With Deadly Intent (25 page)

She willed steadiness into her voice. “I'll make it.” Quaking inside, she picked up the
hose and sent a blast of frigid water along the pathway to the stairs. Back and forth.
Back and forth. Uncertainty gnawed at her. Was Simon right about the temperature? The
hot water had worked on the cobra.

Soon as she turned off the water, the formidable whirring took over. The noise
reverberated off the walls until she couldn't tell from which direction it came. White
naked terror gripping her chest, she put one leg over the edge of the pit.

Simon clutched her shirt. “Don't. You won't have a chance.”

She freed herself and raced for the stairs. As each foot touched down, she expected fangs
to jab her leg.
Simon will die if I don't make it.
Something glanced off the
water-soaked leg of her jeans. Adrenalin pumping, she leaped, and leaped again. Where
the hell was she? A board caught her across the shins and she fell forward.

“Simon ... Simon, I found the stairs.” She rubbed a throbbing shin bone.

His sigh filtered through the gloom. “Be ... careful.”

She took a deep breath, held it for a couple of seconds, then slowly exhaled. She made
her voice light. “You hold the fort. I'll be back soon.” Her wet shoes squishing with
every step, she clambered upward and took hold of the door knob. Had the killer put
snakes in other parts of the house?

She felt around for a broom she sometimes kept in a corner and found nothing. Seconds
sped by. Time wasted she didn't have to spare. She pulled the door open, sped to the
kitchen, found a candle and a match. Light at last. She scanned the floor and sucked in
a relieved breath. Safe—for now.

Oren could get to me cottage in ten minutes. She'd alert her father, have him contact
Oren while she gathered some flashlights. Between the two of them, they could get Simon
to safety.

She lifted the receiver of the intercom and pushed the button. Dead. Her inner trembling
began again.
Keep going. Don't think.

She fitted the candle into a holder. With it in one hand and a push broom in the other,
she inched into the living room. The phone on the desk had no dial tone. She flung it
from her. “Bastard. Dirty, rotten, sadistic bastard.”

Seething with fury, she surveyed the room. No snakes, at least none in sight. She set the
broom where she could get at it easily, took the poker from its stand and hurried up the
stairs. In her night stand was a flashlight with fresh batteries.

She entered her bedroom, set the candle holder on the dresser and happened to glance in
the mirror. A scream tore from her throat.

A gray sinuous ribbon rose slowly from the middle of her bed. The cobra swayed, his black
eyes gleaming in the candle light. He hissed, flared his hood, drew back his head.

She let out a howl of rage and swung the poker. The iron rod struck the snake broadside,
flinging it against the wall. The cobra's body landed with a plop, slid to the floor and
lay still. She resisted an urge to pound it to a bloody pulp.

Snatching up the flashlight, she ran down the stairs and out to the ship's locker on the
back porch. Glory. Glory. Two torches. Their batteries were a little weak but they were
usable. She put them in a sack.

With the sack in one hand and a broom in the other, she rushed back to the basement
stairway. She positioned the torches to light the floor below and a shudder ran through
her. A dozen snakes slithered between her and the pit.

Minutes crept by. How long had Simon had the venom in his system? Her pulse speeded up
another notch. “I'm coming over.”

He lifted his head. “Forget it. There's no way.”

She grabbed the push broom. “Oh, yes, there is. I'm going to make one.” Talking
continuously, she started across. “You underestimate me.” She shoved a sleek sidewinder
aside. “When I get mad, I'm the fiercest damned woman you ever saw, fella, and"—she gave
another a shove before it could strike—"and don't you ever forget it.” She sprang in
beside him. “See, I made it.”

He clasped her in a weak embrace. “Amy, love...” He took a breath. “I don't think I'm ...
going to get out of this one.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” She got her arms around him. “You and I are bailing out of this snake
pit.”

“My legs won't work.”

A dark, panicky anguish filled her. “Yes, they will.” She heaved him upward and he slid
back.
Dear God he has to be able to walk. I can't drag him.
She tried again and
failed. A whirring noise near the pit froze her, but only for a millisecond. A lusty
clout from the broom sent it flying.

Now. Right now, or never. She wet the tea towel she'd snatched up in the kitchen, folded
it and tied it over Simon's eyes. “We're going for it, Simon.” She got him over the side
and tried to get him on his feet.

“Can't ... make...”

“Yes you can.” She hooked her hands under his arms and began to drag him. Midway a
movement at the broken window brought her up short.

Simon went taut in her grasp. “What is it?”

“Marcus. Oh, Simon, his head's all bloody.” The Manx sprang to a shelf, sat there
growling for a moment, then crept out of sight.

She returned to her task of moving him along a few feet at a time. “Won't be long now.
We're almost to the stairs.” A snake wriggled from beneath the bottom step. Before she
could move, the rattler coiled and reared its body!

At the same instant a ball of yellow fury leaped out of the shadows. The two animals
blurred together in a snarling mass of tawny fur and writhing serpent. Gripping the huge
diamondback just behind its head, Marcus repeatedly clawed the fat, undulating coils
with his powerful back legs.

When the snake finally went limp, the cat rumbled deep in his chest and took a last
baleful look around. Satisfied, he dragged his prey into a corner.

Simon lurched to his knees. “What's going on, Amy? Are you all right?”

She drew in a shaky breath. “Marcus got the rattler.”

“Thank God.” He sagged against her.

She urged him forward. “We've got it made now.” He managed to creep up the stairs one at
a time, but collapsed at the top.

Fear gripped her. He couldn't die. “You hang on. You hear?” Grabbing his arms, she
dragged him out onto the front porch, ran back inside for blankets, and tucked them
around him.

Simon groaned through clenched teeth and yanked at the cloth over his eyes.

She gripped his hand. “I'll get help.”

She rushed up the slope, tripped over a root, fell sprawling, scrambled to her feet and
hurried on. When she reached her father's house, she raced into the living room and
jerked the receiver off the hook. The line was dead.

Dead. Just like Simon was going to be. A high, keening cry escaped her. She clapped her
hand over her mouth.
Think, you silly idiot!

The cellular phone.

She rummaged in the closet, tore open the box, dashed down the hall and burst into her
father's room. His light was on and he was sitting up in bed. “What the hell's going
on?”

“Snakes. Snakes everywhere,” she gasped. “Rattlesnakes, cobras.” She told him about
Simon.

B.J. blanched and reached for the phone she held. “I'll call the hospital. Can you set
flares for the helicopter.”

She jerked her head and turned toward the door. “Is there anything I can do for Simon?”

“Pray, Amy. Pray like hell.”

The nurse on Airlift Northwest refused to let Amy go with Simon in the helicopter.
Determined to be with him, she managed to catch the 8 p.m. ferry from Lomitas with only
minutes to spare. With fear for Simon pursuing her, she paced the windswept deck.

The minute Simon was out of danger—she fingered the holstered pistol her father had given
to her before she left—she'd find the rotten slimeball who'd done this. If Simon
died—she clutched the rail and stared into the darkness.
I can't lose him now. We've
only begun to know each other.

The instant she drove off the ferry, she floored the accelerator. Unmindful of speed
limits, she burned up the freeway during the eighty-mile drive to Seattle.

When she parked her car in the Harborview Medical Center lot, she glanced at her watch—10
p.m.—three hours since the cobra's venom had entered Simon's system. She had to learn
his condition, find out the results of his work-up, pry a prognosis out of someone.

She thought for a moment. Since she was no longer on staff here, the hospital personnel
would view her as a disruptive snooper. It'd be hours before anyone bothered to give her
a progress report. So, she'd have to use a more devious plan.

She took a rumpled lab coat from the back seat, tousled her hair a trifle more and draped
a stethoscope around her neck—now she fitted the role of a harried intern.

Inside, she didn't ask about Simon. No one, except attending physicians and accredited
personnel, gained admittance to the Intensive Care Unit. However, during her internship,
she, like the others, had learned the back stair routes.

Once on the floor, she didn't have to wonder if he was still alive. The sound of his
harsh, dry voice crying out her name filled the corridor. Her heart twisted. He'd begun
to hallucinate while they waited for the helicopter.

She saw a familiar figure coming toward her and lengthened her stride. “Cam. Cam Nguyen.”
She hugged him. “Thank God you're on duty.”

The slender, white-coated man hugged her back. “Your father called to brief us on what
happened. He said you were on your way in.” He gestured toward a door. “Kittredge's been
doing that ever since he arrived.”

She gripped his arm. “How is he?”

His expression became grave. “Neurotoxic venom can cause a multitude of problems, the
most devastating being cardiovascular changes and respiratory distress.”

The triage drilled into her during her internship took command. “Is the heart-lung
machine set up?”

“Yes, Doctor,” he said, sliding into the brisk routine they'd once had.

“Good. What about the antivenin? Has it been ordered?”

“A shipment of snakes arrived at Woodland Park Zoo last week. One of the cobras zapped a
handler.” A smile softened the tense lines of his lean, fine-boned features. “So we had
antivenin in stock.”

She slumped against the wall. “When did you administer it?”

“About two hours ago.”

She swallowed into a dry throat. “How soon do you expect to know if ... if it's going to
work?”

He peered at her from under thick, dark brows, his brown eyes soft with concern. “That's
difficult to say, Amy. It depends on his physical condition and how much venom his
system absorbed.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “And, as you know, there's always
a possibility of his being allergic to the antivenin.”

She turned her face into his shoulder. “Don't let anything happen to him. Cam. He ...
he's important to me.”

He squeezed her arm. “I'll do my best. God knows you deserve a shot at happiness.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Her lips thinned. “But I doubt if the All Mighty is keeping score.” She
flinched as Simon's voice echoed through the hall again. “Can't you sedate him?”

He blew out his breath. “With the possibility of respiratory problems facing us"—he
lifted his shoulders in a shrug—"I don't dare.”

“May I see him? Perhaps, I can get through to him and relieve his mind.”

Dr. Nguyen motioned to a nurse. “Put a chair beside Mr. Kittredge's bed.”

The nurse stiffened. “That's highly irregular, Doctor. We really can't permit—”

“Get the chair,” he said quietly. “No one in the unit can rest until he calms down.”

Amy lingered at Cam's side and he looked at her questioningly. “Something else bothering
you?”

“I'd like to keep this out of the papers.”

“Information leaks out of this place like water through a sieve, but I'll do what I can.”

“Thanks, Cam, the less the person who pulled this knows, the better.”

She opened the door and edged into the brightly lit room. Despite her familiarity with
the heart monitor's bobbing green blip and the throaty “um-m-m huff-f-f” of the
respirator, her heart still beat in heavy, apprehensive beats. I.C.U.'s gave her a
feeling of powerlessness. Here, only plastic hoses and electric cords tethered patients
to life.

She moved to where Simon lay. The color of his face matched the bandage covering his
eyes. His legs and head moved in restless torment.

As she started to lower herself onto the chair beside him, he jerked upward nearly
tearing his IV from its moorings, and cried, “He's going to strike. Amy! Amy! Oh, God
... oh, God.”

She eased him back on the pillow. “It's over, Simon.” He tensed and started to rise
again. She lowered the rail on her side, stretched her arm across his chest, and grasped
the opposite rail to hold him down. “Easy now.” With her other hand, she brushed back
his perspiration-dampened hair and stroked his forehead.

He struggled to get up. “I gotta help her.” He fell back. “Can't. Can't. Oh, Jesus God.”

She leaned over him until her breath feathered the fine hair by his ear. “I'm here Simon.
Right here beside you.” She turned him on his side, massaged the knotted muscles in his
neck, and worked her way down his back. All the while, she kept up a running patter,
telling him of the places they'd go and the things they'd do, when he got well.

By the time he finally relaxed, her hands and arms ached. She sank onto the chair,
sagging with an exhaustion so profound it penetrated to the marrow of her bones. How
long had it been since she'd had a full night's sleep? Her mind refused to calculate.

Simon stirred, murmured her name, and put out his hand. She bent over him and held his
palm against her cheek. “I'm here.”