by Debra Cowan
"My mom's from Texas."
At the end of the second song, the band announced another line dance to "Achy Breaky Heart" and Richie looked disgusted.
"Would you like to sit this one out?" she asked quickly, not wanting to lose him.
"Yeah." He guided her back to her table, but when she prepared to sit down, he leaned close.
"Hey, would you like to get out of here? Go someplace quiet where we can talk?"
Man, this guy didn't waste a second. She hesitated, not wanting to appear too eager, her stomach winding into a knot.
Something flickered in his eyes. Irritation? She could practically hear him wondering if he'd misjudged his instincts about her.
"Yes, I'd like that. It's pretty noisy in here." She smiled, mentally crossing her fingers that her hesitation hadn't raised his guard.
"Good." He rose, seeming to relax as he reached behind her. "Can I get your coat?"
"I've got it." She picked it up before he could. It wouldn't do for him to feel the weight of the Walther in her pocket.
She didn't look toward Sam, but she could feel his eagle-eyed stare anyway. He had her back. He wouldn't let her down. She slipped into her coat and walked outside with Richie.
The noise decreased abruptly. Out here, the music was a low roar and vied with the swoosh of passing vehicles, the far-off whistle of a train.
He gripped her arm proprietarily. "Where's your car?"
She fought off the impulse to jerk away. "I came with a friend. Can we drive yours?"
Suddenly suspicious, he stared at her. His eyes turned cold, eerily flat and for the first time, Dallas glimpsed the empty soul that would belong to a killer.
"I didn't see you with anyone in there," he observed quietly, taking her measure.
"Oh, Carrie disappeared with some guy right when we got here." Dallas infused her voice with just the right note of fond exasperation. "She always does that."
She held her breath, hoping he would buy her explanation. After a second, he gave her a charming smile. "Well, then, we can take my car."
They walked across the parking lot to his Camaro. He opened the door for her, waiting until she was inside before he went around to the driver's side.
"I wish you guys were getting this," she muttered, knowing she was still too far away for the surveillance van to pick up any transmission.
As Richie climbed in, she smiled. "Coffee sounds good. Is there someplace around here that serves a good cup?"
He started the car and gave her a sheepish grin. "I was thinking maybe we could go somewhere a little quieter than a restaurant. Would that be all right with you?"
He followed their suspect's MO like a script. Despite the boyish tone of his request, Richie's eyes glittered with cunning. A shudder ripped through her and Dallas fought to keep her voice steady. "Sure."
"We could go to my place," he offered. "But I'm fresh out of coffee."
Why don't I just give you the key, buddy? she thought with a jolt of nerves. "How about my place?"
"Sounds great," he said.
As they drove out of the parking lot, Dallas caught a glimpse of Sam walking toward his truck. Hoping to keep Richie's attention on her, she gave him directions to Sam's house.
Here we go. Steeling her nerves, she fiddled with the radio as her mind raced. Tension knotted her shoulders and it took all her willpower not to shrink into her door.
The combined comfort of her two weapons and the certainty that Sam was close behind were all that kept her from unraveling and pulling the Walther on this slimeball right now.
At last, she understood Sam's vehement resistance to her plan. For the next twenty-five minutes, she'd be out of contact with him, too far out of range for the surveillance van. If Richie became suspicious of her, there was no telling what he would do.
She was on her own.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
Tortured, his control strained, Sam followed them.
For almost the entire twenty-five-minute ride from Whiskey Joe's to his house, Dallas would be incommunicado. About two miles away from Sam's house, the surveillance van would begin to pick up her transmission clearly, but he wouldn't be able to hear anything.
Two teams waited in the surveillance van down the block from his house. One team was made up of Mace and his partner, O'Kelly. The other was comprised of Rock and Lieutenant Roberts, who was the only available officer due to that damn flu.
During the drive, Sam alternately prayed and cursed. He could only keep Lewis's taillights in sight and chafe at the imposed separation from Dallas. As long as nothing went wrong, they were okay.
Sam breathed his first sigh of relief when Richie took the correct exit off Broadway Extension. A few minutes later, Richie turned onto Sam's street. Even though his instincts protested, Sam slowed his truck to a crawl. He couldn't risk their operation now.
After several long seconds, he turned onto his street and drove toward his house. His porch light glowed welcomingly, showing Dallas and Richie already on the landing.
Sam drove past, fighting to keep to the residential speed limit so as not to draw attention. The van sat at the end of the street and Sam turned at the corner behind it, drove about fifty feet and parked. Heart thundering, he cautioned himself not to rush as he walked casually to the corner. Dallas and Richie had disappeared inside.
Sam sprinted across the street, knowing that when Richie made his move, it would go down fast. Sam wanted to bust in there right now, but they weren't one-hundred percent certain Richie was their guy, so he had to wait for the suspect to make a move on Dallas.
Clenching his jaw, he clambered into the van and took the earphones Mace shoved at him. "What's going on?"
"They just got inside," his brother whispered. "She's taking his coat."
Sam nodded, fitting the listening device onto his head.
"How'd she do?" Mace asked.
Sam gave a thumbs-up, closing out everything except the sound of Dallas's voice, trying to judge the next level of danger. The reception crackled in his ear, then cleared. He heard Richie compliment the place and Dallas thanked him.
The whole idea of her being in there alone made Sam's blood congeal, but he could reach her in ten seconds flat when the time came.
Nerves stretched taut, Sam perched on the edge of the seat, fighting the fear and murderous fury he felt at the thought of Richie Lewis laying one hand on her. She was his. His friend, his partner, his lover. His.
In some distant part of his mind, Sam realized he'd claimed her for the first time without guilt or shame or a thought of Brad. He wasn't sure he was free of Brad, but Sam wanted a future with Dallas. If she didn't want to stay in Oklahoma City, he'd go to Denver. He didn't care. He just wanted a chance.
As soon as this was over, he'd tell her. He narrowed his focus to what was going on inside his house.
* * *
As Dallas hung Richie's coat over the back of the recliner, she noticed the chain securing his wallet to his belt loop. It hung down to the middle of his thigh, a little longer than she'd seen teenagers wear them, but not too long for his height. Plenty long enough to strangle someone. Her.
He followed the direction of her gaze and frowned.
"That probably comes in handy." She smiled, moving around the couch toward the kitchen.
"Yeah." He fingered it and a dreamy look came over his face.
Dallas very nearly bolted right then. She wiped her sweaty palms down her jeans and pasted on a smile. "I'll start the coffee."
She walked into the kitchen, picking up the scuff of his boots on the carpet as he moved around Sam's living room. Pouring a potful of water into the automatic coffeemaker, she tried to ease the bow-tight tension in her shoulder. When would he make his move? Would she see him coming?
"Who's this?"
He spoke from the doorway and she started, resisting the urge to go for her gun.
He held out a photograph and she took it, start
led to find the old picture of her, Sam and Brad at a summer cookout. Seeing the three of them together swamped her with nostalgia, but also gave her a small measure of reassurance. Sam was just outside. He wouldn't let anything happen to her.
Richie stared hard at her, waiting.
"My brothers." She tossed the photo onto the counter and turned to add the coffee.
She wished he would go back in the living room so she could slip her Taurus out of the ankle holster. "Should be just a few minutes if you'd like to make yourself comfortable."
He eyed her curiously, then stepped back into the living room, but didn't turn away from her. He scanned the room, nodding toward the opposite hall. "Are the bedrooms that way?"
"Yes." Her throat went bone-dry and nausea rolled in her stomach. She noted that he kept his hand on the chain, stroking it intently.
During the nerve-knotting drive to Sam's house, Richie had told her he worked for a trucking company and how long he'd been driving trucks for them. There was no reason for him not to, she realized, since he was planning to kill her.
The coffee gurgled and streamed into the pot. From the corner of her eye, she saw him shift. Her hands shook. If he would turn away for one second, she could get to the gun. Would he immobilize her first or just whip out that chain?
The coffeepot hissed and he turned, giving a slow, predatory smile. "It's ready."
"Yeah." Her stomach dropped. She wanted to identify herself as a marshal. She wanted Sam to come busting in here with Mace and arrest this creep. But so far, Richie hadn't done anything to prove he was their killer.
She turned toward the coffeepot, taking one of Sam's black mugs from the counter. She felt Richie move. Her hand closed over the coffeepot handle.
Even halfway expecting the chain, she was still surprised when it silently whipped in front of her face and pressed toward her throat. She elbowed him in the stomach. Even though he grunted in surprise, the chain kissed her throat, then bit. Hard.
Reflexively her left hand clawed at the chain. She swung around with the coffeepot and caught him on the side of the head.
Glass shattered; hot coffee spewed out. He yowled in pain, loosening his hold for an instant.
She pushed hard and shoved her way past him, going for the door. He lunged and grabbed her around the hips, tackling her to the floor.
Hearing the faint thud of the chain on the carpet, she kicked and twisted, trying to knee him in the groin. He was wiry but strong, and his lower body pinned hers.
"Now, Sam! Now!"
She managed to squirrel her way up to the end table, grab the leg. He followed, struggling to his knees and trying to straddle her. She kicked out, caught him in the jaw. Bone crunched, but he kept coming.
"Bitch!" he screamed.
He got on top of her, pressed her spine into the floor, immobilizing her hips, her legs. Once again, he looped the chain around her throat and panic spurred her into a frenzy. She could only move her hands. She tried to scratch him, punch him in the throat, but she couldn't reach him well enough to deliver a blow of any power. His hips ground her into the floor.
Something hit the door. A man yelled. Sam! Fists hammered on the door and Dallas realized that Richie must have locked it when she had walked into the kitchen.
He pulled the chain tight and she choked. Spots danced in front of her eyes. She tried to reach for Sam's gun at her ankle, knew she didn't have time.
The door shuddered and Dallas registered that Sam was trying to kick his way in. She only needed a couple of seconds. She couldn't breathe. Her lungs burned. Her strength was fading. With the last of it, she boxed Richie's ears. He screamed and flinched.
She flipped to her side, trying to kick her way out from under him and clutching at the chain around her throat. Then the metal necklace yanked tight, catching two of her fingers beneath.
She knew what happened next was only a matter of split seconds, but it seemed as if each movement transpired as a freeze frame. Pressure squeezed like a vise around her neck, cutting into her skin, burning through her fingers. Her eyes bulged. She gasped, her throat on fire. She choked out a breath and felt herself fading. Sam! Sam!
She thought she heard the door splinter. The room swam. Blackness edged into her consciousness. Dallas was powerless to stay awake. Her last sight was of Richie Lewis staring down at her with empty focused eyes and sweat streaming down his face.
Garrett, where are you?
* * *
Sam kicked the door once more, his strength fueled by pure fury and dread. The door gave and he rushed inside, gun drawn. "Police! Freeze!"
At the intrusion, Lewis looked up and his eyes went huge. Sam had the guy dead center as he took in the scene. Lewis had Dallas pinned to the floor, his hands at her throat. Chain winked in the light.
Sam lost it and charged. "Get off her!"
Lewis never had time to move.
Sam flew into the scum, knocking him off Dallas and rolling to the floor. He dropped his .45 and kicked it aside. Struggling to his feet, his vision hazed by a black rage he'd never experienced, Sam dragged the guy up with him, punched him in the face.
Behind him, he heard Mace and the others rush in. He slammed Lewis into the wall. Light fixtures shook. Pictures rattled.
"Stop!" Lewis screamed. "Stop!"
Sam punched him in the gut, then rammed his fist into the guy's mouth. Blood spurted, releasing satisfaction and spawning even more fury. He hit the guy again and heard his nose crunch.
Something hard grabbed Sam from behind. Steel wrapped around his arms, impeding his movements. Noise buzzed in his ears and he fought the enemy behind him.
Then he heard the voice. Mace's voice.
"Sam, get off! You're killing him, man. Get off!" his brother shouted, his arms like a vise around Sam's upper body. "Go check on Dallas. She needs you!"
It took a few seconds for Sam's brain to get the message to his body. His fists were clenched; his body braced and rigid. Breathing hard, covered in sweat, he strained against his brother's hold.
"Go, man. Dallas," Mace urged. "Dallas!"
"Okay. Okay." He shoved Richie Lewis against the wall and spun, hearing the guy fall.
Sam bolted for Dallas, still lying motionless on the floor. She was so pale, so still.
"Kittridge! Kittridge!" He slid to his knees, saw the chain loosely wrapped around her neck, the raw abrasions against her pale skin.
His heart stopped. Denial screamed through him. Reaching out with shaking hands, he pulled her to his chest, cradling her.
"Kittridge, don't you leave me," he ordered fiercely. Something wet and hot burned his eyes. "Don't you dare leave me now!"
Her eyes remained closed. The men behind him fell eerily silent. Panic clawed at him. He hugged her harder to his chest. "You're not leaving me, not when you finally came back."
Nothing.
He moved one hand to her throat, felt the thread of a pulse in her carotid artery. "Kittridge, can you hear me? Kittridge—"
"The whole town can hear you," she croaked. "You're yelling." Her eyes fluttered open, dazed, then focusing on him. "Sam?"
"We got him, Kittridge." His vision blurred. "You got him."
She dragged in a breath, then coughed. "We got him," she said in a raspy voice, wincing as she spoke.
Sam held her close. "I'm taking you to the hospital."
"I'm fine." She gingerly touched her throat. "I think."
"We're going," he said firmly, gathering her close and pushing to his feet.
She shoved weakly at his chest, coughing again. "Put me down. There's nothing wrong with my legs."
Gently, Sam slid her to the ground.
She wobbled at first, then straightened. "See?"
His gaze narrowed on her. "Lieutenant?"
Roberts stepped up, peered into her face. "I think you should have a doctor check you over, Dallas."
"Yeah, me, too," Rock added.
Carefully, still holding on to her with one hand, Sam sto
oped and picked up his weapon.
Mace had Lewis cuffed, facing the wall. He glanced over his shoulder. "We'll get this guy downtown for you, Sam. Make sure Dallas is all right."
Sam slid his arm around her waist. "Dallas—"
She didn't protest again, just laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist for support.
* * *
He wasn't letting her out of his sight again. Sam stood beside her while the on-duty physician in Mercy's emergency room checked her over. He'd asked for Linc, but his brother was off tonight. Dr. Cline told Dallas the mild abrasions around her neck would fade in a few hours. Her throat might be sore for a couple of days, but other than that, she was fine.
The doctor dismissed her. Relief swamped Sam, but he couldn't dodge the image of Dallas lying limp on the floor of his house, that chain around her neck. Instead of taking her home and holding her in his bed all night as he would have preferred, they had to go to the station and finish up with Richie Lewis. But at least they were together.
When they walked into Homicide after leaving the hospital, it was after two in the morning. Lieutenant Roberts, Mace and O'Kelly had booked Lewis, then waited. They'd saved the suspect's interview for Sam to conduct.
As he and Dallas walked toward the lieutenant's desk, the other three men rose.
"Well?" Concern sharpened Mace's eyes.
"I'm fine," Dallas said carefully, her voice slightly strained.
"Good." Mace squeezed her shoulder.
Lieutenant Roberts extended a hand. "Fine job, Kittridge. If you ever want to leave the U.S. Marshals Service, look me up."
Surprise widened her eyes and she smiled.
"Glad you're okay." O'Kelly patted her shoulder, then shook Sam's hand. "Good job, you two."
"Thanks." Sam wanted to pull Dallas to him, hold her, reassure himself that she was indeed all right.
O'Kelly and the lieutenant said good-night and zigzagged through the double row of desks on their way to the door.
Dallas walked over to the watercooler and filled a cup.
Mace caught Sam in a brief hug. "You scared me there for a minute. I thought you were going to kill that guy."
"Yeah, I thought so, too." He'd never lost control like that. Ever.
