Wounds (41 page)

Finch laughed. Ellis turned.

“You are no match for us, woman.” He towered over her. “I will kill you like we did your sister.”

“
Help . . . my . . . sister.”

Ellis looked at the door.

There was a pounding in his ears.
Thumpa, thumpa.

Finch laughed. Hideous. Demonic. Cold and terrifying.

Ellis's gaze fell on Carmen. Lovely and brave. Defiant in the face of death. Willing to sacrifice herself for her dead sister, for the women in the room, for Templeton, for the families of the victims and—dear God, for him.

He forced his eyes away and continued to back up.

Thumpa, thumpa.

A glint caught his attention. A sparkle of light from the razor wire crown of thorns. Then he saw the purple cloth, the rods, the whip. Then the cross—the very symbol of sacrifice, of one man dying for the many.

Ellis shook his head.
Run!
He started for the door, then stopped. Carmen screamed.

“No . . . no . . . not this . . . time.” Ellis could barely recognize his own whispered voice.

Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa.
The walls shook.

Ellis ran. Not to the door, but straight at Finch. He sprinted, pushing his legs as never before, then he lowered his head just as Finch raised a booted foot over Carmen's face. Finch spewed cruelties as he brought the foot down.

It never landed. Ellis hit the behemoth full force in the middle of the back. Pain fired down Ellis's shoulder and into his back. He didn't care. He was beyond caring.

The force of the impact drove Ellis and Finch forward, tumbling until they struck the workbench, sending the items on its used and scarred surface to the floor. Ellis landed hard, his bound hands useless in breaking the fall. He couldn't draw a breath.

Finch bellowed, angry and pained, and bolted to his feet. He picked Ellis up, steadied him with his left hand then drove his fist into Ellis's stomach. The shock and pain were indescribable. Ellis buckled. He was barely conscious when he landed on the cold floor. One kick followed another. He had just enough mind left to think of the battered corpses he had seen.

Thumpa.
Such a familiar sound. He wondered what it was as darkness ebbed and flowed in his eyes.

Finch screamed. Ellis looked up to see Carmen on her feet using the only weapons available to her: her feet. She drove a foot into Finch's knee making it buckle. The man staggered to the side.

He shouted at her, fire on his lips, his words rolling through the building.

The names he called her . . .

The fury he displayed . . .

The hatred in his wide eyes . . .

Carmen raised her head. “Bring it, Finch. I've been dreaming of this for twenty-eight years. C'mon! I got more for you! I got something from Shelly just for
you.
”

Finch bellowed and moved forward like a train gaining speed for a hill. Carmen tried to kick again, but her injured body betrayed her. Blood poured from her nose and her mouth. Fury blazed from her eyes.

The attempted kick made her unstable. Finch felled her with one blow, a blow that landed in the middle of her face. She crumbled to the ground, her mouth open, gasping for air like a fish on a pier. The sight of the cruelty empowered Ellis. He scrambled to his feet, staggered for a moment, then stumbled forward. He didn't have the speed or the strength of his last attack. He would never be able to move the man, so he took a cue from Carmen and aimed for the knees. His shoulder caught Finch on the side of his right leg.

Finch went down. So did Ellis. For a moment Finch rolled on the ground holding his leg. Ellis used the time to squirm toward Carmen. She teetered on the crumbling edge of unconsciousness.

“Run,” she whispered.

“No.” He turned his head to see Finch rise, limp to the items of torture scattered on the floor. He bent and picked up the whip. The cat-of-nine-tales. The man's expression had changed. He no longer looked angry. He looked pleased, happy, eager for what came next.

Ellis was spent. He was no fighter. No hero. Just a professor of New Testament studies about to die. Like an inchworm he moved to Carmen and covered her with his body.

Then he closed his eyes.

The first strike of the whip ripped through his shirt. The second laid open his back. The third hit the back of his thighs. He screamed after the first two blows. He had no more strength to scream after that.

“I'm so, so, so sorry . . .” he whispered.

A shattering bang.

Indistinct words: “Don't . . . p-lice.” Another strike and Ellis felt his heart hesitate.

A loud pop. Another. Another. Ellis caught a glimpse of Finch backpedaling, then falling on his back—across the large, wooden cross lying on the floor.

The whip never struck again.

Ellis exhaled but couldn't manage to inhale.

Blackness.

White.

Peace at last.

Epilogue

Soft lips touch his.

Vague forms hover overhead.

Indistinct voices.

Darkness.

Brighter light overhead.

He's on his right side.

Pain.

People talk. A voice comes over an intercom.

He's in a bed.

New darkness.

New light.

Ellis opened his eyes. A familiar form in a chair.

Open door.

Letters on window by door. ICU 3W.

Soft, electronic voice. “And the Padres drop their season opener to the Dodgers.”

“Figures,” he said.

Darkness again.

People near him. Talking. Someone touches his shoulder. Words. Soft. Confident.

Praying.

Someone is praying for him. Ellis opens his eyes to see two blurry figures standing there, and one in a chair.

“Last rites?”

A familiar voice chuckles. “Um, you're not Catholic.”

“Oh.” A moment later. “Hi, Dr. Bridger, Dr. Dunne.”

“Good to see you awake, Dr. Poe. You had us worried.” Bridger's image came clearer.

“It's my only skill.” He started to roll on his back, but Adam stopped him. “The doctors say you're not ready for that yet. Maybe another day or so.”

The events poured back into his mind. “Carmen! How's Carmen?”

“Ease up, Cowboy, I'm here.” The person in the chair rose. Her face was swollen, both eyes had been blackened, and a plastic splint was taped over her nose.

“You look lovely.”

“Really? Shall I get a mirror for you?”

“No.” Ellis smiled. “I've had enough . . . shock for awhile . . .

“Emotions are funny things,” Ellis said as he poked at what the nursing staff called Jell-O. “I'm happy and devastated at the same time.”

Carmen nodded. “It's how people deal with trauma. It doesn't work well. You just have to ride it out.”

“So he's dead? He's really dead?”

“Bud and Hector each put two rounds into him. Finch was as big and as strong as they come, but not even he could take four bullets in the chest and keep going.”

Ellis decided he wasn't hungry and pushed the hospital meal away. At least he could sit up now, but even the cushioned bed hurt his back. Plastic surgeons had been eyeing him like an award-winning paper in a medical journal. “What was it they used to find us?”

“FLIR. That stands for Forward Looking Infra Red. Finch had us out in the backwoods of east county. The engine of my car was still hot when they flew over. Even in a FLIR image a Crown Vic looks like a Crown Vic.”

Ellis thought about that as Carmen continued.

“Good police work saved our bacon. That and high-end technology and some luck.”

“It was probably much more than that, Detective. Much more.”

“You gonna go all spiritual on me?”

He shrugged and was surprised by how much the simple act hurt. “It's who and what I am.”

“I suppose.” She rose. “Well, you've had all of me you can take.”

“Nah, I have a high threshold for such things.”

She chuckled and walked to the door, then stopped. “Can I get you anything?” She'd asked the same thing every day of his week in the hospital.

“No, I have my books.”

She lowered her gaze then raised it again. “I've been thinking . . .” She struggled with what she wanted to say. “You saved my life.”

“Nonsense. I just distracted him so you could take your turn.”

She took a deep breath. “That's the point. I'm pretty good at handling myself, but the best I could do was annoy Finch.”

“You had your hands tied behind your back. It's hard to fight that way.”

She shook her head. “I landed some good kicks and barreled into him hard enough to cripple most people. He just popped back up madder than ever.”

“He was crazy.”

“My point is . . . Look, even if I faced off against him both hands free, I wouldn't have stood a chance.” She hesitated. “What I'm saying is this: You couldn't have stopped him back in 1985. You couldn't have saved my sister.”

“I could have reported it.”

“You've got that right, and don't think I've forgotten that you didn't. I'm not going to let that go.”