by Mallory Kane
She measured the distance to the dining room with her eyes. Maybe she could make it if she could skirt the big island that stood between her and the swinging doors fast enough. But that was a long way, and she’d be exposed if whoever was out there shooting came inside.
At that very instant a dark figure stepped through the door into the kitchen. Having nowhere else to go, she ducked behind the big stainless-steel stove, putting its bulk between her and the man.
It was him. The man who’d tried to kill her on the River Road. He had on those ridiculously big, thick glasses and that black hooded sweatshirt. But this time the hood didn’t shadow his face. This time his head was bare.
His hair was gray and thin on top, she observed aimlessly as he lifted his arm and pointed the gun at her and pulled the trigger. She felt a little swish of air close to her cheek as she ducked. She cried out at the same time as the report rang out—much louder than a pop.
A second shot rang out, then the man cursed. She heard his shoe soles crunching in the sugar. He was headed straight for her. And there was only about thirty feet from the door to the stove.
Nicole crouched down and doubled her fists, praying that a bullet wouldn’t hit her.
THE FARTHER RYKER DROVE, the more worried he got. He really needed to know that Ingram was there and that everything was all right. He dialed the number Ingram had called him on. No answer.
Damn it, he should have verified with Ingram that the number was his cell number. He looked at his watch.
“Screw it,” he muttered, swinging left into a driveway and turning around. “Moser can wait. Nic can’t.”
He couldn’t justify driving all the way out to Covington until he’d verified that Nic was okay. As he sped toward L’Orage he tried the office receptionist, but of course the line went straight to voice mail. All those tips and panicked calls about the serial killer.
“We are experiencing an increased number of calls at the current—”
He cut the connection, then tried Dispatch. Same thing. So he dialed Mike’s cell number. Mike answered on the second ring. “What?”
“Mike. What’s Ingram’s cell number?”
“Ryker, what the hell?”
“I can’t get through, and he’s not answering, if the number I have is his cell.”
Mike told him to hang on for a second. He came back with the number.
“Damn it, that is his cell number. Something’s wrong. Mike, send backup to L’Orage Restaurant, 101 Dupree Street, in Mandeville. Now!”
“You got it.”
Ryker stuck his cell phone in his jacket pocket and turned his blue lights on. He gripped the wheel with both hands and hit the gas.
He made it to the restaurant in eleven minutes. A light blue Ford Focus was parked carelessly near the entrance to the alley that ran behind the restaurant. He pulled in right behind the little car and threw his BMW into Park without bothering to cut the engine. Then he jumped out and drew his weapon.
The first thing he saw when he rounded the rear of the Focus was Ingram, crumpled on the ground. Fear stole his breath. The killer was here. He needed an ambulance. He pulled out his cell phone as he scanned the alley, letting his gun’s barrel follow his gaze. Closer to the kitchen door, he saw a mass of white, moving slowly.
God, no. Not Job!
Mike’s gruff voice came on the line.
“Mike,” Ryker snapped. “Two men down. One an officer. Send a bus with the backup. Hurry!”
He pocketed his cell phone and knelt and touched Ingram’s neck. The deputy didn’t move, but his skin felt warm. He was alive—maybe.
“Backup’s coming. Hang in there,” Ryker whispered as he headed toward Job. He couldn’t afford to wait to see if Ingram responded. He had to get to Job. And Nicole!
Job lay on his side, his right hand flung out. The 9 mm semi-automatic lay a few inches away from his fingers. A huge red blossom of blood stained the front of his apron, but even though he was wounded, Job was inching slowly toward the door. He was trying to get to his gun.
“Job!” Ryker called softly, stooping to check on him. A gunshot from inside the kitchen stopped him. Nicole!
Job grunted and pushed himself an inch farther.
“Job,” he said, his breath whooshing out. “It’s okay. Backup’s coming. Hold on, man.”
“Nicki,” Job whispered.
“I know. I’m going in after her.” Ryker stepped over to the door and set his shoulder against it, ready to push it open.
“Let her be okay,” he whispered.
Chapter Thirteen
Nicole cringed as a bullet ricocheted off the stainless-steel edge of the oven’s door. She had no time left. The killer was almost on top of her.
Fear arrowed through her, sharpening her sense of hearing and smell to super-powers. The sound of the killer’s shoes crunching on the sugar seemed deafening. Her nostrils burned and her stomach turned at the overwhelming stench of hot chicken stock mixed with the faint odor of gas coming from the burning eye.
Just then a shadow appeared on the tile floor beside her. The shadow of an arm holding a gun. This was it. She was going to die, crouching in the corner like a coward.
No. She would not die like this. Not without a fight. Ryker had told her she was brave. He’d said he was impressed.
He’d be so disappointed in her if she didn’t try to defend herself. But—hadn’t he also said there was no way she could protect herself against a killer?
She was sure he was right. But she had to try. She took a deep breath, trying to draw in courage. The pungent scent of chicken broth sharpened her senses. An idea slammed into her brain in the fraction of a second it took for the killer to take another step and aim down at her.
Without having any hope that her sudden brainstorm would work, she rose, screaming, “No!” and shoved at the hot stockpot with her bare hands.
The pot tumbled, splashing scalding-hot chicken stock everywhere. The man screeched. The gun went off. Nicole winced at the sound and used all her energy to dive past him toward the island. She felt a jarring impact and a sharp burning sensation in her side.
A bullet? Had she been shot? As her body spasmed with pain, she fell short of the island and her head slammed against something hard. Stars burst before her eyes.
The last thing she heard was a beloved familiar voice yell out, “Freeze, you son of a bitch!”
THE MESS ON THE KITCHEN floor was treacherous, but although Ryker slipped, he regained his footing immediately, unlike the killer, who was prostrate, rolling in hot liquid with steam rising from his clothes.
Ryker grabbed a handful of the man’s sweatshirt, which was soaked with what smelled like chicken soup, and pushed the barrel of his gun into the back of the his neck. He put his weight on one knee right in the middle of the man’s back.
“Shut up!” he yelled. “On second thought, don’t. I’d love to shoot you right here for resisting arrest.”
“I’m burning up! She burned me!” the man screamed.
Ryker buried the nose of the gun in the man’s flesh.
“Okay, okay! Don’t shoot!”
“Give me your hands,” Ryker ordered him. The man tried, but he couldn’t move with Ryker’s knee pressed into his back.
“Nic?” Ryker called out, but she didn’t respond. His heart was racing so fast already that he didn’t think it could go any faster, but the ominous silence sent it into overdrive. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe.
At that instant, he heard sirens. Backup.
Hurry, damn it! I’ve got to check on Nicole.
Footsteps crunched on pavement and the door slammed open. “Delancey?”
It was Ted Dagewood. The voice grated on Ryker’s ears, but he was happy to hear it.
“Ryker!” It was Bill, running in around behind Dagewood. Bill tapped him on the shoulder. “I got him.”
Ryker rose and stepped back. Bill dragged the man to his feet and shoved him facedown on the kitchen counter. Dagewood
pulled out handcuffs, grousing. “Damn, this place stinks to holy hell.”
Ryker heard more footsteps. A quick glance through the open door told him the EMTs had arrived. He saw one bending over Job.
As Bill and Dagewood marched the killer out the door, Ryker scanned the kitchen.
“Nic!” he shouted. “Where are you?” Then he saw her. She was lying just around the end corner of the island. Her pale, still face terrified him.
He bent over to touch her neck, to check and see if she was alive. But his hand hesitated just above her skin.
What if she wasn’t? What would he do? His fingers began to shake.
Then her eyelid twitched.
Ryker’s heart turned completely upside down in his chest and spasmed in relief. It hurt. God, did it hurt. But he relished the pain. She was alive. He touched her, felt her warm skin against his fingertips, and his vision grew hazy.
“Ryker?” she whispered without opening her eyes. “Is that you?”
He bent his head and touched his lips to her temple. “Yeah, hon,” he rasped. He had to clear his throat. “It’s me.”
She squinted and moaned. “My head hurts. And my hands. And my—my side.”
“Stay still. The EMTs are here.”
“No, wait. Where’s Job?” she whispered. “And Deputy Ingram?”
“Excuse me, sir,” a voice said from behind Ryker. “I need to get to her.”
Nicole’s hand reached out for him. Ryker took it. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered to her. Then he stood and let the EMT do his job.
He still couldn’t see worth crap. He rubbed at his eyes and was surprised when his knuckles came away damp.
He glanced around at the kitchen. The floor was covered with sugar and chicken broth. The smell was overwhelming at best. Sickening at worst. What the hell had happened here? And why had Job and Ingram been outside, leaving Nicole alone in the kitchen? He shook his head. It would take a while before everything was sorted out.
His gaze spotted something on the floor, pushed up next to the foot of the island. He bent down and retrieved a pair of glasses, thick lenses with heavy frames. Just like Nicole had described.
The killer’s. Here was one thing he could find out right now. The identity of the October Killer.
“Nic, I’ll be right back,” he promised, then turned and headed outside, where Bill and Dagewood were putting the suspect into the back of a squad car. Ryker strode over to the vehicle.
Dagewood turned toward him. “Your girl all right?” he asked.
Ryker nodded, a little surprised at the concern in the man’s voice. Not like the Dagewood he knew. “I hope so.” He gestured toward the car. “Who is he?”
The detective shook his head. “No idea. He’s not talking. The EMTs say we’ve got to take him to the hospital. He’s got burns from that chicken broth. His hands and face are already popping out with blisters.”
Bill had just closed the car door when Ryker stepped over to it. He pulled the door open again and leaned down to look inside.
The man’s face was distorted by the blisters of second-degree burns, but Ryker still recognized him, even without his glasses.
“Albert Moser,” he breathed, his throat closing in shock.
Albert Moser’s pale blue eyes stared at Ryker seemingly without recognition. His raw, blistered face was blank.
“Moser, what the hell? Did you kill all those girls? Don’t tell me you killed your own daughter?”
Moser just kept staring at him for a moment, then looked away. Ryker tossed the glasses into the far seat. He spoke to the deputy at the wheel. “Those are his glasses.”
He straightened and closed the car door, then rapped on the roof to indicate to the driver that he could go.
Bill eyed him. “You okay?”
Ryker didn’t feel okay. The shock of seeing Moser sitting there had drained the last of his energy. “I’m not sure. Do you know who that is?”
Bill shook his head.
“That’s the father of the girl who was murdered in New Orleans. Albert Moser.”
“The one who kept calling? Begging us to find his daughter’s killer? That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“So what the hell does that mean?” Bill asked. “Is he the October Killer?”
“Hell if I know. I’m as confused as you are. More. I talked to the man. Sat in his living room. Told him I’d do everything I could to bring his daughter’s killer to justice.”
Bill met Ryker’s gaze. He looked as stunned as Ryker felt. “He shot Ingram and the restaurant owner? He tried to kill Nicole? Why?”
Ryker couldn’t do anything but shake his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. As soon as he’s done at the hospital, let’s get him in and talk to him. Oh, and can you get a warrant to search his house? He called me earlier to tell me he had a scrapbook that belonged to his daughter. Now I can see that it was probably a lie, to lure me as far away from Nicole as he could, but we need to search everything. House, car, everything.”
“Detective Dagewood?” A uniformed deputy walked up. “That blue Ford Focus over there? It’s got expired tags. I mean years expired. I ran them and they belonged to an Autumn Lynn Moser.”
Ryker stepped over. “That’s Albert Moser in the police car that’s pulling out. The Focus must have been his daughter’s car.”
Dagewood nodded. “Get it towed to the pound,” he ordered the deputy, then turned to Bill. “Include that vehicle in the warrant, would you?”
“Detective?” the deputy continued. “There’s something in the front seat. A big book of some kind. Like an album.”
“Leave it alone until we get the warrant,” Dagewood told him. “Just get it towed. And don’t let anything happen to that book.”
Bill clapped Ryker on the shoulder. “You okay?”
Ryker shrugged. “It’s going to take a while to sort all this out. What’s the word on Ingram and Job?”
“They’re both headed to the hospital. I think Job’s okay. The bullet was a through-and-through. His right shoulder. Ingram—I don’t know. That coward sneaked up on him and shot him in the back.”
“Damn. Where are they taking them? To St. Tammany?”
Bill nodded. “St. Tammany Regional Medical Center. Why don’t you go check on Nicole? I’ll take care of things here. We can talk once you know she’s okay.”
Ryker opened his mouth to protest. It was his case. He should be taking charge of everything. But at that moment, he heard the kitchen door open and saw an EMT walking Nicole out. Nicole had white gauze covering both hands and a small strip bandage on her forehead.
Ryker met them halfway up the alley. “How is she?” he asked the EMT.
“Doing fine. Her hands are burned, just first degree, but they’ll be painful for a few days. And she’ll have a nasty bruise on her head and her side where we think the stockpot hit her, but she’s fine. She’s going to need some help for a day or two, though.”
Ryker looked at Nicole, whose face was still pale. “No problem. I’ll take care of her.”
“Where’s Job?” Nicole asked. “Nobody will tell me anything.” Her eyes brimmed over with tears. “I heard the gunshots. He’s been shot, hasn’t he?”
“Hey, Nic. Listen to me.” Ryker put his hands gently on her shoulders. “Job’s gone to the hospital, along with Deputy Ingram. Job was shot in the shoulder, but he’s doing okay. Ingram isn’t in as good a shape as Job, but the doctors are taking good care of him.” He looked at the EMT. “Are you taking her to the hospital?”
When the EMT shook his head, Ryker continued. “What do I need to do about her hands?”
The young man shook his head. “We iced them for a few minutes. Just keep them clean and bandaged. I’ve given her a tranquilizer, and the physician on call will call a prescription for a painkiller in to her pharmacy. Do you know where it is?”
“Nic? Your drugstore?”
She shook her head. “
I don’t—”
Ryker took out a business card and scribbled the phone number of a pharmacy near his house. He handed it to the EMT. “Have them call it in there.”
“I can take a shower, can’t I?” Nicole asked the EMT.
“You could, but it’s not going to feel good on those hands.” He looked at her, then at Ryker, then back at her. “You could—ask someone to help you clean up.”
“I told you, I’ll take care of her.”
Nicole’s face turned pink.
“Come on, Nic, let’s go. I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.”
“I want to go see Job—and Deputy Ingram.”
Ryker shook the EMT’s hand and thanked him, then he led Nicole past the ambulance and the blue Focus to his car. He opened the passenger door and helped her inside, then reached around and fastened her seat belt for her.
“Ryker? Was that him? The October Killer? Who is he?” Her voice faded.
“I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?”
“Okay,” she said drowsily.
He kissed her on the forehead, near the bandage. Her skin was warm. She looked up at him as he pulled away. Her eyes were dilated, and the lids were heavy. The tranquilizer had kicked in. He closed the passenger door and got in on the driver’s side and started the engine. “Ryker?”
“Close your eyes, Nic. Rest.”
“Are we going to…?” Her voice faded.
“We’re going home, hon. I’m taking you home.”
RYKER GOT NICOLE to his house and bathed and into bed, then he ran out to the drugstore on the next block to pick up her prescription. When he got back and brought the tablets and a glass of water into the bedroom, she was asleep.
For a few moments he stood there, staring down at her. He’d had a hell of a time getting all the chicken broth and sugar off her. He’d made her sit on the toilet seat so he could undress her and wash the sticky, smelly goop off. She’d protested, but it hadn’t taken her long to agree that she couldn’t do it herself and she wouldn’t sleep a wink covered with the sticky mess.