by Louise Clark
Eve reached for him. "Gerry, what has happened to us? What's happened to you?"
"Oh for heaven's sake, Eve! There's never been an 'us.' Our marriage is a business arrangement. Haven't you figured that out yet?" He glanced at his watch. "Now get out of my way. I've got to get going or I'll miss my plane."
Eve slapped him across the face. The blow landed with a resounding smack and left a red handprint on his cheek. No one expected the attack. Christy certainly didn't and Gerry Fisher was staring at his wife as if she had just morphed into Hades' three-headed dog. Even Eve had a horrified expression on her face.
"You bitch!" Fisher said, then he hit her with a backhanded blow that had blood spurting from her nose as she staggered backward. Her arms windmilled before she lost her balance and crashed to the floor. Her head hit the edge of the desk with a thud that sounded, to Christy's ears, as if it included the crunch of breaking bone.
"Oh, my God," she whispered, staring horrified at the still form of Eve Fisher. A whisper of sound made her look up, just in time to see Fisher pick up a letter opener from his desk. "Oh, my God," she said again as he advanced upon her.
Chapter 28
Quinn glanced at his watch as he parked the car. He'd taken longer than he expected to do his little errand. Christy was probably fine, but he was willing to bet his father was prowling around her house like a caged lion. He'd seen the signs before he'd left. Sitting at the computer for long periods gave Roy the fidgets. His muscles would cramp or begin to twitch, and the only way he could work out the problem was with exercise. Roy had been working flat out for days now. He must be badly in need of a run.
Quinn grabbed his package, a soft, butter-leather bag, from the trunk of the car then headed up the walk to his front door.
There he found the cat, sitting like a sentinel at the top of the steps. His stomach knotted. "What are you doing here?"
Stormy didn't answer him, of course. Cats don't really talk to people.
He ran lightly up the stairs, then stopped abruptly as the cat hissed at him. His stomach knotted again. The cat might not fire words into his head, but its body language was clear. "Something's up."
The cat bounded down the stairs, running off in the direction of Christy's townhouse. Relief flooded through Quinn. The damn animal was locked out and it wanted to get inside. He headed to his own front door. Well, it could wait until he'd put his package inside. He'd be going over Christy's in a minute, anyway...
The cat appeared at his feet again, this time standing on its hind legs so it could paw his leg. Its claws caught in the fabric of his jeans. He frowned down at it. "What's going on here?"
The cat abandoned his pants to race down the steps again, then off to Christy's house.
Quinn sighed. "All right, all right." He unlocked his front door, put the leather bag on the stairs, and came back outside.
The cat was waiting for him. "Okay. I'll go over and get Christy to let you in. Will that satisfy you?" He could have sworn the cat shook its head. What was going on here?
At Christy's house he pushed the doorbell and waited, uneasily. "I suppose you want your breakfast." The cat danced around his feet, clearly upset. Quinn frowned, thinking back. "Wait a minute, we fed you when the rest of us had breakfast." No one had answered the bell so he rang again, and then a minute later, a third time.
The cat was now pacing the porch like a tiger trapped in a tiny cage. Quinn swallowed hard. "She went out for a walk," he said. The pacing continued, accompanied by a low growl of what might have been frustration, but which certainly indicated some strong cat emotion. "Okay, no walk. Where the hell is she?"
The cat shot him an annoyed look, then jumped off the porch, heading back to Quinn's place. Quinn followed. He found the cat at his door, clearly waiting to get in. "You know, you've got me baffled, cat. What do you want? To get into Christy's place, or mine?"
The cat stood on its hind legs and pawed the door.
Oh, man, Quinn thought. He opened the door then watched the cat bound inside. He was about to follow when he heard a shout. He turned with some relief to see his father jogging up the street toward him.
"You're here," Roy said, puffing a little as he wiped his sweating forehead.
"So are you. Where's Christy?"
Roy looked surprised. "Isn't she back from school yet? I left for my run when she and Noelle headed off. I figured I'd be home before she was, but I went further than I intended. Oh, well, I guess it all worked out."
"Dad! It's nine thirty. It takes five minutes to walk back from the school."
"Maybe she stopped to talk to the teacher again, or stayed in the classroom with Noelle. Man, I need a shower," Roy added, as he headed into the house.
Christy was fine, Quinn told himself. All those warning instincts that had kicked in as the cat danced around him like a mad creature were just nerves activated by the events of the past few days.
He followed his father inside, then stopped. Roy was standing halfway up the stairs, his body tense and still, while the cat stood at the top, staring fixedly at him. Its tail lashed from side to side and its back was arched. It was the picture of feline outrage.
Slowly, Roy turned. His face was white. "Frank says Christy pinpointed Gerry Fisher as the murderer. She's gone to his house to keep him from leaving."
"What?" Quinn whispered, then added in a bellow, "Is she crazy? Never mind. Dad, ask Frank when she left."
There was more silent communication as he picked up the leather bag on the stairs.
Roy said, "Fifteen minutes ago, maybe less. He said she left us a phone message."
Still holding the bag, Quinn ran up the stairs. "The message should be time stamped."
It was and the cat was right. Christy had left the message less than a quarter of an hour before. "Maybe I can catch her. I can try, anyway." He opened the bag, checked the contents. "Dad, you call the cops—Billie Patterson. Tell her to rush a squad car to Fisher's address."
"What's Fisher's address? Christ, Quinn, is that a handgun?"
"Yup." Quinn weighed the pistol in his hand.
"Do you know how to use that thing?"
"I do." He loaded bullets into the chamber. "I learned in the Boy Scouts, Dad. Remember? I took a marksmanship badge."
"That was a long time ago, boy."
"Came in handy when I was in Afghanistan."
"You bought it there?" Roy held out his hand. Quinn put the gun into it.
As Roy turned the weapon in his hand with a kind of morbid fascination, Quinn said, "When I went into the back country one of the soldiers suggested I'd be smart to go armed. He wanted me to carry a semi-automatic rifle. I figured that would ruin my credibility as a journalist, so I opted for something that would fit in a pocket."
Roy offered him the gun back. "You brought it with you when you returned from Afghanistan."
"Yeah. I didn't have to use it and I thought..." He shrugged. "It was a sort of reminder of what I shouldn't do if I wanted to maintain my journalistic credibility. I put it in the safety deposit box for safekeeping."
Roy shook his head. "The safety deposit box? Does the bank know?"
Quinn laughed shortly as he slipped the loaded gun into the pocket of his windbreaker. He added bleakly, "I left it here when I went to Africa."
"Having a weapon wouldn't have helped Tamara." Roy followed his son to the doorway.
"I know." Quinn ran down the stairs to his car. "But this time I'm not going to take the chance."
* * *
The blade of the letter opener shone in the sunlight streaming through the window beside the desk. Shocked by the violence Fisher had shown to his wife, Christy stared at the shiny, lethal weapon with a horrified fascination. Above the glittering blade, the hilt was ebony, inlayed with ivory. The contrast of creamy white and gleaming black drew the eye and made the decoration leap out. Designed by a master craftsman, the piece was an effective example of the decorative arts.
Fisher smiled. Christy dragged h
er thoughts back to the matter at hand. What the hell was she doing?
She'd come here to keep Gerry Fisher from leaving town, but at this moment letting him go wherever he wanted seemed like a very good idea indeed. He could hop on that plane and fly to the moon for all she cared.
He took a step toward her, still smiling that warm, kindly smile. Still holding the letter opener like a dagger.
Christy stared at him. She had an awful feeling that the moment she moved he'd be upon her, but if she stayed where she was he'd creep toward her until he was close enough to lunge. Either way she was toast. What to do?
Think. Squash panic like a pesky mosquito and use her intellect to plot and plan.
He took another cautious step toward her.
He hadn't yet figured out that she'd pulled herself out of shock and was in active survival mode. That was good. When she moved she'd be able to make the most of this small advantage.
So what to do?
Get out of the house. Plant herself on the sidewalk where there were people. Find somewhere she could use her cell phone to call 911.
The key was to get out of the house.
How?
Run!
And she did.
She pivoted on the toes of one foot and took off the way she used to when Noelle was a toddler and had wandered where she wasn't supposed to, unaware of the danger she was putting herself in. Then Christy had run with the recklessness of love; now she added the desperation of utter terror to her sprint.
She was out of the room and into the hallway before Fisher realized what she intended. She reached the front door as he roared with fury. The knowledge that he was now on the move, only seconds away from capturing her, made her fingers clumsy. As she fumbled with the unfamiliar door locks she muttered, "Do it, do it, do it! Come on, Christy, you can do it. Come on!"
Behind her she heard the thud of his footsteps, and then, chillingly, his laughter.
Her voice rose to cover the sound. "Do it. Do it! Now!" The lock clicked. The latch gave under her hand.
With a little sob, Christy flung the door wide and leapt out. The cool fall air caressed her skin, promised safety, filled her with hope. Two steps and she'd be across the porch. Take the stairs two at a time and in another three she'd be on the walk. A dozen more and she'd be at the sidewalk.
She took the first of those steps. And the second. Then, as she was poised to rush down the stairs, Fisher reached the doorway.
Using his six-foot plus height he dove, grabbing for her.
Alerted by the sound of his footsteps and the delicate shift of the air around her, Christy glanced over her shoulder in time to see Fisher's attempt to tackle her. She screamed as she twisted to one side, trying to avoid him.
The porch was about twelve feet wide and six feet deep, enough room to grapple, not enough to maneuver. Christy lost her balance. To her horror, Fisher's hands closed around the loose cloth at the back of her open jacket.
Instinct kicked in. As he tugged at the fabric, she flexed her shoulders and let the garment slide down and off. She put her hand on the railing that edged the porch to help regain her balance. Fisher flung her jacket away with a savage gesture.
Too late, she remembered that her cell phone was in the pocket. Her link with the rest of the world, with the police. She grabbed for the garment. Fisher lunged for her.
She screamed again. He was inches away now. His eyes were wild, gleaming with a rage that made fury seem a moderate emotion. He had bared his teeth in a snarl that evoked primal terror. In seconds his reaching hands would touch her, then they would tear her apart while he howled his pleasure to the four winds.
He would kill her, here on his front porch in this oh so very respectable part of town. He would kill her and he would enjoy killing her. With her gone, Noelle would be an orphan. Who would care for her child then? Her cold, pitiless great aunt, Ellen Jamieson, who had ruined Frank's childhood?
The thought brought out a primitive savagery of Christy's own. She would not let this man steal her life, ruin her daughter's future. With a shriek, she curled her fingers into a fist, then she punched him with all her strength.
Fisticuffs and self-defense were not skills Christy had ever learned. Her blow may have had surprise and the weight of her body behind it, but her aim was off. She didn't connect with his nose, or the tip of his chin. There was no satisfying crunch of cartilage or the snap of his head. There was just the dull thump of bone on muscle.
Arm muscle.
Arm muscle recently clawed by one furious cat.
Fisher howled with pain and redoubled his efforts to secure Christy. He grabbed her, wrapping his arms around hers to pinion her. She writhed in his hold, kicking at his shins, twisting, pushing, pinching, doing whatever it took to make him release her.
Tightening his hold, Fisher snarled, "Stop! You can't win."
"Go to hell!" Christy threw her weight forward in a blind attempt to unbalance him. She did. They hovered there, on the edge of the porch, teetering dangerously.
"You bitch. You stupid bitch," Fisher said, then they tumbled down the stairs.
There were six steps from the top of the porch to the concrete walk below. They missed the first stair, but hit the second. Christy's knee snapped against the wooden tread, but she felt no pain. Even as they flew downward, she was trying to fight off Fisher's lethal embrace.
On the forth step they bounced, their hips hitting the painted wood. Christy was sobbing now. This was it, her last chance at life. If she landed on the bottom Gerry Fisher would be able to do whatever he wanted to her. She jabbed at his rib cage, using her fingers like pokers. Fisher grunted, shifted, and landed flat on his back on the concrete walk with Christy on top of him.
Hope welled up in her. She fought and struggled. Her thrashing legs connected with Fisher's flesh. Already winded by the fall, he grunted and his hold around her torso loosened. Christy redoubled her effort, using her arms now as she writhed and twisted.
His hold broke. She sobbed as she scrambled to her feet and took those first staggering steps toward the street and freedom. Behind her she heard him swear. Worse she heard the scraping sounds of movement. He was after her again.
"No!" Not now, not when she was so close to escape. Gasping, sobbing, she pushed herself to run. She counted the steps to the safety of the sidewalk.
One.
Two. He was on his feet now. Roaring his fury.
Three. He was moving. After her. She couldn't make it.
Four. She could do it. She just had to hang on.
Five. He was so close she could hear his breathing. He would grab her again. One more step. That was it, all she needed. Once they were on the sidewalk she would be safe. There were people there. There was freedom.
Six.
She hit a wall, a solid, warm, human wall. An arm wrapped around her, pulling her hard against that wall. Holding her close. She screamed and struggled.
Behind her she heard Fisher laugh. It was a gloating laugh that rubbed her on the raw. It told her he wanted her to fight her captor.
It told her it was time to stop and take stock.
She looked up into Quinn's face, and she stilled.
"Back off, Fisher," he said. "The cops are on the way."
Gerry Fisher wasn't about to listen to anyone, certainly not to a man with his arm full of terrified woman. He laughed, that sneering, arrogant laugh. As Christy turned in Quinn's embrace to face her assailant, Fisher took a menacing step forward.
Christy cried out, then covered her mouth with her hand in a frightened gesture. Quinn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a gun. He pointed it at Gerry Fisher with a calm that astounded Christy.
"Like I said, Fisher, the cops are on the way, so you just stay where you are until they get here."
Fisher stood poised. He stared at the gun, then at Quinn, that wild look still in his eyes. A siren sounded, coming close. Fisher's gaze shifted. His body tensed.
"Watch out," Christy cried
. "He's going to pounce!"
"I don't think so," Quinn said. Then, as Fisher made a move, he fired.
Chapter 29
The bullet went nowhere near Fisher, but it shocked him into stillness. He froze in place, poised to run, but motionless. That was the way the police found him.
The cops relieved Quinn of the gun, put handcuffs on Fisher and called for an ambulance for Eve Fisher. They bore Christy's angry denunciation when they patted down Quinn, then let him hold her as she gave her explanation of the morning's events. Billie Patterson arrived at the same time as the paramedics. As a stretcher was wheeled up the Fishers' walkway, she told Quinn to take Christy home.
Outside the police perimeter, a crowd had gathered. Christy could see camera crews from the local television stations and photographers toting still cameras with enormous lenses and heavy bags of accessories. Reporters were less easy to pick out, but she knew they would be there, working with the cameramen, holding microphones, ready to thrust them into her face.
She watched Billie Patterson read Gerry Fisher his rights, then nudge him into a squad car. Cameras clicked madly, capturing the scene. They were focused on Fisher's arrest right now, but when she appeared they'd swarm her in exactly the same way. She swallowed hard. "I'm not ready to face the gauntlet."
Quinn understood immediately. He smiled at her and rubbed her cheek with his knuckle. "So you won't. We'll figure out a way of getting you out of here incognito."
She sighed and nodded. Reaction set in and along with it came the chill of a brisk morning. She shivered. "Gerry pulled off my jacket when we were fighting. It must be over by the porch somewhere. I'd better find it. It's got my cell phone and wallet in the pocket." She headed back toward the porch. Every step was an effort as her body began to ache in more and more places.
"Christy."
She turned to see Quinn frowning at her. "What's up?"
"You're limping."
"I am?" She looked down. Her pants were filthy, but otherwise okay. Now that Quinn mentioned it, though, one leg was beginning to throb. She wondered how that happened and thought about it for a minute. "Oh, yeah. I hit my knee when Gerry and I tumbled down the stairs."