Your Heart, My Home

by Linda Mooney

  At one point a physician's assistant offered to get him a cup of coffee. He declined.

  "How about a towel and a bar of soap?"

  He opened his eyes and lifted his face from his hands to find her observing his body. Or so he thought until he glanced down at himself and saw the bloodstains covering his uniform. "No, thanks. I'm good," he wearily muttered.

  The woman flashed him a sympathetic smile. "I came to tell you they're done in surgery. Dr. Dahl will be down soon to talk to you about your friend's condition." Without waiting for him to reply, she left the tiny room.

  Cold alarm began to fill him with prickly, icy particles that sent pain shooting through his body. He felt a lance of trepidation slice into his heart, and the tears he had been fighting these past few hours filled his eyes with their wet heat. Sher was dead. She didn't survive. In his opinion, that made him just as guilty as the butcher who had beaten her. He shouldn't have taken her to the bridge. He should have made her stay at the apartment.

  What was I thinking?

  He knew exactly what he'd been thinking at the time. He didn't want to leave her behind. He wanted her with him where he could gaze at her whenever he needed to. To remind himself of those moments when they had held each other in bed, and traded slow, lingering kisses. Where a simple warm glance from her brown eyes, or a smile from those beautiful lips, would put a bright perspective on all the craziness and horror he'd have to face.

  My selfishness put her at risk, and she had to pay the price. The accusation was a blow to the gut, made worse because it was the truth.

  He knew he should be focusing on finding Bob. He should be channeling his heartache into anger, and letting that anger fuel his search, his mission, his goal.

  I'll wait until the doctor delivers the news. And then I'll go after that sorry son of a bitch. I'll find him. I'll make sure he answers for what he'd done. And after that, I'll grieve.

  "Quazar?"

  An older man with snow-white hair stood in the doorway, a sympathetic smile on his lined face. He was still wearing his scrubs, and Quazar stared at the smears and blood drops marking the green material. Sher's blood. "What's the bad news?" he murmured.

  "I don't give bad news unless I have good news to share first," the doctor replied with a weary smile.

  His breath caught in his throat, and Quazar gawked at the man. "You mean she's..."

  Dahl nodded. "She made it through surgery. However, I can't tell you if she'll make it. That's the bad news. The damage was...extensive. If there is any reason to rejoice, it's the fact that whoever attacked her left her skull and spine alone. In fact, they're the only areas that weren't crushed."

  Quazar felt a shudder go through him. The vision of her wrapped in those blood-soaked ropes haunted him. Would forever haunt him. "Why?" he murmured.

  "Why what?"

  Quazar glanced up at the physician. "Why do you think they didn't touch her skull and spine?

  "This is purely conjecture, but I'm guessing they wanted her to feel as much pain as possible. If they'd injured her spinal column, chances are the nerves could have been severed. Same for her head. If they'd damaged the skull, it could have disrupted those signals going to the brain." The doctor paused, then softly added, "Whoever did this to her knew what he was doing. You wouldn't happen to know what kind of weapon they used, would you?"

  Quazar nodded. "A hammer, as far as I know. There could have been other tools or instruments, but at the time my concern was getting her away from there and getting her to a medical facility."

  "I understand. We've put her into a coma and transferred her up to ICU. The clock's ticking. She has to make it through the next twenty-four hours if she's to have any chance of recovery."

  "And if she's still alive after that time?"

  The doctor smiled apprehensively. "Then we wait another twenty-four hours. Then another. One day at a time, Quazar. But the longer we wait, the greater her chances are of surviving."

  "Can you... Can you give me some idea as to what was done to her? Could you tell if she was...molested?"

  Dahl's smile drooped slightly. "I really can't divulge that information, Quazar."

  "Right. Privacy laws."

  "Speaking of, can you let us know how we can contact her family?"

  Quazar shook his head. "She doesn't have any. I'm the closest thing she has to having someone who cares about her."

  He watched as Dahl hesitated. The physician studied him, debating with himself. Coming to a decision, the surgeon closed the door and took the only other available chair in the room. "Okay. Just promise me one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "When you find the guy who did this to her, don't hold back."

  Quazar gave a soft chuckle. "Don't worry. That won't be a problem."

  By the time the physician gave him the full scope of Sherandar's injuries, Quazar was barely able to choke back the rage that threatened to envelope him. Silently, he vowed Bob would never step foot outside of a prison once he was convicted. That is, if the man managed to survive what Quazar wanted to do with him.

  Walking out to the parking lot, he discovered night had fallen. A three-quarter moon hung high overhead in a cloudless sky. Striding back into the building, he flagged down a security guard. "Excuse me. What time is it?"

  The man glanced at his watch. "Almost ten-thirty."

  "Thanks."

  Going back outside, he took off toward the city.

  Righteous anger continued to boil within him, threatening to explode. Quazar knew he had to turn that anger into a plan. Redirect his fury into a way to make Bob pay for his crimes.

  He was certain the coast guard would be able to locate Bob's boat and bring it back to shore where the police could investigate it. Plus there was the video of him having Sherandar taken to the vessel. Hopefully, those two pieces of evidence would be enough to convict him.

  If I can find him.

  The man had gone underground, which meant Quazar had to find a way to call him out. He had to rile the man to the point where Bob would leave the safety of wherever he'd gone into hiding, to face him. An idea made him smile bitterly with anticipation. What better way to do that than to double dog dare him?

  Once he reached the city, Quazar flew directly to the television station where the news crew would be broadcasting the evening edition. He landed in the parking lot and entered through the back door. Passing the glass-walled production offices, he strode purposefully onto the set. Behind the counter, head anchor Alec Dreeling's mouth dropped open, and one cameraman swung his camera around to catch Quazar go up to the desk, then turn to face the audience.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt like this, but I have a very important announcement to make."

  He could see himself being projected onto several monitors sitting off to the side. One camera was closing in on his face. The others remained on a long shot, until Camera Three zoomed in on the bloodstains.

  "My name is Quazar, and I'm calling out Robert Merriam Duncan. I'm calling you out, you scum bag! You've tortured your last victim, and now I call dibs! Me against you, Bob! Got that? At the Woodrow Memorial tomorrow. Eight AM sharp. You and me."

  Taking a deep breath, he gave the news anchors a curt nod and stalked out of the station. During these next few hours, he needed to prepare himself, mentally and physically, for the encounter. There was no telling what Bob would throw at him, which meant he had to be ready for anything.

  A grim smile curled his lips as he zipped through the air. Come at me, you sick, sorry bastard. Throw everything you got at me. I'll be waiting, and I'll be ready. One way or another, I'll make you pay for what you did to her. I promise, I'll make you pay.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Plotting

  As much as he didn't want to believe it, Quazar knew he had to assume the worst. He couldn't ignore the possibility that Sherandar had broken and revealed his true identity. Why else would Bob leave her to die out on that boat? Once the man got the information he wante
d, he'd left her to drown. Extending her torture to include a final, watery demise.

  Quazar knew the next few hours were crucial. He had to take every precaution and watch every step he took. There would be repercussions, and there could be traps.

  Entering the shelter portion of his underground work area, he cautiously advanced to the basement and up the steps to the kitchen. The apartment was silent and dark. Further inspection revealed nothing out of place or missing.

  Quazar frowned. This can't be right. He must know by now who I really am. So why hasn't he done anything? What is he waiting for?

  He caught sight of a light coming from his cell phone where it rested on the kitchen counter. Striding over to it, he opened it to find he had three missed calls and three text messages. Two of the calls and messages were from Cheyenne.

  What the hell did u just do??? Call me!!!

  Paul what happened???

  The last text was Captain Warkowski.

  I have info. Come see me. War

  He wasted no time flying to the Main Street station where he was told the captain had already left for the day. The officer on duty gave him a street address in the Stone Castle subdivision, which was located in one of the suburbs just south of the city.

  When he arrived at the modest two-story brick home, he noticed all the lights were out. It appeared that everyone was asleep. Landing in the driveway, he hesitated whether or not to ring the doorbell, when the front door opened and a shadowy figure stepped onto the portico.

  "Quazar." She hissed softly and waved for him to come inside the house. He hurried after her. Once inside, she told him, "Watch your eyes."

  "I have a better idea," he countered. Slowly, he filled the room with a dim luminescence, gradually increasing it until they could see each other clearly without the momentary blindness. "Better?"

  "Yes. Thanks. You make a good dimmer switch." She went over to a chair and indicated the couch for him to sit. "I thought you'd be by once you got my message, so I waited up. How is she doing?"

  Quazar bowed his head. "Not good, but she's still alive. The doctor says they've done all they can, but she's got a long way to go. It's up to her now."

  Warkowski nodded sympathetically. The woman wore a bathrobe over her nightgown. Her wet hair was pinned to the back of her head with one of those plastic claws, as he preferred to call them whenever he saw Cheyenne wearing one.

  "Your text message said you had some info?" he asked her.

  "Before I left work, I got a call back from the coast guard. They found Duncan's boat. I'm assuming it was you who turned on the homing beacon."

  Quazar nodded, even though it wasn't a question. "The dirt bag tried to scuttle it. Another couple of hours, and it would have disappeared completely."

  "Apparently Duncan has already covered his ass with regards to that. It seems that at around eleven-thirty this morning, he called the dock master to inform him he was taking his ship out of port. When he was told the boat was gone, Duncan contacted the Trafalgar Point police to report the vessel stolen."

  Quazar grimaced. Eleven-thirty. They were finished with you and left you to die, ma cher. Probably had a nice little lunch afterwards.

  "It wasn't stolen. He took the boat himself." He shook his head. "He never intended that boat to be found. He thought it was at the bottom of the ocean when he called. The dock master has evidence on video that Bob was there."

  "Which we received a copy via email," she informed him. "And so did his lawyers. I've already fielded one very terse phone call from them." The police captain sighed. "I've seen the video. And, yes, it certainly looks like Duncan to me. Him and a couple of his cronies. One of whom looked to be carrying Sherandar to the boat. But Duncan's lawyer made a very valid point. He says the footage is too grainy and dark to make any kind of positive identification."

  Nodding, Quazar confessed, "I suspected they might. What else?"

  "I caught your little act on tonight's news." Her face took on a more serious expression, her voice more terse than usual. "Either you're walking on a very thin line, Quazar, or you've just crossed over it. Do you realize what you've done? You've challenged a very influential and very wealthy man. I wouldn't be surprised if he has more lawyers on retainer than I have men on the force."

  "Don't tell me I was out of line, Captain. First, he kidnapped me and Sherandar. He kept us prisoners and tried to starve us to death. Then he had Sherandar kidnapped again, but this time he tortured her. Afterwards, he tried to cover up his crime by attempting to sink the boat. I don't care if I yell from the uppermost spire on the Saint James bridge. I want that man permanently stopped. I want him brought to justice. And I will see that bastard pay," Quazar snapped.

  Warkowski's gaze dropped to his lap, forcing him to do the same. To his surprise, he discovered his hands curled into fists and trembling from his pent-up anger. He flexed his fingers and laid his hands flat against his thighs.

  When she spoke again, her tone was gentler. "Quazar, you and I are of like minds when it comes to Duncan. But in my case, I have to follow protocol, or else he could go free and never have to spend a day behind bars." She leaned forward. "As my daddy always said, we have to walk a fine chalk line. Cross every T and dot every I. One small mistake, one minor error following procedure, and the case could be dismissed. And it all rests on your shoulders. Do you understand what I mean, Quazar? Do you really, really grasp what I'm telling you? I know you're hurting for her. I can see what she means to you, whether you want to believe me or not." She managed a small smile. "I've caught glimpses of the real you beneath that dark blue uniform. Not your physical form, but deeper. And something tells me there's a lot more of what you can do that you haven't revealed to the public."

  He diminished his glow to darken the room. Getting to his feet, he walked behind the sofa, to where a large window overlooked the front lawn. Stopping in front of it, he pushed back the curtain to gaze outside. Warkowski joined him.

  "What's your plan? Or do you have one?" she asked.

  "I have a couple of ideas. But the biggest thing I have to watch out for right now is the very real possibility Bob knows who I am in real life, and he'll come after me." He almost added and my sister, but managed to stop himself before giving away that information. "So far, my apartment appears untouched, but you never know."

  "You believe Sherandar sold you out."

  "I can't say she did or didn't. But I must be prepared, just in case."

  "Is there anything I can do to help?" Warkowski offered.

  He grinned lopsidedly. "In fact, there is."

  She gave him a cautious glare. "Please tell me it's nothing illegal," she half-jokingly demanded.

  Quazar chuckled. "I promise. Nothing illegal. All by the book. I want Bob's head in the worst way, and I'm going to need you to promise you'll pull in the reins if you think I'm about to commit legal suicide."

  Warkowski snorted. "You can count on it," she agreed. "Now, what do you need me to do?"

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Showdown

  As he expected, the news media was gathered and waiting beyond the police barricades when he touched down. The public was held further away, across the street from the park. He still wore his bloodstained uniform. He wanted everyone to be aware of Sherandar's sacrifice, and he made certain the cameras recorded it.

  The memorial was situated in the center of a large, round veranda at the northernmost edge of the city's park. Facing the statue, wrought iron benches rimmed the brick area and walkways. Maintained gardens and trees further enclosed the vicinity.

  The park itself was bordered on all four sides by major thoroughfares, which were now closed by the police. The closures were putting a crimp on the morning commute, but Quazar wanted as many people as possible to witness this event.

  Several yards away, Captain Warkowski motioned to him. He walked over to where she stood to one side. Her hands were dug deep into the pocket of her jacket as a few light flurries dusted the ground.
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  "Did you bring it?" he softly asked.

  In reply, she pulled the item out of one pocket and handed it over. Quazar palmed it to keep anyone from seeing it.

  She eyed the gray clouds already blanketing the city. "You picked a fine day for this showdown," she dryly remarked.

  "It was part of my plan."

  "Oh? You know Duncan won't make an appearance, don't you?"

  "Never expected him to," Quazar told her. "At least, not in person. What time is it?"

  "Straight up eight o'clock. You're thinking he's going to throw some more of that black lightning at you."

  He grinned. "I suspect he might."

  "Then why call him out? What do you expect to gain if he doesn't show?" She waved at his hand. "Why did you need that?"

  "Trust me, Captain. I know what I'm doing."

  "Let's hope so," she quipped. She turned and rejoined the group of police standing nearby.

  Quazar walked back toward the statue, occasionally checking the low ceiling of clouds for any ominous signs. The weatherman had predicted rain with a chance of sleet and snow for that morning. Quazar hoped Bob would consider the natural cloud cover the perfect concealment for his manmade thunderheads.

  Over to where the news media was gathered, the crowd was getting restless. He scanned the TV reporters, hoping not to spot his sister among the throng. He didn't know where she might have gone if she'd left her apartment like he'd told her, and he didn't want to know. In the unlikely event Bob got his hands on him again, which Quazar highly doubted, Cheyenne's whereabouts needed to remain a mystery to protect her from that maniac. To his relief, a different reporter stood beside the Channel 2 truck.

  A low growl rumbled overhead. The wind picked up slightly. He squinted at the cloudbank as his body tensed. Doesn't that asshole know snow clouds don't thunder?