The second tie began to loosen as Casey heard Amy let out another horrible scream. Sobbing, she commanded herself to cut faster. Her hands cramped, but she sawed as fast as she could.
"I've only barely touched you," Leonardo protested. "Not even to anything exciting yet."
With most of the tape cut away, Casey ripped her arm free, then sawed though the tape on her legs until she could tear herself free. Fighting to contain her anger, she waited until Leonardo lifted his scalpel and then lunged at him, stabbing the pocketknife into the fleshy space between his spine and his shoulder bone.
"Bitch," he cursed.
He yanked the knife from his shoulder and clutched at the open wound. "Amy's going to pay for that reckless maneuver first. I think a few severed nerves will teach a mother to behave." He turned to Amy and smiled.
Amy whimpered.
Casey turned and leapt for his gun.
Before she could get there, though, Leonardo pushed her, knocking her out of the way.
She fell hard back against the bookcase and slammed her head against one wall. The pain flashed in her head, and she fought the grogginess that came with it.
She saw Leonardo stoop to the floor. He came up holding the gun, pointing it at her. "You shouldn't have done that, Mac. I would have preferred to keep you alive a while longer."
Casey struggled to get her bearings, searching for a way out. He had the gun. Her only weapon had been the pocketknife, and it was gone. Her one chance spent.
Amy's gaze pleaded at her to do something.
Casey tried to think, to form a plan.
Leonardo aimed the gun at her. "Good-bye, Agent Mac," he said.
Casey held her hand out as she heard the pop pop of two gunshots. She was knocked backward by a heavy weight, and her head slammed into a table behind her. She shook her head and tried to open her eyes. She was dead.
Amy screamed.
Casey felt the warmth of blood and forced her eyes open. Strangely, she didn't feel any pain. As her vision cleared, she saw Rick Swain lying in front of her, two gunshot wounds to his chest. She blinked and touched her chest. She wasn't dead. Swain had saved her.
Leonardo pointed the gun again and pulled the trigger. It was silent. "Damn it." He turned to reload, then moved toward Casey. She felt Swain's ankle holster against her leg and started to reach for the gun.
Amy let out a scream and jabbed an elbow out, knocking the gun from Leonardo's hand. He turned and slapped her in return.
Knowing he would only be distracted a moment, Casey lifted Swain's pant leg with one hand and felt the gun. It was small, probably a .22, perfect—if only she could shoot it.
"Up, Mac."
Casey bent over, pretending to get to her knees. Pulling the gun out of the holster, she gripped it in her left hand and stood. With a step forward, she pointed it at Leonardo and prayed to heaven that she had the strength to pull the trigger.
Amy started to cry harder, fighting at the tape on her wrists and ankles.
Spotting the gun, Leonardo started to reach for another weapon. "But you can't shoot—"
"Want to bet?" Casey steadied the gun with two hands and fired twice into Leonardo's chest.
Leonardo dropped to the ground with a low thud, and it was all Casey could do to get to Amy and wrap her arms around her as they both cried. She saw the purple birthday hat sitting on the counter, and thanked God it had never made it to Amy's head.
"Oh, God, Mom. I thought he killed you. I thought you were dead," Amy sobbed.
Tears streaked her own cheeks. "I'm okay, baby, everything's okay."
"He was so scary."
"I know, but he's gone now. He can't hurt us ever again." Casey exhaled, holding her daughter tight. "It's over now," she said, as much for her own benefit as for Amy's.
Just then the door burst open, and a hundred people seemed to fill the room. Casey only cried harder. It was finally over.
Epilogue
Two months later
Casey put the vase down on the mound of fresh grass and fiddled with the yellow roses until they were spread out in perfect order. She turned her face toward the sky and felt the warm sun on her skin. It was perfect weather. Clear, blue, with the slightest wind that made the sun feel warm rather than hot. Fat cumulus clouds looked down like cherubs as Casey stood over Billy's grave.
She wiped off the top of the gravestone and read the familiar inscription. "William D. Glass, 1962-2000. Loving friend. You will be deeply missed."
She stood and brushed the dirt off her hands. "He always loved yellow roses." She straightened the sleeves on her button-down and smiled. Billy would've been proud. Ten buttons including the sleeves, and she'd done them in under four minutes. She turned and looked up at Jordan.
He gave her a sad smile.
Putting her arm through his, Casey kissed Jordan's cheek as they started to walk back down toward the car. "I talked to Nina Rodriguez."
"Yeah? What'd she say?" Jordan asked.
"She sounded so relieved. You could tell she'd been living in fear since her attack." Casey thought a minute. "I guess I wanted her to know firsthand that it was over. I know how fear can take control of your life."
Jordan pulled her toward him and gave her a hug.
After a moment Casey stepped back and punched his arm playfully. "The newspapers sure did cover it. Did you see that big picture of you on the cover of the Chronicle?"
Jordan stopped and crooked an eyebrow. "You mean the one where I'm standing next to you?"
Casey grinned. "Great picture, eh?"
Jordan smiled. "We made a pretty good team."
"True," she agreed. "Let's hope we never have to do it again."
"I'm all for that."
They started walking again. "How are the boys?" Casey asked.
"Settling back in up here. Everyone seems happier so far."
"You really considering the job out in Contra Costa County?"
Jordan looked over at her. "Hard to believe?"
"Smarter than I would've imagined, actually."
Jordan laughed. "I'll have to give Angie the credit for that one. She wants to see more of her husband. And the captain said he'll welcome me back if I change my mind down the road." He paused and looked down at her. "What about you? You going back to the Bureau?"
She shrugged. "Haven't given it much thought yet. I'm going to head back to Virginia for a while, see how that goes. I'm not sure what'll happen with me and Michael, but I'd like to spend some time with Amy."
"She's a great kid. How's she doing?"
Casey nodded. "Better every day, I think. The cuts were fairly superficial. It's the fear that's hardest to repair." She looked up at Jordan. "But I know all about that."
"I'm sure she'd love to spend some time with her mother."
Casey nodded. "I'm looking forward to it. Taking everything one step at a time." She opened the car door and unlocked the opposite side for Jordan. "Where do you want to go for lunch?"
"How about Crogan's for burgers?" he suggested, getting into the car.
She remembered the lunch she'd had with Billy a few days before he died. Sitting in the driver's seat, Casey started the engine and put the car in first gear. "Crogan's it is."
The End
Want more from Danielle Girard?
Page forward for excerpts from Danielle Girard's
Critically Acclaimed Titles
RUTHLESS GAME
A Captivating Suspense Novel
and
CHASING DARKNESS
A Taut Psychological Thriller
Excerpt from
Ruthless Game
A Captivating Suspense Novel
by
Danielle Girard
Award-winning Author
Prologue
March 17, 1971
The wet fabric started to slip and she held her bound hands to her face and tried not to watch. It was too terrible, too terrible. She just wanted her mommy. Where was her mommy? Where were all their mommies?
"Fourteen is just too many," he growled as he lifted the body of Jimmy Rodriguez and set it next to the others.
There were eleven. She had counted. Eleven times she'd heard them scream, eleven times she'd heard them stop. She was last in line, but he was getting closer. Only Billy and Marcus were before her. He'd be to her soon. She shifted against the cold cement floor, the puddle she'd made like wet ice cream against her skin.
She heard Billy sobbing and she started again, too. She couldn't help it. She kept waiting for someone to come and save them, but no one did. He had killed Mrs. Cooney and Mr. Choy. He walked onto the school bus and shot them. And then he forced each of them to drink a cup of punch. He put something in it. She saw him. And she shook her head when he told her to drink it. But he hit her hard and she knew she had to or he'd shoot her like he did Mrs. Cooney.
He looked at her now and licked his lips. She started to cry harder, pushing herself away from him. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no."
"Can't I save some for later?" he called.
She stopped crying and looked around, peering out of the small gap in her blindfold. Why was he asking them that?
She nodded. Save some for later.
"Tomorrow, I'd be fresh and ready again."
She nodded. "Tomorrow," she whispered. "Tomorrow."
It was quiet for a moment and she moved her head to look out of the corner of her blindfold. She heard feet moving toward her. Was it him? Looking down, she saw white sneakers like Brittany's.
"What do you think you're doing?" he screamed.
She jumped, feeling someone behind her. But his voice was far away. Someone touched her hands and she could feel the rope on her wrists loosening. "Billy?" she whispered, but no one answered.
Then, her hands were free. She rubbed them together. She wanted to pull at her blindfold but she was afraid he would see her so she didn't move.
"I said what do you think you're doing?" he repeated.
She held her hands together as though they were still tied. He was yelling at her. But he wasn't getting closer. Just stay still, she told herself.
"You can't shoot me, for God's sake," he screamed.
Suddenly, someone was behind her again. She heard a loud clacking sound and then it was silent. She whipped her head around but couldn't see. She started to shake.
There was something hard and cold in her hands. It was heavy. She remained silent, feeling her hands shake as she held the heavy thing. She looked out of the corner of her blindfold and saw all white. White with wings, she thought. Wings.
She didn't feel scared, though.
Someone moved her finger and she heard a loud pop. Then another. She dropped the heavy thing and pressed her hands to her ears.
And then it was over.
Chapter 1
Twenty-nine years later
The harsh blare of a car horn pulled Alex Kincaid from sleep, an uncomfortable ache burning in her lower back. Shifting positions, she felt the rough edge of a chair. She must have fallen asleep in the den. It had been years since she'd done that, awakened with an empty bowl of popcorn in her lap and an old rerun of Taxi on TV. Her mind meandered through the evening before, but she didn't recall if she had been reading or watching television before bed. She settled back in to sleep a few more minutes.
A car rushed by and she shifted again, wondering when her street had become so noisy. Usually no more than one car passed every twenty minutes, but this morning it sounded like there were a parade going by. No wonder she never slept in the den.
No, that wasn't right. The den was in the back of the house. The cars couldn't be heard from there.
Forcing her eyes open, she stared out her windshield. Her windshield? Confused, she looked at the car around her. Sitting upright, she clutched the steering wheel. What the hell was going on? Above her, the yellow leaves of the fall oak trees sheltered the morning sun, creating patterns of light across her dash.
A cover of dew beaded across her windows. The cool California morning made her shiver. A row of Victorian and Tudor homes stared down at her from the hillside like thick-necked soldiers preparing for attack. What was she doing in her car?
She glanced down at the familiar navy sweat pants and gray Cal T-shirt, trying to remember going to bed the night before.
She'd taken something one of a handful of doctors had given her to help her sleep—Restoril. The endless insomnia had finally driven her to be so exhausted, so totally beat, that she'd regressed to trying the meds again. She'd slept. She'd actually slept. But when had she gotten up? And left her house and driven to—she looked around at the houses—big houses, larger than anything in her neighborhood, all built high off the street, their large windowed fronts staring down at her questioningly.
And where the hell was she?
Leaning forward, she ran her hand over her lopsided ponytail and looked around. There has to be a good explanation for this. Her eyes closed, she rubbed at the pain in her temples. Someone must have called her. Her brain kicked into gear as she tried to picture her phone, tried to remember it ringing. Her mind sputtered and stalled like a dying car. She didn't remember talking to anyone.
Hoping one of the houses would nudge into her memory, she stared back at the imposing facades. The block didn't look remotely familiar.
Cars raced down the street, their drivers dressed in ties and suits. Work! Her fingers searched her wrist for her watch. It wasn't there. But she always wore her watch. Turning the key in the ignition, she glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly seven a.m. "Damn it." She was going to be late for work.
She started the car and glanced at a street sign. Yolo Avenue. She'd never heard of that street.
She'd been sleepwalking; that had to be it. She'd never done that before. It had been so long since she'd even slept through the night. And this was worse than sleepwalking—she had sleep-dressed then sleep-driven and who knew what else.
Fighting off the battling anger at not remembering, she steered the car down Yolo until she saw a familiar street sign. Henry. She was in Berkeley, actually only a half dozen blocks from the station. Yolo was on her beat, but she had never come across it before. Ingrained in her subconscious, somewhere, was this street. That was why she'd ended up there. She shook her head and sped across Shattuck to Ashby. That was the last time she was going to take sleeping pills.
Wishing she had a siren, she blared her horn at the slowpoke drivers around her and sped for home. She parked the car in front of the small home on Pine Lane that had once belonged to her mother. The front grass needed cutting. The hedges had grown up and begun to block the front windows, giving them the appearance of shaded limousine windows, only in green. The Spanish-style house needed painting, too. Its pinkish salmon color always looked as if it had been bought on sale. She wanted the house to be white. But until now, she hadn't realized how much she'd let the house go—suddenly, the house was a disaster.
As she locked the car door, she felt both strangely rested and also unnerved. Neither was a sensation with which she was familiar. She brushed the nervousness off. She didn't have patience for catastrophe now. Rushing up the steps, she shivered, her T-shirt much too thin for the cool morning air.
As she moved, she reminded herself of the positives. At least she had awakened in her own car. What if she had found herself in a stranger's house? What if she had done something crazy—like driven into a pole or a dog or a child? What if she had robbed a bank?
What if nothing. Nothing had happened. She opened the door to her house and looked around. Everything was normal here.
The drug had a strange effect on her sleep patterns or something. Alex's sleep patterns, or lack of them, had been a popular subject in her household growing up. Maybe she would have a chance to stop by James's office and ask if he remembered anything like that.
She was a very logical person—calm, cool, collected. She didn't drink heavily, exercised religiously and kept her distance from suspicious people. She w
alked in the crosswalk and flossed her teeth, for God's sake. Things like waking up on a strange street did not happen to her.
A man's face suddenly popped into her mind. He had been in the bagel store yesterday. He had approached her as she was getting bagels and coffee for herself and her partner. He'd used her name and then Greg had come in and she'd turned away. When she looked back, he was gone. She'd never seen him before or since. And why was she thinking about him now?
Pushing it aside, she just hoped she still had time to shower and dress to be at the station before eight. The patrol captain had little tolerance for tardy officers.
Rushing around, she cursed herself for not programming the coffeemaker the night before. The thought of going without a caffeine fix was torture, but there wasn't time. She glanced at her wrist for the third time in ten minutes. Where the hell was her watch?
Thankfully her job didn't require much primping, and she preferred it that way. She had never worn much makeup. The last thing she wanted to do was look more dainty and feminine. At only five foot three, it was difficult enough to be taken seriously. As she passed the mirror on her way out the door, she caught her reflection.
She cringed at the way her normally curly auburn hair hung limply on her shoulders. Dark circles stood out beneath her eyes, which were so bloodshot it was impossible to tell they were green.
Back in the car, she considered trying to remedy her appearance but decided against it. The one day she had actually put on lip gloss, her partner had teased her that she looked more like she belonged in front of a group of kindergartners than in a police uniform. And while she knew Greg had probably been joking, she was sure there were others who would readily agree with him without so much as a hint of humor. She didn't want to be singled out, just left alone. She was proving herself as a rookie—top of her class, best record so far. No sense screwing it up by reminding them that she was a girl. She could swear that every once in a while, when things were going really well, they forgot. And in those moments, she loved being on the force more than anything.
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