With Deadly Intent (31 page)

A sound off to the right. She crouched and crept forward, her pistol ready. A swish of
cloth and a board smashed across her outstretched arms. Her gun flew out of her hands
and clattered off in the darkness. Colored disks spun behind her lids, and she bent half
over, grinding torment pulsating from wrist to elbow.

“Gotcha now, bitch.”

His words sent shivers along her spine. His voice was muffled, making it impossible for
her to tell whether she'd heard it before.

She peered around for something to use as a weapon. “It isn't over yet.”

Shrill laughter greeted her challenge. “For you it is.” He leaped at her from the
shadows. A ski mask covered his face and he wielded a sharp pointed pole.

Step by step, he drove her farther into the building's dim recesses where thin slats of
light wriggled through roof and wall crevices. She glanced behind her, searching for an
escape route and glimpsed open water between sections of missing planks. She tripped,
and flung herself to one side barely escaping the wicked tip of the sniper's pike.

“That's it, crawl, you filthy bitch. I'll teach you. I'll teach you good.” His right arm
hung at his side, but he thrust the pole repeatedly with his left.

A few more yards and she'd reach a two foot wide gap in the flooring. Beneath her feet,
she felt the smash of waves on the pilings and smelled the salt brine. She shivered.
Where was Simon? He should have gotten to the warehouse by now.

The man came at her again, forced her back until she teetered on a plank edging the span
of open water. “Bye bye, A-a-a—meee.” He drew back the pike as if it were a javelin.

“Simon,” she shouted in a joyous tone as if he were really there. “I thought you'd never
get here.”

The man spun around. The instant he took his attention off her, she turned and jumped
with all her strength. On the far side of the open water, she righted herself in time to
see her attacker go head first into the bay.

Simon stood opposite her, gripping the barrel of the rifle as if it were a baseball bat.
“You okay?”

“I'll survive.”

He yanked off his clothes and his one shoe. Following his lead, she shed her jacket,
jeans, and sneakers. Pain shot up her arms when she tried to unbutton her shirt, so she
left it on.

“Stay here,” he said. “I'll go after him.”

“No.” She poised on the splintery brink. “We'll get only one chance. If we don't find
him, he's a goner.”

She took several fast breaths and plunged into the inky depths at the same instant as
Simon. Raw, frigid water enveloped her like an ice sheath. Blessedly it deadened the
ache in her forearms so she could swim.

Shafts of light slanted along the water, glimmering on swells that humped and heaved like
ravaging killer whales. No sign of the man. She dove and cast about with hands and feet,
shuddering when slimy ribbons of kelp wrapped around her legs. She hastened up for a
quick gulp of air and heard Simon calling her name.

When she answered, he said, “One more time, and that's it. Okay?”

She heard a splash. “He's over here, Simon.” She headed for the struggling man who clung
to a loose board. As soon as she got near him, he let go and grabbed for her. She back
peddled, but he caught a handful of her shirt and the weight of him pulled her under.

Down, down, down they sank in the pitch black darkness. Striking out at him with her
feet, she frantically tugged at her shirt to get it off. Air. She had to have air. With
a last wrench she tore free of the cloth and fought her way to the surface.

“Simon,” she gasped. “Help me.” Her attacker seized her foot and pulled her under again.
She beat on him, but couldn't loosen his grip. Her strength ebbed and an overwhelming
lethargy took its place.
No use. No use.

Suddenly, Simon was at her side. He grabbed the man, and shoved her topside. She
struggled upward, burst into the open, and gulped in air. A large piece of debris
smacked her in the head. She snatched it and held on with half-frozen fingers.

Simon broke the surface a few feet away and towed the man's limp body toward her “Work
your way to the side of the pier. Should be a ladder somewhere.”

One of her hands slipped off the knobby chunk of styrofoam. “I can't make it.”

He treaded water next to her. “Yes, you can. You've got a job to finish. Now go.” She
didn't move. “Damn you, Amy. Get your ass in gear.” He prodded her in the ribs. “Now!”

In her befogged mind, she knew he'd sacrifice the sniper if she had to have his help. She
moved her feet to propel herself forward, but the pier's edge seemed so far away. She
couldn't go on—she must rest—only Simon wouldn't let her. Shouting and cursing, he drove
her ahead of him until they reached a wooden ladder.

He yanked off the sniper's tie, fastened one end to the man's wrist, and the other to the
top rung of the ladder. “That'll hold his head above water.” He put his arm around Amy's
waist. “Just a little farther, love.”

He urged her upward. When they stood on the wharf, he hugged her fiercely before he lay
her down on the deck. “I'll get our clothes,” he said, and rushed away.

The harsh phenolic odor of the creosoted planks cleared her head and made her conscious
of splinters pricking her skin. She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Chills
shook her body so violently they wrenched her bones.

A few minutes later, Simon returned. He helped her into her clothes, zipped up her
jacket, and draped his coat around her shoulders. “Feel up to helping me land our fish?”

“I'll do my best,” she said through chattering teeth.

Simon climbed back into the water. With him lifting from one end and her helping from the
other, they got the man onto the wharf.

Simon yanked off the man's ski mask. “Damn, it's too dark to see the bastard's face.” He
swore again and started pulling on his clothes.

While she waited for him to get dressed, Amy felt for the sniper's pulse. To her
surprise, it proved to be fairly steady.

Simon tucked his shirt into his jeans and took hold of the man's shoulders. “Think you
can handle his feet?”

“I'll try.” If her arms stayed numb a little bit longer, she'd be able to make it. She
grabbed the man's ankles. “Ok, let's roll.”

When they finally lowered him to the sidewalk in front of the warehouse, she squatted
beside him. “It's Darryl, the pet shop clerk!” She remembered the sports car. “Holy
mackerel, Simon, this could be Roger Norman.”

“Rotten bastard! He could have drowned you.” He glanced around him. “Soon as I find
something to tie him with, I'll call 911. Where's your pistol?”

“Somewhere inside the warehouse. He knocked it out of my hands.”

“Damn, we could use it right now.”

“Sorry, I goofed up.”

He brushed his fingers along her cheek. “Can you watch him while I look for some rope?”

She took his coat from around her shoulders and handed it to him. “Sure. With a wounded
right shoulder, and possible hypothermia, he's not apt to be too frisky.”

Simon unwound the broken chain from the warehouse door handle and lay it beside her. “If
he tries to get away, hit him.” Before entering the building, he looked back over his
shoulder. “Don't take any chances.”

“Don't worry.” She bent to check Darryl's pulse again. It seemed a bit fainter, but with
her cold fingers, she couldn't be certain.

An icy gust tumbled paper cups along the curb and spurred her to action. The wind and the
man's sodden clothing increased his chances of hypothermia. If she wanted to keep him
alive, she'd have to get his wet things off. Maybe Simon would be able to find some sort
of dry covering.

She forced a leather button on his sports jacket through a button hole and pain shot up
her left arm. She gritted her teeth and continued until the buttons were free.

She pulled the sides of the sports jacket away from him. The unusual weight of the fabric
puzzled her, but she didn't take time to dwell on it. She'd worked his arms free and
started on his shirt when Simon returned.

“I found a piece of fish line. It isn't much, but it'll have to do.”

“Give me another few minutes. I want to check his wound and get some of this wet stuff
off him before he—” Suddenly, Darryl reared up, grabbed a handful of her hair and
scrambled to his feet, pulling her flailing and kicking with him.

Simon snatched up the piece of chain and started toward them. “Let go of her.”

“Drop it!” Darryl whipped a knife from his clothing and held it to her throat. “One wrong
move and she dies right here.”

Simon opened his hand and the chain clanked on the sidewalk. “You hurt her, you
sonuvabitch, and I'll kill you.”

A wild laugh bubbled out of Darryl's mouth. He thrust the knife up under her chin,
piercing the skin. She cried out and felt a warm trickle of blood run down her neck. She
held herself stock-still. Of all the stupid amateurish stunts, she hadn't even searched
the man for a weapon.

Simon's features went taut. “Leave her be, damn you. I'm the one you want.”

Another weird scale-climbing laugh gushed from Darryl's throat. “A lot you know.” A spasm
went through him and the pressure of the knife he held in his right hand lessened.

Nerves and adrenalin speeded Amy's heart. Soon, the cold water's temporary anesthetic
effect would leave his wounded arm. A slim chance, but enough of one to give her hope.

He drew in a labored breath, groaned, and shoved her forward. “We're gonna use your car.”
He jerked his head at Simon. “Pick up my coat and walk ahead of us. Get cute and"—he
took another ragged breath—"and she's had it. Got that?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Simon's gaze met Amy's and he made an almost imperceptible nod, she
answered the silent signal in kind. He lifted the clerk's sport jacket. “Good Lord, no
wonder you damn near drowned.”

“Move it, or I'll cut her again.”

Simon uttered a guttural sound, strode across Alaskan Way and up the paved slope toward
the Hillclimb. Amy and Darryl followed close behind him. As they started up the steps,
the clerk let out a snuffling moan interspersed with the foulest expletives Amy had ever
heard.

On the first level, Amy thought she saw a movement among the shrubbery, but didn't dare
interrupt her concentration. If her captor weakened or made a mistake, she must be
ready—her life and Simon's depended on it.

They moved past the office of Olson/Walker Architects and began the next ascent. “You
okay, Amy?” Simon asked, stressing “okay.”

“Just call me superwoman.” She tensed and estimated the distance between herself and
Darryl.

“Don't move or I'll shoot!” The command came from above and below them at almost the same
instant.

Amy stood stock still for a millisecond, then both she and Simon went into action. She
rammed her elbow into Darryl's midriff at the same moment Simon swung the coat. It
smacked Darryl's wounded shoulder. He howled, dropped his knife, and fell to his knees.

Simon grasped him around the neck and yanked him to his feet. “You've had a field day,
haven't you?” He twisted the man's arm behind his back. “Now, let's see how
you
like it.”

“Freeze mister, or I'll blow your head off.” A cop who looked to be at least six foot
five, motioned Amy over to Simon's side with his gun barrel. “Who are you people and
what the hell are you up to?”

“Dr. Amy Prescott,” she said and showed him her I.D. “I'm working on a case.”

“And you?” he asked, indicating Simon.

Simon tightened his hold on his captive's arm and the man let out an earsplitting yowl.
“Pipe down,” he said and turned to the police officer. “I'm Simon Kittredge,
investigative reporter for
Global News."

“Shee-it.” The big cop hunched his shoulders—a maneuver that made him look even bigger.
“A couple of lone rangers. That's all we need. Pat 'em down, Valdez.”

A round-faced, stockily built young man stepped out of the shadows, went over their
clothing and extracted Simon's wallet.

“Checks out, Ballantine,” Officer Valdez said. “She's packing a holster, but her weapon's
missing.”

“You the one doing all the shooting people are complaining about?” Officer Ballantine
asked.

“Some of it,” Amy said. She pointed to Darryl. “He ambushed us and—” She peered at the
man and moved in for a closer look. “Good grief, Simon, he's wearing colored contacts.
One of his eyes is blue, the other is brown.”

“What?” Simon swung Darryl around and bent to get a better look.

“You dirty, whore-hopping bastard,” the man screamed. He spit at Simon. “It would a
worked.” The timbre of his voice rose higher with each word. “I'd a got him. I'd a got
him good, if you and that smart-assed bitch had a kept your noses out.”

Simon stared open mouthed. “Oh ... my ... God!”

Officer Ballantine planted himself in front of Simon and his blubbering prisoner. “Who's
the guy and what's his beef?”

“Correction, Officer Ballantine,” Simon said. “People aren't always what they appear to
be.” He leaned over and peeled off the clerk's beard and mustache. “See?”

“Kee—rist,” Officer Valdez breathed. “He's a woman.”

Ignoring the clerk's sputtering stream of obscenities, Simon continued. “This
gutter-mouthed lady is Mona Sanders, alias Elise Dorset, alias Roger Norman. She's a
suspect in a homicide, an attempted homicide and a hit-and-run. She's also an escaped
mental patient from Marchmont Hospital for the criminally insane.”

Amy stood as if stunned. The woman they'd known as Elise hadn't been killed by anyone.
The whole thing had been a hoax to trap Oren. “Why did you do it?” she cried. “What did
Oren do to make you despise him so?”