He said finally, reaching out his hand to touch a clump of bloody hair, "You know what I think? 1 think that just maybe old Marlin didn't kill your sister. You're like a little terrier, yanking and jerking and pulling, but you won't find anything.
"Now I believe that's all I need to know. I'll tell you just one last time. Leave Washington. Stay with the FBI if you want to, but transfer. Go home, little girl. Now, let's have us
a good time."
He walked toward her, the gun aimed right at her chest. "I want you to march your little butt to the bedroom. I want you to stretch out all pretty-like on the bed. Then we'll see."
She knew pleading wouldn't gain her anything. She turned and walked out of the kitchen. He was going to rape her. Then would he kill her as well? Probably. But the rape, she wouldn't take the rape, she couldn't. He'd have to kill her before she'd let him rape her. Who had hired him?
What to do? He didn't think Marlin had killed Belinda? Why did he care? What was going on here?
"Please, who are you?"
He just motioned the gun toward the bed.
She was standing now beside her bed, not wanting to lie down, hating the thought of him being over her, of him in control.
"Take off that bathrobe."
Her hands were fists at her sides. He raised the gun. She took off the bathrobe.
"Now lie down and open those legs real wide for me."
"Why don't you think Marlin killed my sister?"
"Business is over. It's party time. Lie down, little girl, or I'll just have to hurt you real bad."
She couldn't do it. She couldn't.
He took a step toward her, the gun raised. He was going to hit her with the butt again, probably break her jaw this time. She had to do something.
The phone rang.
Both of them stared at it.
It rang again.
"It might be my boss," she said, praying harder than she'd ever prayed in her life. "He knows I'm home. He said he might call. There was an assignment he wanted to talk to me about."
"That big guy who brought you here? That's your boss?"
She nodded and wished again that she could see his face, see his expression.
Another ring.
"Answer it. But you be careful what you say or you're dead where you stand."
She picked up the phone and said quietly, "Hello?"
"That you, Sherlock?"
"Yes, sir, it's me, sir."
He was silent a moment. She was praying, hard.
"I just wanted to tell you that Sally asked to meet you. She wants you to come to the Bonhomie Club tomorrow night. Quinlan's going to be playing both nights."
"That sounds nice, sir, but you know that I never mix any business with pleasure. It's a rule I always stick to, sir."
He was mouthing at her, "Get rid of him!"
"I've got to go, sir. Tell Sally I'm sorry, sir. That assignment you wanted to talk to me about, sir, I'll be in early tomorrow. I've got to go now."
The gun was pressing at her temple. She gulped, then gently hung up the phone.
"I heard what the guy said. You're lucky you didn't blow it, little girl. Now."
He pulled some slender nylon rope from his pocket. "Put those arms up over your head."
He was going to tie her down. Then he could do anything he wanted to with her.
Slowly, slowly, she raised her arms. Why had she wanted a brass bed with a slatted brass headboard? He was coming over to her; soon now, soon, and she would have a chance.
He leaned down, the rope in one hand, the gun in the other. He seemed uncertain what to do with the gun. Put it down, she said in her mind, over and over, as she looked up at him. Put it down. I'm skinny. You can take me. Don't be afraid.
He made up his mind. He backed off. "Turn on your stomach."
She stared at him.
"Do it now or I'll make you really sorry."
She couldn't do it. She just couldn't. Without thought, without hesitation, she lurched up and rammed her head into his belly. At the same time, she flung out both fists against his forearms. She heard him cursing, heard the pain in his voice, and kept hitting him. Quickly she threw herself to the floor, rolling onto her back. He was heaving hard, over her now, the gun up, and she kicked with all her strength, her foot hitting his hand.
The gun went flying.
He threw himself down on her. His fist landed hard against her jaw, then he raised her head, grabbed fistfuls of damp hair, and slammed her head against the floor once, twice, three times. She heard a yell and a moan. The sounds were from her. She tried to bring her legs up to kick him but couldn't manage it. She felt numbness, then knifing pain shot through her head. She vaguely heard his curses from above her, and they grew more distant. She thought she heard the phone ring again. She thought she heard him breathing hard over her. Then she didn't know about anything. She fell into blackness.
He was scared spitless. The front door stood wide open. Savich forced himself to be careful, to go slowly, but what he wanted to do was roar in there. God, what had happened?
He drew his gun and eased inside the town house. Slowly, he reached for the light switch and flipped it on. He was in a crouch in the next instant, sweeping his SIG-Sauer around him in a wide arc.
No one.
"Sherlock?"
Nothing.
He didn't even pause now. He ran into the living room, switching on lights as he went. She wasn't there. Nor was she in the kitchen.
He was in the hallway when he heard a moan.
She was lying on the floor next to the bed, naked. Blood streaked down the side of her face.
He was on his knees beside her, his fingers pressed against the pulse in her neck. Slow and steady. He turned her over.
"Sherlock! Wake up!"
She moaned again, low and deep in her throat. She tried to bring up her hand to her head, but couldn't do it. Her hand fell. He caught it before it hit the floor. He laid her hand over her belly.
He leaned close over her, an inch from her face. "Sherlock, wake the hell up. You're scaring the bejesus out of me. Wake up!"
She heard his voice. He sounded incredibly angry-no, not angry, but really worried. She had to open her eyes, but she knew any movement at all would hurt really badly.
"Talk to me. Come on, you can do it. Talk to me."
She managed to open her eyes. He was blurry, but his voice was low and deep and eminently sane. She was so grateful, so relieved. She whispered over the pain, "You came. I knew the multiple sirs would get to you."
"They did. The first time you said it, I wanted to trim your sails but good, but then you said it again. I knew something was wrong. Where'd he hit you?"
"My head, with the butt of his gun."
He didn't want to ask, but he had to. "Did he rape you?"
"He would have tried, but I just couldn't let him do it. He wanted me to lie down on my stomach. When he moved in I attacked him. That's when he knocked me off the bed and started banging my head against the floor. It kind of hurts, Dillon."
"Did he hit you anywhere else?"
"Just a fist in the jaw."
"Let me get you up on the bed."
"He's gone? You're sure he's gone? I don't want him to sneak back and hurt you."
Hurt him? Blood was trickling down the side of her face and she was worried about him? "I'll go lock the front door in just a minute." While he spoke, he slid his hands beneath her and lifted her. She didn't weigh much. He laid her on the bed, then very quickly drew a blanket over her.
"Don't move," he said, turned, and went back to the front door. He looked around outside, then came back into the house and locked the door.
When he was seated beside her again on the side of the bed, he said quietly, "No one's about now. Now, I'm going to call the paramedics and get you to the hospital."
Her hand shot up. "No, no hospital. I'm all right. I've got a very hard head. Maybe a concussion, but there's nothing they can do for that, just time. I've got time here. Please, no hospital. I hate hospitals. They'll give me more shots in the butt. That's awful."