Blown Away (27 page)

“Incredible,” she said. “But how did Branch tell you? He was paralyzed.”

Benedetti shifted with a soft moan. “The doctors said it was impossible for Branch to semaphore the news. But he did. He broke through the paralysis.”

“To save me,” she breathed, starting to tear up.

Benedetti kissed her cheek. “Yeah. He spelled out
M-A-R
before going into spasm. We couldn't find you on the road, so Cross thought Marwood might bring you back to the house.”

“Because of his obsession.”

“Right. And here's the rest.” He stopped to catch his breath, then leaned over and kissed her full on the lips.

Smiling through her tear-filled vision, Emily kissed back, then pulled Marty as close as her wounds allowed. She heard Cross bellowing at cops to get paramedics down to the river, then put up crime-scene tape. Always the martinet. But if Cross hadn't griped and bullied her into thinking under pressure, she'd be dead, and Marwood gone with the wind. She owed him.

She kissed Marty again, then asked about Shelby, fearing the worst.

“Tough little hombre,” Marty replied, admiration in his voice. “He was halfway down the hill when we arrived, trying to get to you. Couple of cops rushed him to the animal hospital on Main Street. He'll survive, Em. Battered but unbowed.”

Emily wiped her eyes, explaining how Shelby and Annie had tried to rescue her, and how the cops in the basement had paid the price. “It was Hangman, Marty,” she said, shivering in the frigid mud. “Our final game was Hangman. Marwood—Kepp—told me everything while I was hanging in that noose. It all started in grade school—”

“Plenty of time for that,” Benedetti said, removing his shirt and draping it over her. “The task force will take your statement after the hospital fixes you up. Just relax.”

Emily nodded, turned her gaze to the river. The wind had whipped the surface into frothy whitecaps. Towering purple clouds raced across the French vanilla sky. Lightning flashed not too far away—
1,001; 1,002
—followed by kidney-shaking thunderclaps. It looked like the long drought was ending. She looked at Marty, who was wincing himself into a new position.
Yes,
she decided, stroking his mud-riven back.
The drought is finally over.

 

“Jesus Christ, Ken,” Viking puffed as he ran up to Cross. “Can't you stay in your office and play with yourself like all the other chiefs?”

“I'd tell you to kiss my ass,” Cross groaned. “But I ain't got one.” Viking dropped to his knees to examine the leg wounds. “They're not too bad,” the medic declared. “One bullet in your left thigh, two in the right. No broken bones and the bleeding's only seepage. Surgeons will dig them out, and you'll be fine.” He replaced Annie's duct tape with bandages, splinted her broken pelvis, and ordered them to the idling ambulance.

As they slid inside, Cross reached over and squeezed Annie's hand. “You done good, Sergeant,” he murmured.

She squeezed back. “You, too, Chief. You, too.”

 

Emily started as the oddest thought struck her. “I'm still suspended, aren't I?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Marty asked, cringing as paramedics swabbed disinfectant on his butt.

“Annie and I got suspended. By the chief. For my shooting the library floor. Annie tried taking the blame, but Cross caught us. We each got a week's suspension for lying.”

Benedetti raised his eyebrows. “And you're thinking about this now because—”

“So I don't have to think about the rest.” She fell silent. “That's a week of income I can't afford to lose, Marty. With my house destroyed and all. Maybe he'll forget about it.”

“Would you? If you were chief?”

She thought about that, looked at her feet. “I guess not.”

“And for good reason,” Benedetti said. “It keeps maniacs like you from shooting poor old innocent carpets that never hurt no one.” She stuck out her tongue, and he smiled. “Actually, Detective, Ken said you owe him a week after the Unsub's safely behind bars.”

“I just said that, Marty,” she said. “Soon as Dr. Winslow clears me, I'll serve it.”

“You're not listening,” Benedetti said. “Ken said you'll serve your suspension when the Unsub's safely behind bars. Until then, he needs you out on the street.”

She stared, then got it. The Unsub would never be safely behind bars because he was dead. Ergo…“So the chief isn't suspending us.”

“Correct.”

“But he said he was.”

“Also correct.”

She shook her head. “Why say one thing when he means the opposite?”

“It's what us management types do.”

“I see. So if I said I hate you…”

Benedetti grinned. “Happy birthday, Emily. With many more to come.”

“And many more together,” she said, closing her eyes and smiling.

Blink,
her Mama said.

Special Bonus! Here is a preview excerpt from
Cut to the
Bone
, the heart-pounding new thriller by Shane Gericke,
coming from Pinnacle in 2007.

On June 29, 1972, the state of Illinois strapped an innocent man into the electric chair and threw the switch, executing him for a crime he didn't commit. Now, more than three decades later, Naperville Police Detective Emily Thompson may pay the price for that tragic miscarriage of justice—as she becomes the target of a serial killer obsessed with payback.

 

“Glad you came?” Emily Thompson asked.

“Oh, man, this is great,” Martin Benedetti groaned as the attendant shoveled another layer of steaming mud onto his chest. “I feel like the marshmallow in the hot chocolate. I should have done this years ago.”

Emily reached across the tub-for-two to pat his face. They were spending the morning at a high-tone “mud spa” on Ogden Avenue in Naperville. She'd been asking Marty for a while to try it with her. He kept insisting he wanted nothing to do with “toenail polish and dulcimer music.” Then, on her forty-second birthday, he handed her a gift certificate for two, agreeing to join her.

Emily settled herself deeper in the 104-degree mud, a “mystic Zen formula” of “precious minerals and botanicals” that “detoxified and cleansed” the body. The attendant's description was just sales puffery, she knew—it was peat moss and volcanic ash. She didn't care. Its clinging heat whacked her stress like a hitman. Having Marty next to her in the deep redwood tub was a bonus—they could make fun of everything tonight as they snuggled up in bed.

The attendant poured them flutes of Soy-Carrot Infusion Juice, then offered to swaddle their eyes with citrus-misted cucumber slices. “So your inner child stays cool,” she murmured in a breezy Jamaican lilt. Emily tilted her face to accept them. Marty muttered about needing a testosterone patch. Emily pinched his leg, making him yelp. The attendant giggled, shoveled on the final thick layer, said she'd step out to let the mud “work its magic.” After the door closed, Marty cleared his throat.

“You can't tell anyone about this, you know.”

“About what?” Emily smiled into the lemon-scented darkness.

“About me. Parking my ass in a tub of goo.”

“And liking it,” she reminded.

“Don't rub it in.”

Emily pushed her hand through the slurry, threaded her fingers through Marty's. “Don't worry, tough guy. I wouldn't dream of blowing your cover—” Her eyelids popped open so fast the cucumbers flew. “What was that?”

Marty was already struggling to his feet. “Gunshots,” he said, his buttery baritone turned hard and flat. “Three. Nearby.”

Emily fought to sit up. Marty pulled her wrists, sucking her torso out of the hot mud. She heard voices shrieking, “Omigod! Help! Help!”

Their attendant raced into the mud room, slamming the door so hard the frosted glass cracked. “Somebody shot Leila in the lobby!” she screamed, eyes wide. “Hide or he'll kill us all!”

“Call 911!” Marty roared, bounding out of the tub. “And get our clothes!”

“No time for that!” Emily shoved her heels against the bottom until she popped out of the mud. She swung her legs over the side and lunged for their guns—she went nowhere unarmed since the serial killer Ellis Marwood had knotted a noose around her neck and hanged her in her own kitchen. She slipped on the cornflower tiles and fell sideways, banging her head off the wall. “Ow! Dammit!” she yelped.

“Emily! You all right?”

“Go! Go! I'll catch up!” she gasped.

Marty knotted a bath towel around his waist. Emily reached over her head and yanked her knockoff Coach tote from the wall peg. She fumbled with the zipper then pulled out a pair of .45-caliber Glocks.

The attendant shrank into a corner. “Don't hurt me,” she begged, covering her head with her mud-streaked arms. “Please, miss, I'll do whatever you say.”

“We're the police!” Emily said, thrusting Marty's black pistol over her head like the Statue of Liberty's torch. Marty snatched it and bolted through the door. A moment later he stuck his head back in, pitched her a belted terrycloth robe and took off.

Emily grabbed the pitcher of Infusion Juice and poured it over her head, gasping as the icy slush chilled her warm body. The bells fell silent. She scrambled to her feet, jammed her arms in the over-large robe, wrapped her muddy hands around the checkered butt of her gun, and ran down the hall to the lobby.

“Oh Jesus,” she breathed, absorbing the horrific scene. Blood slopped the walls as though a tomato can had exploded. The room stank of burnt gunpowder. Marty was on his knees, blowing air into a short, slender woman. Ugly holes were torn in her chest and forehead. Her face was white as cake flour. Blood fizzed from the holes when Marty blew. Emily knew instantly the CPR was not going to help her. She scanned the handful of onlookers.

“Naperville Police! Which way did he go?” she said, primed to pull the trigger if the shooter was in the crowd. “Is he here? Did he leave? Talk to me!”

A manicurist, slender as a willow whip, pointed to the centermost of the lobby's five doors. “He went that way. He didn't say anything. Just started shooting!” she said, tears splashing down her cheeks. “He killed Leila and ran!”

“Parking lot,” Marty said, looking up. “Watch yourself, detective. I'll be there as soon as someone takes over.” He surveyed the crowd. “All right, who knows CPR?”

Emily charged into the lot, robe flapping, eyes flashing. Nobody was fleeing. Nobody sauntered nonchalantly. Nobody jumped in a Dumpster or darted behind a store.

Breathing fast, she searched the nearest row of parked cars. Nobody hiding. No tailpipe exhaust. Ditto second row, third, fourth.

She heard an engine turn over.
He's out there. Go get him.
Her bare feet flew over pavement, litter and broken pop bottles. She still saw nothing. “Police!” she screamed. “Come out with your hands up!”

“Look behind you!” Marty yelled.

Emily whirled to see a black Grand Prix bear down on her like a runaway locomotive. Shooting wouldn't save her—the car was too close. She jumped straight up, desperately clawing air to clear the bumper—

“Aaaah!” she screamed as her body flew up over the hood. She smashed into the windshield, heard a sickening crunch. The driver jammed the gas pedal. His acceleration flipped her onto the roof. She windsurfed until a sharp swerve bucked her off.

She slammed into a rust-bucket SUV and tumbled to the pavement. She started rolling as soon as her shoulder touched, to avoid breaking her neck. Her Glock skittered out of her hands. Dizzy, she rolled to hands and knees and crawled after it, skin on fire from pavement scrapes.

A gun behind her barked. The Grand Prix's rear passenger window shattered. Energized by Marty's counterattack, she struggled to her feet, scooped, aimed and fired three quick .45s at the driver's door. Holes appeared but did no good—the car careened onto Ogden Avenue and disappeared into eastbound traffic.

Emily yelled out the license plate. Marty fed the information into a cellphone. She tightened her robe and took off, running diagonally across the lot, hoping to catch the Grand Prix before—

She fell to the pavement, clutching her leg in agony.

“Officer down!” Marty bellowed as he ran up. He flung the phone and knelt to check her for bleeding or broken bones.

“It's the scar!” Emily said, groaning. She'd taken a submachine gun bullet in her left calf two years ago during her wild escape from Marwood's noose. The thumb-sized wound healed well enough for her to pass the medical exam and return to work. But sometimes it spasmed when she pushed herself too hard.

“Dig into it, Marty!” she begged. “Use your knuckles! Oh God it hurts!” She heard sirens and prayed one was a paramedic bearing Vicodin.

“I've got you, Emily,” Marty reassured, clamping her leg between his knees and drilling for oil with both fists. “I've got you, I've got you…”

The spasms eased as the first Naperville Police cruiser zoomed into the lot.

She clutched Marty and pulled herself into a sitting position, breathing four-seconds-in, four-seconds-out. “Is…that woman…dead?” she wheezed.

Marty nodded.

“Who shoots…a little old lady…at a day spa?”

“Dunno,” Marty said, hugging her close. “But we're sure as hell gonna find out.”

 

The shooter wheeled onto Sherman Avenue, then into the strip-mall parking lot, keeping a tight rein on his fear. In all his executions, this was the first time anybody had fought back. It rattled him harder than he'd anticipated.
Don't panic!
he told himself.
Panic brings paralysis! Do what you planned and you'll be fine!

He looked around for witnesses. None. He whipped the Grand Prix into an empty space in the back of the lot and turned off the engine.

Hands shaking from the adrenalin dump, he looked again. Still nobody. He relaxed a fraction. As he'd learned from his practice runs, this medical-office strip mall made an excellent place to switch cars—just thirty seconds from the spa to get him off Ogden fast, with a wall of storefronts to screen him from responding cops.

Though that wouldn't last if he dawdled.

He peeled the fake beard from his wide cleft chin, rubbed off the rubber-cement residue. He stuffed the disguise into the glove compartment, along with the Chicago Bulls cap that camouflaged his head. He looked around a third time. Frowned.

A mommy van was pulling next to the curb.

He couldn't leave now. Couldn't risk her telling the cops about the maroon Taurus that peeled rubber when the sirens came. He had to wait, each tick of the cooling engine as loud as a gunshot.
Get out of here, goddammit!
he screamed silently.
Thirty more seconds and I'll
have
to leave! I'll have to shoot your stupid ass! Move it!
But she was still in her car, and his right hand gripped the .357 Magnum in his belt.
Five seconds.
His left hand grabbed the door handle.
Three seconds.
He'd walk up to the driver, empty the gun in her head, retreat as quickly as possible.
One second…

A little girl in pigtails hopped out, ran inside one of the offices. The mommy van made a three-point turn and exited the lot.

He slumped, panting.

Then got moving.

He slid out of the Grand Prix, threw the keys down the storm drain. Hopped into the Taurus, started the engine with a gas-heavy “Vroom.” Nosed onto Ogden Avenue, quickly moved to the middle divider to let a police cruiser scream past. The cop made a little wave, “Thanks.” He waved back.

He drove the speed limit to Wisconsin Avenue, cranked the wheel in a quick hard right, and began his escape from the city.

 

“Enough already, guys,” Emily groaned, shooing away the paramedics who'd been poking, prodding and painting her antiseptic-yellow the past thirty minutes. “We gotta get dressed.”

“Before CSI bags our clothes as evidence,” Marty agreed. He grasped his towel with one hand, offered Emily the other.

She grabbed his fingers and pulled herself to her feet. The movement shook up her vision like a snow globe. She blinked, then walked toward the spa, planting each foot firmly before lifting the other. She'd feel silly falling in front of the Fire Department.

“Hey! Wait up!”

Emily turned to see a muscular blonde spill from a black-and-white. It was Lieutenant Annabelle Bates, commander of the Naperville Police SWAT team and Emily's best friend besides Marty. They stopped to let her catch up.

“We were serving an arrest warrant when we heard the ‘officer down' call,” Annie said, eyes searching Emily for injuries. “We just got back. Are you all right?”

“A little banged up,” Emily said. “But nothing's broken.”

Annie blew out her breath. “I heard we spotted the car?”

“A patrol officer found it a few minutes ago,” Emily said. “In that medical mall on Sherman. We know it's his because Marty shot out a window.”

“For what good it did,” Marty said. “Canine units are searching the neighborhood in case he's on foot. But I'm guessing he stashed an escape vehicle and got out of Dodge before roadblocks went up. He's long gone.” He rubbed at a scratch on his arm. “Unfortunately, nobody at the mall saw anything.”

“The mall have security cameras?”

“Plenty,” Emily said. “Inside the offices. Nothing aimed at the lot.”

“We're never that lucky,” Annie said. She touched Emily's arm. “Are you sure you're all right, hon? Branch said you got run over.”

“Well, sort of,” Emily said.

“The bastard rammed her all right. But she bounced off,” Marty explained. “She got to her feet and started chasing him. Might have caught up except for the charley horse.”

Annie's eyes dropped to Emily's scarred calf. “Again?”

Emily nodded, disgusted the two-year-old injury was still getting the best of her. She wanted every shred of Ellis Marwood out of her life, and it just wasn't happening quick enough.

“Well, you're standing now,” Annie said. “Took three hours to do that last time your calf went nuts. Progress.” She looked Marty top to bottom, and her lips curled into a wide, catty smile. “And what, pray tell, are
you
supposed to be?” she purred, reaching up and peeling a long shingle of mud off his shoulder. “A hot fudge sundae?”

“No. And there's a perfectly good explanation for this,” Marty grumbled, face turning as pink as the towel around his waist.

“I'm all ears,” Annie said.

Their affectionate teasing made Emily want to join in—with all that shiny mud on his six-six body, Marty
did
look like a giant ice-cream treat! But there'd be hell to pay if a TV camera caught them looking any way but serious. “We need to get to work,” she said, dipping her head at the Fox Television van bouncing into the lot. “Right now.”