And he was out the window and clambering down the fire escape.
She rushed to Webster. His breathing was short, shallow, and the blood was coming fast from the long slice that ran from his shoulder down across his chest.
"Jesus, Jesus."
"I'm okay. Go."
"Shut up. Just shut up." She ripped out her communicator as she leaped to her feet and ran to the window. "Officer down. Officer down." She rattled off the address, scanning for Clooney. "Immediate medical assistance required this location. Officer down. Suspect fleeing on foot, heading west. Suspect is armed and dangerous. White male, sixty years."
Even as she spoke, she was shrugging out of her jacket, tearing through the apartment for towels. "Five feet, ten inches, one hundred and eighty. Gray and blue. Subject is suspect on multiple homicides. Hold on, Webster, you stupid son of a bitch. You die on me, I'm going to be supremely pissed."
"Sorry." He sucked in his breath as she ripped his shirt, pressed the folded towels over the wound. "Christ, it really hurts. What the hell kind of…" He bore down, fighting to stay conscious. "What the hell kind of knife was that?"
"How the hell should I know? A big, sharp one."
Too much blood, was all she could think. Too much blood, already soaking through the towels. It was bad. It was really bad.
"They sew you up. You'll get a goddamn commendation out of this scratch. Then you'll be able to show it off to all your women and make them giddy."
"Bullshit." He tried to smile, but he couldn't see her. The light was going gray. "He opened me up like a trout."
"Shut up. I told you to shut up."
He made a little sighing sound, then obliged her by passing out. She cradled him, sopping at blood, and listened for the sirens.
– =O=-***-=O=-
She met Whitney in the surgical waiting room. Her shirt and trousers were soaked with Webster's blood, her face pale as death.
"I screwed up. I was sure I could reason with him, that I could reach him and bring him in. Instead, he's at large and another good cop's dying."
"Webster's getting the best care available. Every one of us is responsible for himself, Dallas."
"I took him along." It could be Peabody on the operating table, she thought. Oh God, no way to win.
"He took himself along. Regardless, you've identified the suspect, and have done so through skilled investigative work. Sergeant Clooney won't be at large for long. We have an all-points. He's known. He fled with the clothes on his back. He has no funds, no resources."
"A smart cop knows how to go under. I let him go, Commander. I did not take the opportunity to take him down nor did I pursue."
"If you were again faced with making the choice of pursuing a suspect or saving a fellow officer's life, which way would you go?"
"I'd do the same thing." She looked toward the operating room. "For what it's worth."
"So would I. Lieutenant, go home. Get some sleep. You'll need all the resources of your own to finish this."
"Sir, I'd like to wait until they can tell us something on Webster."
"All right. Let's get some coffee. Can't be any worse here than it is at Central."
– =O=-***-=O=-
When she dragged herself home, her system was begging to shut down, but her mind refused. She replayed the moment in Clooney's doorway a hundred times. Had there been a flicker in his eyes, one she should have seen, responded to, an instant before the knife came up?
If Webster hadn't moved in, could she have dodged and deflected?
What was the point? she asked herself as she stepped into the house. Nothing changed.
"Eve."
Roarke came out of the parlor where he'd waited for her. She'd come home bloody before, exhausted before, and carrying a cloak of despair. Now she stood with all three hovering around her and just stared at him.
"Oh, Roarke."
"I'm sorry." He moved to her, wrapped his arms around her. "I'm so sorry."
"They don't think he's going to make it. That's not what they say, exactly, but you can read it on their faces. Massive blood loss, extreme internal damage. The knife nicked his heart, his lung, and God knows. They've called his family in, advised them to hurry."
However selfish it was didn't matter to him. All he could think was, It could have been you. It could have been you, and I would be the one advised to hurry.
"Come upstairs. You need to clean up and get some sleep."
"Yeah, nothing more to do but get some sleep." She started toward the steps with him, then just sank down on them, buried her face in her hands. "What the hell was I thinking? Who the hell do I think I am? Mira's the shrink, not me. What made me think I could get inside this man's head and understand what was going on in it?"
"Because you can, and you do. You can't always be right." He rubbed her back. "Tell me what he's thinking now."
She shook her head, got to her feet. "I'm too tired. I'm too tired for this."
She walked upstairs, stripping on her way across the bedroom. Before she could step into the shower, Roarke took her hand. "No, into the tub. You'll sleep better for it."
He ran the water himself. Hot, because she liked it hot, added scent to soothe, programmed the jets to comfort. He undressed, got in with her, and drew her back against him.
"He did it for me. Clooney was going for me, and Webster knocked me down and stepped into the knife."
Roarke pressed his lips to the top of her head. "Then I owe him a debt I can never repay. But you can. By finishing it. And that's what you'll do."
"Yeah, I'll finish it."
"For now, rest"
Fatigue was a weight bearing down on her. She stopped resisting and fell under it.
– =O=-***-=O=-
She woke to sunlight and the scent of coffee. The first thing she saw was Roarke, with a mug of coffee in his hand.
"How much would you pay for this?"
"Name your price." She sat up, took it from him, drank gratefully. "This is one of my favorite parts of the marriage deal." She let the caffeine flow through her system. "I mean, the sex is pretty good, but the coffee… The coffee is amazing. And you're all-around handy yourself most of the time. Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
She took his hand before he could rise. "I wouldn't have slept easy last night without you being here." She gave his hand a squeeze, then shifted toward the bedside 'link. "I want to call and check on Webster."
"I've already called." She wouldn't want it cushioned, so he told her exactly what he knew. "He made it through the night. They nearly lost him twice and took him back in for more surgery. He remains critical."
"Okay." She set the coffee down to scrub her hands over her face. "Okay. He felt like he needed vindication. Let's give it to him."
– =O=-***-=O=-
Purgatory had taken on an edge. Glamour with a bright smear of sin.
"Fast repair work," Eve muttered as she wandered through, scanning the trio of winding, open stairs with their treads edged with hot red lights. On closer study, she noted the banisters that curved down them were sleek and sinuous snakes, and every few feet, one was swallowing its brother's tail.
"Interesting."
"Yes." Roarke ran one of his elegant hands over a reptilian head. "I thought so. And practical. Start up."
"Why?"
"Humor me."
With a shrug, she climbed the first three. "So?"
"Feeney? Do we register on weapon check?"
"You bet. Scanner shows police-issue laser on staircase one, and secondary weapon in ankle harness."
Eve glanced up toward Control, and the hidden speakers where Feeney's voice boomed. With a thin smile, she looked back at Roarke. "Why don't you come on up for a weapon scan, ace?"
"I think not. Similar scanners are set in all entrances and exits, in the bathrooms, and privacy rooms. We'll know what we're up against in that area."
"Boomers," she said, coming down again. "Knives?"
"We can scan for explosives. Knives are trickier, though the metal detectors will take care of any fashioned from that material. An hour before opening, the entire building will be swept a final time, just as a precaution."