Sawyer, Meryl (55 page)

The heinous expression on Brent's face—a vision from
hell—terrified Royce. He'd appeared shockingly normal, but he was over the
brink now, his face contorted in a hideous combination of jealousy and hate.

She yanked hard, finally freeing her right hand. Grabbing the gun,
she tried to remember what she knew about Glock automatics from a humorous
column she'd done on guns. Lightweight plastic, the Glock had a seventeen-round
clip. But was the safety off?

She frantically looked at the men rolling around the floor. She'd
never fired a gun. Unless she had a clear shot, she might kill Mitch.
Keep
your wits, Royce. Bluff.

"Stop," she screeched, her voice high pitched, panicky.
"I've got the gun. I'm going to shoot."

Her words didn't even faze them. Either of them. Brent was on top
of Mitch now, high on his chest so Mitch couldn't knee him. The knife hovered
too near Mitch's jugular.

Still Royce was afraid to shoot, terrified she'd hit the wrong
man. She aimed the gun at the ceiling and squeezed the trigger. A flash of
light flared out of the muzzle and instantaneously a soniclike boom filled the
attic. The kick of the gun knocked her back against the headboard, wrenching
the one arm still tied to the bedpost.

The shot got their attention. Brent hesitated and Mitch looked at
her. She scrambled to an upright position and aimed the gun at Brent. "Get
away from Mitch."

For a moment the only sound in the room was their harsh,
breathless gasps for air. Slowly Brent rose to his knees, the knife still in
his hand. "You'll have to kill me, Royce."

Brent faced Royce, an unholy calm about him. Anger gathered like a
tornado deep inside her. He was an inhuman monster who'd put her through hell.
He'd murdered two women and would have killed her too. And Mitch.

She wanted to kill Brent, she truly did, but something stopped
her. Out of the recesses of her mind surged the memory of her father and all
he'd taught her. Peace and love.

She paused, her finger on the trigger. Could she kill? Why
couldn't she hold him at bay until the police arrived? Brent must have sensed
her hesitation. He smirked, a knowing grin from hell.

"Come on, Farenholt," Mitch said from his position
behind Brent. "It's all over. Give up."

Brent smiled again at Royce and everything inside her went on full
alert. "Mitch, watch out!"

Too late. Brent was already whirling around and plunging the deadly
knife into Mitch's chest. Mitch slumped to the floor, doubled over.

Brent charged toward her, the bloody knife still in his hand. It
was no longer a question of could she kill. It was survival. He was inches from
her, the knife aimed for her heart. She squeezed the trigger and the report of
the powerful gun flung her backward.

For a second the world went black, then her vision cleared and she
realized how close he'd been when she'd fired. She was covered with blood and
hair and bits of skin. Brent had collapsed at the foot of the bed, a gaping
hole where his chest should have been.

"Mitch," she screamed, struggling to free the hand still
tied to the bed. He was lying limp in a rapidly widening pool of blood. If she
didn't get help fast, he'd die. Perhaps he was already dead.

She scanned the room for the knife and saw the force of the shot
had sent it flying to the other side. To get to it and cut herself free, she'd
have to drag the bed behind her over both men's bodies.

"The window, Royce," she cried out loud. "It's
closer."

She tugged, dragging the heavy daybed behind her, and managed to
get close enough to the window to kick out the lower pane.

"Help," she screamed, battling the sobs erupting in her
chest, hoping to get the attention of a neighbor or a passerby. "Call an
ambulance—quick."

Paul drove into Royce's driveway and heard frantic screaming.
Neighbors were rushing out of their houses, alarmed by the panicked cries. He slammed
the car into park and jumped out, the motor still running, and charged around
to the back of the house. Royce's head hung out the attic window.

"Mitch. He's dying. D-dying. Am-ambulance."

Paul had never run faster. He was back at his car in a second, the
car phone in his hand. He dialed the SWAT team's number, instructing them to
send an ambulance and their elite force.

Who knew where Brent Farenholt was? He was one of the most
dangerous men that Paul had ever met. Handsome and charming, not unlike the
serial killer Ted Bundy.

Jesus! How stupid can you be? he berated himself as he raced
around to the back of the house. Brent had been the obvious choice—once you
really thought about it. Royce was still screaming, over the edge now,
hysterical.

"Where's Brent?" Paul yelled as he ran toward the back
door.

"D-dead. Get Mitch help. Please."

"An ambulance is coming," he shouted, his shoulder to
the back door. Ajar, it instantly swung wide. He was up the stairs and in the
attic office without even knowing he'd left the kitchen.

Mitch's crumpled body was on the floor, surrounded by so much
blood that Paul's heart caught in his throat. Could Mitch possibly be alive?
Paul dropped down beside him, his knees slipping in the warm blood. He rolled Mitch
onto his back and pressed both hands on his chest to stem the flow of blood.

Royce's voice was now too calm, the voice of someone in
debilitating shock. "You can save him, can't you?"

"You bet." Paul forced a positive note into his voice.
The knife had come damn close to severing Mitch's aorta. He was
alive—barely—but losing blood at such a rapid rate that anything Paul could do
would be like trying to put out a five-alarm fire with spit.

He gazed down at Mitch and began to pray. His friend's face was
the parched white cops knew only too well. Oh, God, don't take Mitch. He hasn't
really had much of a life. He has so much to live for. So much to give.

Paul had never had a brother, not a blood relative anyway. But
Mitch had always been like a brother. As Paul looked down, his hands still
pushing on Mitch's chest, the hot blood trickling through his fingers, Paul
realized he loved Mitch. And if he lost him, his life wouldn't be the same.

Oh, he loved Val with a deep, abiding love that he had thought
he'd never experience. But, in an entirely different way, he loved Mitch too.
They understood and respected each other. If Mitch died, part of Paul would go
with him. Maybe the best part.

Mitch always challenged him to try more difficult cases and to
look into new technology. No question about it, Mitchell Durant was a special
person—particularly to Paul. For some reason he thought of a Louis L'Amour
quote: "Sometimes the most important things in a man's life are the ones
he talks about least."

Mitch didn't have to tell Paul about his past. He was his friend.
He understood.

In the distance Paul heard the forlorn wail of an ambulance, but
he wasn't certain he still felt Mitch's heart beating. With a groan of utter
despair he recalled Lolly Jenkin's words:

What am I going to do here alone without my baby?
A
wellspring of sorrow so deep, he hadn't even known it existed rose up inside
him. Now he understood exactly how Mitch's mother had felt. There were some
people in your life, your parents, your wife—a close, dear friend—who were so
special. You might genuinely mourn the loss of others, but there were certain
people who were forever in your heart.

Their death took part of you, part of your soul.

Royce's cuts had been bandaged and someone had given her clothes.
The skirt was too big, corkscrewing around her legs as she rushed into the
waiting room, but she didn't notice. She'd refused painkillers.

Mitch, she prayed, please let him live. His condition had been
critical when the trauma team wheeled him into surgery.

"Royce." Val rushed up to her and gathered her into her
arms. "I came as soon as I heard."

Over Val's shoulder Royce saw Paul. "How's Mitch?"

Paul said, "He's still in surgery. I just checked."

"That's a good sign." Val guided Royce to the sofa.

Royce sat between Val and Paul. Royce tried to listen to Val's
soothing words, but all she could see was Mitch's near-lifeless body being put
on the stretcher in her attic. At that point she'd become hysterical and
screamed over and over for the paramedics to hurry.

She was calm, now, but every bit as terrified. What if he didn't
make it? What if she never had the chance to tell him how much she loved him?

Now she knew exactly how her father had felt, how difficult it
would be to face life alone—without the person you loved so dearly. Had Mitch
forgiven her? Was that why he'd come to her home? Or had he come just because
he was so intelligent that he'd decoded her message?

She slumped back against the vinyl sofa and closed her eyes—not
because she was tired, she was running on pure adrenaline now, but because she
wanted to remember Mitch the way he'd been.

The night he'd kissed her in the dark. Yes, oh, yes, that was the
night that had changed her life forever, bringing her a love she'd only
imagined existed. And she'd gone through hell to find it. Still, she wouldn't
take back a single second of it. Getting to know him, coming to love him, had
been worth the sorrow and the pain.

Please, God, let him live.

With her eyes closed she could almost feel his strong arms around
her, the way he'd held her so many times, willing his strength into her. Be
brave, she told herself, for him. But when another two hours passed and still
there was no word, she began to tremble.

Finally a weary surgeon, his greens splattered with Mitch's blood,
shuffled into the waiting room. "He made it through surgery. He's in
intensive care right now. We'll know more by morning." He shook his head
sadly. "If he makes it through the night."

"May I stay with him?" Royce asked.

It was totally unrealistic, but she had the notion that if she
stayed with him she could will her strength, her courage, into him. And where
did that inner source of power come from? Mitch. He'd given her strength when
she'd needed it. Now it was her turn.

The surgeon led her into the intensive care unit. Mitch looked so
helpless, lying flat on his back, his powerful body covered by a white sheet.
An IV dripped a clear solution into his veins. Hanging beside it was a bag of
blood, replenishing what he'd lost in surgery. And from the knife wound she
could have prevented, if only she'd had the guts to shoot Brent when she'd
first had the chance.

If she had, Mitch wouldn't be lying here now, a jumble of wires
and tubes connecting him to a bank of beeping, blinking machines. Guardian
angels, she tried to reassure herself. Mitch had the best electronic care. And
a cadre of nurses going about their duties in white uniforms and shoes so
cushioned that their steps couldn't be heard above the machines.

"Darling, I'm here," she said softly, although she knew
he couldn't possibly hear her. The surgeon had explained Mitch was so heavily
sedated that he wouldn't regain consciousness until morning. If he lived
through the night.

She kissed his forehead, then sat in the chair beside his bed,
cradling his cold hand between both of hers. She longed to gather him in her
arms and cuddle him until he was out of danger, but she had to be content with
holding his hand, gently caressing his long fingers and planting kisses in the
center of his palm.

"Mitch," she said, convinced some corner of his mind
sensed her presence, her support, her love. "Don't give up. You can make
it. I'm sorry for what I did. Believe me, I never meant to hurt you... or your
mother. I've had a lot of time to think about your mother, and I have an
idea."

She held his hand, talking to him all through the long night.
Occasionally, the nurses interrupted to check on him, but mostly it was just
Royce sharing with Mitch her vision of their future.

At six the doctor made his rounds. He spoke with the head nurse
and consulted Mitch's chart. Finally, he told Royce, "The entire surgical
team tried our damnedest to save him. Not that we don't do our best for
everyone, but knowing how close to death Mitchell Durant was bothered everyone.
After your article we knew someone very special was in our care."

"Is he going to make it?"

"Yes, if he keeps progressing the way he has," the
doctor admitted with a shake of his head that indicated he was mystified by Mitch's
progress. "By living through the night he beat the odds. His recovery is
going to be slow. It'll take a long time."

"Don't worry. I'll take care of him. I have all the time in
the world for Mitch." She gazed fondly at him. His eyes were still closed,
his lashes casting a crescent-shaped shadow across his pale skin.