False Security (36 page)

“Rachel, no!”
Mark leapt forward and stumbled. His hand flew toward the weapon. The gunshot
deafened his ears, and the back of his hand smacked against hers. The gun
jerked out of Rachel’s hand, bounced off the side of her bed, and thudded to
the carpet.

Rachel’s expressionless face
remained unchanged, as if she did not know, nor did she care that the gun left her
hand. Her large, glazed eyes remained fastened on Mark. Her lips parted, but no
words emerged.

Fear tightened Mark’s throat,
and the sound of his racing heart roared in his ears. “Rachel?”

Rachel fell, and Mark’s arms
barely reached her before she hit the ground. Donovan ran up on the other side
of her and slid his arms underneath her body. They lowered her to the floor and
she curled up on her side.

Glancing over Rachel’s body,
Mark saw no blood pouring from a gunshot wound. His eyes scanned the room, until
he saw the bullet hole in the plaster above her bed. In his peripheral vision,
Donovan rose to his feet and ran for the door, calling Paul’s name.

Satisfied she did not shoot
herself, Mark rolled her over onto her back. She was unresponsive to his questions,
and he couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. Mark placed his index and
middle fingers on her neck and tried to find a pulse.

Mark moved his fingers to
various areas on her neck. Panic swelled in his chest when he could not feel
her heartbeat under his fingertips. He gave up on her neck, and lowered his
right ear to her mouth and nose. Shallow puffs of warm air touched his skin,
and tears sprang to his eyes.

Mark brushed back the hair from
her eyes. He cupped the sides of her face and willed her to be okay. “Open your
eyes, Rachel,” he said. “Just open your eyes for me.”

Rachel laid unmoving on the
ground. Mark rubbed his hands over hers, but couldn’t warm her chilled skin.

Paul ran into the room, with
Donovan right behind him. Mark let out the breath he was holding. “She’s cold,
but she’s still breathing,” he said.

Paul knelt on the other side of
Rachel. “That’s a good sign, but we need to watch her closely in case she needs
CPR,” he said. He checked her pulse and looked up at Donovan. “Get me what’s
left of the sedative you gave her along with the syringe you used. I need you
to calculate exactly how much you gave her.”

Donovan jumped up and started
for the door.

“I also need my medical bag,”
Paul called after him.

As soon as Donovan left the room,
Mark asked, “Paul, what’s wrong with her?”

“I suspect she overdosed on the
sedative that he gave her.” He motioned to the bruises smeared across her face.
“With all she’s been through, I imagine her body couldn’t take anything else.”

Mark’s mind flashed on the image
of Rachel turning the gun on herself. She had taken all the abuse she could
stand, and the sedatives Donovan gave her wanted to finish the job.

“I know you want to be with her,
Mark,” Paul said, “but you’re the last person Donovan will want to see near her
when he gets back. Go stand against that wall, and don’t move a muscle unless I
tell you to.”

“I don’t care what anyone wants.
I’m staying with Rachel.” he said. He returned his attention to Rachel.

Paul glanced over his shoulder
at the doorway. “There’s not a whole lot we can do for her here but keep her
breathing. I don’t have anything that can help with an overdose, so we need to
get her to a hospital and fast. Donovan won’t allow that to happen. If you’re
determined to see this through, I need your help. Do exactly what I say, when I
say, no questions.”

Mark’s forehead creased.
“Whatever helps Rachel.”

“Get the blanket from her bed.
We need to keep her warm.”

Mark complied, and helped Paul
cover Rachel’s body with the comforter from her bed. The sight of her blood
against the white of the comforter did not make him feel any better about her
condition.

Donovan came back into the room
with a large medical bag. He set the supplies down between himself and Paul. He
handed Paul a bottle half-filled with liquid and a syringe. On the syringe, he
showed Paul how much of the sedative he had given Rachel, and told him she’d
had three injections since being back at the estate, in addition to the one at
her house.

“That’s way too much,” Paul
said. “She’s overdosing.” He rummaged through his medical bag. He pulled out a
packaged syringe and a small vial of medicine, and handed both to Mark. “Fill
the syringe up to the top.”

Distracted by Donovan’s
presence, Mark fumbled with opening the package around the syringe.

Donovan reached for Rachel’s
hand. “Don’t die on me, Rachel,” Donovan said, with a strained voice. “I love
you more than anything. Please don’t die on me.”

Agony ripped through Mark when
Donovan spoke those words to Rachel. It wasn’t right that Donovan was next to
her, holding her hand, coaxing her to live when he was guilty of drugging her
and causing her overdose. Hatred radiated from every part of Mark, driven by the
strong conviction that if Rachel weren’t unconscious, he would kill Donovan
with his bare hands.

“Mark,” Paul said. “I need that
syringe now.”

Mark tore his eyes away from
Donovan and stuck the needle in the vial. After liquid filled the syringe, Mark
pulled the needle out of the vial. He held the syringe out over Rachel’s body
for Paul to take.

Paul did not take the syringe.
Instead he said, “Bring it over here to me.” He rubbed an alcohol swab over the
crook of Rachel’s elbow.

Confused by Paul’s direction,
but remembering his admonishment not to ask questions, Mark got to his feet and
walked around Rachel’s body until he stood beside Paul. He held the syringe
down to Paul, but again, he did not take it from Mark’s hands.

“Donovan, I need more blankets,”
Paul said. “I don’t think this one will keep her warm enough.”

“Anything else?” Donovan asked.

“No, but please hurry.”

As Donovan stood, Paul rose to
his feet as well. Donovan took two steps toward the door and Paul pounced,
tackling him from behind. Donovan landed facedown on the floor, and Paul
covered him with his body. “Mark!” Paul shouted.

Mark understood. He rushed over
to Paul, who struggled to keep the thrashing man below him subdued. “Where do I
use it?”

“In his arm,” he said. Paul
shifted his weight, and pressed Donovan’s head into the floor with his forearm.
He used his free hand to pin Donovan’s arm to the ground.

Mark closed the needle in on the
upper part of Donovan’s arm. Paul moved again to keep Donovan’s arm from
jerking. Mark jammed the needle into Donovan’s arm through his shirt and pushed
down on the plunger. Donovan groaned, and Mark pulled the needle out.

“The gun,” Paul said. “Get the
gun.”

Mark went to where Rachel’s gun
had landed near the bed and grabbed it. He raced back to Paul.

“His head!” Paul said.

Mark panicked. “I...I can’t
shoot him.”

“Not shoot him. Hit him. Check
the safety to make sure the gun won’t fire.” At Mark’s confused look, he added,
“Red is dead.”

Mark found the safety on the
side of the gun, and flipped it so the red dot no longer showed. He looked at
Donovan’s crimson face, and anger rushed through Mark’s veins, giving him
strength to raise the gun and smash the grip against the side of Donovan’s
head. When Donovan did not stop moving, hatred drove Mark’s arm to bring the
gun down on Donovan’s skull three more times, without thought as to the
consequences of his actions.

Donovan ceased movement, and his
body slumped to the floor. Paul wriggled off Donovan and stood up.

Mark stepped back. Blood flowed
from an open wound above Donovan’s ear. “I didn’t...did I?”

“Kill him?” Paul asked. He
looked down at Donovan. “Nah. You did knock him out pretty good and that
sedative you administered will keep him out for awhile.” He walked back over to
Rachel and checked her pulse. “Donovan’s cellphone is in the pocket inside his
jacket. Get it, quick.”

Donovan’s suit jacket was on the
floor near Rachel’s bed. Mark found the cellphone right where Paul said it was,
and took it to Paul.

“Thanks,” Paul said. He pushed
some buttons on the phone and put it to his ear. “You did good, Mark. Real
good.”

Mark crouched next to Rachel.
She seemed the same, shallow breathing and pallid skin in the few spots that
weren’t covered with a bruise. Mark put his hand on her face. Her cold, clammy skin
struck Mark’s heart. “Stay with me, Rach. We’re going to get you out of this
place for good, but you have to stay with me, baby.”

Paul spoke to a 911 operator,
saying Rachel was unconscious from an overdose of sedatives, and her pulse was
weak. Mark also heard the words, “kidnap victims.”

Paul pressed a button on the
phone, disconnecting the operator. “Now, we wait. Keep her warm, and keep
checking her pulse and breathing. Do you know CPR?”

Mark had taken a class several
years ago, but didn’t remember anything from it except push on the chest and
breathe in the mouth. Guessing how to do CPR wouldn’t help Rachel, though. “I
don’t remember how to.”

“It’s okay, Mark.” Paul tossed
Mark his radio. “If her condition changes, call me on this. If she stops breathing
or her breathing slows at all, let me know and I’ll come right away to give her
CPR. I’m going to meet the ambulance and police to make sure they get let in.
The last thing we need are overzealous security guards getting into a shootout
with police.”

After Paul left, Mark crossed
his legs and settled down next to Rachel. He held her hand, and kept his eyes
glued on her face. He didn’t know what else to do but talk to her. Every so
often, he stopped talking to her to check her breathing.

He told her everything he had
ever wanted to say to her, everything she needed to hear. Most importantly, he
assured her that he wouldn’t let anything bad ever happen to her again. He
didn’t know if she could hear him, but he hoped by telling her she still had
something worth living for, it would help her survive.

Mark leaned over to get a closer
look at Rachel. Her lips took on a bluish tint that stood out against her pale
skin. He knew that meant she wasn’t getting enough oxygen, but he didn’t know
how to help her.

As Mark reached for the radio to
call Paul, the pounding of footfalls grew louder in the hallway outside her
door. Paul rushed into Rachel’s room followed by paramedics. Mark forced
himself to move away from Rachel. The paramedics went to work, checking her vital
signs and asking Paul questions about her overdose and medical history. Two
other paramedics simultaneously worked on Donovan. Mark wanted to tell them not
to bother.

Five police officers filed into
the room. They honed in on Mark and Paul with guns drawn. Mark lifted his hands
in response to the guns pointed at him.

One of the officers hovered over
the paramedics. “What’s the situation here?” he asked.

A paramedic stood up and faced
the officer. “She’s overdosed, apparently on sedatives. She’s also taken quite
a beating.” He pointed at Paul. “That one says she was kidnapped.”

“This is a medical emergency,”
one of the paramedics kneeling over Rachel said. “There are too many people in
this room. You need to take this outside, now.”

One of the officers in front of
Mark held his gun steady on Mark’s chest. “Turn around and get against the
wall, now. Put your hands high up on the wall.”

Mark raised his hands above his
head. When he finished turning toward the wall, one of the officers ran his
hands over his body to search for weapons, while the other officer recited the
Miranda warning. The officer pulled down Mark’s arms one at a time. Cold steel
clamped down on his wrists, and shock waves rippled through his body.

As the officer rotated Mark back
around, Paul protested, “You don’t have to arrest him. He was kidnapped with
the girl.”

Mark ignored the rest of the
argument between Paul and the officers. He focused instead on the paramedics.
Frustration bubbled inside him as he tried to translate the terms and lingo
they threw around.

The officer gripping Mark’s arm
tugged him in the direction of the door. As they neared the door, a paramedic
announced Rachel stopped breathing and they were starting CPR.

Mark struggled against the
officer that led him away. “Rachel!” Mark continued fighting against the
policeman to watch the paramedics work to revive Rachel. Another officer
grabbed Mark and helped the first officer drag Mark from the room.

Mark jerked
awake. Though his eyes were open, the images from the final scene at the estate
continued playing on a screen behind his eyes. It had been another sleepless
night, having drifted off two or three times, only to be woken by nightmares.

His reluctant body climbed out
of bed, and he wished he could grab one more hour of sleep. He knew it would do
no good to close his eyes again. Sleep would continue eluding him, as it had
ever since he left the estate in the back of a police car five days ago.

He stretched and tried to shake
away the drowsiness, but ended up moaning with pain. His hand reached for the
bruise that covered most of his left side. The doctor at the hospital said he
was lucky none of the three broken ribs punctured his lung, although the x-rays
showed two of them came close.

Mark shook off the pain and
picked up the remote control to mute the television he left on all night. He
showered and dressed, every mundane movement now arduous and insignificant.
After he tied his tennis shoes, he went to the small table by the window and
used the motel phone to call a taxi.

He sat back down on the edge of
the bed and stared at the silent pictures of the morning news broadcast. His
obstinate body resisted movement, exhaustion reaching into his joints and
gripping them like a vise.

A picture of Jonathan Thomas
flashed in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Mark picked up the remote
from the bedside table and pressed the up arrow for the volume.

“...story we have been following
very closely. We recently reported on the three year anniversary of the
unsolved murder of prominent businessman Jonathan Thomas...”

Another name Mark never wanted
to hear again. Why couldn’t the media give it a rest? The man was dead and they
acted like he was a saint.

Mark turned off the television
and tossed the remote on the bed. He stifled his thoughts, knowing that being
jealous of a dead man was more than ridiculous. Jonathan had done nothing but
try to help Rachel when he was alive. His conflicting thoughts about Jonathan
originated from his own personal desire to keep her safe, something he was
unable to do.

At the table, he picked up the
telephone receiver again and dialed. Greg answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Mark said.

“How are you? Anna’s worried
about you.”

“Tell her to stop worrying.”

“I’m worried, too, and so is
James, and everyone else here. Did you finally sleep last night?”

“Not much.”

“You’re going to make yourself
sick. With those broken ribs, you need to take it easy so you can heal. You
should take something to help you sleep.”

The last thing Mark wanted was a
sedative, at least not while the image of paramedics working on Rachel still
lingered in his mind. He even refused a prescription for pain medication,
despite his broken ribs making every breath and every movement a painful chore.

“I’ll be fine,” Mark said into
the phone. “Stop being so overprotective.”

“It’s my job. Do you have enough
clothes? Do you need me to wire you more money? You should probably get one of
those disposable cellphones to use until you get home.”

Even though Greg meant well, his
words reminded Mark of his helpless state. “I have plenty of clothes, and no
need for more money or a disposable cellphone. You wired more than enough for
food and clothes, and you’re already paying for the motel room. You and Anna
have done way too much, and I’ll pay you back every dime as soon as I get
home.”

“The only way you’re paying us
back is by coming home safe,” Greg said. “When is the memorial service?”

Mark bowed his head and covered
his eyes with his hand. “Tuesday morning.”

“So you’ll be back in Wichita by
then?”

“Yeah,” he replied. He pulled
back the dusty, motel colored curtain and peered outside. His taxi waited by
the curb in front of the motel’s lobby. “I have to go.”

“Call me later tonight and we
can talk some more. If there’s anything you need in the meantime, let Anna and
I know. We’re here for you.”

“Thanks, Greg.” Mark replaced
the handset in the cradle and shoved the keycard to his motel room in his front
pocket. He picked up a small gift bag from the table, and left the room. He
double-checked the door to make sure it was locked.

Mark slid into the backseat of
the taxi. Pulling the door shut took more strength than he had. He melted into
a seat laced with the scent of too many passengers and not enough cleanings.
Sunlight streamed through the window and a small rainbow appeared by his hand,
but he was uninterested in anything nature had to offer. The sun was a
distraction, a disturbance. It tried make him appreciate the warmth that could heat
his skin, but could never reach his soul.

The taxi reached its
predetermined destination. Mark handed cash to the driver and told him to keep
the change. He maneuvered through the rotating door and walked a short distance
to the elevators. Mark punched the up arrow and waited, grateful no one else
wanted a ride. He studied the scuff marks on his tennis shoes until he heard
the ding of the arriving transport.

Mark held his breath with
apprehension, and the elevator doors creaked shut after him. The tight confines
of elevators never bothered him before he was locked in the room at the estate.
To help stop the walls from closing in while the elevator shuddered up five
floors, he kept his eyes glued to the inspection certificate.

The sudden halt of the cab jolted
him. The doors opened, revealing a small group of people waiting to get in the
elevator. Realizing his luck at not having to share the elevator with so many
people, Mark promised himself he would take the stairs on the way back down.

An older woman in navy blue
scrubs greeted Mark when he neared the nurses’ station. He recognized her kind
face, but couldn’t seem to remember her name. “There you are,” she said with a
smile. “She asked about you earlier, but I think she’s sleeping now. Such a
sweet girl.”

“She is,” he said. “Thank you.”
A second wind surged through his body, and he picked up his speed down the
tiled hallway toward room 527. He acknowledged the FBI agent sitting outside
the hospital room door, the same one who had worked the morning shift for the
past three days. Mark closed the door behind him and crept over to the bed. As
the nurse said, Rachel was sleeping.

The quiet beeps of the machines
attached to her reminded him that she would be fine. Even the overwhelming odor
of antiseptic comforted him. A clear bandage on the back of her hand held in
the needle of an IV, and he glanced at it to make sure the needle was still in
place, the same as he did every morning.

His eyes followed the tubing up
to three bags hanging from the IV pole. Each bag dripped at various speeds,
delivering measured doses of medication to her broken body. They would soon be
removed one by one, as the hospital staff prepared to discharge her from their
care.

Mark lifted a visitor’s chair
and situated it next to the bed at an angle where he could best see her. He set
the gift bag on the floor next to the bed, and collapsed in the chair. Ignoring
the sharp pain in his side, he leaned forward and brushed a stray hair out of
her face.

After five days, he finally saw
an improvement in her appearance. Multiple bruises were still scattered across
her face, but the blues and purples were fading into greens and yellows. The
swelling appeared to be reduced on the right side of her mouth, and the split
in her bottom lip had almost healed.

To Mark, she never looked more
beautiful.

She was alive.

Having watched her sleep so much
over the past few days, Mark had more than enough time to run what happened to
them through his mind. More than once, he was left with the harrowing thought
that Rachel tried to kill herself. If he had been the slightest bit slower in
reaching her and the gun, she would have succeeded. The only thing that helped
was knowing she was drugged at the time, and not in complete control of her
thoughts and actions.

When Rachel’s physical condition
stabilized after two days in the ICU, she moved into a private room in the
oncology unit. Agent Eli Jackson, the FBI agent in charge of their case,
determined it was best to keep her in an area where no one would think to find
her. There was a short list of nurses and doctors allowed in her room, and
deviation from that list was not tolerated for any reason.

Agent Jackson didn’t anticipate
any problems, but he made it clear he would not take chances. Besides the
constant FBI presence outside her room, two FBI agents stayed in the motel room
next to Mark’s. His room was wired so they could listen in around the clock,
and he was monitored from afar by another two agents at all times. Other
plainclothes agents took turns wandering the main floor and parking structure
of the hospital, watching for anything out of the ordinary.

Mark ignored the FBI’s necessary
intrusion on their lives. He spent every waking hour with Rachel, and stayed
with her well beyond visiting hours. Had he been able to spend each night in
her room on a cot, he would have done so, but her doctors advised against it.
They wanted her to get lots of rest so she could heal.

As her body started bouncing
back, the deep emotional damage surfaced. Because she was drugged at the time
she tried to kill herself, her primary doctor did not require her to stay in
the psychiatric unit. Instead, he insisted she speak to a psychologist during
her hospital stay. Rachel refused to talk to anyone alone, and Mark listened
for hours as she reluctantly described years of abuse to the psychologist.

The stories of what she went
through devastated Mark. He never allowed himself to break down in front of
her, but after she talked about the whip for the first time, he retreated to
his motel room and cried. As she relayed those four years of her life, he
thought about what he had been doing with his own life while she was suffering.
He wished he knew she was out there so he could have saved her back then.

Having known nothing different,
Rachel struggled with thinking of herself as a victim. From working at domestic
violence shelters, she knew all the terminology, yet she never applied any of
it to herself. Until the time she met Mark, she believed she deserved
everything that had happened to her. Their relationship gave her a different
perspective on what love was supposed to be, but to a certain extent, she still
thought she received just punishment.

The scars on her back were the
most difficult for her to discuss. Learning the scars would never disappear was
a source of great anguish, and she expressed that Mark wouldn’t want her since
she had been branded by another man. While the psychologist worked to help her
understand the scars were not a symbol of ownership, all Mark could do was hold
her hand and assure her that he wasn’t leaving, no matter what scars she had.

After several hours of talking
to the psychologist over the course of two days, the psychologist walked with
Mark to get some coffee. She explained Rachel would quite possibly need years
of counseling to help her sort through both what had been done to her and the
things she had done. That Rachel didn’t want to talk to anyone without Mark
present made the psychologist believe that he was the most important part of
her recovery. Rachel already associated him with a healthy relationship, with
love and happiness.

The road ahead would be more
than difficult, but as Mark listened to her controlled breathing while she
peacefully slept, he knew he would do whatever it took to save her. He kissed
her forehead, held her hand, and waited for her to wake up.