The Marrying Kind

by Beverly Bird

  She left Kennery’s office to call the detective in Nebraska. She kept one worried eye on the clock, and finally sat back in her chair with a sigh at four-thirty. She returned to Kennery’s office.

  “Any word?” she asked.

  “Nope.” This time she was sure Kennery didn’t look happy.

  “Nebraska says Benami—their Conrad Benning—was released on bail pending trial,” she said finally.

  “For Murder One?”

  “He held real estate. A lot of it. His wife was a railroad heiress.” She snorted at that. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? He hired a very good attorney, who convinced the judge that he wasn’t a flight risk.”

  “Bet that judge feels stupid,” Kennery muttered.

  “Mmm. Benami—Benning—deaned out his wife’s bank accounts and immediately skipped town.”

  “And got lost in Philly.”

  “Eventually. Apparently he cooled his heels in Paris for a while.” Tessa caught her breath. She was dying—absolutely dying—to tell Gunner of this development. She couldn’t wait to see his expression. And a righteous, angry part of her—the part that kept remembering Daphne waiting, tied to that table teg—couldn’t wait to watch him sink his teeth into Christian Benami now.

  Where was he?

  Kennery’s phone began ringing. “I’ll call Baum,” he said, and answered it.

  Tessa excused herself, then her footsteps faltered. Something prickled up her nape at Kennery’s tone as he spoke into the phone. Physical reaction rammed into her as she heard the captain’s half of the conversation. She whipped back to look at him again, wild-eyed, holding on to the doorjamb for support.

  Kennery slammed down the receiver.

  “What?” she demanded. “What did he do?” But she knew. It had been in the back of her mind all afternoon. The only reasonable explanation for Gunner’s protracted absence was that something had happened to him, especially the longer it went on.

  The captain swore a blue streak. Tessa’s heart was whaling against her chest now, rushing her blood through her so fast she felt light-headed. “What did he do?”

  “He’s at Thomas Jefferson Hospital. He wrecked another car. Hey! Now where the hell are you going?”

  Tessa leaned over into the front seat of the cab as it got mired in rush hour traffic at the light on Chestnut. “Go up on the sidewalk,” she ordered the driver.

  He looked at her in the rearview mirror. “What? Lady, are you crazy?”

  “I’m a police officer.” She fished frantically in her briefcase for her badge and flashed it at him. “Go!”

  The cabbie went.

  She sat back again, fear clawing at her chest. Tessa knew fear. She knew it intimately. It gouged with icy fingers. It snatched the breath right from your lungs, leaving you suspended in some frozen, horrified state. It made your skin tighten over your flesh in enraged and helpless protest at what was happening.

  Always before, she had felt it for herself or for someone she loved. But it all came back to her now when she closed her eyes and envisioned Gunner’s broken body.

  It had been bad this time, she thought, nausea pressing up in her throat, her eyes burning with unshed tears. It must have been bad for them to have taken him to a hospital. She moaned and pressed her knuckles to her mouth. Oh, Gunner, please don’t die.

  Dying was so easy, so sneaky. It could happen in the blink of an eye. She couldn’t lose him that way. She couldn’t.

  The taxi dropped her off at the emergency entrance of the hospital. She shoved money at the driver—probably too much, but he had driven up on the curb—and raced inside on legs that fought her control.

  “John Gunner,” she gasped when she reached the desk. “A car accident. He’s a cop.”

  Something predictable happened to the nurse’s face—a slight flush, a private smile. “Oh, sure,” she responded. “I know who you mean. The good-looking guy who was cracking jokes.”

  Cracking jokes? “Can I see him?”

  “That’d be tough. He’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gone how?” Had he died? No, no, certainly not, not if he had been joking.

  Still, the room tilted. Tessa’s fingers clawed at the desk for support.

  The nurse sprang to her feet. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Where is he?” Tessa croaked. “What happened?”

  “He checked himself out AMA about five minutes ago. You just missed him.”

  “Checked... himself... out.”

  “You’d better sit down.”

  “Yes. I’d better.” She stumbled back to a line of chairs and dropped into one gracelessly. Her breath finally came back in short, little bursts. Her fingers wrapped themselves around the arms of the chair. She held on as though it were likely to pitch her out at any moment.

  The nurse brought her a cup of water. She looked up at her vacantly and managed to loosen the fingers of one hand to take it. She drank greedily.

  “He only had a minor concussion,” the woman said comfortingly. “Are you his wife?”

  Tessa stared at her. “Of course not!” Why would she think that?

  “Well, you seem so upset.”

  “He’s my partner.” And she was going to kill him. “Five minutes?” she repeated. “Just a minor concussion?”

  “Well, a few cuts and bruises, too. We tried to keep him overnight, just for observation, but he’d have none of it.”

  AMA, Tessa remembered. Against medical advice.

  “He’s a dead man,” she muttered, getting to her feet again.

  “No,” the nurse argued. “Like I said, it really wasn’t all that bad.”

  “Dead,” she repeated. “With my bare hands. Why can’t he just drive like a normal human being? Can you tell me that? Gas pedal, brakes, steering wheel! It’s not that damn hard to master!” she yelled at the woman.

  “Uh, no,” the nurse agreed warily.

  “And he says women can’t drive!”

  She stalked out of the emergency ward again, leaving the dumbfounded woman to stare after her.

  Sweet God, his head hurt.

  Gunner stepped off the curb and waved a hand at an approaching cab. It slowed down for him, but then an old woman with two shopping bags scooted ahead of him and crawled inside, her bags bumping out behind her.

  Gunner stared disbelievingly as the taxi sped off again. He stepped back up onto the curb and began jogging, dodging around people, pushing a few aside in his frantic haste.

  Was Tess home, or was she still at the office?

  He’d left his watch back at the hospital. He didn’t even know what time it was, whether it was likely that she’d given up waiting for him and gone back to her brownstone, or if she was still at the office, chewing nails because he was late.

  A phone, he thought.

  He needed to find a telephone. Then he could send district officers to wherever she was. They would protect her until he could get to her.

  He noticed a shop keeper, standing outside, closing up for the night. Gunner ran to him.

  “Whoa there!” he shouted. “Let me in. I need to use your phone. What the hell?”

  The man turned on him instantly, brandishing a billy club. Gunner jerked back out of range just in time to avoid being hit in the temple.

  “Those things are illegal, damn it!” he snarled. “Give it to me!” The guy swung harder, more wildly. This was a dream. All a bad dream. Had to be.

  Gunner’s headache was killing him now. Still, he managed to snag the man’s arm. He wrestled it behind him and held him a moment, trying to still the pain behind his eyes. The guy began bawling for the cops.

  “I am the police, you idiot!” And then, abruptly, he let go of the man’s arm. He realized what was happening here.

  He didn’t look like a cop. He looked like a sorry excuse for an aging hoodlum. His T-shirt was blood-spattered from the gash on his forehead. He’d left his jacket behind, so the blood stains were in plain view. They’d taken his clothing from him at the
hospital, and he’d had a hell of a time getting it back. Sometime while it had been missing, his wallet had disappeared from his rear jeans’ pocket, he discovered, fishing for it. So no badge, and no money.

  He swore again, angrily.

  This man was too frightened to let him inside, he realized. Gunner left the shop keeper and began running again. He was maybe eight blocks from the office. Eight long blocks. He prayed to God that he had enough time to make it on foot.

  He’d had his seat belt on, maybe for the first and only time in years. He hated them and never bothered with them. But when he’d been getting into his car, a group of school kids had happened to walk past, and it had occurred to him, out of the blue, to set a good example. A few of them had been watching, so he’d done his good-citizen bit, latching his seat belt.

  A few blocks later, driving the route he took every night, he’d been virtually broad-sided.

  He’d been unconscious when they’d delivered him to the hospital. Then he’d woken up to find himself damn near naked on a very uncomfortable table with people peering down on him, shining penlights into his eyes. He’d reacted like a madman. He knew that but didn’t care. It had taken him all of maybe five seconds of consciousness to assimilate what had happened and to realize that he hadn’t had a run-of-the-mill traffic accident.

  He’d had the green light at the intersection. He remembered that distinctly. Dusk had been starting to gather and it was overcast to begin with, but the car that had hit him hadn’t had its headlights on. It had roared straight at him, through the red light, through the intersection, swerving at the last possible moment to neatly clip his right front fender. Gunner had lost control of the car briefly enough to take out the traffic light. Admittedly, he’d probably been speeding. The city car had cleaved to the metal pole.

  It had been Benami’s doing.

  It was the only case he and Tess were active on right now. Somehow, the bastard had to know that they were closing in on him. How? A leak? Gunner’s gut clenched. Ah, hell, was there a leak in the department? Or had Tess’s brother merely gotten the compliance order? Maybe they’d tried to serve him with it, and the man had run. But it made more sense that Benami had access to inside information. Not that his routines were a big secret, Gunner thought. His co-workers, his friends, a whole handful of people were privy to them.

  Either way, if Benami had made a move on him, then Tess was next on the man’s agenda.

  He reached the Administration Building, a stitch digging into his side and pulling tight. He reached over the reception desk in the lobby and grabbed the telephone from the startled man sitting there. Mel Kaminski answered upstairs.

  “Is Tess there?” he gasped.

  “Gunner? I thought you were in the hospital. Boy, is Kennery bugged at you.”

  “Later.” He had to think. His head was muddled, and it hurt. “Where is she? Where’s Tess?”

  “She hightailed it out of here when we got the word on you. I think she went to the hospital. Kennery’s not happy with her, either. He had to send another team to go peek into that safe-deposit box.”

  Gunner tried to make sense of that and failed.

  Oh, hell. She had gone to the hospital. No matter what had happened between them, no matter how strained their relationship might be now, she was his partner and she was that kind of woman. She would find her way to his side through a firestorm if be was injured.

  She had been willing to take a bullet for Matt Bryant. Why couldn’t he get that out of his head, even now?

  “We’ve got to find her, Mel,” he said hoarsely. “Fast.”

  “Is something wrong?” Fear crept into Mel’s voice.

  “Real wrong. Listen, you’ve got to alert every pertinent district for the guys to keep their eyes open for her. If she’s not upstairs with you, then she’s either still at the hospital or making her way back from the hospital. Maybe she’s gone home. Look everywhere. When she’s found, tell the cops to stay with her and phone in their location. I’ll get to her as soon as I can and explain.”

  To her credit, Mel didn’t waste time with more questions. A fellow cop was in danger. That was enough.

  Gunner hung up and briefly considered the time it would take him to cajole another car out of the parking lot attendant. He ran for the street again instead. When she left the hospital, she’d probably go straight home.

  Tessa went to check the answering machine when she got home. She had no messages, so Gunner hadn’t called her here.

  She grabbed the receiver and phoned the office. Mel Kaminski answered.

  “Have you heard from that crazy fool?” she demanded.

  It took Mel a moment to recover. “Tessa? Where are you?”

  “Home. He checked himself out against medical advice. Can you believe that?”

  “I know.” Mel caught her breath. “Listen, I’m supposed to send district officers over to you right away. I’m not sure, but I got the impression Gunner’s headed there, too.”

  “Here? District cops?” What was going on? “Why?” Then her heart stalled. “Benami’s still missing.”

  “As far as I know. I’m not sure if that’s what has Gunner in an uproar or not. Look, you’re supposed to stay put. I’ll radio a car to get to you A.S.A.P.”

  “Mel, I am a cop!” Why did everyone still insist on babying her?

  “Yeah, and in this day and age, cops always need backup,” Mel said unperturbedly. The line clicked abruptly as she hung up.

  Cops. Backup, Tessa thought.

  She realized she was shivering. Cold. Suddenly she was so very cold. What was going on?

  She fumbled in her purse for her revolver. Her hands were shaking. She made sure it was loaded, that the safety was off, and stepped into the hallway, her heart thudding instinctively with the threat of danger. Benami was missing. This had to have something to do with Benami.

  Did Gunner have some reason to believe that the man was going to come after her? If only she had a clue as to what was happening here!

  She moved down the darkened hallway into the kitchen, stepped into the room, and hit the light switch. The glass in the back door exploded with a barrage of bullets.

  She had no more warning than that. Tessa screamed. And screamed.

  Matt stepping toward the gunman, hands out, reaching, placating—no, no, don’t do that!—and she left the restaurant door and stumbled in his direction. Her gun. She didn’t have her gun. Bullets spit, cracked, whined. Too late. Matt falling, down, down, and that horrible gurgling sound he had made as he died—

  “Oh, God,” she whimpered. “Help me, please help me.”

  She had a gun. This time she had a gun.

  She stood frozen, unable to bring it up as more gunfire came at her. A bullet pinged neatly into the refrigerator behind her. She screamed and dodged toward the table. Another bullet smashed the glass of the light fixture over it, plunging her into darkness again. Glass rained over her. Blood stung her eyes. She finally dove for the floor.

  Her gun. This time she had a gun.

  She meant to bring it up, had every intention of firing back, but it dropped clumsily from her nerveless hand. She fumbled for it. More bullets spat into the kitchen. The wine bottle on the counter exploded.

  Tessa screamed again. She finally began crawling for the corner where the kitchen counters came together. Nobody could get her there, not shooting from outside.

  Her gun. She needed her gun in case they came inside.

  She went back for it, clutching it against her breasts as she crawled again, bracing herself on one hand. And she finally made it, into the corner, huddling there.

  Distantly, almost absently, she realized that the gunfire had stopped.

  Tessa put her head down against her updrawn knees and sobbed.

  Gunner ran around the corner into Elfreth’s Alley at the exact moment gunfire exploded. He never realized he was roaring her name.

  He did know that his own life was suddenly passing before his eyes at the
thought of losing her. That this was a woman he would kill and die for. He would do anything to save her, anything to the person who had hurt her. If he could get there in time. If only he could get there in time.

  Her front door was locked.

  He gave an enraged sound and drove his shoulder into it, using his full weight and every ounce of adrenaline that was pouring through his body as if it were fire. He hit it again and again. The wood finally split and cracked. The door swung open, creaking. Still bellowing, he raced down the hallway.

  Somehow, his eyes saw and his mind registered. The living room was untouched. The dining room was fine. The kitchen then. He kept going.

  The room was pitch-black. Glass crunched under his feet. He heard her crying.

  “Tess,” he croaked. She was crying. She was alive. Hurt? Shot?

  A sob caught halfway in her throat. She said something that might have been his name. Gunner followed the sounds clumsily, moving into a corner of the cupboards, hunkering down, putting a hand out for her. He was shaking. He felt it, couldn’t actually see it, but he was amazed. He’d always had nerves of steel.

  “Tess,” he said again, hoarsely. “Did you get hit? Can I touch you?”

  This time her words were clearer. “Yes, please,” she whispered.

  Gunner groaned.

  He moved around to sit beside her. He did it carefully, one arm moving slowly around her shoulders. She put up no resistance when he pulled her into the crook of his arm, against his chest.

  “Shh. It’s okay now. I’m here.” He used his hand to ease her head down. Just until she stopped trembling, he told himself. Then he realized that his hand was sticky from where he had touched her. He rubbed his fingers together, and immediately knew the tackiness there for what it was.

  Blood.

  “Ah, Lord.” His life seemed to stop. His heart stalled and every bit of breath in his lungs vanished. “Oh, God, you’ve been hit.”

  “No.” Her voice was tiny, tremulous. “Glass. He shot the light out.”

  Just glass. Just cuts. Okay. He could deal with that.