Dan slid on top of her, still clothed in jeans and a Polo shirt. His sneakers banged her shins as he slithered over her; his hands and mouth took terrible liberties. She thought she might choke on her own vomit. Callie screamed and screamed, but her terror was trapped in her throat, unable to find release.
Suddenly, he rolled off and stood.
"Okay. Checklist. Gloves." He wiggled his fingers at her. "Double-gloved." He tapped his chin, speaking in a tone that suggested he was making a grocery list rather than outlining the instruments for murder. "Video camera. Condoms." He pulled a foil packet from his pocket and put it on the nightstand. "Victim." He pointed at her and winked. "I think that's it."
He returned to the bed and ripped off the duct tape. Callie cried out from stinging pain. "Keep doing that, sweetie. Turns me on. Not that I ever had a problem getting hard around you."
"I killed you, damn it!"
"You killed my twin." Dan sat on the bed and stroked her thigh. She yanked her leg away, but the gesture angered him. He grabbed her knee and held it place as his other hand crept toward her womanhood. "Here's a little secret ... we wife swapped. All the time. Share and share alike." He stopped touching her, then bent close her face, grabbing her chin with a vise-like grip. "His name was Charlie and he was a cop, like me. When you shot him, I became him. I screwed his wife, drove his car, worked his job. I hated you Callie. You took the life of my best friend, my brother. And I couldn't fuckin' believe it when you didn't go to prison."
"He killed your child."
His gaze darkened. "You weren't supposed to get pregnant. No kids. Charlie and I agreed. He beat you like you deserved because you broke the pact."
Terror squeezed her insides so tightly, she didn't think she'd ever breathe normally again. She felt tendrils of anger curl through her. Not enough to overwhelm her fear, but enough to know she wouldn't give him any of the satisfaction he craved. If given the chance, she would take her own life first.
She jerked her chin out of his hand. "I'm glad I killed him. I'm glad he's dead."
"Shut up."
"You should have seen him die, Dan. You should have seen what he looked like with six gaping holes in his -- "
He slapped her so hard her ears rang and her vision blurred. An ache crept across her face. But her anger strengthened and the fear making her limbs shake receded just a little. Dan leapt off the bed. "Don't you speak! This is my show. The show Charlie was making for me. I won't let you ruin this."
He shoved his hands through his hair and held his head, muttering under his breath. Then he looked at his watch. "Damn it! Now we're behind schedule. I've wasted three minutes telling you shit you don't need to know." He flipped the switch on the video camera. It was on a tripod, angled toward the bed.
It's one round eye was ready to record the last moment's of Callie's life.
* * * *
The dread lodged in Evan's gut grew heavier the farther he got from Callie's house. His guts were screaming something wasn't right. Five minutes had passed since he'd spoken to his partner, but he couldn't figure out what about the conversation was bothering him.
Evan pulled the Mustang over and skimmed the curb in his hurry. The ice cream parlor! Jerry said he was eating a fudge sundae. The chubby bastard was lactose intolerant.
"Gettin' a cold, my ass." Evan's heart clenched when he thought about his partner. He hoped the killer's reluctance to murder cops had extended to Jerry. "You'd better be alive, buddy." He turned the Mustang around, then got out the cell phone and called for back-up.
"Callie," he breathed as he pressed the accelerator to the floor. "Hang on, sweetheart. I'm on my way."
He left the Mustang a block from the house and drew his gun as he approached it. He wasted precious seconds checking the front door. It was locked. "Think, Evan, think." He'd busted a pane of the French doors easily enough before ... Evan hurried to the back of the house. His heart dropped to his chest as he saw the broken glass. The killer had entered this way. Didn't the damned house have an alarm system? He'd never thought to ask. But what did it matter now? Callie needed him.
Evan opened the door and crept into the house. His heart pounded viciously, his brow slickened with sweat.
Was he too late?
The entire downstairs was empty. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock interrupted the eerie silence of the house. As Evan started up the wide staircase, he prayed his partner and Callie were still alive.
A woman's terrified scream stopped him cold. "Callie." He bolted up the stairs. When he reached the top, he backed against the right wall and listened. Another scream sent him into action. Evan zig-zagged across the hall, cursing the wealthy. Why the hell did they need forty-two rooms to live in? He didn't have time to search them all. God help him, he needed Callie's screams to find her.
Evan took a deep breath, smelling his own sweat and fear. He edged along the wall. His hip connected with a small table. A vase with a large flower arrangement fell to the floor, but the thick carpet absorbed the sound of its fall. Water, scented with lilacs and roses, soaked his jeans.
"No! Stop it!"
Damn it! Don't hurt her! He zeroed in on the anguished cry. Across the hall, to the left. He hurried to the door and tried the knob. It swung open and revealed a nightmare in progress.
"Police!"
Callie was naked and bloody, tied spread-eagled on the bed, though one of her hands had come loose from the ropes. Thank God! She was alive. Gray duct tape covered her mouth in a haphazard fashion, as if hastily applied. She was frantically trying to rip off the tape. Her eyes were wide with fear and warning; Evan knew, too late, he'd made a fatal error.
Thick, strong hands grabbed his shoulders and flung him forward. The gun flew from his grasp as he hit the floor. The air was knocked out of him; Evan struggled for breath as he flipped onto his back.
The big asshole who'd nailed him laughed and used his expensive sneaker to crush Evan's chest. He had dark wavy hair and cold blue eyes. His face sported a vicious scratch. Evan took some satisfaction in the bloodied cheek, though he wanted to put a bullet in the guy's forehead.
"Now why would the police interrupt a husband and wife making love? Callie likes it rough, don't you, sweetheart?"
Evan grabbed the man's ankle and twisted; the man flailed off balance and crashed to the floor. They both rolled to crouching positions. The wicked edge of the hunting knife clasped in the killer's hands was stained with Callie's blood. White-hot fury flowed liked lava through Evan.
"I will kill you for hurting her."
As much as he wanted to check Callie's injuries, he didn't dare take his eyes off the man in front of him. Where the hell was his back-up?
The man lurched forward, wielding the knife expertly. He went for Evan's ribs; Evan felt the stinging nick of blade slice him as he tried to move out of range. He pressed a hand against the wound and prepared for the next attack. He didn't have to wait long.
The knowledge of victory in his eyes, the killer aimed for Evan's heart. Evan heard the report of a bullet then the man fell forward onto his knees. Another shot. Another wound appeared in the man's chest. He collapsed.
Evan looked up and saw Callie. She had his gun clutched her hands. "Stay dead, you sonofabitch."
Her eyes glazed over and she began to sway. He leapt over the body and barely caught her as she fainted. The gun fell out of her hand and skittered across the carpet.
"Callie." He saw the multiple knife wounds, the raw skin around her wrists and ankles, and wished he could kill her torturer again. But she was alive. She'd managed to escape her bonds and save his life. He kissed her swollen, battered lips.
"What did I miss? Did we get him?"
Evan turned and saw his partner clinging to the doorframe like he was suffering from a three-day drunk. He had a lump on his forehead and a black eye. A piece of rope still clung to one wrist. Evan managed a grin. "You look like shit."
"Oh good. That's exactly how I feel." Jerry's gaze tra
veled over the corpse. "You killed him?"
"Yes."
His partner looked at Callie. "Is she okay?"
"She will be."
"Did I see anything?"
Evan knew what Jerry was asking. "I appreciate it, buddy, but no, you didn't see anything."
"What's on the tape?"
"There is no tape."
Jerry hobbled to the camera, opened its back, pulled out the tape, and pocketed it. "You're right. It's empty."
The wailing of sirens sounded like a chorus of angels. "Those bastards are late." Evan grabbed a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around Callie, and picked her up. "Ready, partner?"
Jerry nodded, then grabbed his head. "I hope they have aspirin the size of Wyoming."
They walked out together, bloodied, but triumphant.
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*Epilogue*
Eighteen months later
Callie played Frisbee with the triplets, laughing when they tackled her instead of the flying disc. The grass tickled her bare arms and legs; the scent of honeysuckle and roses teased her senses.
"Not the ribs!" The toddlers enthusiastically went for the ribs, their sweet baby fingers poking her relentlessly.
She was rescued by Sharon and escaped the tiny arms only to find herself pinned from behind by two strong man-sized arms. Evan kissed the nape of her neck; she felt a delicious shiver. "Later," he promised in a husky whisper.
Callie snuggled in his arms and looked at the scenes unfolding the backyard. Dad played with the dogs, Sharon's husband grilled hamburgers, the toddler terrors chased their older brother.
"Happy?"
He asked the question every day. At first, she'd been unable to form any sort of reply. But these days, the answer was always the same. "Yes."
She enjoyed the frequent barbecues Sharon and her family hosted. She felt more loved and more secure than she ever had in her life. After she had recovered from her injuries, she agreed to therapy. When she was ready, she began counseling abused women at the same shelter where Sharon worked.
Evan had been there every step of the way, loving her, supporting her, and never asking her for anything. She loved him more than her next breath. She turned in his arms and faced him. His gaze, as always, was filled with tenderness and love. She bit her lip, her heart pounding, and asked the question she'd been contemplating for the last couple of months. "Evan, would you marry me?"
"What?" He looked stunned.
"We live in the same house. We fight over the remote control. I suffered innumerable aches and pains helping you remodel ... we might as well make it official."
"It's so romantic when you put it that way."
"Evan!"
"Yes, Callie, I'll marry you."
The butterflies in her stomach stopped fluttering. "You sure know how to make a girl sweat."
"You bet I do. Wanna see some other ways later?"
Anticipation curled inside her. "Oh hell yeah." She cupped his face and placed a tender kiss on his lips. "Happy?"
He smiled. "Yes."
THE END
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About The Author
Award-winning novelist Michele Bardsley lives in Las Vegas, Nevada with her husband, a pilot, and their two children. When she's not writing, she's ignoring housework, playing with her kids, eating chocolate, or watching "Trading Spaces."
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