Rose Quartz

by Sandra Cox

  As the car sped by, he yanked her up. “Are you all right?” When she didn’t immediately respond, he shook her, his tone urgent.

  “Yeees.” She lifted a shaky hand to the side of her head, her keys still clutched in her hand.

  He shoved her toward her apartment building. “Get inside,” he ordered, already racing for the truck. With three long-legged strides, he reached the pickup and hopped in the cab.

  “Ms. Bella, are you all right?” George came running toward her. He stumbled to a halt beside her, trembling worse than she was.

  “I’m fine, George.” She brushed off her shoulders. She had a nasty scrape on her right arm but it could have been worse, a lot worse.

  She turned to watch Hank as he gunned the motor. Wrenching the steering wheel, he missed the little white Honda parked in front of him by a hairsbreadth. The motor whined as the truck went fishtailing down the street.

  * * * * *

  I will retrieve the amulets, he muttered to himself. I need the creativity amulet to get me out of this cubicle of concrete and steel bars. After I’m out, I will go after the power amulet myself. I can’t trust anyone else to, except perhaps Victoria, blood of my blood, bone of my bone. Victor shook his head. I will tell her about the healing amulet and the power amulet when I am free.

  Chapter Three

  Hunched over the wheel, Hank barreled his pickup through a red light, keeping his eye on the dark sedan several car lengths ahead of him. A taxi tried to cut in front of him but he punched on the gas, determined not to lose sight of his quarry.

  He crossed onto the oncoming traffic lane then swerved back in front of a Toyota. The driver threw on the brakes and laid on the horn.

  Now just two cars were between him and the sedan.

  Tires squealing, the sedan skidded around the corner on a red. The light turned green. Hank stayed with him, causing a pedestrian starting across the street to jump back on the curb. The man placed his palm under his elbow and thrust his arm up in an obscene gesture.

  The sedan accelerated down narrower and darker streets.

  “He’s made me,” Hank muttered, both hands on the wheel, never taking his eyes off the sedan.

  The car slowed. The driver waved a gun out of the window and fired, missing the truck by a mile.

  “Punk.” Hank’s jaw tightened. He smiled grimly. “So you want to play.” His gaze locked on the sedan, Hank drove with one hand as he leaned toward the glove compartment and flipped it open. Feeling around, he pulled out his pistol and clicked off the safety.

  With a light tap on the brakes, he slowed, leaned out the window, took aim and fired.

  The pistol barked, followed by a loud pop as the left back tire of the sedan exploded. Tires screaming, the car fishtailed off the road and into a lamppost.

  The driver’s head snapped forward and hit the horn on the steering wheel. One long continuous honk blared from the car horn, grating at Hank’s nerves.

  He heard the whoop-whoop-whoop of sirens several blocks away.

  Tires slid on the pavement as Hank stomped on the brakes and slammed the gears into park then leaped out of the truck.

  In four long strides, he was beside the disabled vehicle. He didn’t bother with the door. Just reached in, grabbed the thug’s shirt collar and yanked him through the open window, taking off several layers of the man’s skin as he did so.

  “What are you doing?” the hoodlum yelled. A goose egg stood out on his forehead.

  “I’ll ask the questions.” Tight-lipped, Hank pushed him up against the car. “Who sent you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man struggled in Hank’s grasp. He was thin and wiry, of medium height.

  “Wrong answer.” Hank grabbed him by his slicked-back, greasy hair and slammed his face on the car’s hood, still warm from the chase.

  The man screamed as blood spurted out his nose and onto the car. “Are you crazy?”

  Hank yanked him up. “Appears I am. Now who sent you?”

  “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The sirens were getting closer. “I don’t have much time. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Is that anyway to talk to your elders?” Once again, Hank shoved the man’s face against the car hood, this time with more force. He had the satisfaction of hearing the man’s nose break. “Who?”

  “Christ. You broke my fucking nose,” the man howled.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” the thug screamed.

  Hank shoved him facedown, hard, crushing the man’s broken nose. “Who?”

  “Johnny,” he blubbered.

  Hank’s grip on the man’s hair tightened. “Not enough information. Johnny who?”

  By now the man was babbling, tears mixing with the blood on his face. “Morelly, Johnny Morelly.”

  “Where can I find this Johnny Morelly?”

  “After tonight, he’s going to be finding you,” Though he shook like a leaf, the man managed a weak sneer.

  “Where?” But before he could get any answers three squad cars came fishtailing around the corner, lights flashing and sirens screaming.

  As their cars squealed to a stop, uniformed officers jumped out. “Put your hands over your head,” one yelled as they approached, guns drawn.

  Moments later Hank found himself facedown on the car, his hands cuffed behind his back. He grimaced as he felt the warm blood, spattered on the hood, against the side of his face.

  “Spread ’em.”

  Hank complied and was patted down. I hope to hell they don’t search the truck.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a lawyer and have a lawyer present with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer one will be appointed for you if you so desire. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”

  “Yes,” Hank said.

  “Looks like this one needs to go to the hospital, Sarge. His face is pretty messed up,” the cop cuffing the thug said.

  “You take that one to the hospital. Officer Gordon, take this one to the station.” The sergeant hauled Hank to his feet and strong-armed him toward one of the police cars. He opened the back door and pushed Hank’s head down as he shoved him inside.

  A bulky policeman got behind the wheel.

  The adrenaline rush Hank had been operating under ebbed. Aches and pains from his roll in the road were making themselves known. The handcuffs biting into his wrists rubbed against a raw patch of skin, driving him crazy. Alcohol and vomit vied with the smell of coffee and donuts. But he could deal with a few aches and pains. Right now he needed to know about Bella. He leaned forward. “Officer…”

  The policeman looked at Hank in the rearview mirror, his face gray with fatigue. A deep scar on his cheek stood out against his drawn features. “Gordon. Officer Gordon. What do you want?”

  “That man back there tried to run down a woman. Can you check on her?”

  The cop paused for a moment as if weighing the question. “A call did come through over the radio a few minutes ago. What’s the address?”

  “One-twenty-five Magnolia Place.” Hank rotated his wrists trying to get some relief from the handcuffs.

  “That’s usually a pretty quiet area,” the officer responded, his eyes on the street.

  “Couldn’t prove it by me,” Hank said in a dry voice.

  “What’s the subject’s name?”

  “Isabella Tremaine.”

  “Isabella Tremaine?” The officer jerked the wheel, shock in his voice.

  Hank clenched his jaw. His gut churned. The cop’s reaction cemented what he already knew. Isabella Tremaine was way out of his league. One look at that dandy she’d been pressed up against tonight like lunchmeat on bread had been enough to tell him that.

  “Are you talking about Isabella Tremaine, the artist?” The cop�
�s eyes narrowed, his expression speculative.

  “Yes,” Hank responded tight-lipped.

  “Are you saying that punk back there tried to run down Ms. Tremaine?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you went after him,” Officer Gordon persisted.

  “He was getting away.”

  “And when you caught him, you beat the sweet hell out of him.”

  Hank’s gaze locked with the policeman’s in the mirror.

  “That’s pretty much how it went down.”

  “Where you from, cowboy?”

  “Wisconsin.”

  “Well, that may be the way things are done up north but here in the South folks call the police when there’s been a crime committed. Next time you call the cops. You got that.”

  Hank jerked his chin in a clipped nod.

  The policeman picked up the car radio and clicked the button. “5872 to 5941.”

  “This is 5941. Come in, 5872.”

  Officer Gordon spoke into the radio. “Does your passenger have a name?”

  “Danny Amato.”

  The officer let out a whistle. “As in Johnny Morelly’s muscle? Is he pressing charges?”

  Static crackled over the line. “Nope. It was just one big misunderstanding.”

  “I’d say his face is the misunderstanding,” Officer Gordon responded.

  The other policeman snickered into the radio. “Yuh think? We just pulled into the hospital, I’m signing off.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Clicking off the radio, Officer Gordon glanced in the rearview mirror. “I don’t much care for Morelly or his ilk and that includes Amato. They give this town a bad name. Ms. Tremaine on the other hand is one of Atlanta’s own. It would have been a damn shame if a piece of trash like Amato had succeeded tonight.”

  He cleared his throat. “Since no charges are being made, I don’t suppose there’s any point in taking you in.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  “Just try to stay out of trouble. Where do you want to be dropped off?”

  Hank decided it was time to ask a few questions of his own. “Who’s Johnny Morelly?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Officer Gordon asked, his voice gruff with suspicion.

  Ignoring the question, Hank leaned forward. “You think Danny Amato went after Ms. Tremaine on his own or on orders from his boss?”

  “I think it’s none of your concern. We’ll look into it. I’ll make you a deal. You stay out of it and I’ll swing by Magnolia Place.” Not waiting for an answer, he picked up the radio. “This is 5872. I’m in the vicinity and swinging by Magnolia Place.”

  “5872, someone is already heading that way. No, wait. There’s a robbery in progress, they’ve been diverted. Go ahead.”

  “Ten-four.” Officer Gordon clicked the radio off and sat it back in its holder. He braked for a red light.

  When the light turned green, the officer tapped the gas and the squad car shot forward. Hank’s head snapped back against the seat.

  “So what can you tell me about this Morelly?” Hank asked as he straightened up.

  “You just don’t let up, do you? You her bodyguard or something?”

  “Something,” Hank said shortly.

  “Think you can get me an autograph? My wife’s a big fan.”

  “I don’t know. They’re pretty hard to come by.”

  The cop snorted. “That sounds perilously close to a bribe.” He relented. “Morelly is the crime lord around these parts. Keeps a few legit business fronts but everyone knows what goes down. He’s just too smart for us to prove anything.”

  He can’t be too smart if he thought he could get away with taking out Bella. Hard knots of anger twisted Hank’s stomach. He clenched his fists then made himself relax. “Probably owns some big mansion outside town, right?”

  “Don’t even think about it. If I hear you’re within a mile of Morelly’s I’ll haul your ass in. If there’s anything left of it. Chances are, after this night’s work, the next time I see you will be in the morgue. Morelly isn’t going to be pleased you busted up one of his boys.”

  Hank shrugged. “I try but not everyone wants to be friends. Don’t understand it myself.”

  Officer Gordon shook his head. “Cowboy, I don’t get you. I guess it’s because you’re from out of town and don’t know no better.” He pulled up in front of Bella’s apartment and cut the engine.

  The cop stepped out of the squad car. He opened the back door and undid Hank’s cuffs.

  Hank flexed his shoulders and scrubbed his wrists. Biting back a groan, he swung his legs out then put his hands on his knees to push himself up. Every damn bone in his body hurt.

  The doorman hurried to the big glass door and threw it open. As Hank walked in the doorman exclaimed, “Mr. McHenry, you’re hurt.”

  Hank’s head jerked up. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more—that the man thought he was hurt or knew his name. He glanced down. Amato’s blood was splattered all over him. He scrubbed his face. Dried blood flaked off and dropped like red confetti on the silver carpet.

  “Thank you for your concern, sir, but it’s not my blood.”

  The doorman tugged on the bill of his cap. “The name’s George and I hope you beat the holy shit out of that son of a bitch.” George colored when he looked at the policeman but his short, clean-shaven jaw remained locked. “Meaning no disrespect but that scum tried to kill Ms. Bella.”

  Officer Gordon pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Care to give me a statement?”

  “Sure, though there’s not much to tell.” He nodded toward Hank. “Mr. McHenry here was sitting out in his truck and Ms. Bella headed out to see him. The minute she stepped into the road a car pulls out three lengths behind Mr. McHenry’s truck and heads straight for Ms. Bella with his lights off. Mr. McHenry saved her life. He jumped out of his truck, tackled her and rolled her out of harm’s way.”

  George turned to Hank. “Bet you played football in high school or college. That was one of the most beautiful tackles I’ve ever seen. You went sailing through the air like a first-stringer.”

  The policeman cleared his throat. “And then what?”

  George gave him a surprised look. “That’s all. He pulled Ms. Bella up and pushed her toward the apartment complex, jumped in his truck and went after the SOB.”

  Officer Gordon tapped his pen against the notebook and looked at Hank speculatively. “So what were you doing sitting out in your truck? Were you expecting trouble? Why do you think Amato came after her?”

  “Have no idea.” Hank had no intention of sharing his theories with Atlanta’s finest. He jammed his hands in his pocket and shifted his weight, splaying his legs. “I just got in town. Bella was out. I waited around ‘til she got home.”

  “When did she get home?”

  “About ten o’clock,” Hank said.

  “And when did Amato allegedly try to run her down?”

  Hank straightened his jaw tight. “There was no allegedly about it. He tried to murder her.” Just thinking about it made his blood boil. For a brief moment he saw pure red. He blinked, shifted his shoulders and forced himself to relax. “About eleven.”

  The policeman looked at George.

  George nodded. “That would be about right.”

  Officer Gordon looked at Hank. “So why were you sitting in your truck an hour after she got home?”

  Hank looked shamefaced. “I was trying to decide whether to go on up or wait until morning. She didn’t know I was coming. I wanted to surprise her.”

  The cop gave him a hard skeptical look. “You don’t strike me as the wishy-washy type.”

  “Have you seen the lady?” Hank asked, rocking back on his heels.

  “Not up close.”

  “It’s hard to think straight when you’re in her vicinity.” And wasn’t that the gods’ truth? “You’ll see what I mean.”

  Officer Gordon turned to George. “You know this man.”

  George l
ooked him right in the eye, even though he had to look up to do it. “I know all I need to know about him.”

  Officer Gordon slapped his notebook closed. “Let’s go talk to Ms. Tremaine.” He strode to the elevator.

  As they rode the elevator, Hank unbuttoned his tattered shirt, planning on taking it off. He wasn’t quite sure how Bella would react to seeing all the blood spattered on him and he didn’t want to spook her.

  The elevator door slid silently open.

  His hands dropped to his sides and his heart did a hard slam against his ribs. Bella stood in the doorway, waiting for them. George must have buzzed her the moment they stepped on the elevator.

  She’d changed into a chocolate brown, gauzy smock and Capri jeans. Her feet were bare and her toenails painted scarlet.

  Their gaze locked. She stood as if turned to stone. He forced his feet to move one in front of the other, absently pushing back the long silver doors of the elevator as they started to close.

  She broke eye contact first. Her gaze swept over him. He heard her sharp intake of breath as she rushed forward. Reaching out her hands, she grazed his face with her fingertips, felt his shoulders then traveled her fingers down his ribs. Scalding heat followed everywhere she touched.

  “Where are you hurt?” She pressed her fingertips against his stomach.

  He took a step back, almost bumping into the elevator, and stilled her hands, clasping them. “I’m fine, Bella. I’m not hurt.”

  “But all that blood.” Her hands shook. Her body trembled.

  “Not mine.”

  Officer Gordon cleared his throat. “Ms. Tremaine?”

  Her eyes swept over Hank, still looking for injury. Satisfied he was telling the truth, she turned to Officer Gordon. “Yes.”

  Hank took one look at the foolish expression on the officer’s face and didn’t know whether to curse or laugh.

  Bella touched her amulet.

  Hank sighed. Here we go. He looked at her closely. There was no one thing he could put his finger on. No noticeable transformation but the beauty that she wore like a cloak thrown over her shoulders intensified. No one would notice if they weren’t watching closely. They would simply be dazzled.