Broken Honor (15 page)

“Look out,” Amy cried, and Irish whirled to see the second man lunge at him with a knife. He twisted out of the way, and the intruder took that moment to get out the open door. Irish started after him, but the pain in his leg stopped him, that and the realization that he didn't know whether the man on the floor was dead and unable to hurt Amy.

As he stood in the door, he heard tires squeal and the roar of a car. He barely got a glimpse of a large black sedan as it sped out of the parking lot.

At least they had one of them. He turned back to Amy. She was kneeling next to her dog, who was lying unnaturally still. Her face was chalk white.

The assailant, head covered by a ski mask, lay still near the bed. Blood spilled over on the carpet. Several people were at the open door, obviously awakened by the shot from his pistol. “Call the police,” he said to one of them. “And the office.”

He went over to Amy. Her face was pale, but it was obvious that she cared more about the dog than a body in her room. Or her own shock. She wore a long shirt she apparently slept in.

He ran his hands gently over the dog. No open wounds. “What happened?”

“Bo bit one of them and he kicked Bo against the wall. He was … trying to protect me.”

Irish felt the dog's heart. It was beating. “He's alive.”

She looked at him with such fear and yet relief that his own heart nearly stopped. “I need to get him to a vet.”

“I doubt the police will let you leave,” he said. But he went to the phone and called the office. No one answered. Probably everyone was on the way to Amy's room.

He looked at the dog. Ugly as sin, but gallant. The animal stirred and whined pitifully. “I think he'll be all right,” he said, gently scratching the dog's ears. “Brave boy.”

Then Irish stooped beside the fallen assailant. No pulse here. He wanted to rip off the ski mask, but he knew the police wouldn't like that. Hell, they wouldn't like anything about this. He placed his own gun on a table.

This was going to play hell with his career. Shooting a civilian while on vacation most likely would be frowned upon.

“Sit down,” he told Amy.

Holding the dog gently, she did as he said. Silently. Questions were in her wide gray eyes.

“I followed you,” he explained gently. “I was afraid you might still be in danger.”

“I was so careful. How …?”

“I put a tracking device on your car. I imagine your … visitors did the same. I'll check it out later.”

Her gaze studied him. “That's the second time you saved my life. Thank you.”

“They might just have wanted your grandfather's papers,” he said.

“No. They thought I knew something. They.…”

He saw it in her eyes. They had meant to kill her. She'd known it.

Once again, he wanted to pull off the man's mask. Was it the one from the hospital? And why Amy? He had been the one to see the man's face.

Now they were back to the starting line. No more information, except someone very determined was after Amy. He heard the sound of sirens, then a screeching stop. Two uniformed officers moved into the room along with a suit-clad desk clerk who looked at the man on the floor with horror.

Amy stood up, still cradling the dog, who was whimpering.

“Well, damn,” one of the officers said as he saw the body on the floor. He immediately radioed for backup.

The other officer, older and obviously in charge, had his revolver out, uncertain as to who to aim it at. Irish pointed to the assailant's gun on the floor, and handed his own automatic to the officer, butt first. The policeman took Irish's automatic and left the other gun on the floor. He'd obviously been trained to leave a crime scene undisturbed.

“Two men invaded this woman's room. I heard her cry and came in. The man on the floor shot at me.”

The older man's gaze went around the room, then rested again on the fallen man. He knelt at the dead man's side and checked for a pulse, shook his head, and stood, moving just inches from Irish. “Who in the hell are you?”

Irish already had his billfold out with his credentials showing. “I'm Colonel Lucien Flaherty,” he said. “This is Miss Mallory. Amy Mallory. She was attacked in Memphis last week, and came here to relax. I came to provide some protection. I heard the dog bark and came in. Two men were attacking her.”

“Two?” the older cop said.

“One left in a dark car. Obviously someone was waiting for him.”

“A woman,” Amy said. “Middle-aged. Brown hair mixed with gray. She woke me, said she'd accidentally run into my car, and wanted to give me her insurance card. She wanted to do it now because she was leaving. When I opened the door to take it, two men pushed their way in.” She shook her head in disgust. “I should have realized. I parked several spaces down.”

“They're probably already off the island,” the officer said. “Did you see anything of the car?”

“No,” Irish said.

The manager or assistant manger or night clerk, or whoever he was, had sat down, eyeing the body with horror. “Nothing like this … has ever happened.”

The older police officer put a plastic glove on and went back to the body and pulled the mask off. He looked up at Irish and Amy. “Recognize him?”

It wasn't the same man as the one in the hospital. This one had dark hair. The other had light brown. The face was thicker, the lips thinner. “No,” Irish said, then turned to Amy. “Do you?”

She looked at the face of the dead man for several moments. Then shook her head.

The officer then looked at the clerk. “Tim, could he be a guest here?”

The white-faced clerk shook his head. “I haven't seen him before.”

Bo was trying to move in Amy's arms, but every time he did, he whimpered. Irish went over to them, and put his hand on the dog's body. He was panting hard.

“Look, Officer, we need to get this dog to the vet,” Irish said.

The older officer shook his head. “No one leaves here.”

“There could be internal injuries,” Amy said. “Please.”

“She'll be right back,” Irish interjected. “I'll stay, of course. She's the victim here, after all.”

The officer looked skeptical.

The other officer took a step forward. “I could run her over there. I'll call Stephanie on the way. She can meet us at her office.”

The older officer obviously wanted to say no, then relented after looking again at Amy's face. “You take the mutt, Richard,” said his partner. “She stays here.”

“He's terrified of strangers.”

“I'm good with animals, ma'am,” the officer said. “I'll treat him real gently.”

Obviously hesitant to delay getting him medical help, she reluctantly agreed and handed Bo to him. “His name is Bo. He's five years old and has had all his shots.”

Richard nodded, taking the dog, who yelped in dismay.

Amy leaned down. “It's okay, Bo. I'll get you soon.”

Her left hand was shaking. Irish took it in his, steadying her.

The officer named Richard left with Bo. Amy looked white and drawn, her gray eyes huge in her face. Still, she seemed uncommonly collected.

“Now we'll sit down and wait for the detectives,” the older officer said. His face changed as he followed Amy's gaze.

Irish looked down to the same spot. Blood was pooling on the floor at his feet.

“You're hurt,” Amy said.

“Ah, damn,” the policeman said. He used his radio again. “We need an ambulance. Atlantic Motel. Unit 220.” He looked disgruntled. “But no one leaves here until the detectives arrive.”

Irish shrugged. “It's just a flesh wound.”

“How do you know?”

“Otherwise I wouldn't be standing.” He tried a cocky grin. He didn't know if he succeeded; the burning was intensifying.

Still, it wasn't much compared to the hole in the man on the floor. He'd heard about elephants on the table. A dead body in the middle of the room had the same impact.

They left the county police department together. He'd spent two hours at the hospital, then joined her at the police department. He'd brushed off her worries about his wound. “Barely a scratch,” he'd said dismissively.

The sun was directly overhead. Amy thought it was rather remarkable that the sun rose as usual.

Someone had tried to kill her, and not for the first time, and yet people still walked the streets and drove their cars as if nothing had happened. Once she'd been like that. She wondered whether she would ever be again.

Irish was driving his rental car. Her car had been impounded to check for paint traces. A useless exercise, she thought. The car used by the would-be murderers was probably stolen. And her car would need repairs before she could drive it again.

“We'll get your dog, pick up your things, and find another place,” her companion said, breaking the tense silence.

“Another place?”

“An anonymous hotel. Unless you want to return to Memphis.”

She was silent. She had no idea what to do now. She thought she would be safe here. She wondered whether she would ever be safe again. She bit her lip. What did someone do when they had nowhere to go?

“I thought we would go to Washington,” he said. “The Eachans are there. So are investigators for the commission.”

“We?”

“We,” he confirmed. “I don't want to leave you alone.”

She let that idea rattle around for a moment. It had a certain appeal. But that wasn't Amy Mallory. Spontaneous. Adventurous. Running from killers with a man she barely knew. She'd spent her life trying to be safe.

“Amy?”

“I'm thinking,” she said.

“You're very appealing when you think.”

She looked at him suspiciously. He had a lazy smile. She liked that smile. She was amazed she could even think about that, and yet she had to think about something other than the events of last night. It was the only way she could keep the terror under control.

Act normal. Maybe things will become normal
.

Or would anything ever be normal again?

She thought again about his proposal. “I have to be back for my tenure hearing in two weeks.”

“I'll get you there,” he promised.

The hearing had once been the most important thing in her life. She had worked so hard for it. She'd taught at a community college for four years before finding the assistant professorship at the college, and she'd worked darn hard all these years to get her doctorate, then achieve this final step.

She couldn't give it up. But what if not giving it up meant giving up her life, instead?

Unwilling to explore that further, she changed the subject. “How does your tracer thing work?”

“It's a global positioning satellite vehicle tracking device.”

“What did the police think about that?”

“I didn't tell them,” he said wryly. “I thought it better if they thought you knew I was protecting you.”

“Will the police find it?”

“Not unless they're looking for it, and I doubt they will be. They just wanted paint.” He hesitated, then added, “They might even find a second one.”

“Those … people?” she said with an anger that sent a chill through the car.

He nodded. “It's the only way they could have found you.”

“You didn't know there was a second one in my car?”

“No,” he said. “I looked it over several times, but didn't find one. It could have been inside the trunk. Hell, it could have been anywhere.”

She read him directions to the veterinarian's office and huddled in the far corner of the front seat, tired and shaken and altogether bewildered. She didn't even protest his following her. She had not done very well on her own after all, and he had saved her life. Twice now.

What if he hadn't followed her? She didn't even want to guess.

“Your leg?” she asked.

“Nothing worth worrying about,” he said. “It took a few stitches, nothing more. The bullet barely ripped across the skin.”

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Don't be. If you hadn't elbowed that guy, I would be dead instead of him.”

She shook her head. “For some reason I'm responsible for all this. Jon. Claude. Now you.”

“Don't think that,” he said fiercely. “To be honest, I think I bear most of the responsibility.”

“You?”

“I made queries after the commission closed its investigation.”

He was trying to make her feel better. She looked over at him. Despite everything that happened last night, he looked wide awake. Competent. She flinched at the blood on his shirt and jeans. Neither of them had had a chance to clean up.

He also looked … sexy with blond stubble on his cheeks and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to bare suntanned arms. She, on the other hand, probably looked like something the cat dragged in.

He turned to look at her for a second, and she saw warmth in his eyes. And concern. For a moment, some of the chill left her.

If you hadn't elbowed that guy, I would be dead instead of him
.

At least she had done
something. And someone is dead because of it
, another voice interrupted. Not good, despite the fact he was one of the bad guys. Her pacifist mother had indoctrinated her better than she'd thought.

So many conflicting feelings. So many of her values torn asunder.

“Amy?”

“I'm all right,” she said, then realized she was hugging herself tightly.

He reached out and touched her gently. “I'm sorry. You're not used to this.”

“How do you ever get used to it?”

He chuckled. “I suppose you don't.”

She remembered what he had told her about his last posting. “What was the CID doing in Kosovo?”

“Trying to collect weapons and keep them safe,” he said. “An exercise in futility.”