by Cassie Miles
But Blair wasn't ready to die. Not here or anywhere else. Fear expanded inside her lungs. She pressed her lips together, holding back the terrified gasps that could drown her.
She had to come up for air.
As soon as her head was out of the water, she heard a splash. It seemed to be only inches away from her. Then another. He was slapping at the water, hitting at her with something long and dangerous. One of the poles used for cleaning the pool.
She ducked again and stroked furiously toward the shallow end. When she stood, the beam of a flashlight blinded her. He was directly in front of her.
The light went out. Again, she felt the splash from that pole.
Diving back and kicking with all her strength, she raced to the opposite end of the pool. Clinging to the side, she gulped down air. Though she knew the darkness had lasted for only a few minutes, it felt like hours.
The flashlight beam caught her, and she squinted. She couldn't make out his features, couldn't even tell if he was tall or short.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"You." One word. A gutteral growl, distorted by the tile acoustics.
How could she fight him? Terror clawed at her throat. She couldn't breathe. Her arms and legs felt limp and helpless. She was broken again. Like a marionette off its strings.
The flashlight went out. He was moving again, coming after her, slashing the surface of the water with the long pole.
She had to move, to swim, to escape. Her hours of exercise in the pool should be good for something.
Not knowing where he was, she swam from one side to the other and back in a crazy pattern so he wouldn't guess where she was headed next.
Back and forth at the deep end, she hoped to lure him there. Back and forth. Stroking for her life, her arms churned the water. And when she felt certain that he had taken a position at that end of the pool, she changed direction and sprinted toward the shallows where she would climb out and race for the door. It couldn't be locked from this side. That would be her escape. Not much of a plan, but it was all she had.
As Blair pulled herself out of the pool, she saw him, faintly outlined by the light from the window. He stood directly in front of her. A shadow come to life. Before she knew what was happening, she felt a glancing blow on the side of her head.
Falling back, she was in the water again. Half-conscious, she tried to struggle, but her arms were too weak. And she was dizzy, near blacking out forever.
All she could manage was to float on her back toward the center of the pool. Soon, she knew, the air would leave her lungs. The dead weight of her body would pull her under, and she would drown. Her struggles and pain had been for nothing. In the end she was helpless as a fish in a bucket. A mermaid.
The overhead lights flashed on.
The sudden flare blinded her. She looked up, directly into the light—circular and bright Like in an operating room. Or in the Coroner's Office. What was going on? What other horror did he have planned for her?
She stood. Her bare feet planted solidly on the bottom of the pool. The water was high as her breasts.
Her gaze searched. She turned in a circle.
No one else was in the room.
In front of the television set, David talked back to the screen. "You're an idiot, Weathers."
In a prerecorded interview, Detective Weathers stood behind a half dozen microphones and answered questions from the media. "This is not the Fisherman," he said firmly. "The man who terrorized our city five years ago has been convicted and is in prison."
David scoffed. "That's what you want us to believe."
An off-screen reporter asked, "What about the note? Do you expect more killings?"
Weathers drew back from the microphones. Though he was obviously trying to appear calm and controlled, David saw the nervousness in the detective's manner. His lips thinned. His eyes squinted under the unforgiving glare of the television lights. Weathers said, "We can't predict what will happen next. However, we urge citizens to use extra caution."
"Which citizens?" A reporter asked, "Who does the Fisherman attack?"
"As I said before, this is not the Fisherman. It's a copycat crime. Probably an isolated incident."
Though Weathers clung steadfastly to that line, David didn't buy it. The cops were protecting themselves and the court system. The didn't want to admit they'd convicted the wrong man.
The TV news story shifted to Ted Hurtado who must have reached his agent. Unlike Weathers, Ted carried himself well. Poised as a movie celebrity, he was dapper, cool and ultrasuave in a charcoal suit jacket and dark-maroon shirt. His mother would be pleased to see her boy making such a good appearance on the tube.
Far more glib in his comments, Ted looked into the camera and said, "The note I received was similar to the earlier messages from the Fisherman but not exactly the same. Some of the letters were uppercase instead of lower."
David muttered, "Which you didn't notice until Blair pointed it out."
"Five years ago," Ted continued, "the Fisherman attacked women from three areas—law enforcement, the media and hospitals. Single women."
"Which I reminded you about," David said.
He glanced away from the television as Blair unlocked the door to her condo. She was breathing hard, dragging herself down the hallway. There was blood on the side of her face.
David bolted from the chair and ran to her. "What happened?"
She sagged into his arms. "He attacked me. In the pool."
He scooped her up in his arms and carried her toward the bedroom.
"Not the bed." She moaned. "I'm bleeding."
"You need to lie down. I'll call an ambulance."
"Don't want to bleed on the bedspread," she said. "Take me to the bathroom."
Though he disagreed, now was not the time to argue with her. He carried her to the bathroom.
"Put me down," she ordered.
She stared into the mirror above the sink. Her fingers probed the edges of her head wound, pulling her hair aside so she could see clearly. Though there was a lot of blood, she'd only been scratched, not cut.
"It's nothing," she said. "A superficial abrasion at the temple. I don't need stitches."
"I'm calling 911."
"No," she said firmly. "I'm a doctor, and I know when I need medical attention."
Equally firm, he took her by the shoulders and turned her toward him. David wasn't sure what symptoms to look for. She was cold. Her complexion was pale, but her eyes were clear and focused. "Be honest with me, and I'll trust your opinion. How do you feel?"
"I don't have a concussion," she said. "And I'm not in shock. Physically I'm not in bad shape."
"Emotionally?"
A shiver racked her body. She looked fragile and vulnerable. Her lips trembled. "Scared."
Gently David wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. This was his fault. He should never have allowed her to swim alone. He'd failed as a bodyguard, and Blair was paying the price for his negligence.
She sighed against his chest. "He could have killed me, David."
"You're okay now." He would protect her. She came first. Her safety was more important than finding the Fisherman or tracking down old clues.
"But he didn't. He let me live." She tilted her head back to look up at him. "Why?"
Because, sometimes, we get a second chance. Life wasn't always a disaster, even if it felt that way. Every once in a while, there was reason to hope. David wouldn't let this chance slip through his fingers. He'd do everything in his power to make sure Blair was safe from harm.
"Why?" she repeated. "I mean, is this my fate? To be pushed to the edge and survive? Sometimes I think it would be easier to throw in the towel. To give up and die."
"Don't ever say that."
"I've lost so much." She shuddered. "My career. My confidence. My looks. I know that's shallow, but it still hurts."
"You can get it back," he said. "All of it."
"Look what happened to me.
" Angry tears glistened in her eyes. "For the first time since the accident, I went back to the Coroner's Office. And I liked it. I liked the attention. I was out in the world, investigating with you. I was excited about...being useful again."
"That doesn't have to stop." He kissed her forehead.
"But now I'm scared." She leaned against him. "I'm so tired of fighting."
He could feel the fear in her body and the bone-deep exhaustion that came from straggle in one impossible battle after another. But he knew she was strong. She'd conquered injuries that would have left a less-determined person in a wheelchair. "You're a survivor, Blair. You'll make it."
"Right." She slipped out of his embrace and sat on the edge of the tub. Her head drooped forward. "Tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself, David."
He knelt on the floor in front of her and took her hands. Her fingers were ice cold. "I can't tell you how to feel."
"I had a long time after the operations to lie around and whine. It's a waste of time."
"Whatever you say."
She lifted her head and gazed up at him. "I need to take a hot shower and dress this wound."
"I'm calling the police."
"Talk to Weathers," she said. "Forensics might find something near the swimming pool. And you also might call—"
"I'll handle it." David said. He stood and backed out of the bathroom. "Take your shower. If you need anything, I'll be right here."
He closed the bathroom door. The focus of his investigation had completely changed. His search for the Fisherman was no longer a vague quest toward closure. It was about Blair, about keeping her safe. He couldn't stand to lose her.
With three phone calls David turned her isolated little condo into a bona fide madhouse. Detective Weathers brought a full forensics team with him, including photographers and crime-scene investigators. Most of them were down by the pool, but several stayed up here. Two guys were out on the balcony smoking.
Weathers and two other plainclothes cops were in the bedroom talking to Blair. There was a knock on the door, and David answered. It felt like the five hundredth time.
It was Special Agent Gary O'Hara. He didn't mince words. "You're an incompetent jerk, David."
"Nice to see you, too."
"How did you let her get into a dangerous situation?"
David could have offered a half dozen excuses, starting with Blair was headstrong and ending with a reminder that David was not, after all, a professional bodyguard. But they all sounded like the words of an incompetent jerk. "It won't happen again."
"Damn right, it won't." O'Hara's lantern jaw clenched. "She needs to be under twenty-four-hour-a-day surveillance."
"I'm convinced," David said. "Now talk to Blair."
"Where is she?"
"In the bedroom with Weathers."
As O'Hara strode past him, he muttered, "You did one thing right. Calling me."
"Yes, sir." Though Agent O'Hara was probably only a few years older than David, he was the kind of guy who inspired respect.
"Give me a quick run-through of what happened."
"She was swimming laps and the lights went out. Sounds scary as hell to me. She couldn't see the guy. He had a flashlight. And he kept poking at her in the water with one of those long poles they use for cleaning. He hit her once, then turned on the lights and left."
"Was she unconscious in the water?"
"A little stunned," David said. "She didn't think he meant to kill her."
O'Hara's eyebrows raised. "This is different from the Fisherman. He stalked his earlier victims, but he didn't physically attack until he snatched them."
"I know." The variation in routine pointed, once again, to the possibility of a copycat, inspired by the earlier serial murders and preparing to build his own legend. "If it is a different guy, how does he fit the profile?"
"Much the same," O'Hara said. "Murder excites him. He hates women. But this is more complicated than a sex crime. He craves the notoriety, the power. When he succeeds in a kill, he makes law enforcement look foolish, and that turns him on."
"Which is why he sends the notes."
O'Hara nodded. "These aren't those pleading psycho notes. 'Stop me before I kill again.' Oh no, not for this guy. He's a lot smarter than that, and he's gloating."
The most significant interview David had today was with Kevin MacKay. He was definitely smart and liked to feel superior. As for hating women? Kevin's disparaging remarks about his murdered fiancée's leather pants seemed like proof of a hostile, misogynist attitude. David had to wonder if their talk with Kevin at noon had spurred him to attack Blair tonight.
There was more knocking at the door, and David answered.
Jake Zitti stepped inside. His mouth was already flapping. "One photo of Blair. That's all I want. Just one candid to run with tomorrow's story."
"No press," Agent O'Hara barked.
"You heard the man," David said.
"But this is different," Jake pleaded. "Come on, David. We're buds. I used to date Blair."
And he nearly destroyed her life with his careless driving. Jake had no claim on Blair's sympathies.
A quiet anger built inside David. There were limits to friendship, and Jake had crossed that boundary too many times. "Is your stuff out of my house?"
"I got it all cleared out. Just like you said." He tried a grin. "You owe me, man."
He didn't owe Jake squat. David had bailed this jackass out of trouble more times than he liked to count, and Jake had taken advantage of his caretaking nature. No more. David didn't have to save the entire world. Just Blair. "Get out."
"And you call yourself a newspaper man? Sounds to me like you're on their side, the cop side."
"We didn't choose up sides. This isn't a game." David shoved him toward the door. "This is real life."
"You're protecting her."
"Damn right."
As Jake was leaving, grumbling to himself, Adam Briggs stepped through the door. "Thanks for calling me, David. How can I help?"
David led the way into the crowded front room. One of the cops was using Blair's treadmill. Two others were on their cell phones, pacing. It was chaos. "How about a lion tamer's whip and chair?"
"Active investigations are messy," Adam said. "Is Blair all right?"
"She wasn't seriously injured. Refused any kind of medical treatment. Dressed the wound herself."
David introduced Adam to Agent O'Hara. The two men shook hands and immediately fell into conversation. There was a definite similarity between those two. Both in excellent physical condition, they shared a rigid bearing. And they carried their own aura of intensity. David couldn't imagine either of them being scared or hurt. If they were in pain, they wouldn't flinch.
For a long time David had tried to be impervious to the ache of his own grief. He'd buried himself in work and had written stories about other people's tragedy. For him, it hadn't been a successful coping strategy. Deferred sorrow never went away.
Blair emerged from the bedroom with Detective Weathers and his two plainclothes cronies. She went directly to David. Under her breath she said, "Get me out of here."
"My place?"
"Yes." She clutched his hand tightly.
With Weathers in the room, there were too many bosses: O'Hara, Adam and the police detective. They were all ready to give orders, and nobody had a clear plan.
For a moment David thought he and Blair might be able to slip away unnoticed. She had to be exhausted, and he wanted to tuck her into a nice warm bed and let her sleep.
Then the attention turned toward them. O'Hara said, "I'm assigning you a bodyguard, Blair."
"Thanks for the offer," she said. "But I don't want somebody hovering over my shoulder."
"Not your choice," Weathers said, backing up Special Agent O'Hara. "This killer is stalking you. If we watch you, we might be able to catch him."
"I agree," she said crisply. "Put me under surveillance. But I don't want a bodyguard. David will be with me."
He straightened his shoulders and stared back at them, answering their unspoken questions with his own determination. No way in hell was he going to back down. Blair needed him, and he was equal to the challenge. "I'll take care of her."
Weathers frowned and glanced away. O'Hara nodded his approval. It was Adam who spoke. "You have a carry permit for a gun, don't you?"
"I do."
"Use it."
David nodded. Nobody was going to hurt Blair while he was around. She was his number one priority. She'd be safe with him.
Chapter Nine
After a police escort to David's town house and a thorough search of the premises by armed experts, she and David were alone. Finally.
Blair flung herself onto the sofa and watched as David reset the burglar alarm by coding numbers into a keypad in the foyer.
"Now we're safe," he said. "I just changed the de-activation code so nobody else has it. If anybody breaks a window or opens a door, this alarm goes off like an air raid siren."
"You usually don't use the alarm, do you?"
"Not when I'm in town." He stepped down into the sunken living room to join her on the fawn leather sofa. "Tired?"
"You bet."
"Well, we're in luck," he said. "My cleaning lady came today so the guest bedroom is all made up. And she also purchased some basic groceries. So we won't starve to death."
"She sounds like a jewel."
"The bachelor's best friend," he said. "Are you ready to crash into bed?"
"I'm not really sleepy." She was still stirred up, cruising on an adrenaline rush. In the past two hours she'd gone through a terrifying attack and a grueling period of interrogation with all kinds of law-enforcement people getting right up in her face—asking questions, making demands. Weathers had been relentless in trying to get a description from her.