. There was blood. A lot of blood. His right hand drew his weapon and his left went for his phone. He approached her cautiously, glancing in all directions to be sure no one was hiding and waiting to get the jump on him.
He crouched down and touched her shoulder. She jerked, and his breath rushed out in a whoosh.
Her hands came up to shove him away. “No!”
“It’s me.” He stared in horror at the blood that covered her. The stuff was everywhere—on her clothing, on her hands, on her face. Most of it looked like smears, but the front of her shirt was soaked. He pressed a number on his phone. “Detective Devereux Gautier here. I need a bus.” He gave the ambulance dispatcher the address, then said, “Appears to be a mugging. Just do me a favor. No sirens, okay?”
He hung up the phone, then, swallowing dread, he pushed her hair out of her face, and felt the pulse in her neck. Thank goodness. Even though it was racing, it was strong. Her face was white, with dark red streaks smearing her forehead, cheeks, and neck. “Connor? Hey, Reghan Maria, can you talk to me?”
“Security guard—” she gasped. “He’s not moving. Not talking.”
Dev spared a second glance toward the guard, who was moaning and struggling to sit up. “He’s moving now. What about you?”
“He is?” A sob escaped her lips. “Thank God. Somebody attacked us. My hand—” She tried to hold it up and cried out with pain.
“Okay. Stay still,” he said, trying to keep his voice even as he saw why she was complaining about her hand. A gash bisected the entire width of her palm, welling blood.
“Damn,” he muttered. If it was still bleeding, he needed to find something to stanch it. He felt in his pocket for the handkerchief he’d been taught by Thibaud to always carry. Never know when a lady will need a hanky, boy. You make sure you got one for her. He wrapped it carefully around the cut.
“Close your fist. No, no, don’t clench it. That’s a girl. Is this all?” He took her chin in his fingers and tilted her face up. Her eyes were squeezed shut. “Connor, look at me. Open your eyes. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
When she opened her eyes and their green softness finally focused on him, she blinked several times. “Whoa, Dev, they’re all sparkly.”
He almost laughed past the pounding fear. Maybe she wasn’t hurt too badly. “Yeah, cher. Your eyes are definitely sparkly. Now are you hurt anywhere else?”
She made a vague gesture. “My neck stings.”
Her words sent renewed dread through him. Hardly daring to breathe, praying he wouldn’t find what he already knew must be there, he put a finger under her chin and lifted it. “Let me see,” he said gently, struggling to keep the fear out of his voice.
A thin red line slashed down the left side of her throat for about two inches. Blood oozed rather than spurted, and it was dark, not bright. He felt a jolt of relief. Thank God her carotid
artery hadn’t been cut.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered, touching the oozing blood, then rubbing the slick black liquid between his thumb and forefinger.
Her attacker had gone for her throat. He shuddered. The implication stunned him. The same person who’d murdered three teenaged boys from the Thibaud Johnson Center had tried to kill Connor. He had no hard evidence—yet—but he knew it for a dead certainty.
Connor moved, struggling to sit up.
“Whoa,” he said. “Let’s wait for the ambulance, okay?
She relaxed obediently. “How’s Mr. Daniels?” she asked.
“Stay right there and don’t move while I check on him. Medical attention will be here soon.”
“Okay,” she said weakly.
He went over to check on the guard. “Mr. Daniels?” he said, wincing at the unnatural angle of the older man’s arm. “You’ll be all right. Help will be here soon.”
The guard, who was seventy if he was a day, sat up with a pained groan. “I think my danged arm’s broken. That punk knocked me down.” He looked up at Dev. “What about Ms. Connor? She okay?”
“I think so. I’ve got paramedics coming.”
“Son, she’s probably scared. You go check on her. I’ll be fine.” Daniels spoke with conviction, but his voice sounded strained.
Dev went back to Connor.
“Dev,” she said on a sigh. “How’d you get here?”
“I came as soon as you called, cher.”
Her eyes widened. “I called?”
“You called the center. You must have pressed one of the speed-dial settings I entered into your phone.”
“Oh. That’s good.” Her breath caught between a laugh and a sob, and a shiver went through her.
Dev had a ridiculous urge to gather her into his arms and hold her close. He actually had to check himself to keep from reaching for her. What the hell? He clamped his jaw. She was a traumatized crime victim.
Speaking of which…he rose and surveyed the area around them. Her purse was spilled and her cell phone was smeared with blood, but he didn’t see any other obvious signs of violence at the scene. Maybe it was just a mugging. Yeah, right. Even as the thought entered his head, he knew he was being foolish. The weapon, Connor’s wounds, all spoke to the MO of the person who had killed his kids.
He noticed that Connor’s delicate shoulders were bowed and her uninjured hand was covering her eyes.
“Hey, Connor. The ambulance is on its way. Sirens were wailing in the distance. “You’re not going to cry on me, are you?” He didn’t know if he could stand it if she did.
“I don’t cry. Ever.” She lifted her chin in a shaky imitation of her usual determination. Tears glistened on her lashes and dampened her cheeks. “Doesn’t do any good.”
His throat tightened and he dropped back into a crouch before her. He gently touched her cheek. “You’re a tough one, I’ll give you that. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I don’t know.” She licked her lips. “I was walking around my car and somebody bumped into me. Before I knew it—” She shuddered.
“Shh, it’s okay. You sit tight. I need to call this in.” He pulled out his phone. But instead of dialing 911 again and reporting a routine mugging, he hesitated. With her celebrity status it wouldn’t take two seconds for the media to be all over the story. They’d play up yesterday’s headline of her suspected stalker, and proceed to milk her wounds and her bloody appearance for all the publicity they were worth.
Not only would that devastate Connor, it would only take one reporter making the connection between her neck wound and Dev’s three kids’ wounds to link her with the murder case. Someone had already leaked hints of the similarities between the three boys’ murders, and there had been whisperings about a serial killer. Which was exactly what Captain Hamilton had wanted to keep under wraps. If Dev put this on the dispatch, the case would turn into a celebrity-linked, high-profile serial killer expose. He wasn’t about to let that happen.
Hell, on second thought, maybe a routine mugging, unidentified victim, would work, if he were lucky. Still, instead of talking to the police dispatcher, he dialed Givens. The detective’s gravelly voice answered.
“Roy, I’ve got a situation. Grab Benoit and get over to the parking lot behind the WACT building, like now.”
“Dev? What the hell? I’m off duty.”
“This has to do with your homeless kid case.”
Givens groaned. “On my way,” he said.
“Hey, Roy. On the down-low, okay? No sirens. No dispatcher. No nothing.”
“Is it another dead kid?”
“Nope. It’s Connor. That’s why we’ve got to keep it quiet.”
“What? She’s dead?”
Dev squeezed his eyes shut at Givens’ logical leap. “No, thank God. But someone tried to slash her throat.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Givens breathed. “I’m on my way.”
As Dev cut the connection, he felt a tug on the tail of his sport coat. He glanced down. “Whatcha doing, cher?” he asked.
“I want to stand up. I’m not going to lie on the ground waiting for someone to draw a chalk outline around me.”
He bit his cheek to keep from smiling. “Chalk outlines are a Hollywood myth. Humor me for once, and just sit still.”
…
Headlights flashed briefly in Reghan’s eyes as the ambulance pulled up beside her car. Two EMTs jumped out and ran toward her.
“What can you tell us, Detective?” the older man asked as he set his case on the ground and opened it.
“Not much,” Dev said shortly. “She’s been cut. The old man’s got a broken arm, I think.”
The older EMT reached for Reghan’s injured hand as the younger one hurried to check on Mr. Daniels.
“Hi there,” the EMT said. “I’m Joe. What’s your name?”
Reghan glanced up at Dev, who gave a slight shake of his head. He didn’t want her to tell the man who she was. “Reghan,” she said simply.
“Okay, Miss Reghan, I’m going to take a look at your hand, okay?” He touched her fingers and Reghan obediently began to open her fingers. “Whoa, honey. Let me move your hand until we’re sure how much damage there is.” He unwrapped the handkerchief, studied the cut closely, then reached into his case and drew out a packaged alcohol swab.
Reghan watched Dev because she didn’t want to look at her injury. He hovered, his hands stuck in the back pockets of his jeans, his face shuttered. He watched Joe, the EMT, but he also watched everything and everyone around him. He was alert, poised like a big cat ready to pounce.
Reghan felt cool alcohol on the skin of her palm, then hot pain ripped her breath away. She gasped and almost let out a curse word.
“I’m almost through cleaning it,” Joe said. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
“She needs stitches, right?” Dev asked.
Joe shook his head, and Reghan risked a glance. The gash ran the entire length of her palm. Blood welled in the cut and gathered into a fat drop at the edge. Her muscles contracted and nausea tickled the back of her throat at the sight.
“Nah,” he said. “It’s actually not very deep. Stitches would make the scar even worse. Sterile butterfly strips will do the job. They’ll hold the edges of the wound together.” He reached back into his case and pulled out a piece of metal that looked like a big shoehorn. “And this splint will keep you from ripping it open,” he said to Reghan.
“Take a look at her neck,” Dev said.
As the EMT lifted Reghan’s chin, she felt the skin of her neck pull against the dried blood. Joe took another alcohol swab and swiped at the smears. The alcohol first chilled, then burned. Reghan felt goose bumps rise.
“Is it bad?” she asked, noticing the grave expression on Dev’s face. Her hand moved to touch the place that stung.
“It’s just a scratch. It looks like your hand took the brunt of it.” Joe turned Reghan’s head more to the side, and inspected the cut. “Detective, this loo
ks like it was done with something very sharp,” he said.
Dev reacted. He didn’t move a muscle, but Reghan felt the level of tension go up like an aura around him. “Like what?” he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. He was scowling, his jaw working.
Joe shrugged and let go of Reghan’s neck. “If I were a betting man, I’d say a razor or a scalpel.”
Hearing her fears spoken aloud made Reghan’s trembling start again. “What does that mean?” she asked, looking up at Dev.
He gave her a silent glare. He didn’t say anything, but she saw the infinitesimal tightening of his mouth. She knew exactly what his look meant. He wanted her to stay quiet. And she was afraid she knew why.
Before the EMT had his gloves off, a car pulled up. Givens and Benoit. As soon as the car came to a stop, they jumped out and hurried over. Reghan watched from a few yards away as Dev filled them in on what had happened. He gestured as he talked. She could tell when he identified her, because both men looked curiously toward the car. She touched her stinging neck nervously, thankful for the darkness and for Dev, who was running interference for her. She kept expecting more cars, bringing in the ubiquitous herd of reporters and photographers, but thankfully so far they hadn’t shown up. Had he somehow held off the reporters, too?
Givens started toward her, but Dev stopped him with a word. The man reluctantly turned back. Reghan closed her eyes, hoping that the darkness behind her lids would stop the tiny stars that kept drifting around in her field of vision. They were almost all gone when she heard Dev’s voice. She opened her eyes to see the three detectives coming her way.
She cringed. She didn’t want to spend hours answering questions. She didn’t have the strength. She was still shaky, and her hand and neck were stinging. All she wanted to do was go home, to her home, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head.
Chapter Eight
Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be.
Reghan winced when Dev wrenched open the passenger door with a screech of metal.
“Geez, Gautier. Can’t you afford a real car?” Benoit said behind him.
“Benny, go question the rest of the security guards,” Givens muttered.
