Damn civilians probably thought he was headed for an early dinner. The blue van sure did look like Charlie’s van, from a distance. It was following the tan Suburban with five cars between. Swinging into the right lane and then the bike path, he overtook seven cars on his left, swerved in at the van, and motioned the driver onto the median. He had two units behind him now, Wendell and Hendricks. Using his speaker, he told the van’s driver to stay put, that he was blocked in. Told him to get out of the van and stand in front of it, hands on his head. He took off as Wendell and Hendricks pulled up. He swung into the left lane and hit the gas, giving it the lights and siren, speeding after the Suburban. There was no nearby off-ramp. The five cars ahead, all in the left lane, slowed reluctantly and pulled over, and the Suburban took off like it had been standing still, straight into the pincer between two units.
Dallas pulled in behind as they forced the Suburban onto the median. He heard three shots-and saw the blue van in his mirror, careening at him from behind. The explosion of two shots from that driver’s window jerked him to attention. He hit the brakes to avoid ramming the two units, but as he turned to fire behind him, another shot exploded. He spun the wheel, wondering if he’d been hit. A jam of cars ahead. The two units and the Suburban filled the median. Two more units coming fast on the other side, pulling over to divert traffic. His shoulder wasn’t working right.
He could smell his own blood. Damn it to hell. He didn’t have time for this. Where the hell were Wendell and Hendricks? Then his radio squawked, “Officer down. Officer down,” and he knew one or both had been hit. Blood was seeping through his jacket. When he turned to look behind him, the blue van was gone. In a second he heard the siren of the EMT.
He swung out of the unit swearing as McFarland jerked the female driver out of the Suburban, and Officer Bean, standing on tiptoe, rammed the burly passenger against the vehicle, hands on the roof, Bean’s weapon jammed in the small of the guy’s back.
McFarland was cuffing the woman as she fought and screamed. She had dropped her gun, and McFarland had it safe. More sirens as two more units arrived and another EMT. Dallas’s shoulder was beginning to hurt, he couldn’t make his right hand work. Heading for the dark-haired woman as she twisted and swore, fighting her cuffs, he had to forcefully keep himself from touching her, from pounding the hell out of her. They’d damn near killed Ryan and he wanted to see them hurt, see them dead.
32
R YAN WOKE HEARING voices far away, but she couldn’t see anyone. Fuzzy voices. She was dizzy, so dizzy. Pale walls around her swimming into darkness and tilting back again. Something swung at her from nowhere, a hammer, she tried to duck, caught her breath with pain. A woman swinging a hammer, big woman, darkly clad, her voice blasting loud but then faint. Dizzy. The woman was gone. A man’s voice, blurred. “Mabel…it’s Mabel Mabel Mabel…” She was so cold, cold deep in her bones. “Stanhope studio studio studio studio…Ryan Ryan Ryan Ryan…” Ringing in her ears like diving deep underwater. Fuzzy voices all throbbing and she was falling, falling…
Then men’s voices, coming clearer. She reached up to touch them, but she couldn’t find anyone, her hand met cold metal. Metal bars…
A cell? A prison cell? Why would she be in a cell? No, it was a bed, she was under blankets in a bed. She hit out at the bars, but someone pushed her back. She tried to fight but was pushed down hard against the mattress, strong hands but gentle, easing her down. She had no strength…
She woke to a light burning, a metal lamp, and wondered why she’d been asleep when all she’d wanted was to sit up. A figure leaned over her, making her cringe.
But it was Clyde. It was all right, it was Clyde. As he smoothed her sheet and blanket, she remembered being lifted and carried. White paramedic uniforms. Everything after that seemed far away, car doors slamming, men’s urgent voices, a truck engine, lying on a cot or something, bumping along. Blackness and then bright cruel light in her eyes like a knife, and voices leaping so her head throbbed. It was still throbbing, she tried to pull away from the pain, and couldn’t.
“Be still, Ryan.” Clyde leaning over her again, his reassuring voice. “Lie still.” Again she tried to sit up, but again he held her back. “Lie still, Ryan,” he said in a no-nonsense voice. “You’re in the hospital. You’re going to be fine. You have a concussion, and you have to be still. Someone hit you with a hammer. The doctor wants you to lie still. Do you understand?”
She knew there’d been a hammer, she could hear the shattering sound when it hit her and she felt her belly twist sickly. When she moved, her head hurt bad, she guessed she’d do what Clyde told her, she really didn’t want to move. She tried to remember what had happened.
There had been trucks all around, and forklifts. And parts of little houses cut apart…the playhouses, the contest. But then she was in an empty house. How could there be green hills inside a house? Huge green hills in her face, stormy sky…Then strangers. Two men, and the tall woman. Their startled scowls at her, the woman hissing something…swinging the hammer, then another hammer came at her, the crushing thunk that sent her reeling. She remembered falling, hitting the stone floor…She looked up at Clyde. He leaned down over the bars and kissed her. “There were cats,” she said.
“Cats?”
She tried again to sit up, but he wouldn’t let her. “There were cats. I was lying on a stone floor. Cold. Cats were looking down at me. Your cat, Clyde. Joe Grey. But they…” She swallowed, her mouth dry.
He lifted her head enough to guide a bent straw to her lips. She drank, then reached her hand to feel the tightness across her forehead, to feel the thick bandage. “They were talking, Clyde. Talking.”
“Who was talking? The medics? They-”
“The cats. The cats were talking.”
Clyde smiled. “You do have a concussion.”
“I could see light in the roof. Skylights. There were huge green hills inside the room. But then when the cats came, the hills were gone. It was all stone walls. Cold. Cold stone floor, cold under me.
“I was in the Stanhope studio,” she said, looking at him more clearly. “And the three cats were there. Your cat. Wilma’s cat. The Greenlaws’ cat. Standing over me. Talking about me.”
His mouth twisted. “You had a concussion. Dr. Hamry says-”
“Talking, Clyde. I swear.” And in her head, the voices repeated themselves, Mabel Mabel Mabel Mabel…Ryan Ryan Ryan Ryan…She looked intently at him. “I swear. Cats. I heard cats talking. Something about my cell phone, and then Mabel Mabel Mabel…”
Clyde grinned. “That’ll be the day, when a cat talks. I wouldn’t want to be around to see that. I’m surprised you didn’t think Rock was there, giving the medics directions.”
“But Rock’s here,” she said, feeling the weight on her legs. “He always sleeps on my bed.” Reaching gingerly down so as not to make her head throb any worse, she felt across the covers for the big hound.
But now the weight was gone. She could feel the warm place, but no one was there. And, had that weight been heavy enough to be Rock? Was that warm patch of blanket under her hand big enough to accommodate an eighty-pound Weimaraner? She looked up at Clyde. It hurt to move her eyes. “Where’s Rock?”
“Will you lie still?” Clyde eased her back. “You’re hurting yourself. It’s dangerous to thrash around like that. The blood…”
“Where is Rock?” she whispered. Under her hand, the warm spot was already cooling.
“Rock’s at my house. He’s fine, Ryan. Feisty, and missing you.” Leaning over, he smoothed her covers again. She felt herself drifting, drifting into sleep…