Face to Face

by CJ Lyons

  "You have a problem with that?" the harried prosecutor snapped. "Just say so, and I'll stop wasting my time and drop the case. You want to let scum like Brickner walk the streets free, it's fine with me. I don't need this bullshit–"

  Drake said Dimeo was a tight-ass, expecting perfection from those she worked with and no less from herself. Intense was the word he'd used.

  Intense didn't quite cover it, Cassie thought as the prosecutor continued ranting. "Lisa, I'm there. What time?"

  "Be here by seven. You might want to bring your PJ's," she said as if inviting Cassie to a slumber party.

  Cassie sighed. There went any chance for a quiet weekend at the Lake. There was nothing she could do about it. Drake would just have to go by himself. Maybe he'd come back in a better mood.

  "All right."

  <><><>

  Drake pulled into his parking lot feeling better than he had in days. They were going to make it out of this city. Hart would love Nellie's lake house, and he couldn't wait to teach her how to sail. He'd bet she was a natural. Hard to imagine anything Hart wouldn't be good at.

  Spanos' van was gone. Good. But who belonged to the BMW parked near the back entrance? He noted the handicapped tag on the plate and frowned. Just what he didn't need, a visit from Hart's ex, Richard King. He squared his shoulders and climbed the steps to the handicapped accessible entrance.

  He didn't give a shit why King was here. Probably something about his damn lawsuit. King was determined to make Hart's life just as miserable now as it had been when they were married.

  Wasn't going to happen. Not today. He and Hart were out of here; they were going to the Lake. They were leaving now.

  He found King sitting in his wheelchair at the elevator in the rear of the building. Despite the heat, King wore a stylish suit, but Drake noticed his shoes weren't so stylish, although probably expensive. Black leather high tops wide enough to accommodate the splints King wore on his ankles.

  No sign of Hart or anyone else. Drake frowned, glanced around. Tools lay haphazardly on the floor, a bucket of mud with an open lid.

  Weird. Hart was a bit of a slob when it came to her personal space, but a fanatic about her work at the clinic. She'd never leave tools around where Tammy's kid could get into them.

  "Who the hell let you in?" he asked King, wondering if Hart's ex was the reason she hadn't gotten any work done today. If King had done something to upset her...

  King spun his chair around and shot Drake a glare. "I came to check on Cassandra. Why weren't you with her? How could you let her go there?"

  Drake stared down at the wheelchair-bound man. King lost a good part of his memory after his overdose but he'd never been irrational before. "What are you talking about?"

  "You don't even know, do you?" King tilted his chair up then gave it a small bounce of exasperation. It was sleek, black, and looked built for racing. "What the hell good are you, Drake? You're a cop, goddamn it! If you can't keep her safe—"

  "What happened?" Drake's patience snapped. "Is she okay? Where's Hart?"

  "She was attacked by a bunch of gangbangers."

  "Here? They attacked her here, in the clinic?" Nightmare images hammered at Drake's mind. She'd be all right. She had to be. Probably at Three Rivers. He turned to leave, but King stopped him.

  "She's upstairs," King said. "At least I'm guessing—your land line's been busy and she's not answering her cell." He gestured to his wheelchair. "I just got here and was trying to figure out your elevator controls when you arrived."

  Drake didn't bother to ask how King had access to his private phone number. He was more concerned that King knew what happened and he didn't.

  "Tell me everything," he said, his words emerging in a taut staccato. "Now."

  King gave him an elaborate shrug, obviously delighting in his superior knowledge. Drake had once entertained the idea that King could be his stalker, but there was no way a man in a wheelchair could have gotten the letters to the places they were delivered. Now he saw the spark of malice in the other man's eyes and his suspicion returned. Even a man in a wheelchair could hire a delivery boy.

  "I wonder why Cassandra didn't call you herself," King said.

  "What happened?" Drake practically spit the words out, his jaw clamped shut against his anger and fear. He was torn between waiting for King to explain the details and wanting to rush upstairs to Hart. But he knew Hart—she'd minimize everything. Better to learn whatever he could on his own.

  "She went to the Stackhouse to deliver a baby. On her way out they were jumped by a bunch of gang members—"

  "Ruby Avenue Rippers," Drake supplied automatically.

  "Whoever. She wasn't hurt, but a kid with her got his arm fractured in two places. The baby's doing fine, in case you're interested."

  Hart wasn't hurt. The magic words. "Thanks, you can go now."

  "I have no intention of going anywhere," Richard sputtered, hands grabbing the wheels of his chair like he was ready to run Drake over.

  "This is my building and you're leaving. Now." Drake held the door open. He could give King a push. If he got lucky, maybe the asshole would miss the handicapped ramp and go flying over the steps, all the way down the ravine and out of their lives forever.

  Nah, he'd never be that lucky.

  King glared at Drake for a long moment. "You know she'd be better off with me. Happier. Safer."

  "What the hell are you talking about? Are you threatening me?"

  King's expression hardened, his smug smile etched into his face. "Maybe I am. Think about this, Drake." He wheeled past Drake over the threshold. "I can give Cassandra everything you can't. If you care about her at all, you'll let her come back to me. Where she belongs."

  "Go to hell, King." Drake banged the door shut, made sure it was locked, and bolted up to his apartment. He ran inside to find Hart, her clothes streaked with blood and grime, talking on the phone.

  "Thanks for the update, Ed." She hung up and turned to him in surprise.

  Drake stood inside the open door and stared at her. Her hair was plastered to her head with sweat, her shirt was ripped, scratches on her forearms.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," she said. "Nothing a shower won't cure." To his surprise, her face lit up with a wide smile. "You should've seen me. I was worried maybe I'd gotten rusty, lost my edge, but it was great," she continued in a rush, her face flushed with excitement. "I felt like a real doctor again!"

  He took her hands in his, scrutinizing her injuries more closely. All superficial. But that didn't ease the anger churning through his gut. At her for not calling him. At himself for not being there. King was right, it was Drake's job to protect her, but he seemed repeatedly doomed to failure.

  Of course Drake couldn't keep Hart safe, a small voice whispered inside his head. After all, he was only ten feet away when Pamela pulled the gun and he couldn't save her.

  "Want to explain why I had to hear about your," he paused, searching for words, "adventure from Richard King?"

  She jerked her head up at his tone and he tried to take a breath, calm down. Instead he remembered King's words mocking him and his fury grew.

  "Richard?" she asked. "Why were you talking to Richard? How did he know?"

  "How the hell should I know? Seems like he has some kind of psychic hotline when it comes to you. Seems like everyone does except me. Why didn't you call me?" His voice was loud enough to bounce off the high ceiling, reverberating back at him as she pulled away.

  "There wasn't a chance. I didn't have my cell." Of course not. She never carried the damn thing. Especially not when she needed it. One of these days he swore he was going to surgically implant a Bluetooth into her.

  "You were at the hospital, weren't you?" He advanced on her and she backed up. Another step and they were inside his studio, the afternoon sun cascading through the windows, shimmering off the canvases positioned around the room, most of them revealing Hart's image. "They still have phones at Three Rivers, do
n't they?"

  She planted her feet, hands fisted on her hips.

  All the fear and anger and anxiety building in him all week crescendoed as he glared down at her.

  She returned his stare measure for measure.

  "I didn't call from Three Rivers because I'm not a doctor there anymore," she began, her voice low and calm. Too calm by far, he realized. He saw where she was heading and immediately regretted having pushed her there. "So I didn't ask to use a phone at the nurses' station. I could have used the phone in the visitor's lounge." Her voice faltered. He reached for her, tried to stop her, but she pulled away as if determined to get the words out. "But that would have meant..." Her words trailed off and she broke eye contact.

  His anger still simmered but it wasn't powerful enough to blind him to her pain. Aw hell. This wasn't what he wanted. They were supposed to be on their way out of here. He moved forward, gathered her in his arms.

  "You didn't want to admit you were a visitor, an outsider," he finished for her, his fingers stroking her hair, untangling the snarled mass of curls. He knew how much her job at Three Rivers meant to her—losing it was like losing a piece of herself. She loved the clinic and would be the best thing that ever happened to her new patients, but her heart still ached for the adrenalin rush of the ER.

  "It's all right," he whispered, his face cradled against her head. "It won't be long. We'll have the clinic running and you'll be saving lives right and left."

  Her arms tightened around him. What the hell was wrong with him? He was losing it, letting King get his goat like that. She'd only been trying to help someone in need. It wasn't her fault there was a gang war brewing in this neighborhood.

  "Your patient, is she all right?"

  She nodded, pulled back enough to tilt her face up to his. "Mother and beautiful baby girl did fine, thank you very much." A shadow crossed her face and he guessed there was more.

  "King said some kid got hurt?"

  "Tagger. Fell and broke his arm. He's all right. In a way it's for the best. He's going into foster care—at Ed Castro's."

  Drake smiled at that. Ed's wife would soon straighten Tagger out. He was glad the kid wasn't seriously hurt. He liked his artwork. Would like it better if it wasn't on the side of his building, but the kid had style, a natural flare. Banksy meets Van Gogh.

  Hart stepped back, her gaze skimming over him with appraisal. He felt a flush of shame as he remembered his momentary lapse of reason, flirting with Monica Burns earlier.

  "You ready to talk yet?" she asked, hands on her hips.

  Drake grimaced. He hadn't fooled Hart. Not at all.

  "I'm sorry," he began. The thought of the photos he'd received this morning clamped his jaws shut before he could continue.

  "Good start. Want to tell me what about?"

  "I'll tell you after we get to the Lake," he hedged. Once he got her to safety, his head would be clear, he could think straight. Most importantly, she would be far away from his stalker.

  "I can't go."

  His chin jerked up at that. "You have to. We need to get out of here–"

  "I can't. Not this weekend, at least. Maybe–"

  He was reduced to begging. He didn't care. "No. Tonight. Now."

  "It has to do with Pamela, doesn't it?" Her hands circled around his waist, snugging him against her body, sharing her warmth, her strength with him.

  He held her tight, pillowing his face on her hair again, inhaling her scent, imprinting it on his memory. Lace curtains billowing in the breeze, vanilla and cinnamon, splashing barefoot through puddles after a summer shower. This was the essence of Hart. No amount of dirt or grime could mask it, not from him.

  How could she stand to be with a fool like him? A man who'd been careless before with fragile feelings offered to him, even if they had been offered by a deluded, unbalanced woman.

  More than ever he regretted his poor judgment. The irresponsible, immature recklessness that had led to the mistakes he'd made with Pamela. It was easy to blame it on the drink, but Drake knew the real fault lay within himself. His shame over the man he'd once been now left him nauseous, as if he'd been contaminated by some bilious disease.

  As if he might contaminate her by staying close. Selfish bastard, he berated himself. This is your fight, not hers. You need to finish what you started.

  "Pamela died a year tomorrow," he told her, moving away from her comfort. She followed, placing a single hand on the small of his back, letting him know she wasn't shrinking from his words. That he allowed her hand to remain shamed him further. "Someone has gone to great lengths to be certain I don't forget that fact."

  "Strange letters? Threats?" she asked.

  He looked at her. Maybe he wasn't as good at hiding his emotions as he thought. "How did you know?"

  "Tony Spanos told me he was getting them too. Said he thought they came from Pamela's sister but he couldn't prove it, couldn't track her down."

  A surge of anger flared through him. Spanos talked to Hart about this? What the hell was the man thinking, dragging her into this? He almost told her what Jimmy found, that Spanos was his number one suspect. Stopped himself just in time. Hart considered Spanos a friend, casting suspicion on him without proof would only drive a wedge between them. Exactly what Spanos wanted.

  She was silent for a moment. "Does Jimmy know?"

  "I told him this afternoon." He turned to her once more, taking her hands in his. "Now can you see why we need to leave here? Tonight? After tomorrow I can track this actor down, take all the time in the world–but until then–"

  "You're not safe here," she finished for him. "You need to go to the Lake," she continued, nodding as if explaining that two plus two made four, as if it were that simple for a man to turn tail and run, abandoning her.

  He shook his head. "No. We have to go. I am not going to leave you here."

  "I can't go," she said in that firm way of hers that broached no argument.

  He inhaled, the air searing through his lungs as hot as the anger threatening to spill over onto her. Damn Spanos for putting him in this position. And Hart, who gave so much to perfect strangers—why couldn't she give him this one thing? "Why not? What's so important that you can't leave for a few days–if only to give me some peace of mind? I've seen you put your life at risk to help a friend or a patient. Why can't you do this for me?"

  "I want to. Believe me, I wish I could, but I need to–"

  "No but, just do it!" Her eyes hardened at his impervious tone. He forced himself to soften his voice. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Might as well ask why the sky was blue. It just was. Nothing he did would ever change it. Or Hart.

  But he needed her to see reason. He grabbed her wrists. "Goddamn it, Hart! This is not a game. I mean it. Get your things. We're going, now!"

  Her eyes blazed at that and she broke his grip with a quick movement. "Get your hands off me!"

  God, how could he be so stupid? Laying hands on her when he was angry. After what she'd been through with King…

  "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

  She wouldn't look at him. Her eyes focused on his hands, her body shifted automatically into a defensive stance. As if he could ever, would ever hurt her.

  He sucked his breath in, blinked against an angry burning that blurred his vision. "I have to go. If you–" He shied away from the L word, afraid it would push her farther away. "If you care at all for me, if you want to help me, you'll come too."

  For a split second he thought she would change her mind, come with him. She still wouldn't meet his eyes, stared down at the floor, head bowed, hair curtaining her face, an impenetrable shroud.

  "I'm sorry. I can't–"

  Pain and anger drove him out the door before she could finish. But what kept him from turning back was pure fear.

  Blood swirled through his vision as the images his stalker planted in his mind played in a macabre slideshow. Pamela dead. Drake dead. But the one image he couldn't let go of, that made him so dizzy he almost tripped
down the steps, was the one his own imagination created: Hart dead.

  If he stayed, she was in danger.

  He had no choice. He had to go. His stalker would follow him. It was the only way to keep her safe.

  CHAPTER 12

  Cassie watched in disbelief as the door slammed behind Drake. He was leaving her. Just like that. No chance for her to get a word in edgewise and he was out the door.

  Her own face, enhanced by Drake's talent, looked back at her from every corner of the studio. If it had been her reflection in mirrors she would have gleefully shattered them all. But they were Drake's vision, the product of his talent, and Cassie couldn't vent her fury on them.

  She ran from the studio to the front window in the living room just in time to see Drake's Mustang fishtail its way out of the parking lot. She crossed into the bedroom to watch the twin taillights run the stop sign at the end of the street, then lost them in the lights of the city.

  Should have found a way to explain, to make him understand why she couldn't leave.

  But he hadn't given her a chance, had he? And when he grabbed her, she'd let her own anger and fear take over. She sank onto his bed, hugged her knees to her chest. Her eyes ached as if she should be crying but no tears came. The high ceilings of Drake's bedroom gathered shadows, shrouding her in darkness.

  She understood why Drake couldn't stay. Hell, she told him to leave. It was the look of hurt and disappointment in his eyes that haunted her. Truth was, maybe she needed some distance to sort all this out.

  For about the millionth time, she entertained doubts about continuing her relationship with Drake. It felt like all too often she failed him—usually when he needed her most. Just as she failed everyone she loved, no matter how hard she tried.

  Cassie, I need you to be strong. Her father's last words to her echoed through the dim room. If she closed her eyes, his face, shattered by pain after the car accident filled her mind. Followed by others—Mary Eamon, for one. And Richard, a tragic mistake she was still paying for.

  She stripped free of her ruined clothes and took a long, cool shower in Drake's oversized claw foot tub. The ghosts of her failures followed. When she was twelve her father had needed her to get him help in time. Now Drake needed her to go with him, Mary Eamon needed her to stay here and bring her justice…they all needed something from Cassie, but she couldn't save everyone. All she could do was try.