Final Stand

6

He knew…Sasha could see the truth in Gray Slaughter’s chilling gaze, and she needed only to glance toward the van, remember there had been no time to lock it, to understand how. Her next worst fear realized, she studied the man challenging her, concluding that, no matter how she weighed her chances of fleeing at the moment, they were slight. Almost worse than when she’d first been forced to make a run for it. Time, that’s what she needed. It was already her enemy, but she had to figure out a way to change that and make something work in her favor.

“What do you want?” She took heart in hearing that her voice didn’t sound as unsteady as it had after Elias’s assault.

“The truth.”

“I promise you, Doctor, you want the truth about as much as I’d be interested in a sidewalk mammography.”

He nodded toward the police station. “You almost had worse back there.”

It had been a bad situation, and if she let herself dwell on it, she would probably start trembling again, so she maintained her focus on a counter-offensive. Wasn’t that what her father used to tout? The Vince Lombardi quote: “The best defense is a great offense.”

“All right, let me put it this way,” she countered. “Why, knowing what you think you do, have you stuck your neck out to help me?”

“Forget me for the moment, it’s Frank you should be worrying about. He may be small-time compared to what you’re used to in Las Vegas, but whatever he lacks skillwise, he makes up for in dogged determination, Officer Mills.”

Although it shouldn’t surprise her at this point that he also knew her profession, Sasha dealt with what her paternal grandmother had likened to “Death’s cold grip on the neck” in silence.

“You’re not getting it,” Gray continued. “It’s pride with him, and I think you’re someone who understands pride.”

For his sake, she hoped he never learned how thoroughly. “What do you suggest I do? The man’s intent on framing me.”

“Forget the fire for the moment.” He gestured toward the van. “It’s the automatic and the money that concern me. In this part of the country that kind of paraphernalia usually means drugs or freighting illegals.”

“The gun is my service weapon, my ID is authentic.”

“Then how can you be relocating the way you claimed? If you’d left the LVMPD, you’d have surrendered both.”

Sasha swallowed against the adrenaline charging through her veins; her heart was pumping as though she was pushing to win a mile sprint. She had to remind herself that this man had risked taking a bullet for her—after going through her things and drawing conclusions he clearly saw as incriminating, no less.

The unexpected touch of his fingers against her cheek had her jerking back.

“Come inside,” he said grimly. “I’ll get you some ice for that. The skin isn’t broken, but it still has to burn like hell.”

It did. She also needed the chance to rein in her emotions and cool off. She couldn’t afford any other errors in judgment. Besides, they were too exposed out here. If she was to make her escape, she needed time…and privacy.

“All right,” she murmured. “Let me lock up first.”

“If you don’t mind.” He reached around her to lock the passenger door, then circled the van, took out her keys and rolled up the window. When he finally handed over the keys and her bag, but not her gun, she knew something else—it would be dangerous to attempt anything rash while Dr. Gray Slaughter was awake or conscious, because he was going to be even less of a pushover than Frank Elias.

The wariness compounded as Sasha entered his home. It was darker in here than in the police station, as silent as a mausoleum and not that dissimilar in looks considering the impersonal, old-fashioned furnishings. Usually, she found dimly lit, quiet places soothing, but she had to stop just inside the sparsely furnished living room because of the overwhelming sensation of negatives, what felt like a near vacuum of oxygen. How different things had looked from the outside. There was a complete absence of life. In fact, she sensed death lingering here.

“Something wrong?” he asked after securing the front door’s dead bolt.

“It’s dark. I don’t want to step on the family cat or anything.”

“There isn’t one.”

It probably ran away from home ages ago. “Should I keep my voice down for any sleeping babies?”

“The kitchen’s this way.”

Lifting her eyebrows at his touchiness over the subject, she followed him as he stepped left through a doorway to a combination kitchen and dining area. Visually, it was no improvement, the green-white-and-chrome decor reminiscent of a fifties B movie, on the sci-fi end of budgets. But it was exits Sasha paid particular attention to. She noted the aluminum storm door beyond the half-glass inner one. Double doors weren’t ideal. Until she saw the rest of the place, she decided the route they’d entered remained her best option. As she tucked her keys into the right front pocket of her jeans, she positioned them to be able to grab the van key first…or to use as a weapon if that became necessary.

“Here.” Working by the light over the kitchen sink, Gray took a towel from a drawer and drew a handful of ice cubes from the icemaker in the only modern appliance in the place—the side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. Then he passed the bulky mass to her. “Want something to dull the bruising on the inside?”

Before she could answer, he stooped before the cabinet next to the refrigerator and took out an unopened bottle of scotch. That had her wondering where the opened one was. Had he already emptied it?

“No, thanks,” she said as he reached for a second glass. One wouldn’t be enough and two would be too many. “Just a glass of water if you don’t mind.” She had aspirin in her bag to address the headache she was developing. But as he turned away, she amended, “On second thought, yes. Please.”

If he was confused or suspicious of her change of heart, he gave no indication. “On the rocks or with water?”

“Plenty of ice, please, then just a splash of water. And if it’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate an extra glass of water on the side. I’m feeling pretty dehydrated.”

The drink he handed her would put her over the legal limit for driving—probably what he intended—but what interested her more was seeing that the one he made for himself could have been mistaken for apple cider.

“Are you catching up for lost time,” she asked, “or is that a sign of how upset you are with me?”

Gray took a leisurely drink before replying, “Why don’t you just tell me what triggered what happened next door?”

“You’re the one who has the history with the man, you explain it to me.”

“There’s nothing complicated about Frank. From the instant he laid eyes on you, his chronic itch wanted scratching. I’m sure that’s nothing new to you.”

“I can’t believe you’re blaming me for lucky genes, Doctor.”

“I’m not referring to your looks, and you know it. But the plainest person can possess an intrinsic animal magnetism, or sexuality, call it what you’d like, that’s equally if not more provocative…and can be tempered.”

“So now I provoked him?”

“For all of his flaws, Frank tends to stick with sure things, and he’s got plenty of those right here in town.”

At this rate, he would have her draining her drink, after all…if she didn’t throw it at him. “Okay, Doc, I confess. Once I realized how easy it was to make the jerk act like putty in my hands, I couldn’t resist. Fighting off rapists beats watching late-night TV anytime.”

“What I think is that in your eagerness to get away, you made a poor judgment call. That begs the question, what could be so important to put yourself at such risk?”

To answer that even in the most vague way would initiate a whole new series of questions, so she bought time by taking an initial sip of her scotch, then a few seconds longer by taking a deep swallow of the water to keep from choking. It didn’t help much. “Look, I’m grateful for your assistance. But if you hadn’t been such a hard case to begin with, none of this would have happened.”

Gray saluted her with his glass. “I can see Frank will have his hands full tomorrow with or without counsel.”

“Chief Elias couldn’t recognize a serial killer if he stood at his door with a trick-or-treat bag full of body parts.” Sasha hesitated a moment and then ventured, “What will it take for you to let me go?”

“I gave my word.”

She pretended resignation and asked, “Then where’s the closest motel?”

“Sonora, east on the interstate about twenty miles. But don’t insult my intelligence by asking me to believe you’d stop there, let alone be back here first thing in the morning.”

“What else do you expect—”

The ringing phone had Gray scowling and then motioning for her to give him a moment. From the sound of his side of the conversation, she surmised the caller was a customer with an ill animal. It was exactly the opportunity she needed.

Signaling to him that she wanted to wash up, she snatched her purse and exited through the other passageway she assumed led to the hall and the rest of the house. It did. Directly opposite the kitchen, she found a room set up as an office. Next to it was a bedroom, and after that the bathroom. Closing and quietly locking the door, she eyed the window over the tub.

“Small gifts,” she murmured.

Knowing that sound would be her enemy, she turned on the water faucet in the sink and placed the towel with ice in the base of the bowl, listening for a certain splashing sound. Satisfied with the tone, she stepped into the bathtub and eased open the window. Relieved that the window didn’t squeak, she jimmied free the screen, then tossed out her purse. Hoisting herself up and through the narrow opening, however, was a feat better suited to a member of Cirque du Soleil. She was agile and small enough overall, but the window was higher due to its location, and she had to be careful not to hit the shower door while twisting like a theme-park trained dolphin to get herself out. Easy enough normally, though she wasn’t feeling “normal” these days.

But escape she did. Dropping to the ground with a grunt of pain that had little to do with the distance of her fall or the dry, packed ground, she grabbed up her bag and took off to the left—immediately crashing into something that shouldn’t have been there.

“I’m sincerely disappointed.” Gray Slaughter gripped her arms to steady her.

Deciding that she had nothing to lose, Sasha lunged at him with the determination of a line-backer at a playoff game. Shouldering him in the belly, she sidestepped left and took off running again.

She made it around the first corner, but as she rounded the second at the front of the house, she went flying forward, hitting the ground like a safe dropping three stories onto concrete.

The next thing she was conscious of was the dirt in her mouth and something as heavy as a buffalo crushing her. Just as she was certain her lungs would explode, the weight eased off her…but then her arms were being twisted behind her back. Spitting out grass and dirt, Sasha gasped from pain as much as the need for oxygen.

“Wait…”

“That’s what I asked you to do while I was on the phone.”

“I can’t…breathe.”

To her great relief the knee trying to permanently fasten her spine to her navel lifted. With no time to adjust, she was yanked up like a stuffed toy. Slaughter kept a firm hold of her, but Sasha didn’t care. She was too grateful that her lungs were working again, and for the chance to blink away the tears and dirt from her eyes.

“You’re faster than you…look,” she wheezed.

He picked up her bag. “And you’re not as bright.”

She couldn’t argue with him there. “Where—where did you learn that tackle?”

“Worry about it.”

Grasping her by the waist with his free hand, he started directing her back toward the kitchen door. It was the worst of all places he could have touched her.

Gasping, Sasha fought the blinding pain and would have fallen again if not for his equally fast response.

“What is it?” he demanded, steadying her with his body.

Muted by the wave of nausea that followed, she could only bend forward and struggle to get past the worst of it. “Nothing. I’ll be okay in a second.”

“All I did was—” Dropping her bag, he tugged at her shirt.

“What the—Hey!” She pushed away his hands, having had her fill of groping men for one night. “I said I’m okay.”

“Let me see, damn it.” Freeing the shirt from her jeans, he lifted it and turned her into the faint light off the back porch. “Christ. Why the hell didn’t you say you’d been shot?”

Once she was fairly confident that her stomach was going to stay inside her body, she threw him a resentful look. “When would have been a good time? At the start, when you decided I was a lousy pet owner? Or later, as the tramp willing to do anything to get my way?” Feeling the day, the last week catching up with her, Sasha looked away and continued to blink hard, this time against overpowering emotions. “It’s only a graze,” she muttered. “And nothing compared to what will happen if you don’t let me go.”

7

12:59 a.m. CST

Shortly after passing the road sign indicating Bitters 5 Miles, the woman driving the BMW Z8 stiffened with new alarm as the engine light flashed on.

“Stupid automobile!”

It wasn’t a year old and outrageously expensive, how could the engine be sick? This is what she deserved for her extravagance. God was punishing her, would punish her like the angel pursuing Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden.

But this was no garden. She was in the middle of nowhere, a hideous, barren place not that different than where she’d come from, but without the luxuries. She’d noted all its deficits during the meandering, desperate attempt to find her way back to the interstate and here. Considering the endless darkness stretching before her, she had no hope that this “Bitters”—Americans forever perplexed her with their town names—was an improvement over the last disaster she’d exited at. There the gas pump had been malfunctioning, and the toilet—She would rather have risked the wildlife and peed behind a bush.

Now she couldn’t afford disdain. She had to seek help at Bitters because the stupid car was running on fumes as well as whatever that light meant.

Clinging to the steering wheel with a grip that triggered the cramps she’d been experiencing since the first night she’d been traveling, the woman checked her rearview mirror. At least she was safe again. No one else was on the road. Spasibo, Mama. Now if only her sainted mother could convince the Holy Virgin to forgive her for her vanity and self-indulgence, and bring her to someone who understood overpriced sports cars. This was exactly what she’d been warned when she’d bought it, how no one outside of a metropolitan area would be able to fix it should she have trouble. The head mechanic at the dealership had insisted, begged her, to pull over immediately should anything ever go wrong.

Pull over? Easy for him to say, she thought with another spasm of self-pity. He wasn’t the one in a strange place with a phone that refused to work, worried that when it finally did there would be no answer on the other side.

“I hate you,” she cried, pounding on the dash. “Turn off!”

The light stayed on.

Blinking at tears that threatened to lead her off the road, she eyed the odometer again, gauging how far away she now was from the exit. Two miles? It had to be less.

“I am strong,” she recited, remembering the therapy and self-help books she’d read by the dozens. “I can do it.”

Sniffing, she shifted into Neutral, turned off the ignition and let the Z8 cruise on its own momentum. The night was mild. Walking would be nerve-racking, but what hadn’t been so far? She could manage.

As the car began to slow, she steered to the shoulder until the vehicle came to a full stop.

Would it ever start again? She had counted on this sleek, red beauty to finance her future. But, she allowed with a sigh, that was the way of life. As her baba used to lecture, “To live a life is not so simple as crossing a field.”

Feeling tears collecting again, she pulled free the keys, climbed out of the BMW and locked up. Brushing back her shoulder-length hair, she inspected her surroundings. The other warnings flooded back into her memory, how not to venture off into the prairie if something went wrong, how there was as much danger out there as there was on the road, things that did more than bite or sting.

“All I ever wanted was to be warm again,” she whispered to the night.

With no desire to find out what creatures stalked this unwelcoming terrain, she began walking briskly toward the lights. Although dim and minimal, they consoled her somewhat. She was a woman who needed her solitude, needed it desperately, but the company of people, especially strangers, would be reassuring right now. If she could also get a cup of hot coffee and use a clean rest room, she would endure. Blossom.

“I am strong…I am strong.”

Her jogging shoes, still too new to be comfortable, made each step awkward. She was used to high heels, expensive leathers, not these heavy things with soles she suspected were made from military-truck tires. As ugly as they were stiff, they were no less foreign to her than her jeans and Texas T-shirt. Her style was the business suit, preferably silk and exquisite, and handcrafted shoes. These monstrosities reminded her of the old country, difficult times and too much she wanted to forget.

“The point is to blend in with the tourists, not stick out.”

Remembering those cautionary words, her lips, bare of the expensive makeup she was envied for, twisted without mirth. “What tourists?”

All but lost in her dejection, she was slow to realize something was missing.

My bag.

Horrified, she began running back. But after only a few steps, the lights of another vehicle appeared.

What to do? There was no choice but to seek shelter in the first shrubs large enough to hide her. Even as she sent up another prayer, she nevertheless veered off the road and down a craggy draw to seek cover in the deeper terrain. Stumbling over the uneven ground, she barely missed a dive into a thatch of prickly brush.

Ducking behind it, she watched as a vehicle slowed, then pulled in behind hers. Thieves? Of course! Who would ignore such a beauty standing alone for the taking? And in it all that was left of her future.

She cursed the interlopers in the large vehicle parking behind her car. Then she bit her lower lip as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could tell more about it. Oh, no, she thought. Please God, no.

Both driver and passenger doors opened. Two men emerged, the cab lights exposing that both dressed in dark attire. They were barely a hundred feet away, yet she couldn’t make out many details about them except that they appeared large, intimidating. Then they spoke and she knew visual identification wouldn’t matter.

The Russians.

An involuntary cry burst from her.

In the next instant the man on her side turned his flashlight toward where she hid. She ducked lower. The beam slid right over her hiding spot and passed. A second beam duplicated the trail of the first. It wasn’t unlike the prison camp searchlights from the old days, and she knew like those, these dogs of war would not give up easily.

Her worst fears materialized as the men started down the steep incline.

Terrified, certain that she’d been spotted, she turned blindly into the darkness and began running.

8

1:07 a.m.

Once they returned inside, Gray handed Sasha her glass and directed her toward the hallway.

“What for?”

He understood her wariness, realized she wasn’t convinced that, despite what he’d said earlier, he wasn’t ordering her to his bedroom to take up where Frank had left off. In his opinion, he was probably the safest male in Bitters tonight, as physically spent as he was emotionally finished, and from more than wrestling and playing verbal chess with her.

It had been an altogether shitty day thanks to Dub Witherspoon’s favorite cow needing help in delivering a dead bull calf. Dub hadn’t taken “I don’t do house calls anymore” for an answer. As a result, all Gray wanted when he got home after the nine-hour ordeal was to get quietly drunk and escape from that latest scenario and the scent of death.

But to his unwelcome and reluctant houseguest, he merely said, “You’re under my roof, you don’t take foolish chances with infection.”

To his surprise, she went without any additional lip.

In the bathroom, he motioned for her to hop up on the vanity, then shut off the water she’d left running and squeezed out the washrag. Afterward, he locked the window. Replacing the screen would have to wait until morning. He hoped she was intimidated by him; he didn’t think he was in good enough shape to do many more rounds with this spitfire.

With her semi-safely perched, he opened the linen closet to rummage through the offerings there. Most of his medical supplies, even those appropriate for humans, were in the clinic, so he settled on hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic ointment, cotton balls and whatever he had in the way of gauze pads and bandages.

He set everything beside her. “You’ll have to lift your shirt again and open the jeans.”

Hardly voiced as a request, he accepted that she first took a good swallow of her drink. The wound had to be giving her more trouble than she wanted to admit—denim tended to be abrasive even without a pair of male hands working it like sandpaper against tender skin—but he knew it wasn’t pain alone feeding her reluctance. It was him. He’d proven to be not much better than Frank. She had to detest him for that.

When she finally relented, Gray grunted at the inflamed slash marring the left side of her small waist. In this brighter light, the shocking contrast against skin otherwise flawless filled him with an even deeper outrage. He understood too well the brutality behind such an assault, and how lucky she was to be sitting there shooting mental arrows into him.

All he said, though, was, “Roll the waistband down a bit more, or I’ll get this crap all over everything.”

“Just do the best you can.”

“Suit yourself.”

He opened the new package of cotton balls and the peroxide and went to work.

“You took a huge risk not bothering to get this tended to properly.”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

“How did it happen?”

She acted as though she’d suddenly gone stone deaf, which was just as well. The condition of the wound demanded his concentration. And although peroxide didn’t usually sting—at least not in comparison to what he should be using—this abrasion was no simple scratch. It was also inflamed, the tissue swollen. That meant his slightest touch had to sting like a needle in the eye, and Gray thought she did pretty well to simply stiffen and suck in a sharp breath with every new dab.

“Hang on. I’ll finish as fast as I can.”

Like a model posing for a sculpture, or an assassin contemplating a target, she simply stared out into the dark hallway, lost in her own focus.

Hoping she wasn’t plotting some new attempt to outwit or outmaneuver him, he said, “You need to know something. I may not like what you just pulled, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re in my home and that means something to me. Elias won’t touch you again.”

“And who’s going to keep you in line, Doc?”

“I did not take you down for a free grope. That tumble left me sore, too.”

“I was on the bottom.”

“You betrayed my trust.” Then Gray swore softly. Not due to her attitude, rather for the discoloration he noticed on the cotton. “You’d better take a bigger swallow of your drink, think up a few new expletives, something, because I’ve got to get a little rougher than I intended.”

He held up the stained cotton for her to see and she gazed at it with eyes darker than New Orleans coffee, almost as dark as her lashes. Raising her glass to her lips, she murmured, “Do what you have to do.”