“More casualties?”
“Not inside the building . . . at least not that we know of so far.”
“And outside the building?”
Uniform grimaced. “A deputy was hit while transporting a prisoner into the courthouse. Prisoner’s down, too. SWAT’s evacuating and clearing the building, but no sign of the shooter, or shooters, yet.”
“Tell our guys to pay special attention to anyone in a maintenance uniform.” Spense kept his eyes on Caity’s chest to make sure she didn’t miss a breath.
“Say again?”
“How’d the shooter get a gun past security?” He checked Caity’s pulse, and his jaw clamped down hard when he realized it was growing fainter.
“My guess—he didn’t. He probably took a weapon off a guard after he was inside.”
“Doubt it. No one’s found a guard down inside . . . yet. And this was a quiet operation. Even if the shooter didn’t bring the gun itself through security, he would’ve had to get a silencer into the courthouse somehow—no guard would have one on him. Anyway, the guards’ guns are designed not to take a silencer. I say he had a pistol hidden inside already.”
“Fuck.” Uniform was on the horn again. “Look for a janitor, or any other worker who might be able to get a gun or silencer through security, piece by piece.”
That was Spense’s theory exactly. Courthouse personnel weren’t always subject to the same security procedures as visitors. They might or might not be spot-checked on any given day. If a maintenance worker dismantled a gun and brought it in piece by piece, or brought in a special silencer, like the kind made to look like a Maglite, the risk of being caught was low. At least low enough for a sociopath to risk it. His gaze froze on Caity. The rise and fall of her chest was barely perceptible now.
Dammit.
Wishing he could breathe for them both, his own respirations deepened. No telling how long before the building would be deemed safe enough to allow paramedics inside. One fist opened and closed in frustration.
If the paramedics couldn’t get inside to Caity, he’d have to get her outside to them—before it was too late. With a tilt of his head, he said, “I’m taking her out.”
Uniform spoke into the radio, then shook his head. “Too dangerous. We’re to stay put and render aid as best we can. The shooter might still be in the building.”
Spense focused on Caity’s face, colorless and slack—expressionless. How he wished she’d open those piercing blue eyes and shoot him her killer smile. Even one of her drop-dead glares would lift his heart about now. No. This beautiful, lively woman was not going to die because he’d failed to take action. Carefully, he scooped Caity into his arms and pushed to a stand, his thighs burning from the effort. Her neck dropped back, and he used the crook of his elbow to support her head. Then she moaned, as if in pain, cracking his heart wide open. “I’m getting her out now. Let ’em know.” The possibility of taking friendly fire was as real and as dangerous as encountering a gunman.
Uniform gave a quick shout over the radio, then a curt nod.
Spense heard a firm response crackle over the airwaves: Negative. Maintain your position until clear.
Uniform raised one conspiratorial eyebrow at him. “Want cover?”
They’d never met, but they were partners now.
Spense flashed him a grin. “Cover’d be nice.”
Then, with his new buddy clearing the way, he gathered Caity closer and carried her from the building.
Chaos was the only word to describe the scene outside the courthouse. Although onlookers and the media were being kept back from the courthouse steps, television trucks crammed the streets, and reporters buzzed around the edges of the scene, shoving microphones in the faces of witnesses and elbowing their way through the crowd, hoping to somehow insert themselves into the secured area. Escorted by members of the SWAT team, tightly banded groups of civilians raced down the steps to safety.
Shouts, sirens and crying created a tornado of sound around Spense, and for a split second, he felt the full-body tension and tingling in his fingers that, since childhood, had warned him when his brain was about to go haywire. One doctor had called Spense’s problem a sensory processing disorder. Another had labeled it ADD. His mother had said the diagnosis simply didn’t matter—she loved him no matter how much trouble he got into. Soon the sounds around him took on a texture and seemed to swim before his eyes. His temples were throbbing. He could practically feel his brain cells shift into overdrive.
Focus.
He hauled in a breath, then imagined bundling the extraneous noise around him in a roll of cotton. As his brain came back to center, the tightness in his muscles eased. Caity shifted in his arms, and he pulled her against his chest. Now his world consisted of just the two of them . . . and that ambulance off to the right.
A moment later, he laid Caity on a gurney and let the paramedics take over. One slapped an oxygen mask on her face and fit her with a neck brace, while another used scissors to cut open her blouse. Electrodes were placed on her exposed chest, and Spense’s eyes darted to the portable monitor. To his untrained eye, the heart rhythm looked erratic, making his own heart beat unsteadily and his mouth go dry. He wanted to ask about the tracing on the monitor, but instead he kept out of the way and let the paramedics do their work.
“Run the Ringers wide open!” One man barked as he hooked up an IV, then shouted, “Let’s roll.”
Jarred by a sudden sense of loss, Spense swept his gaze over Caity, lying on the gurney, bloodied and battered and helpless. A gunshot wound to her shoulder and flank . . . and that was just what he could see. Every fiber of his being strained forward, and without even realizing he’d moved, he found himself at her side, his hand reaching for hers.
His senses were clear and sharp now. So far, from what he knew, there was no sign of an active shooter still on-site. And the situation at the courthouse was all SWAT now. Operators, each one outfitted in fifty pounds’ worth of special gear, swarmed the building, executing what they’d been trained to do with precision and grace. Spense was not part of that team, and in soft clothes, he was good for little else than giving chase if they had a rabbit.
Caity would no doubt be in capable hands, but if she regained consciousness, he wanted to be there for her, to mitigate her fear, to remind her she was not alone.
His decision was made: He was going with her. A paramedic tried to shoulder him aside, and he flashed his creds. The answering look on the man’s face humbled him—and Spense was not an easily humbled man. But the deference, the admiration, of honest men was the one thing that never failed to take his ego down a notch. Especially when those honest men put their lives on the line for others on a daily basis. He didn’t feel deserving of the awe that came with his special-agent status—certainly not from these guys. Still, he was glad that a mere flash of his ID could buy him a ride in the ambulance alongside Caity and a blow-by-blow account of her condition.
“Please, don’t let me fall.”
Caity was talking! He bent his head, his lips making gentle contact with her ear. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart, just hang in there. We’re going to take a little ride to the hospital, now. But, I’ll be right beside you all the way.”
A harsh moan escaped Caity’s lips, then she repeated, “I don’t want to fall.”
“Hold on tight, Caity.” Carefully, he squeezed her hand. “Trust me.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and when she gazed up at him, he thought, he hoped she recognized him. He tried to work his mouth into a reassuring smile, but she was no longer looking at him. Her eyes rolled up in her head. Then her back arched, and her body began to seize.
Chapter Three
Monday, September 9
Good Hope Medical Center
Phoenix, Arizona
WARMTH SPILLED OVER Caitlin’s check, and li
ght seeped in through the cracks of her eyelids, but she didn’t want to wake up. It was so cozy here in her medicated cocoon. The round-the-clock pain pills her nurse had been feeding her made the hospital bedding feel like the finest Egyptian cotton. The thread count must be in the thousands, the hundreds of thousands even, the sheets felt so soft and sleek against her skin. Almost like a whisper of air. And they smelled so good, like a man.
She wrinkled her nose, testing the scent’s reality, and confirmed a distinctly masculine spice in the air. Someone in her hospital room smelled like a refreshing hike on a cool day.
“Caity?”
And that voice was familiarly enticing. Her body tingled all over in response to its low timbre. Like a schoolgirl experiencing her first French kiss, she could feel herself slipping under its seductive spell. When she heard herself sigh aloud, however, she resolved right then and there to hide the next pain pill in her cheek and spit it out when Nurse turned her back. And because she had a visitor, and because her mother had brought her up well, she also resolved to open her eyes . . . in just a minute or two. The darkness was really too pleasant.
“I know you’re awake, Caity.”
Her lids popped open at the amused accusation.
And there, leaning over her bedside, hand hovering above her hair, yet not quite touching, was Special Agent Atticus Spenser. The warm cognac of his eyes deepened to a double shot of espresso as they locked with hers. Her heart started to thump like she’d recently downed such a drink, but she didn’t look away.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Atticus Spenser, my arch nemesis,” she croaked.
Nurse reached out and brushed her fingers over Spense’s shoulder. “Don’t take it personally. She’s just loopy from the morphine. Always takes her a minute or two to get her bearings after a nap.”
Blinking hard, Caitlin rose up on one elbow. Could that be her nurse? This woman’s voice had gone butter soft, and Caitlin could’ve sworn she saw her toss her hair. The nurse she knew was all business and would brook no disobedience: You’re going to take this pill whether you think you need it or not. I have more important things to do than coax you like a child. Doctors make the worst patients.
“You should mind your manners, Dr. Cassidy. Have you forgotten Agent Spenser saved your life?” The seductive voice had been replaced by a no-nonsense one. Yes, that was Jenny all right. Nurse’s name had come back to Caitlin along with an improving level of consciousness.
She pursed dry lips—no, make that very dry lips. “I’m pretty sure Spense can fight his own battles,” she managed through her aching throat as she struggled to sit up.
The bed started to whir. Spense was adjusting the position to a more comfortable one. As he did so, she couldn’t seem to look away from his big hand working the buttons. A lump welled in her throat. Then a memory flashed to the surface: Spense’s hand clutching hers. Spense’s voice whispering in her ear.
Hold on tight, Caity. Trust me.
She jolted fully awake. Ah yes. After more than a year with no contact, Spense had reappeared in her world when he’d been called in to testify for the prosecution in the Kramer case, and she’d been consulted by the defense. For weeks, now, she’d been bumping into him at the jail or the courthouse. She didn’t actually remember seeing him the day she’d been shot, but she’d been told he’d resuscitated her and carried her to safety. In her lucid intervals over the past two weeks, the police had explained the basics of how she’d landed in the hospital, and the doctors had explained her injuries: one bullet had grazed her left shoulder, another bullet to her flank had thankfully missed her spinal cord, but not her spleen. Between internal and external blood loss, her organs had shut down, and she’d gone into cardiac arrest. Spense had not only revived her, he’d gotten her medical attention in time to stop her from bleeding to death. Her spleen had been removed, and her surgeon anticipated a complete recovery. More than a little ashamed of that arch nemesis wisecrack, she glanced up at Spense. “Thank you. I-I wouldn’t be here if not for your bravery. I’m sorry not to have said so sooner.”
“Oh, but you did. You thanked me yesterday and the day before that and the day before that too. Quite nicely, I might add.” A rather wide grin spread over his face. “I’d say you’ve been effusive in your gratitude.”
Something in his tone made her cheeks go from warm to hot. He’d put a little too much emphasis on effusive, and like any red-blooded woman in her wrong mind, she had to admit to finding him somewhat . . . sexy. Hopefully she hadn’t told him so. But whatever she’d said or done, she’d had a perfectly good reason. She’d been under the influence of multiple mind-altering drugs. Drugs she no longer needed. She was feeling much better, and from here on out, ibuprofen would do just fine for the pain—as for the seizure meds, her neurologist had agreed to discontinue them. At least she thought she recalled such a conversation. After all, her seizure had been posttraumatic, not epilepsy-induced, so the Tegretol was just a temporary precaution.
“Shall I tell you how you wanted to show me your appreciation?” The self-satisfied gleam in Spense’s eye was downright mortifying.
Apparently, he had no intention of allowing her to save face. And if he wasn’t going to let up and planned on going straight back to his old habit of goading her, she could give as good as she got. She no longer felt guilty about her earlier remark. “No need, since I’m quite certain I wasn’t lucid at the time.”
“You began by beckoning me to your side, then sniffed me with great enjoyment.” He forged ahead just as though she hadn’t plainly asked him not to. The man was impossibly ill-mannered.
“I’m sure I did no such thing. That aftershave you wear is so outdated.” Of course, she was no Emily Post herself when it came to Spense—though she was very well behaved around most people.
“It’s Old Spice,” Nurse Jenny put in. “And I, for one, think Spense smells terrific.”
“How does she know what kind of aftershave you wear?” Caity heard an undeniable note of irritation come through in her voice. She didn’t know the name of his aftershave, but why would she? It was none of her business at all. She only knew that his aroma or essence—or whatever that thing about Spense was—made her spend far too much time thinking of him when he wasn’t around and threw her off-balance when he was. And off-balance was not a feeling she welcomed under the best of circumstances, much less circumstances like these.
“No need for jealousy. Jenny knows what aftershave I wear because she asked me, nothing more to it than that. It’s hardly classified information.” He threw a wink Jenny’s way, and they both had a quick chuckle at her expense. Then Spense jerked his head toward the door.
Taking the hint, Jenny sent him a lingering smile and departed.
He moved in closer—too close. “I wear Old Spice because it reminds me of my father, Caity. Sorry you don’t care for it, but outdated or not, I’m not going to change.”
Because of his father. That was the most personal disclosure Spense had ever made to her, and it piqued her curiosity. She wouldn’t mind hearing more on the subject, but Spense backed away and pulled a let’s-get-down-to-brass-tacks face.
“It’s been swell exchanging barbs with you—just like old times—but we need to talk. According to your medical team, you’re well enough to be interviewed. Do you feel up to having a real conversation?”
“Getting there.” That pleasant buzz she’d awakened with had disappeared altogether, her side throbbed, and her skin felt raw and sore. But worse than any physical discomfort was an ache that ran deeper than muscle, deeper than bone. As she recalled what the police had told her, pain seared through to her very soul. “Baumgartner didn’t make it. Is that right?”
“I’m afraid not.”
When Spense confirmed what she already knew but didn’t wish to believe, the pit of her stomach went rock heavy. Her father’s at
torney, his old friend, Harvey Baumgartner, was dead. “Kramer was shot, too?”
“He survived, but the guard who was escorting him into the courthouse didn’t. The bastard—Kramer I mean—is right down the hall.”
“I guess the saying’s true, then: Motherfuckers never die.”
He arched a brow in surprise but didn’t seem to disapprove. “That’s a saying? Among whom?”
“Doctors. Mostly trauma surgeons. Not an approved saying, of course.” She already regretted repeating the cynical mantra—she’d always thought it unkind. But it was hard not to resent the fact Kramer had survived while two good men had lost their lives.
“Speaking of bad guys, that’s one reason I’m here. I could use your help with the case. You’re aware the shooter or shooters are still at large.”
The case.
Gunshots and blood and the spilling of human life had been reframed into something businesslike, something manageable. Spense was here on behalf of the FBI. He had questions for her. Good. Cases were something she knew how to deal with. She shifted in the bed, causing the throb in her left flank to worsen, and, unable to stop herself, she groaned in pain.
Spense was all but on top of her then. “Don’t try to rearrange yourself. I can adjust the bed or help you if you need to move.” And then he did. He pressed a button, and the head of her bed rose higher so she had more support for her back. Defiantly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, completely undoing his good deed. “I can sit without support, thank you.” Super. She’d reachieved the motor milestones of a six-month-old. “And I’m happy to answer your questions.” To show she was perfectly comfortable and ready to roll, she grimaced her way into a smile. “I wish I could remember more about that day, and maybe I will with time, but at the moment, the last thing I remember is the janitor’s shoes.”
“What about the janitor’s shoes?” he asked, interest flaring in his eyes.
“I bent down—I’d dropped my pen, you see.” Her chest grew unbearably tight, stopping her words. She forced out a breath, and went on, “Then I saw someone’s feet. Big feet, so they must’ve belonged to a man, I think. And he was wearing a grimy maintenance uniform with pristine loafers. The shoes were out of place, that’s why I noticed them. Does that help?”
Judgment Page 3
