voices one last time.
And then, when she was completely immobile, completely powerless, she heard his voice for the first time.
“Did you really think I’d let you live, Katydid?”
Chapter Two
Thirty-five minutes after leaving the shooting range and his brother, Alec parked in front of Katie’s bungalow. He’d tried phoning to cancel their date. But when he’d gotten her voice mail, he’d resigned himself to stopping by with a pizza.
His right hand propped on the steering wheel, he glanced at the cut flowers resting on the carry-out pizza box. He’d picked up the bouquet at the supermarket. The female clerk had thought him cheap for buying the very last of the mixed bunches. The center of some of the flowers had already turned brown. But his only other choice had been the old standby of red roses, and he couldn’t make himself pick them up.
“Say it with flowers.”
Grabbing the pizza and the bouquet, he climbed out of the SUV. Five minutes tops. He’d hand her the pizza and the flowers, wish her a good night and a good life.
The Azalea Park neighborhood, which had been built in the second decade of the last century, was one of those up-and-coming areas. Most of the people took care of their properties, but there were a few holdouts who seemed content with sparse lawns, overgrown shrubs and peeling paint.
Surrounded by an out-of-control hedge, the entry courtyard of Katie’s Spanish bungalow was dark. After knocking, he waited. When she didn’t answer, he checked his watch. Seven ten. He was early. Maybe she was running late getting home or was in the shower.
Alec changed the flowers to his other hand, and, lightly popping the cellophane-encased bouquet against his pant leg, debated just leaving a note.
A loud crash came from inside. Then breaking glass.
What in the hell was going on? He tried the door. “Katie?”
A woman screamed.
Tossing down flowers and pizza, Alec pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster. With a solid kick, he forced the dead bolt through the frame. The door slammed into the wall behind, the glass in the top half shattering upon impact.
Katie’s and her attacker’s shadows briefly filled the hallway.
Bursting low and fast through the open door, he chose the unlit room to the right. Reaching it, he pressed himself hard against the wall, trying to leave the suspect with as little of a target as possible.
Alec inched forward. A large chunk of plaster exploded several inches from his face. A second round immediately hit in nearly the same spot. A controlled double tap. This wasn’t some street thug. And it sure as hell wasn’t a Saturday night special.
Alec knew he was moving too fast, recklessly. He needed to slow down. He needed to get his adrenaline under control.
“FBI,” he yelled, but made no move to advance.
Nothing. No indication of movement anywhere in the house. Alec tried not to think about what that might mean. That Katie was already dead. Or seriously injured.
He wasn’t even sure what he was dealing with here—a burglary attempt that had hit the skids or attempted rape. Jesus. He had hoped never to face another situation like this.
“Put down your weapon,” Alec ordered.
No response again. He scanned what appeared to be the dining room for another entrance. Finding none, he realized he’d made a poor choice. With the only way in or out either this door or the front window, he was pinned down. Of course, at the time, a dark room had seemed a better choice than a well-lit one.
Alec’s heart hammered. With no other choice, he slid around the door frame and into the entry foyer again, into the light spilling from the living room. The house was cold and silent. A clock ticked somewhere, or maybe it was some type of drip. He’d once entered the bathroom of a murder victim, expecting to turn off a faucet’s slow drip only to discover the sound had nothing to do with plumbing.
He could hear movement now and advanced toward it. The wood floor creaked with the slightest of weight shift, making silent progress impossible. And having never been in this house, he didn’t know the layout, but assumed the hall led to bedrooms and at least one bathroom. There would also be a kitchen, which he would have expected to connect with the dining room, so there was no telling where it fell in the floor plan. But all these old houses had a second door, usually off the kitchen. Was the suspect trying to reach it?
Sensing he was about to step into the path of a bullet, Alec ran his left hand over his chest—the habit, a hangover from his Bureau days, was meant to assure him that his soft body armor was in place. Of course, he was a civilian now, and civilians had no need for the protective powers of Kevlar. Not unless they were going into a dark house, facing a shooter who obviously knew how to handle his weapon.
A soft whimper that was quickly squashed. Leading with his own weapon, Alec stepped from the foyer into the narrow hall leading toward the back of the house. The front door was open behind him, and the way the night air poured into the small foyer and down the hall suggested that there was another open door or window ahead of him somewhere.
The darkness was more complete here, the only light coming from beneath the closed door at the end of the hall. Alec ignored the room as a possibility, concentrated on the other three doors. In his head, he heard Monty asking which door it would be.
He held his position again, listening. With the elapsed time, it became more likely that the suspect intended to shoot it out.
A sharp clatter. Alec moved forward in a controlled rush. By the time he reached the door into the kitchen, fresh air poured through the opened back door, as did the glow from the side yard light. He caught a glimpse of the suspect fleeing down the steps. As much as he wanted to pursue the man, he needed to determine Katie’s whereabouts and condition, so he turned and faced the room.
“Katie?”
Even with the light penetrating only three or four feet inside, he could see the mess on the floor. The glittering shards of glass, the sheen of a dark liquid, the shine of stainless implements. The skeletons of overturned dinette chairs.
What he didn’t see, what he might not have seen at all if she hadn’t made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob, was Katie slumped against the old refrigerator.
She was drawn up in a near-fetal position. He kneeled down, but didn’t touch her; he was afraid that even that small contact might send her over the edge.
“Katie?” She lifted her chin slightly as if she looked at him, but he couldn’t be certain. “Katie, I need you to answer me. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
“I need to go after the man who did this to you. Do you understand?” He thought she nodded. “Call 9-1-1.”
He’d taken only a single step when she launched herself after him, her hands grabbing at his legs, her movements sending kitchen utensils clanging. “No. He’ll come back. He’ll kill me.”
Alec kneeled next to her again. “Easy. I won’t be gone long.” He
