The light on the garage door opener clicked off and Jamie cracked her car door open. Using the car light, she gathered her things. She swung her holster over her shoulder, scooped up her laptop and notes and backed out of the car. Her holster caught on the emergency brake. She leaned forward but couldn't free it. She shifted her computer and notes to the other arm, let the holster fall from her shoulder onto the passenger seat. Her hands were too full to grab it. She'd have to come back.
She maneuvered her way through the dark to the back door, flipped the light switch with her elbow. Nothing happened. The bulb had blown. "Damn it."
She stepped toward the door, heard a crunch beneath her feet. Her heart stopped. Broken glass. She dropped her pile. The laptop clattered to the ground beside her feet. She dove for her car. Too late.
Heavy hands snatched her from behind, gripping her shoulders like steel vises. He rammed her, headfirst, into the door. She heard a sharp crack—wood or maybe her skull. She saw red in the blackness. Her hands swam in front of her, struggled to make contact with something she could use for support. It was all air.
She grabbed for one of the hands that held her. They were sunken into her flesh like anchors. He yanked her backwards. Her hand struck the doorknob. She stretched for it, seized the cold metal in her fist. She twisted as he shoved her head toward the wood again. The door flew open. She catapulted into the laundry room, the man behind her.
She spun onto her back, raised her legs to kick. She got only one leg in the air before he came down on top of her. She pinned her foot against his chest. Steely eyes, dark hair. Marchek.
"Help!" she shouted, trying to straighten her leg to drive him back. The officer could not hear her from the street. Not with the garage door closed. Her effort barely budged Marchek. Too heavy. Panic corked in her throat.
He grinned, his teeth clenched. His chin mottled with drool. A day's growth of beard looked like a smear of grease on his chin. "You see my latest?"
She fought to hold him back.
"I wanted the cop this morning, waited all night for her," he said, holding her pinned. "She never came back to that building. I thought I had her until I got that woman into the back. Then it wasn't her. I was very disappointed. Could you tell?"
Her leg began to tremor.
Marchek bared yellowed teeth. Grinned. "The other one, she was too sweet for a cop. She's lucky I didn't have more time. But now there's you and we've got all night." He spit as he spoke.
Jamie closed her eyes, fought against muscle fatigue. Fight. Fight damn it.
"This isn't my first time out here. I've been watching you, waiting for the right time. I've been looking forward to tonight."
Jamie forced his words from her head. He would not win. She counted to three, let her leg buckle momentarily, and then forced it straight with all she had. She shoved him free, moved.
He descended on her again. A giant hand clamped onto her arm. The other one wrenched her leg beneath her. She tumbled onto her back.
Tears stung her eyes.
She swung her hips right. She didn't want to be pinned on her back. Couldn't let him have her.
She screamed.
He backhanded her and threw her down like a doll. Before she could shift, he was on top of her. His hips pinned hers.
Panic descended like water, choking, drowning her. She screamed out. Twisted. Shoved. Used her elbows. Her fingernails. Heard one finger snap like a toothpick in his grip. A rush of pain.
His left fist burst into her peripheral vision. She flinched as it flew toward her face. She blinked hard, fought off dizziness, nausea. Her hand sought the soft spot between his legs. He began to rock against her.
She wriggled to reach down enough to hurt him. Felt like she was trapped under a car.
Suddenly she felt rough sandpaper skin on her flesh. His hands grazed her stomach. He pinched her nipple, then cupped her breast, kneaded it in his fist like bread dough.
She fought harder. Screamed, flailed beneath him. She twisted left, then right, couldn't free herself.
Trapped. She was trapped. Tony was gone. The cop couldn't hear her. No one was coming. Her weapon was in the car. Even Barney was at the vet's.
He tugged at the waist of her pants. The button popped off and suddenly she couldn't breathe.
She was nauseous and blind. Her vision dulled. She sobbed. It came upon her without her control. She was pinned too hard. She couldn't reach him. He was winning. He would win. His face moved toward hers. She saw teeth first, like the fangs of a wild cat.
Breathless, she clawed at the socket of his left eye. The ball was hard, deterring her at first. She jabbed into the soft spot in the corner of his eye, dug at it.
Marchek howled and moved back, grabbing her hand.
She snapped it from his grasp, clawed his neck. She jabbed her finger into the small hollow spot at the base of his throat, fought to tear the skin off. She battled with every drop of strength.
He dropped her other arm, clutched his neck. She rounded her back, reached for his crotch with her right hand. Seized the soft sack as tight as she could. Gripped her fist tighter.
Marchek roared, raised his hand to snatch hers. She poised her arm over her face to protect herself, clamped her right hand into a tight fist. Clenched her teeth to bare down. He shifted back, caught her hand, struggled to loosen her grip. She bent one knee, nailed it hard against her hand.
She felt wiggle room, a tiny bit of air, and twisted as hard as she could. He fell off. Pulse frantic, she scrambled to her feet. Shoved open the door into the garage. He latched on to her foot. She pitched forward, landed on her hands. She smashed her chin on the cement floor, felt the hot sear of her tooth tear through her lip.
She didn't stop. Kicked. She gasped, kicked again. She scrambled to her feet, grappled for the handle of the car door.
"Where do you think you're going?" he said, his voice a menacing growl.
She yanked the car door open, climbed halfway in.
He shoved the door closed on her. Air streamed from her lungs. Metal gouged her ribs. Her breath blistered in her chest. The pain let up momentarily as he opened the door. Sobbing, she crawled farther into the car.
Her fingers made contact with her holster as he tugged on her leg. She fought to kick free, but the grip was too tight. She caught his leg with one kick. He cursed. She clambered toward the gun, caught the leather holster in her fist.
She felt his whole weight on her. Agony ripped through her as he punched into the small of her back.
She collapsed, smashing her chest on the emergency brake. She let herself go still. Struggled to inhale. Clung to her weapon. Every move was torture as she struggled to free the gun from the holster. She gasped for air, fought against the pain—in her ribs, in her chest, in the small of her back. Her eyes teared. She blinked to clear her vision. Felt them tear again. Finally, the gun snapped free. She gasped, cradled it to her chest. Cried harder.
Marchek yanked her out of the car by her legs. Letting herself be pulled, she slipped and slid across the seat until her knees touched the cold cement of the garage. The gun was cradled to her chest.
He growled in anger, clutched a fistful of her hair. He wrenched her head back. She heard the shearing whisper of hair ripping from her scalp, the pain like scalding water.
She cried out.
Marchek laughed. "Why don't we do it right here in the garage, then, copper? As good a spot as any."
He jerked her back. Still clasping her hair, he shoved her toward the floor. When he let go of her hair to push her down, she dropped flat to the floor, rolled onto her back.
Panting, aching, she held the gun straight out above her. Chambered a round.
Marchek halted. His mouth formed a small 'O' as he lifted his hands into the air.
Jamie pushed herself up slowly, using her free hand to scale the garage shelves until she was sitting. Her heart pounded in her ears as she watched the rise and fall of Marchek's chest, his own breathing labored.
His last breaths.
"You can't shoot an unarmed man," he said, taking a step backwards. He smiled slowly. "Officer."
Jamie stared. Tried to clear her mind, to think. But the rush of anger and pain clouded her brain. Like the sky of a burning sunset, red was all she saw.
Marchek took another step backwards.
Jamie blinked quickly, aimed with two hands. She pulled the trigger.
The first shot hit the zipper of his pants, where he kept the weapon he'd used to rape at least five women.
Then she fired again left, at the heart, then right to be sure. Unlike in the movies, there was no change in Marchek's expression. He didn't look down at the wounds or stagger around. There was only the brief flash of his legs giving way as he dropped to the ground just before the blood began to pool.
She didn't move for several seconds—maybe it was more. The gun still out in front of her, she gripped it her arms began to shake.
"You weren't unarmed, Marchek. Not now, not ever."
Slowly, shivering, she moved to call for backup.
Chapter 35
Jamie walked out of the hospital the next morning through the same door she usually entered to interview victims of people like Marchek. And now she was the victim—almost. Almost, she told herself. Not quite. Marchek hadn't gotten her—at least not in the way her victims suffered.
And yet she realized with sudden clarity that the act of rape began way before penetration. Rape. She could have gone home last night. She hadn't broken anything. She was bruised—everything was bruised. But there were no cracks in her ribs. Even slamming the door on her, that bastard hadn't broken anything except for one finger. But when she closed her eyes, she imagined him coming down on top of her. She blinked hard, forced the image away. Wondered how long those images would bombard her. No. She knew they would never stop.
She stopped outside the hospital door, lit a cigarette and sucked it until her lungs could draw no more smoke. She held the breath, the buzz burning away her headache. Let it slowly out. Without moving, she repeated the motion until the cigarette was gone.
Marchek was dead. She'd finally gotten him. She thought about the reports that would have to be filed. She'd had to turn in her gun. There were tests to be performed, interviews with IA. She'd be on probation until she was cleared of any wrongdoing. At that moment, though, even the bureaucratic bullshit seemed worth it.
Jamie shook another cigarette from the pack, noticed her trembling fingers. It worsened as she lifted the lighter, spun the metal wheel with her thumb, and heard the flame whisper.
As she took the first drag, she saw her beat-up Subaru pull to the curb. The last officer she'd interviewed said someone was coming to get her and take her home. He didn't say who; she didn't ask. After three separate interviews and more than two hours of questions, she was done talking. But she'd hoped it would be Hailey. This would be harder.
She watched Tony step out of her car. He wiped his palms on his pants as if he were picking up a date for the junior prom. She didn't move toward him. It took all she had not to turn back into the hospital, not to run.
When he reached her, he touched her cheek, skimming his thumb over one of the nasty bruises from Marchek.
She flinched.
He reached his arms around her, pulled her to his chest. "When they called, I thought you were gone," he whispered and she felt his hands in her hair.
She let out a moan as he tightened his arms around her chest. He loosened his arms, not letting go. "Shit. Are you okay?"
"I ache," she admitted. "Everything aches."
"God, I'm so glad you're okay."
She leaned against him, stayed there. Closed her eyes.
"Did they give you anything?" he asked.
"A prescription for Vicodin."
"You want to fill it?"
She shook her head, stepped back. "Too tempting."
"I'd be okay."
"I wasn't talking about you."
He nodded. "You ready?"
"Did you see it? What's it look like?"
He frowned. "What?"
"The house—the garage?" She pictured the blood everywhere.
"It's clean. I cleaned it up. Installed the washer and dryer, too." He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."
It was gone. The blood would be gone. She'd still see it, of course. And him. It would all still be there for her. But at least it was physically gone. "Thank you."
They turned to the car.
There was silence, but she knew what was on both their minds. The subject would come up. It was time.
Tony opened the car door for her, waited while she sat. He reached to fasten the seat belt across her chest and moved the chest harness behind her back. The seatbelt was dangerous worn this way, unsafe. She didn't want it to tighten across her aching ribs.
Tony drove without a seat belt. She thought about telling him to put it on but couldn't find the words. She wanted to start, to get it over with. She owed him an apology—they all did. Already she knew that. She understood more than ever.
She said nothing for twenty minutes. The car was silent. He'd shut off the radio she'd had playing when she'd driven home the night before—celebrating her victories. Christ, what a lot had changed.
She knew that's how it happened. Things turned upside down in a matter of moments. That's how it was all those years ago.
Now or never, she thought. She watched him until he looked over at her. He smiled nervously and studied the road over his left shoulder to change lanes.
The bright orange pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge emerged in the distance against the brilliant sky.
He didn't want to hear it, she knew. He would have asked. He knew what she was thinking.
But suddenly, she had to speak. "I don't think anyone realizes how hard it is."
He didn't ask what. He knew. He didn't even look at her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I should have done something back then."
She saw the slow tremor in his hands work its way up his arms, but she didn't stop—couldn't.
"When he was on top of me," she said.
Tony shook his head. "Don't."
Her own shoulders quaking, Jamie gripped her hands together to fight off the trembling. She shuffled through the pile of stuff between the seats in search of her cigarettes. She found them, fumbled with the pack. It fell onto the floor, cigarettes spilling.
She wanted to reach it, but couldn't imagine leaning down to pick it up. She let it go, turned to Tony. "I have to. I have to talk about it. Please, Tony. We never talked about it."
He clenched the steering wheel, sped across the bridge. "No," he said, jaw clenched.
She stooped again for her cigarettes, couldn't reach them. She shifted in her seat. There was no outlet for the anxiety that coursed through her. "He's dead, Tony. He's dead and I still can't close my eyes without seeing him on top of me, coming at me."
As they neared the end of the bridge, Tony jerked the car to the slow lane. He looked at her face and swung the car off into the vista parking lot on the north side of the bridge. It had a name, but she couldn't remember it.
He spun the car into the nearest parking spot and yanked on the emergency brake. Then he pushed the car door open and tumbled out.
Jamie moved more slowly. The seatbelt wouldn't come undone. The harness rubbed along a bruise, making her wince. But she followed. Cracked the door, pushed it open. Pulled herself from the car. Above them, the sky dazzled, the blue flowing right into the color of the bay. The city buildings stood like a row of pencils in the distance. She thought for a moment of 9/11, of the buildings across the country that had been standing one minute, gone the next. She thought of Mick, but mostly she thought of Tony.
A few cars were parked in the lot despite the cold weather. A Japanese tour group stood a few yards away, cameras aimed at the cityscape across the water.
Tony headed for a quiet corner.
Jamie limped behind.
When he reached the
railing, he hung his shoulders. He stared down into the water. When she reached him, he turned to her. "Don't do this now," he pleaded. "Not after all this time."
But Jamie didn't stop. "I always blamed myself, Tony. I should've stopped him. I always thought he was creepy. I always hesitated to take his candy. But that day, when we were in the back, when he locked that door—" She shuddered, imagining the man who had worked in the small corner grocery store. Tall and thin, he stood partially stooped over as though always eyeing the floor for a nickel someone had dropped.
He'd been a quiet man with round hazel eyes and a soft, round face. Not like her father and Pat, who were always scruffy; this man didn't have facial hair.
Whenever Tony and Jamie had gone alone to the store—usually sent by Pat or her father to pick up milk or bread—that man always offered them a piece of candy from a tin behind the register. Sometimes it was butterscotch, sometimes chocolate. Her favorite were the little rolls of tart candies. Tony used to go in for baseball cards, too.
That day the man told Tony that he had some extra packs of cards in the back. He'd locked up the store, walked to the storeroom.
Jamie had hesitated, but Tony had gone ahead. "No big deal," Tony said. Jamie had followed.
The musty smell of the room, the damp floor were as clear to her today. She saw rows of boxes piled up against the walls, threatening to fall at any moment. It had felt like a maze of cardboard and steel shelves. She shuddered now. "I thought he was coming for me," she told Tony. "I was sure of it."
He backed from the railing, pushed past her. "No."
She grabbed on to him as he went, his motion sending agony through her. She bit back a cry of pain but didn't let go.
People stared. She didn't care.
She clutched his arm, forced him to face her.
She kept her voice low. No one could hear. It was just them. "I thought he was going to rape me, Tony."
Tony shook his head. Tears streamed down his cheeks, eyes pleading with her to stop.
She didn't let go. She couldn't now. "I never thought it would be you."
Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1) Page 23
