“Voila!” she whispered proudly. “C’est si bon.”
The lure, calculated to draw her first visitor at least several steps into the room, was in place. There was little she could do with the stretcher other than to put the thin pillow under the sheet, but by the time anyone got that far, hopefully she would be in charge.
The door to the room opened inward. Patty checked Krause one last time, then positioned herself against the wall so that it would swing toward then past her. The extra half second might make a difference. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Inside her head there seemed to be a serious synergy between her concussion and the massive pounding of her heart created by her battle with Krause. She was feeling vague and sluggish one moment, sharp and focused the next.
Images of her father and of Will, of Lieutenant Court and Brasco, of Marshall Gold’s victims and their families flowed through her mind as she crouched on one knee and waited. It was going to be over soon, she told each of them-very soon. Finally, she heard footsteps outside the door. An instant later, it swung open and Marshall Gold strode into the room.
“So, Doc,” he said cheerfully, “how’s our prize patient?”
He reached Krause’s side and actually touched the corpse on the shoulder before realizing that the stretcher was empty. At the same moment, the body and chair toppled over, taking the table and Coke with them. The glass shattered on the floor.
“Welcome back, Mr. Gold,” Patty said, standing and kicking the door shut. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Patty was totally unprepared for Gold’s reaction. Without a moment’s hesitation and with a furious bellow, he charged her. Teeth bared, he covered half the distance between them with a single step and launched himself, arms outstretched, at her head. His hands slammed ferociously against her shoulders, driving her backward and off her feet. She was in midair, almost parallel to the floor, when she heard a shot. She landed heavily on her back, air exploding from her lungs. Her head snapped against the polished wood with stunning force, sending an explosion of white light through her brain.
She lay there dazed, unable even to lift her arm to fire, helpless to keep Gold from finishing the attack. Then she realized he was screaming.
“You bitch! You fucking bitch! Goddammit! Oh, shit! My leg! You bitch, you bitch!”
Desperately, he grabbed her ankle, but Patty kicked at him and pulled free easily. His face, twisted with rage, was ashen. He was clutching at a spot just above his right knee. Blood was seeping between his fingers.
Bone, Patty thought. The shot had to have shattered his femur. She pushed herself out of his reach and lay there, propped on one elbow, breathing heavily.
“Next time I’m going to aim,” she said.
It was a while before the dizziness and the pounding in Patty’s head allowed her to move. During that time, she twice thought she saw Gold’s hand drift toward his left ankle. Her eyes riveted on him, her revolver aimed at his mid-chest, she crawled around to his feet and felt up inside his pant legs. Even though she tried to be gentle on the right, he cried out with even the slightest movement. His gun, a slender.9mm Glock, was strapped just below his calf on the left. She removed the bullets from the Colt, then sent them and the revolver skidding across the floor to the far end of the room. Now, with the Glock, she had some serious firepower. Warily, she patted Gold down, even though there was precious little else he could have hidden beneath his turtleneck and form-fitting slacks.
He seemed to have regained some composure, although the pallor around his mouth said that he was in some degree of early shock.
“Who else is in the house?” she demanded.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Those are really nice shoes. How about I just tap that right one on the sole?”
“Why not? You asshole cops are no better than Krause there, anyhow. Go ahead. Do it, bitch.”
Jarred by Gold’s words, Patty stood up and stepped back, glaring down at the man who had brought so much terrible pain to so many.
“Not tonight,” she said softly.
She moved cautiously to the door and listened. If anyone else had been in the house, surely they would have reacted to the gunshot. All she had to do now was find a phone and call 911. Was there danger in leaving Gold here unguarded? It would take a hell of an actor to fake the signs of early shock, but if he were acting and the bullet hadn’t shattered his femur, there was plenty of danger. At that moment, from somewhere nearby, a door opened and closed. Moments later, a man called out Gold’s name.
“Mr. Gold. Mr. Gold, we’re back. I have the package. I’ll bring our friend into the blue room.”
Watkins!
Patty pushed the door closed and again flattened herself against the wall.
“One word, Gold,” she whispered fiercely, “one sound, and I’ll put a bullet into your face. I swear I will.”
“Fuck you,” Gold moaned, but there was little force behind the words.
The door opened and Will, his wrists handcuffed and a blood-soaked pillowcase over his head, was shoved rudely onto the floor.
“Get in there, jerk,” Watkins said, stepping in after him, his boot drawn back, poised to land a kick.
Patty came at him from behind and jammed the Glock against the base of Watkins’s skull.
“Police. Down on your knees!” she snapped. “Put your hands on your head or I’ll blow it off. Now! I mean it, dammit!”
In slow motion, the giant complied.
Will pulled the pillowcase off. His face was a bloody mask, his left eye swollen shut. Blood was still oozing from his misshapen nose.
“He’s got a gun in his right jacket pocket,” he said thickly. “The keys to these are in his pants pocket.”
Keeping the revolver in contact with Watkins’s skull, Patty pulled his jacket off and threw it aside. Then she forced him onto his belly, had him retrieve the key, and helped Will remove the manacles.
“Hands behind your back! Will, can you put those on him?”
“I can do anything you want,” he said, looking from Krause to Gold and back. “Bad things happen to people who don’t.” He snapped the handcuffs onto Watkins. “I think I’ll swallow this key and bring you a week’s worth of my dung so you can look for it.”
He dropped it into his pocket.
“Do you need help right away?” Patty asked.
“My cheekbone is broken and I’m a little dizzy, and I can’t see so good out of this eye, but I’m not in any immediate trouble. Patty, I can’t believe you pulled this off.”
“I don’t think I’ve told you yet, but I have quite a nasty temper.”
“I don’t think I’ll have much trouble remembering that.”
“Find a phone and call nine-one-one. Take Watkins’s gun just in case. Make sure the safety’s off and don’t shoot yourself by mistake.”
Will retrieved the pistol, had her check that he had released the safety, and headed off. Patty surveyed the human wreckage around her-one handcuffed, one disabled, one dead. What would Tommy Moriarity say if he could see her now? Probably that she had violated some protocol or procedure and had just lucked out. She smiled. At least there’ll be photos of the scene from the crime-lab people. Maybe she could have one matted and framed for Father’s Day.
She was still smiling a few minutes later when Will returned. He stopped in the doorway, staring at her strangely, not moving or speaking.
“Will, are you okay?” she asked. “Did you make the call?”
Will stepped into the room, followed immediately by his partner, Susan Hollister, her hair still wet from the shower. The powerful automatic weapon held expertly in her right hand was aimed directly at Patty’s heart.