"Stop. It's done. It's over."
"He was going to kill me. He killed Lola and Georgie. He was going to kill me, but he was going to rape me first." She pulled back, wiped at the blood and sweat on her face. "That's where he made a mistake."
"Sit down." His hands were trembling and slicked with blood when he eased her onto the bed. "You're hurt."
"Not yet. It'll start in a minute." She gathered in a breath, let it out. She was a cop, damn it, she reminded herself. She was a cop, and she'd act like one. "You got the transmission," she said to Feeney.
"Yeah." He took out a handkerchief to wipe his clammy face.
"Then what the hell took you so long?" She managed a ghost of a smile. "You look a little upset, Feeney."
"Shit. All in a day's work." He flipped on his communicator. "Situation under control. We need an ambulance."
"I'm not going to any health center."
"Not for you, champ. For him." He glanced down at Rockman, who managed a weak groan.
"Once you clean him up, book him for the murders of Lola Starr and Georgie Castle."
"You sure about that?"
Her legs were a bit wobbly, but she rose and picked up her jacket. "Got it all." She held out the recorder. "DeBlass did Sharon, but our boy here is accessory after the fact. And I want him charged with the attempted rape and murder of a police officer. Toss in B and E for the hell of it."
"You got it." Feeney tucked the recorder into his pocket. "Christ, Dallas, you're a mess."
"I guess I am. Get him out of here, will you, Feeney?"
"Sure thing."
"Let me help you." Roarke bent down, lifted Rockman by the lapels. He jerked the man up, steadied him. "Look at me, Rockman. Vision clear?"
Rockman blinked blood out of his eyes. "I can see you."
"Good." Roarke's arm shot up, quick as a bullet, and his fist connected with Rockman's already battered face.
"Oops," Feeney said mildly, when Rockman crumbled to the floor again. "Guess he's not too steady on his feet." He bent over himself, slipped on the cuffs. "Maybe a couple of you boys ought to carry him out. Hold the ambulance for me. I'll ride with him."
He took out an evidence bag, slipped the gun into it. "Nice piece – ivory handle. Bet it packs a wallop."
"Tell me about it." Her hand went automatically to her arm.
Feeney stopped admiring the gun and gaped at her. "Shit, Dallas, you shot?"
"I don't know." She said it almost dreamily, surprised when Roarke ripped off the sleeve of her already tattered shirt. "Hey."
"Grazed her." His voice was hollow. He ripped the sleeve again, used it to stanch the wound. "She needs to be looked at."
"I figure I can leave that to you," Feeney remarked. "You might want to stay somewhere else tonight, Dallas. Let a team come in and clean this up for you."
"Yeah." She smiled as the cat leaped onto the bed. "Maybe."
He whistled through his teeth. "Busy day."
"It comes and goes," she murmured, stroking the cat. Galahad, she thought, her white knight.
"See you around, kid."
"Yeah. Thanks, Feeney."
Determined to get through, Roarke crouched in front of her. He waited until Feeney's whistling faded away. "Eve, you're in shock."
"Sort of. I'm starting to hurt though."
"You need a doctor."
She moved her shoulders. "I could use a pain pill, and I need to clean up."
She looked down at herself, took inventory calmly. Her blouse was torn, spotted with blood. Her hands were a mess, ripped and swollen knuckles – she couldn't quite make a fist. A hundred bruises were making themselves known and the wound on her arm where the bullet had nicked it was turning to fire.
"I don't think it's as bad as it looks," she decided, "but I'd better check."
When she started to rise, he picked her up. "I kind of like when you carry me. Makes me all wobbly inside. Then I feel stupid about it after. There's stuff in the bathroom."
Since he wanted to see the damage for himself, he carried her in, set her on the toilet. He found strong, police issue pain pills in a nearly empty medicine cabinet. He offered one, and water, before dampening a cloth.
She pushed at her hair with her good arm. "I forgot to tell Feeney. DeBlass is dead. Suicide. What they used to call eating your gun. Hell of a phrase."
"Don't worry about it now." Roarke worked on the bullet wound first. It was a nasty gash, but the bleeding had already slowed. Any competent MT could close it in a matter of minutes. It didn't make his hands any steadier.
"There were two killers." She frowned at the far wall. "That was the problem. I clicked onto it, but then I let it go. Data indicated low probability percentage. Stupid."
Roarke rinsed out the cloth and started on her face. He was deliriously relieved that most of the blood on it wasn't hers. Her mouth was cut, her left eye already beginning to swell. There was raw color along her cheekbone.
He managed to take a full, almost easy breath. "You're going to have a hell of a bruise."
"I've had them before." The medication was seeping in, turning pain into a mist. She only smiled when he stripped her to the waist and began checking for other injuries. "You've got great hands. I love when you touch me. Nobody ever touched me like that. Did I tell you?"
"No." And he doubted she'd remember she was telling him now. He'd make sure to remind her.
"And you're so pretty. So pretty," she repeated, lifting a bleeding hand to his face. "I keep wondering what you're doing here."
He took her hand, wrapped a cloth gently around it. "I've asked myself the same question."
She grinned foolishly, let herself float. Need to file my report, she thought hazily. Soon. "You don't really think we're going to make anything out of this, do you? Roarke and the cop?"
"I guess we'll have to find out." There were plenty of bruises, but the bluing along her ribs worried him most.
"Okay. Maybe I could lie down now? Can we go to your place, 'cause Feeney's going to send a team in to record the scene and all that. If I could just take a little nap before I go in to make my report."
"You're going to the closest health center."
"No, uh-uh. Can't stand them. Hospitals, health centers, doctors." She gave him a glassy-eyed smile and lifted her arms. "Let me sleep in your bed, Roarke. Okay? The great big one, up on the platform, under the sky."
For lack of anything closer to hand, he took off his jacket and slipped it around her. When he picked her up again, her head lolled on his shoulder.
"Don't forget Galahad. The cat saved my life. Who'd have thought?"
"Then he gets caviar for the whole of his nine lives." Roarke snapped his fingers and the cat fell happily into step.
"Door's broken." Eve chuckled as Roarke stepped around it and into the hall. "Landlord's going to be pissed. But I know how to get around him." She pressed a kiss to Roarke's throat. "I'm glad it's over," she said, sighing. "I'm glad you're here. Be nice if you stuck around."
"Count on it." Shifting her, he bent down and retrieved the package he'd dropped in the hallway in his race to her door. There was a fresh pound of coffee inside. He figured he'd need it as a bribe when she woke up and found herself in a hospital bed.
"Don't wanna dream tonight," she murmured as she drifted off.
He stepped into the elevator, the cat at his feet. "No." He brushed his lips over Eve's hair. "No dreams tonight."
