Harrison was down on one knee between the cruiser's door and body, and he was groaning. I pushed myself to my knees, twisted around, and saw his gun on the sidewalk just beyond my feet. I lunged toward it and wrapped my fingers around the grip, then rolled away from the car. I pushed myself upright and propped my back against the retaining wall.
Harrison grunted to his feet and walked out from behind the car door, cradling his left arm against his ribs.
I raised the gun with both hands and pointed it at him.
I stared down the long black barrel and concentrated on the sight as it jumped wildly. Couldn't stop my hands from shaking. He turned sideways, and I forced myself to focus beyond the gun's sight. To focus on him.
His right arm moved.
When he turned back around, he held his hand behind his leg. I glanced at the leather sheath strapped to his belt. It was empty.
"You don't have the guts to use that," he said. "Do you, boy?"
"Don't." It came out a whisper.
He took a step forward. In my peripheral vision, I saw the flash of steel as he brought the knife around.
I squeezed the trigger.
Harrison staggered backward and collapsed against the cruiser. The door clicked shut as he slid to the ground, smearing a swath of red across the Howard County shield.
"Yes," I whispered. "I do."
I lowered my hand, and the gun clattered on the cement. Wetness soaked through my shirt. I looked at my side. Looked dispassionately at the blood seeping down a crack in the sidewalk.
Burning pain cut through me as if the thought created the reality. I leaned my head against the wall and listened to the monotonous whine as the wipers swept across the windshield. Listened to the low-pitched drone of the engine. It began to rain harder then, the drops pinging loudly on the hood. It soaked into my clothes and trickled through my hair.
I watched the rain move in sheets through the glare from the spotlight and became dizzy. Though I was sweating, I shook from the cold.
Each breath was more difficult than the last. I closed my eyes and couldn't hear anything except my pulse banging in my ears. I wondered if I would hear the last beat and realize it.
Chapter 21
I had been drifting in and out of consciousness for what seemed a very long time. I had no idea what the time was, wasn't even certain of the day.
Someone cleared his throat. I opened my eyes. Detective Ralston was standing at the foot of the bed. His suit was wrinkled, and he'd loosened his tie.
"How's Dorsett?" I said.
"Better. He regained consciousness yesterday morning."
"What about brain…"
"He'll be fine. The bullet grazed his skull. He has one hell of a headache and bruised ribs where his vest stopped the other slug, but all in all, he was damn lucky."
"Hmm." My mouth felt like cotton.
Ralston gripped the footboard with both hands. His fingers were splayed and his skin looked pale against the industrial-steel gray. He gestured to the bed and medical gadgetry. "Sorry about this."
"It wasn't your fault."
"I should have handled it differently." He glanced at the ceiling, then rubbed his face. "I shouldn't have let another night go by without setting up a detail."
I shook my head. "If I hadn't left my new number with the… guard," I blinked, "I'd be downing some Millers and watching the Orioles."
Ralston grunted.
I fingered the cotton blanket that was draped across my lap. The damn thing must have been washed about a million times.
If I had only stayed in the loft that February night. An hour earlier, an hour later, would have made all the difference in the world. Harrison might still have targeted Foxdale, but he wouldn't have cared about me. Wouldn't have become fixated.
My lungs felt as if they had collapsed into a tight ball in the center of my chest.
Ralston straightened and walked around the room. He looked at the IV bag, the monitors mounted on a trolley, the curtains that provided privacy. He briefly looked at my chart, then he dragged a chair closer to the bed and sat down. Light brown bristles darkened his chin, and his eyes were bloodshot behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
"Are you up to giving me a statement," he said, "start to finish?"
I nodded.
He had a tape recorder with him that I hadn't noticed. He checked the cassette and switched it on. "Did you see who shot Richard Harper?"
"Yes." My voice was hoarse. "Harrison did."
"Which one?"
"Oh, John."
He hesitated. "Do you know which one of them killed the guard?"
"No. Harrison," I shook my head, "I mean, John Harrison said that Robby cut the guard's throat." I swallowed. "Any word on Robby, yet?"
"No. His car's been recovered. The Virginia State Police found it disabled on 211, just west of Warrenton. What happened after you went to your friend's house?"
I told Ralston about the phone call and the rest of it, and when I was finished, I was exhausted. "I was thinking," I said. "Something Mrs. Peters mentioned. I think her husband reported Harrison. Maybe to the AHSA or-"
"The what?" Ralston said.
"American Horse Show Association. Maybe Harrison was scamming insurance companies, too, and Peters caught on. Or maybe Peters reported him to the Humane Society." I told him what Nick had said about Harrison whipping a horse.
Ralston scribbled the information down and closed his notebook. "I'll let you get some rest."
"Wait," I said as he turned to leave. "Did the horse make it back okay?"
He shook his head. "He slipped as he turned onto Rocky Ford and broke his hip. Had to be destroyed."
"Damn," I mumbled.
"I'm sorry, Steve." Ralston turned toward the door and said, more to himself than to me, "About everything."
The door swung shut and, in a moment, the resultant current of air swirl across my skin. I stared at the faded pattern in the curtain and remembered the thrill I'd felt when Chase had caught sight of that white, picket fence. I thought about the joy I'd felt flowing from his mind when faced with a fence and the torment he'd lived with otherwise. A sad, screwed up horse.
I leaned back on the pillow. More than anything, I wanted to go back to sleep. But Harrison kept getting in the way, and a hundred other things I would have just as soon forgotten.
On the sidewalk that night, as I had lain against the cold block wall, I had looked at Harrison's face after he'd died. His mouth had hung slackly open, his eyes staring blankly toward the sky. Raindrops fell on his face and trickled into his mouth, but what I remembered most was that his expression had been one of pure astonishment. His sick, perverted mind had driven him to take that last, his final, risk.
The next day, they removed another tube and moved me into a regular room. I pressed them about a release date, but they said it was still too soon to tell, so instead, I wondered when they would allow visitors. Rachel in particular.
My next visitor was not Rachel, however, but Detective Ralston.
He snagged a chair and dragged it over to the bed. "You're looking a damn sight better than the last time I saw you."
"Yeah. I can hardly wait to get out of here."
"Your doctor says you're doing well, all things considered."
"Did he say when I'd be getting out?"
He chuckled. "No. Dorsett's out of ICU."
"I know. When they wheeled him down the hall, they let him stop in for a minute."
Ralston swung the chair around backward and straddled it. "The investigation's moving along nicely. Besides what happened at Foxdale, we've linked John Harrison to the murder of James Peters and to your abduction in February. It's also looking good for connecting him with the murders of David Rowe and Larry Jacob, the two I mentioned the other night."