On the Edge

by Heather Graham, Carla Neggers

  Hank pictured the lunatic who’d come after him and could see him pulling out his own IV, running off with a bullet wound in his foot. “How long ago was this?”

  “Three weeks? Maybe less. The police caught up with him out in the parking garage. I don’t know what made him think he’d get away, not with that injured foot.” Antonia groaned, tense, frustrated. And scared, Hank thought. More scared than she wanted to admit, possibly because she knew the guy outside. “He works at the hospital. He’s on the cleaning crew. Hank, I have the greatest respect for the people who clean—”

  “That’s not what this is about, Antonia. It’s about some sick ideas he has about you, not any ideas you have about him.”

  “I understand he’s very intelligent, but he can’t get along with people. I didn’t recognize him at first when I was treating him—I was focused on what I was doing. Then I played it cool. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I didn’t want to embarrass him or make his situation worse. It was an awkward moment, to say the least.”

  “Think he has a crush on you?”

  Color rose in her cheeks, which Hank took as a good sign. “It’s possible. I’m usually oblivious to that sort of thing.”

  “Then not only did you betray him by turning him in to the police, you betrayed him by going out with me. And now if he can’t have you—”

  She shuddered. “I know. That’s what I’ve been thinking. I just wish it didn’t have to involve you. You’re getting swept up in something that has nothing to do with you.”

  “If it involves you, it has everything to do with me.”

  She said nothing.

  He grinned at her. “At a loss for words, Dr. Winter?”

  “You amaze me,” she said. “I have a feeling you always will.”

  Hank buttoned his shirt, feeling the throb in his upper arm where Prancer had nicked him. It could have been worse. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if Prancer had managed to incapacitate him. If he’d done the sensible thing and shot him on the back steps. “It doesn’t help to try to figure this guy out at this point, does it? He’s operating according to his own logic. Did you save his life?”

  “I cleaned his wound, which probably kept him from getting a nasty infection, but that’s unpredictable. Otherwise—no, I can’t say I saved his life.”

  “He came in on his own?”

  “He called for an ambulance himself.”

  “He wanted you to treat him. It could have been a ploy for attention and sympathy.”

  A strong gust of wind shook the cottage and rattled the windows, and more debris and water blew in through the shot up window. They’d have to do something about it or they’d end up with the whole Sound in on them. The National Weather Service radio was just static now, but Hank thought it was a fair bet the Cape and the islands were under a hurricane warning at this point—Hope was moving fast.

  “We should concentrate on getting through this hurricane,” Antonia said. “At least Prancer won’t have a chance to surprise us again.”

  Hank grabbed her beach towel and, staying low, stuffed it in the blow-out window above the sink. “Damn straight.”

  “If we can’t get off this island, neither can Robert.” Her voice was less strained, and he knew she was focused on what they had to do now—not what she’d done, or should have done, weeks ago. “He’s not going to want to stay outside in a hurricane, not when he’s the one with the gun.”

  “Then we have to get to him first.”

  10

  Robert was up to his ankles in water. High tide, torrential rains, storm surge. Fierce wind that never stopped. He didn’t know if it was Hope or the leading edge of Hope or what, but he had no intention of staying outside one minute longer than was necessary. Babs Winslow’s little cottage awaited him, he thought, wrapping himself in his camouflage-style poncho. He’d also managed to grab a bright blue tarp that’d blown off the cottage porch and wrapped up in it, too.

  He felt like he was in a body bag, but a part of him also savored his misery. His suffering would make killing the two in the cottage that much more satisfying.

  Killing someone should have its costs. Granny had told him that the best things came with sacrifice and commitment, even suffering.

  The rain and humidity were intolerable. He was clammy, sweating inside the poncho and tarp. He might as well have been breathing water. He coughed, tasting salt, and looked around for any dry ground where he could think straight and put together his plan of attack.

  “Robert! Robert Prancer!”

  He went still, crouching down low under the tree. It was Antonia Winter, calling his name as if in a dream. He stopped breathing and listened over the sounds of the rain and wind. She knew him now. She realized he was the one out here with the gun. The one who’d attacked her stud boyfriend.

  Yes, Robert thought, he was in her thoughts now. He wasn’t just some mindless, nameless attacker on the loose. He was Robert Prancer. She could picture him, even if it was with his goddamn mop.

  Perfect.

  He couldn’t see her through the blinding rain. Was she calling him from the back door? A window? He doubted she was at the front door, not with the porch in the way—he’d never hear her over the howling wind, the crashing surf, the lashing rain. What a mess.

  “Robert, you can’t stay out there.”

  Although she had to yell to be heard over the oncoming hurricane, she managed to sound concerned, reasonable. But she was an E.R. doctor. She was good at faking concern and reason.

  He didn’t answer her. The hell with her. This wasn’t a dream. This was a ploy on her part. She was trying to play to his weakness for her.

  “Hurricane Hope is hitting us,” she continued. “It’ll only get worse. Robert, you’ll be killed if you don’t take cover.”

  “What do you care?” he yelled, despite his resolve to keep his mouth shut.

  He knew he was giving away his position. Didn’t matter. She and Callahan weren’t going to do anything. He was the one out in the goddamn hurricane, and he was the one with the gun. They weren’t going to seize the lead from him. What happened next was his choice.

  “I’m a doctor, but I’m also your colleague at the hospital. I know how hard you work—”

  “Fuck you! You don’t know anything about me! You’ll celebrate if I’m dead!”

  He sounded like a head case. He winced, pulling the tarp more tightly around him, the rain pelting on it, bouncing off. He had to think. If he stormed the cottage—gun or no gun—they’d see him coming and set up a defense. Ambush him some way. He needed to create a distraction, then move in when they weren’t looking. A Molotov cocktail. Homemade napalm. Something like that. Firebomb the cottage. His hostages would have to deal with the fire, and he could move in with the gun.

  He’d just have to be careful not to burn down the place. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face.

  Where could he get the fixings for a Molotov cocktail? A bottle. Some gasoline. Dry fabric for a wick.

  But the bitch doctor hadn’t given up. “Robert, please. Let’s talk before we get in any deeper. I know you’re here because of me.” He thought he could hear her hesitation. Her regret. “Because of a mistake I made. Come inside. We’ll ride out the hurricane together.”

  Was she serious? Had his actions helped her to see the light? Robert edged out of his cover of pines, the blue tarp trailing after him like a bridal train or a king’s robe. The poncho hood wouldn’t stay on his head. He was soaked, rain pouring down his face and neck, and the poison ivy and bug bites were driving him insane. He could feel his .38 tucked in his waistband and realized he didn’t much like toting a gun.

  Visibility sucked with all the rain and wind. Dr. Winter and Superman Callahan couldn’t possibly see him.

  “If I come in,” Robert yelled, “you and Callahan are my hostages!”

  “We are, anyway. Robert, you can’t stay out there. You can’t!”

  That last sounded li
ke she was desperate to save him. Like she didn’t want his death on her conscience.

  Did she care, now that she knew it was him out here, drowning, in danger of being swept into the ocean? Maybe Callahan didn’t look so good to her, now that Robert had taken him on, drawn a little of his blood.

  But he fought back any sympathy for her. Who did she think she was, inviting him to join her inside? Offering up herself and her boyfriend as hostages? Like she had the upper hand. He had the fucking upper hand.

  He paused, fighting the poncho and the tarp so he could get to his gun, get it and his hand out in the open where he could start shooting. Did she really think he was so stupid he wouldn’t use the advantage he had? Stay out here when he could shoot them both dead and make himself a nice cup of tea and ride out the hurricane in the cottage?

  He could kill her and Superman Callahan without reloading. Just do it. Get it over with.

  No more fooling around.

  Robert had no intention of waiting out a hurricane with two hostages who’d be looking for any advantage, any opening to slit his throat. No way. Forget letting the storm kill them. Forget prolonging the pleasure of their misery. They had to die now. He had to do it.

  Then he’d have the cottage to himself. After Hope, he’d find a way out of there before anyone found the two bodies he left behind.

  He used the lack of visibility to his advantage and headed toward the cottage, gun drawn, ready to fire.

  The wind grabbed the front door and almost ripped it off its hinges, but Hank was prepared and managed to latch it before it gave him away. He stayed low, out of Robert Prancer’s line of fire. He seemed to be in the line of trees off to the side of the cottage. A good position, one that he could hold indefinitely if not for the oncoming hurricane.

  Inside the cottage, Antonia knew what to do. Hank didn’t like it, but they’d agreed that Prancer would go on the attack—he wouldn’t remain outside in the hurricane. He’d risk everything, and he’d kill them this time. His little cat-and-mouse game was over. All he needed was the right opening.

  Hank had the half a kayak paddle he’d appropriated in one hand and a kitchen knife, not as good as the one Prancer still had, in the other. If he got close enough to Prancer, it’d be a fight, at least.

  He heard a shot out back.

  It didn’t startle him or concern him, because he was confident Antonia had done her part and poked open the back door with a broom handle. Prancer, as they’d predicted, had responded to the provocation by firing, instead of waiting until he saw an actual person. If nothing else, it meant he wasn’t worried about running out of ammunition.

  As backup, Antonia also had a pan of water boiling on the tiny cottage stove. If Hank failed in doing his part and Prancer got into the cottage, she’d throw it on him. She was a doctor. She’d know how and where she could do the most damage, should she be required to act in self-defense. But she wouldn’t unless she had no other choice. She treated the results of violence. She didn’t cause violence.

  Pushing aside his misgivings, Hank focused on the task at hand, letting his years of training and combat missions kick in, take over. He stepped into the swirling water and sand at the bottom of the porch steps. Rain lashed at him, and the roar of the ocean and wind surrounded him—he meant to use all of it to his advantage. The noise, the lack of visibility, the sense of urgency. Robert Prancer couldn’t be in a good place right now, mentally or physically.

  Hank edged around to the back of the cottage, using the lilacs and the weather for concealment.

  “Antonia! Bitch doctor!” Prancer had definitely moved down from the trees toward the cottage, but Hank couldn’t see him. “Come outside. I want my gun at your head. I want the wannabe senator to see you cower and hear you beg for your life.”

  Hank gritted his teeth and kept a tight hold on the kayak paddle and the knife.

  “I’m afraid,” Antonia said. “Not of you—of the storm.”

  That’s it, keep him talking. Hank peered through the dripping lilac leaves and the gray rain and spotted a bright blue tarp about five yards behind the cottage. It moved, and he realized it was Prancer, the tarp half off him, more hindrance than help.

  “Come out where I can see you,” he screamed. “Now. I have lots of bullets. You can’t win.”

  “All right—”

  “Wait.” The blue tarp stopped moving. “Where’s Callahan? Your stud ex-major. Have him talk to me.”

  Antonia ignored him. “Robert, I’m coming out—”

  “I said wait! Shit. He’s not in there, is he? You fucking bitch.”

  He dropped the tarp, kicked his way out of it as he ran toward the cottage, splashing through the water-soaked grass and sand. Hank could clearly make out the gun in Prancer’s right hand.

  Moving fast, Hank jumped out from the lilacs. Prancer spotted him and fired—but not at Hank. At the back door.

  Antonia was supposed to be inside with her pan of boiling water.

  Hank dove for Prancer, hitting him in the solar plexus with the paddle. Prancer staggered backward, and Hank followed up with another hit, dislodging the gun. But the s.o.b. was still on his feet. And he had his knife.

  Antonia swooped down from the back steps and, without the slightest hesitation, stomped on Prancer’s left foot—the same one she’d treated a few weeks ago. He screamed out in agony, dropping the knife as he fell onto his hands and knees.

  Hank grabbed the gun out of a puddle and pointed it at Prancer. “Up on your feet. Hands in the air where I can see them.”

  His hands went up, but he sneered as he got to his feet. He was white-faced but seemed oblivious to any pain he was in. “You won’t kill me. It’d do in your chances to be elected.”

  Hank paid no attention to him. “Antonia?”

  “I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me.”

  She was lying. There was blood on her upper right arm. Hank could see it out of the corner of his eye. “Can you make it back inside on your own?”

  “Of course.”

  He almost smiled. His lovely Dr. Winter was nothing if not independent. “We’ll need something to use to tie him up.”

  “Gus says duct tape works best.”

  Leave it to Gus to explain such things to his doctor niece. Hank waited until she was back in the cottage, then compelled Prancer inside at gunpoint. He’d lost some of his cockiness, moaning in pain, limping. His shirt was torn, his skin ravaged, his long hair matted down from rain. Blood trickled down one side of his mouth—he’d probably bit his lip. Hank knew he hadn’t hit him hard enough to cause internal bleeding. He hadn’t got good footing in the wet grass.

  Hank ordered him to sit on a chair at the kitchen table.

  “Go to hell,” Prancer said.

  But he sat down, and Antonia rummaged around under the sink and produced the roll of duct tape. Hank saw the blood on her arm but didn’t say anything until they finished tying up their prisoner. She had a surgical approach to the duct tape, and he saw her examining Prancer for injuries. She would treat the patient in front of her, even if it was someone who had just tried to kill her.

  Finally, she sank shakily onto a chair at the end of the table. “A bullet grazed my arm. I think—” She made a face, obviously not relishing what she had to say. “I might need your help patching it up.”

  Hank smiled at her. “Don’t pass out, Doc. You’ll need to tell me what to do.”

  11

  Hank didn’t need as much help treating her wound as Antonia had anticipated. He’d flown scores of search-and-rescue missions in his military career and knew medical basics, never mind that he was a pilot, not a pararescueman like Tyler North. But none of them could prescribe medications, she thought, feeling a little woozy and defensive—she was a doctor, so she could write prescriptions. She wished she had something for the pain.

  The bullet hadn’t lodged, but it was a nastier gash than what Prancer had done to Hank with the knife.

  “Why were you in the doorway?”
<
br />   “I wasn’t. The bullet—I don’t know how it hit me.”

  “The police can figure it out.”

  The police. It had come to that, after all.

  Robert, tied securely to his chair with duct tape, looked on silently. He was wide-eyed, fuming, soaked and in pain himself, although there wasn’t a lot Antonia could do for him. She sat on the couch and focused on what Hank was doing as he cleaned and bandaged her wound.

  “You’re going to watch?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  He worked quickly, efficiently, no visible tremble to his hands. She admired his ability to concentrate. “You need stitches,” he pronounced, applying the last bit of the ancient first-aid tape to hold her bandage in place.

  It was true. The bullet had torn a gash in her upper arm, but at least it had gone right out again—she hadn’t relished the idea of walking Hank through digging a bullet out of her. But her wound did need stitches, if not surgery. She sighed. “I don’t think we’ll be off the island in time. But it’ll be okay. You’ve done a nice job.”

  He looked troubled. “Antonia—”

  “There’s nothing more we can do. How’s our prisoner?”

  There was a lull in the weather, but the storm was still approaching, relentlessly, from the south. Antonia had no idea how long before it arrived. But Robert Prancer was no longer a threat. He was obviously in some discomfort from his bites and poison ivy and the kayak paddle to the solar plexus. His foot was bruised but Antonia hadn’t done any serious damage—she’d checked.

  Her arm bandaged and throbbing, she applied ointment to his bites and offered him Benadryl, but he refused. She wasn’t surprised. As they’d tied him up, he’d spat out his lengthy list of grievances. He was convinced she’d betrayed him as a patient, as a co-worker at the hospital, as a man who had fallen in love with her from afar. He’d adored her, fantasized about her—or at least an idealized version of her. Supposedly not remembering his name, telling the police about his gunshot wound, taking up with Hank Callahan. It was one betrayal after another. Antonia was responsible for everything he’d done since that day she’d treated him in the E.R.