by C. J. Lyons
Unlike Lydia. Lydia didn’t seem to have anyone, never talked about family. Gina had seen a picture of Lydia’s mom—looked just like Lydia only paler—but she had the feeling that Lydia was even less acquainted with her father than Moses was with Gina.
For some reason, thinking of Lydia didn’t make her feel as angry as it had before the four—or was it five?—shots of bourbon. Lydia. There was something nagging, something about Lydia, something important… .
“Oh shit!” No one was around to hear her shout. She pulled out her cell phone and hit the speed dial for Jerry.
“I’m a little tied up right now, Gina,” he said when he answered, his voice heavy with fatigue.
“Jerry, I think someone’s going to hurt Lydia.” She rushed the words out; the sooner they were out, the sooner someone would do something about them and they’d no longer be her responsibility. But, shit, it was her responsibility. She’d practically drawn Kazmierko a map!
“Who?” his voice was still distant as if he were only half listening.
“Michael Kazmierko. The guy who tried to attack her at the hospital earlier. He knows where she lives.”
AMANDA’S BREATH CAUGHT AS SHE BRACED herself, listening for the sound of a gunshot. Visions of Lucas’s bloody body filled her mind. She pressed her palms against the glass walls surrounding her, straining to see past the chamber and into the control room where Lucas and Faith were. If Faith used the gun there, would it be enough to blow up the chamber?
No sound came. Could Lucas still be alive? The hope flared through her, bringing life back to her numb hands. If he was, then she was his one last chance. She had to get out of here, somehow get Faith away from Lucas, away from the hyperbaric chamber where she had the potential to blow up the entire hospital.
Wriggling her arms up over her head, Amanda pushed against the hatch. Lucas hadn’t sealed it shut yet, but Faith obviously didn’t know that, had assumed that with the mask over her face and the hatch closed, Amanda was already locked in.
Amanda had to shove hard with the poor leverage her position put her in, but was rewarded when the hatch sprang open and the cot slid along the well-oiled railings, popping her free of the chamber.
She looked around as she climbed down from the stretcher. Faith was in the glass-walled room that held the controls for the hyperbaric chamber. Lucas was slumped in a chair and Faith was doing something to him—but at least he was still alive; otherwise why would Faith bother to move him?
“Faith,” she called out, wishing there were some kind of weapon in the room. But the room was purposely kept spartan—nothing metal, nothing that could potentially cause a spark or any random static electricity. “If you want to avenge Norman’s death, come and get me!”
FORTY-SEVEN
Friday, 10:14 P.M.
LYDIA’S VISION HAD NARROWED TO A BRIGHT tunnel where everything sparked in perfect focus. Kazmierko took a step into the living room and she swung the poker, aiming at his chest. It would have been a stunning blow if he hadn’t been holding a baseball bat that deflected it with a dull thwack.
He spun to face her. She pulled back, ducked as he aimed a swing at her, and darted past him into the dining room, where there was more space to maneuver. Lots of empty space—nothing here except her long board. He tried again, moving faster this time.
“You wanted her dead,” he accused her. “To cover up your mistakes. You told them to kill my baby!”
No use reasoning with him, so Lydia saved her breath for fighting him. She’d been in street fights before, some vicious, but she’d always been able to walk away without killing anyone. Until tonight. Kazmierko might give her no choice.
He swung again, forcing her to dodge his longer reach, backing her into the corner. She needed to negate the advantage of his longer arms—either move in close or extend her own reach more than the short poker allowed her to. If she had a knife, she wouldn’t hesitate to move in closer, but Kazmierko, despite his drunkenness, had the well-muscled look of a brawler. If they began to grapple, she’d be forced to go for a killing blow.
The bat whistled through the air, accompanied by his laughter, and she realized he was toying with her. He aimed at her legs and she easily sidestepped, but this dancing around wasn’t doing anything except buying time for Deon. Surely he would have reached Angels by now.
Kazmierko had her backed up against the corner, her back to her long board with its bright sunset swirls of purple, ruby, and gold. He was grinning, not out of breath, enjoying himself as he hefted the bat against his palm.
“Now, we’re going to have some fun.”
AMANDA RAN THROUGH THE PATIENT ENTRANCE to the chamber and down the tunnel, taking any turn that led away from the hyperbaric chamber. Tottered might have been a better term, as her entire left leg dragged behind her, keeping her constantly off balance as she looked back over her shoulder, hoping Faith was following but not close enough to get off a clean shot.
The tunnels were deserted, so there was no use screaming or hollering or any of the things young ladies being chased by murderers did in the movies. Besides, she didn’t have the breath to waste on silly screams—she was too busy trying to run and look for something she could use as a weapon.
She crossed an intersection, then stumbled to a stop and backtracked. Down a dark tunnel, an old one with peeling paint, brick walls, and a cement floor, sat a yellow FLOOR IS WET caution sign. She pivoted and began to limp down the tunnel. Beside the sign was a janitor’s bucket and mop propped up against an open door. Escape—and hopefully a burly janitor to tackle Faith, hold her while the police came.
The floor was still wet, so the janitor couldn’t have gone too far. She slipped in a puddle just as she heard Faith behind her.
“You can’t hide from me, Amanda.”
Good. Last thing she wanted was for Faith to get bored with chasing after her and go back to Lucas or the hyperbaric chamber. The tunnel sloped up, then ended in a small landing.
Amanda pulled the heavy metal door the rest of the way open. It made a loud squealing sound that was more like a wild animal than an inanimate object. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Faith, backlit by the brighter light of the main tunnel, the silhouette of the gun appearing large and deadly.
Faith spun toward her, taking aim, but Amanda slipped through the door.
She was inside a small room, maybe ten by ten with a high arched ceiling. The only light came from the single bulb at the end of the tunnel behind her. In front of her a large oak door that looked like it belonged in a church stood open. She crossed through it. Moonlight and the lights of the medical center illuminated pale gray specters rising from the earth.
Amanda startled, then realized that the doorway was bordered by statues and granite columns. She was in the cemetery across the street from Angels.
There was no one to be seen. No one living, at least.
Amanda shoved her weight against the heavy wooden door, trying to shut it and buy a few seconds before Faith and her gun arrived.
“Hello,” she called out. “Help, I need some help here!”
It sounded lame even to her. No wonder the safety courses always said to yell Fire! if you were attacked. But who would believe there was a fire in a graveyard?
Still, she gave it a shot. “Fire!”
To her surprise, a man’s head popped up from behind a tombstone several yards away. “Hey lady, what the hell you doing? Get away from that door, you got no right to be around there.”
Amanda hobbled off the granite landing and into the grass. His mouth tightened into an expression that made it clear he thought she was a psych patient run amok.
“Please, I need your help.”
“Wait on, you just wait on, I’ve got my hands full right now.” He jerked his head around, then disappeared again as he dove behind a statue of a mother holding a baby. “Where are you, you varmint?”
Surreal panic engulfed her, swirling through her with the speed of a riptide as she wonde
red if he was related to Elmer Fudd. Just her luck, a killer behind her and a janitor-slash-graveyard-rabbit-hunter in front.
“Ah-ha, now I’ve got you!” he shouted.
The door to the small building housing the tunnel exit began to inch open, squealing with each grudging millimeter. That was good because it meant Faith was far away from Lucas, but it was bad because Amanda could now barely walk and her janitor-psycho-rabbit-hunter had vanished.
“A graveyard, how convenient,” Faith said as she appeared in the doorway, aiming the gun at Amanda, who was now hopelessly exposed, standing in moonlight, her patient gown billowing around her.
“Hey, this one belong to one of yunz?” the janitor shouted, appearing from behind an obelisk holding a squirming boy by the elbow.
Before Amanda could say anything, Faith pivoted and fired. The sound snapped through the night like an elastic band stretched past its breaking point. Not loud, not thundering like in the movies. Amanda had fired guns back home, but somehow she’d expected the sound to have more of an impact when you were on the receiving end.
Shouldn’t she feel something? Amanda wondered. She looked down, didn’t see any blood, didn’t feel anything. Then she looked behind her.
The janitor teetered for a moment, looking surprised and dismayed as a dark stain began to spread over his abdomen. The boy wrenched away, rushing to stand beside Amanda, grabbing her arm. The janitor reached out to her, sinking to his knees. His mouth was opening and closing as if he were holding a one-sided conversation with her, but no sounds emerged. Then he collapsed on the grass.
A tiny noise, like the whimper of a rabbit caught in a snare, came from the boy beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said, his whisper shredded with fear. “I’m sorry, lady. I’ll go, I won’t cause no one any more trouble, I promise.”
He dropped Amanda’s arm and took a step forward, toward Faith. Faith whirled on him, leveling the gun. Her hands were trembling, her eyes wide and panicked.
“Faith, no!” Amanda grabbed the boy’s shoulders and pulled him back, shielding him with her body. “He’s just a little boy.”
Faith looked at her as if not recognizing her—as if Faith didn’t even realize what she was doing. For the first time Amanda began to have a glimmer of hope that she might be able to take control of the situation.
She gauged her words carefully. “Just a little boy. He means you no harm. Think of your own little boy, Joey. You wouldn’t want anyone hurting him, would you?”
Her tone was a gentle singsong, a lullaby without a tune. Faith began to sway back and forth in time with Amanda’s cadence. Amanda tried to shoo the boy away, but he clung to her waist. She wanted to shout at him to run but didn’t dare break the uneasy trance. Faith still held the gun, and she’d already proven that her aim was deadly.
“What would Dr. Nelson think if you hurt a little boy? How would Norman want to be remembered? Surely not for this.” Amanda gestured with an open palm.
Faith wavered and stepped away from the open tunnel door. Was that movement in the shadows behind her? Amanda could only hope and keep talking.
“Dr. Nelson believed his work would live beyond him.
How can we keep that promise to him, Faith? Not like this. Put the gun down and we’ll find a way.”
“No. We can’t. He’s gone.” Faith stared into the distance as if perplexed that her husband wasn’t there. “He’s gone,” she repeated, her voice choked. “Because of you. All because of you.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Friday, 10:16 P.M.
KAZMIERKO FEINTED FROM ONE SIDE TO THE other, taunting Lydia. The poker wouldn’t do her any good, not while he had the reach on her, so Lydia tossed it aside, hoping to distract him.
Instead, he laughed, reading her action as fear or desperate surrender. He didn’t notice that she had stepped forward or that her hands had reached behind her to grasp the edges of her long board. She didn’t have to slide her palms far to get the grip she wanted, she and that board had plowed through miles of surf together. It was a Kalama eight-foot, six-inch board with a polycarb tri-fin. Lethal to waves and just as deadly as a weapon.
She took another step forward, gauging the space on either side of her and her distance to Kazmierko. Perfect.
He was grinning, hefting the bat onto his shoulder like Barry Bonds preparing to knock the leather off a curve ball. “No more games.”
Lydia didn’t waste time answering. She launched herself forward, swinging the long board around, using her body as the pivot point, aiming three razor-sharp, virtually unbreakable polycarbonate fins at Kazmierko.
He tried to dodge her blow, but she was too fast, slamming the board into his belly with all her strength, following through as if he weren’t even there. His feet flew out from under him. He thudded to the floor, his head cracking against it, the bat flying from his hands.
Lydia released the board.
“I wouldn’t move that if I were you,” she said as she raced from the room to grab her cell phone and call for help.
He stared after her, the longest fin impaled through his stomach, his hands flailing around as his chest heaved up and down.
“I’ll be back.” She ran through the French doors, retracing Deon’s steps as she gave 911 the information they needed.
Kazmierko should live—if he didn’t do anything stupid like remove the surfboard himself. She climbed through the bars of the wrought-iron fence, arborvitae branches whipping her face. Kazmierko was the least of her worries. “Deon!”
GINA’S BMW BARELY HAD TIME TO WARM UP during the short drive to Lydia’s place. Other than Lydia’s Ford Escape in the driveway, she didn’t see any other cars around—but Michael Kazmierko could have easily walked from Diggers. The living room light was on, but she didn’t see any movement through the windows.
Hell. Had she pulled Jerry away from his murder investigation for nothing? Or was Michael inside with a gun, Lydia already dead or dying?
She drummed her nails against the steering wheel, needing some sound to ease her nerves in the all-too-quiet night. Anxiety skittered under her skin, adding to the tingling the bourbon had left in its wake.
Wait for Jerry. Secure the scene—just as Trey had reminded her earlier today. That was the smart thing to do, follow protocol.
She unbuckled her seat belt, flinching at how loud the click sounded, and eased herself out of the car, leaving the door open. Too late she realized her headlights had already announced her presence to anyone inside the house—including any homicidal fathers.
Fear gathered itself in a knot stuck in her throat, refusing to budge. It was difficult to swallow around it, much less catch her breath as she crept toward the house.
This was stupid, stupid … as stupid as leaving the safe confines of an ambulance to race out and save a stranger from a drive-by shooting. As stupid as Ken Rosen trying to save the life of that driver. But all she could see was Lydia, lying in a pool of blood. All she could hear was the roar of gunshots that drowned out any sane counsel her mind conjured.
The humid night air caressed the fine hairs on her arms, leaving them quaking and standing upright. She was almost at the porch, able to see through the front windows. Still no movement inside the house, but a trickle of blood, a thin stream of scarlet against the golden glow of the oak floors, sliced into her vision.
She turned the front doorknob in her hand. Open. No more excuses.
Gina opened the door and ran inside just as she remembered she didn’t have Jerry’s bulletproof vest to protect her. Not this time.
FORTY-NINE
Friday, 10:24 P.M.
GINA RAN INTO THE DINING ROOM AND THEN stumbled to a stop. It wasn’t Lydia lying on the floor bleeding. It was Michael. Impaled through the abdomen by a surfboard.
She shook off the surreal image and crouched down beside him, checking his pulse and respirations.
“That bitch,” he mumbled, his eyes slit half open.
“Where’s Lydia?”
&nbs
p; “She’s going to pay.” His eyelids fluttered and he became unresponsive.
Resisting the urge to shake him until he told her what happened to Lydia, she looked around for something to stabilize the surfboard. The fins impaling Michael were at one end, leaving the rest of the board angled against the floor. The slightest motion could cause worse damage to Michael’s vital organs. She’d never realized how long the board was until now—well over eight feet. How the hell had a woman Lydia’s size managed that?
The front door burst open and a man stormed in, shouting, “Police! Show me your hands!”
Startled, Gina rocked back on her heels, hands up. It was Jerry—but it didn’t look like Jerry; at least she’d never seen him with that look of fierce assertiveness before. A look that said if it came down to him or the bad guy, then the bad guy had better start praying.
He halted, scanning the room with his eyes, his gun resolutely trained on Michael. “Gina, what the hell?”
“I saw the blood, thought it was Lydia.”
“Anyone else here?”
“I don’t know.”
The sound of sirens echoed through the night, accompanied by the squeal of brakes. Two more uniformed police officers rushed through the front door, relaxing the smallest bit when they recognized Jerry.
“Search the house,” he ordered, finally holstering his gun. “There might be another victim, a woman, five-five, dark hair. Once it’s secure, get the medics in here.” He squatted to join Gina on the floor beside Michael, but his gaze continued to scour the area, never relaxing their vigilance. “He gonna make it?”
“If I have anything to do with it.”
“Can you get him talking?”
“Hold the board for me.” Jerry took over stabilizing the precariously positioned surfboard while Gina palpated below it. “Pulse is good, so’s his breathing, but his belly is distended. Probably perforated his intestine. I need to cut the board before we can transport. Did you say there were medics here?”
