by Mallory Kane
The whole sky was ablaze with red blinking lights and the sirens screeched so loud they hurt her ears.
“Help!” she cried, her voice catching on a racking cough. “Help—me!” She fell back to the floor, her whole body spasming with the effort to breathe.
“Daw—son—”
Chapter Twelve
Dawson cut the engine and jumped out of his car, hitting the ground running.
Black smoke and red-and-yellow flames were visible through the house’s front windows. Four firefighters wrestled water hoses and two had just battered in the front door.
Dawson sprinted toward the door, but he ran into a stone wall. He blinked and realized the wall was actually a big man in a fire-retardant jacket. “Hold it!” the man shouted.
“She’s in there!” Dawson yelled back, fighting to get away.
The man’s strong hands gripped his shoulders. “Where?”
“I don’t know! She called me!”
Using one hand to trigger his shoulder mic, the man shouted, “Check the back! We may have a female in the house! Call the EMTs.”
“On it, Chief. Out.”
Dawson barely heard the tinny response over the sirens and fire and the surge of pressurized water.
He wrestled with the fire chief. “Let me go!” he growled, pushing at him without effect. Then he felt the man’s grip slacken.
“Not the front!” the chief shouted. “Go that way.” He pointed toward the back of the house.
Dawson ran.
By the time he got around back, the door was in splinters and a firefighter was carrying Juliana’s limp form over his shoulder.
“Juliana!” he shouted, rushing forward. She didn’t stir and the man carrying her paid no attention to him. He trudged on to the end of the driveway and laid her on a waiting blanket.
Dawson followed, fighting panic and a sick dread. Was she moving? Was she breathing? As soon as the fireman laid her down, he crouched beside her.
“Where’s the ambulance?” he demanded as the fireman felt her pulse and listened to her breathing.
Her chest was moving, but barely. Was she getting enough air? At that instant another firefighter set a portable tank down and placed an air mask over her nose and mouth.
He watched with the other men as her chest expanded slightly, then she arched, coughing and sputtering.
Dawson reached for her arm, but the fireman shook his head. So he crouched there, helpless, as the firefighters cared for her.
A new wail pierced the air and red lights came speeding toward them. The ambulance.
Dawson took Jules’s limp hand in his. This time the fireman didn’t object. But within seconds, two EMTs were out of the ambulance and pushing him and the firemen out of the way. One of them replaced the fireman’s air mask with one of their own, while the other listened to her breathing, looked at her eyes and felt her pulse.
Standing, he grabbed a portable gurney out of the back of the ambulance and opened it. Within seconds, they had Jules inside the ambulance and were hooking her up to machines and IVs.
Dawson started to climb in.
“Hey,” the lead EMT said, holding up a hand. “Sorry, I can’t allow anyone in the ambulance.”
“You’ve got to. I’ve got to go with her.”
“Gulfport Memorial. Meet us there.”
The fire chief laid a hand on Dawson’s shoulder. “You can meet them in the emergency room. She’s in good hands.”
Dawson wanted to protest. Actually, he wanted to hit somebody, throw something and force his way onto the ambulance, but he reined in his frustration and anger. He nodded. “Okay. Fine.”
“First, son, I need to ask you a few questions.”
“But—” Dawson looked at the ambulance, which was pulling away from the curb.
“I told you, she’s in good hands. I don’t think she’s injured. I think it’s just smoke inhalation,” the chief said. “Come on, I need your help.”
Dawson relented. He spent about a half hour giving the fire chief information about Juliana, her dad and the Sky Walk’s collapse. He told him that Detective Brian Hardy was handling the case, and described the other two attempts to harm her.
Then he drove to the hospital. An E.R. nurse led him to a cubicle where Jules lay on a hospital bed. Except for her cloud of black hair, she was almost unrecognizable. She had a wet cloth over her eyes and the oxygen mask over her face. She was hooked up to an IV and a whole bunch of monitors. A machine beeped incessantly as a shiny line peaked and fell over and over on a monitor screen.
“Why does she still have that mask on?” he whispered. “Why can’t she use the little—” He made a gesture with his fingers at his nose. He had no idea what the thing was called. “It’s not breathing for her, is it?”
The nurse shook her head. “No, that’s not a ventilator. It’s just a full oxygen mask. She inhaled a lot of smoke. It delivers more oxygen,” the nurse said. “When the doctor comes back and checks her out, he’ll probably change it.”
Dawson breathed a sigh of relief, but he was still terrified for Juliana. The part of her face he could see was so white that the yellowing bruise on her cheek stood out in ugly contrast. It hurt his heart to see her like that. “Why isn’t she awake?”
“We gave her a sedative and a painkiller. She was coughing and struggling against the mask.”
He nodded, not taking his eyes off her. “Can I stay with her?” he asked. “She doesn’t have any family.”
The nurse smiled at him. “Of course.” She checked the monitor, fiddled with the IV for a couple of seconds and headed out of the cubicle.
“Nurse?” he said. “Will they keep her overnight?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for the doctor.”
“What do you think?” Dawson persisted.
“I think she’s suffering from smoke inhalation. She’s fairly heavily medicated. But I’m not sure if there’s a bed available. We’ll see what the doctor says.”
“Thanks,” Dawson said as she left. He pulled the only chair in the cubicle up to the bed and sat down, but he couldn’t stay still, so he kicked it back and stood. He held Jules’s hand in his, running his thumb over her knuckles. He bent down to kiss it and smelled the smoke from the fire on her skin.
“Jules,” he whispered. “I thought I’d lost you.”
She didn’t move.
* * *
JULIANA WOKE UP with her throat hurting and her eyes burning. She moaned. Did she have the flu? She coughed, but coughing didn’t help. It just triggered more coughing.
She felt a warm hand slide behind her back and lift her off the pillows. A pink plastic cup with a big straw appeared in front of her face.
Yes. Thirsty. She reached for the cup, but her right hand felt heavy. She had to make do with her left.
“It’s okay, Jules. I’ll help you.” The voice was low and rumbly and familiar.
“Who—” Her eyes followed the hand up to the elbow and on to the shoulder, neck and finally face. It was Dawson. She smiled. “Dawson,” she whispered.
He smiled at her. “It’s good to see you, too. Drink.” He guided the straw into her mouth and she took a long gulp of cool water.
“Good. When you finish this cup of water the nurse said she’ll take the IV out.”
“IV?” Juliana looked at him, then down at her hand. It was bandaged and a clear tube ran under a bandage on the back. For an instant, panic seized her, but then the memories rushed back—all of them crowding her brain at once. She couldn’t sort them out. All she could do was react.
“Oh, Dawson! Daddy’s house! It’s on fire!” she cried, pushing the cup away. “I’ve got to—”
“The fire’s over,” Dawson said. “Shh. It’s all over now. You’re in the hospital, in the emergency room—”
“Hospital?” she repeated, the panic clawing its way up her throat again. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Hey, Jules, try to stay calm. Everything’s okay. It’s Sunday morning. You
breathed in a lot of smoke, so they wanted to keep an eye on you.” He touched the tip of her nose. “You’ve got an oxygen tube right there.”
She tried to look down at it, earning a soft chuckle from him. “But—”
“They’re only going to keep you here until they’re sure nothing else is wrong with you. I don’t think it will be much longer.”
The jumble in her mind was beginning to sort itself out. She blinked. “My eyes burn,” she said, then quickly, “not bad. Not bad enough that I need to stay in the hospital.”
“I know.”
Dawson was acting strange, kind of like an awkward mother hen. He patted her right hand and held the straw up to her mouth. “Drink some more.”
She shook her head. “Not now. I’ll—” she cleared her throat and winced “—I will in a minute.”
“How about some juice? Would you rather have juice? I can call the nurse.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m fine.” She needed to think and she was having trouble because Dawson was hovering. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she’d woken up. Nor had he stopped touching her. His sharp features were softer than she’d ever seen them.
She closed her eyes. She could get used to this—being cared for, hovered over, worried about by Dawson.
But the smell of smoke was still in her nostrils, the sound of the flames still roared in her ears and the hazy, terrifying memories weren’t falling into place like they should.
The last thing she remembered was calling Dawson. No. The last thing she remembered was breaking the glass in the door and breathing the cold fresh air.
“I tried to get out,” she said.
Dawson’s jaw clenched. “I know you did,” he said. “The fireman said you broke the glass with the barrel of your gun.”
She nodded as more memories buffeted her. They were still out of order, like a slideshow that had spilled. “I left my stuff. Dawson, you’ve got to take me back,” she said. “The yearbooks, Daddy’s portfolio. They’re all in the den.”
A thought struck her. “Did the den burn?”
“I don’t think so. Jules, when the police get through with the house, we’ll see what they’ll let you have. One of the firemen gave me your purse, though,” he said with a vague gesture behind him. “And your gun.”
At that instant the sound of the living-room window shattering hit her brain. She gasped. “They threw a Molotov cocktail!” she cried. “They were trying to burn Daddy’s house down. Why?”
Dawson’s face went still. He looked past her, then down, then back at her. “I don’t think they were trying to burn the house down.”
“Well, then what were they trying to do? Kill me?”
Dawson’s hand was still on her back. He moved it up to her shoulder and squeezed gently, comfortingly.
“Oh, my God! They were!” Her throat started tickling again and she coughed. That cough triggered others.
Dawson held the cup for her when she was finally able to get her breath. She drank a few swallows.
“But why would they do that? I could have just run out the back.”
Dawson’s brows drew down in a scowl. “I think they were trying to scare you. Whoever sent them obviously doesn’t want you looking into the Sky Walk’s collapse. It’s probably a good thing that your dead bolt was locked. If you’d rushed outside, if you hadn’t called 9-1-1, you might have run right into their trap.”
Juliana pushed the cup away again and lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She felt drained. “I forgot about the dead bolts,” she whispered. “I was so scared.”
She felt Dawson’s warm firm lips on her cheek. “Why am I so sleepy?”
“They gave you something to relax you and something for pain.”
“No kidding,” she whispered. “Dawson?”
“Yeah, hon?”
She turned her hand under his and squeezed his fingers. “Don’t leave me.”
* * *
IT WAS NOON BEFORE Dawson got Juliana settled in bed in his guest room. She’d had to make a statement to Brian Hardy. After she told Brian about the threatening phone call just seconds before the Molotov cocktail was thrown through the window, Dawson had dug her phone out of the sack of her belongings and Brian had taken down the number.
A hundred to one it’s a throwaway cell, bought with cash, Brian had remarked. No way in hell of tracing who bought it.
“Shouldn’t we have gone by the station to sign my statement?” Juliana asked for the third or fourth time.
“No,” Dawson said patiently. “Brian said we could do that later. Are you comfortable?”
“I’m fine,” she said for the twentieth or thirtieth time. “I’m not sleepy.”
“I know,” he said, setting a glass of water on the bedside table. “But the nurse said to put you to bed for the rest of the day, until you sleep off all that medication.” He pulled the cover up a half inch, then smoothed it.
“I should take a shower,” she murmured. Her eyelids were half-shut.
“Yeah, no. That’s not happening. Not for a while.”
“I smell like smoke,” she protested, but there wasn’t much resolve behind her words.
“That’s true. Smoky peppermint. Very interesting.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “I could take a bath.”
“Not unless you want me to bathe you.” Ah, hell, he shouldn’t have said that. He’d already had to stand there in the doorway averting his eyes while she got undressed and put on pajamas—blue ones this time. Oddly, they still said Pink on the front.
Now he’d opened his big mouth and joked about bathing her, and planted that image in his head and that stirring in his groin. He huffed and shook his head, but the image wouldn’t go away.
He cleared his throat. “Do you need anything?”
She shook her head with a smile. “No, Nurse Dawson.” Her eyelids drifted closed. She blinked and opened them. “I guess I will nap for a little while. Don’t let me sleep all day.”
He nodded agreement, but she’d already drifted off.
He stood beside the bed until her breathing evened out. Then he leaned over and kissed her forehead.
“Sweet dreams, sleeping beauty,” he whispered. “I promise you, I’m not going anywhere.” He slipped out of the room and eased the door shut.
Then he went into the living room and lay down on the couch. He threw an arm over his face and tried to go to sleep, but images kept flashing through his mind.
Jules trapped in the burning house, screaming for him.
Jules in the bathtub, her rounded breasts glistening with water and soap, beckoning him to join her.
Jules in his arms, abandoning all restraint as he stroked her to climax.
He growled and sat up. He’d been up all night, but there was no way he was going to sleep—not anytime soon. So he took a shower in record time and made a pot of coffee.
Back on the couch, he picked up the folders that Jules had guarded with her life ever since he’d last seen them. She’d said that he could look at them. Okay, to be fair, she’d said they could go over them together, but that was practically the same thing, right?
It took him about two hours to read through every last page in every folder. Once he was done, he knew little more than he had before.
The thickest folder was all about the Delancey family. Dawson had found printouts of webpages, newspaper articles and notes about his dad, his mother, his brothers and himself. But those few pages didn’t hold a candle to the printouts about Louisiana senator Con Delancey. Juliana had collected information about all of Con’s shady politics, his mistresses, the bootlegging and illegal gambling that had allegedly supplemented the millions his wife had inherited, and even the controversy surrounding his death.
He had to hand it to her, she was thorough and she knew how to ferret out information. She’d covered public records, newspaper archives, the internet and two books that had been written about his infamous grand
father. Dawson hadn’t seen one of them. It was by a locally renowned author and titled Con Delancey: A Controversial Life, a Controversial Death.
He read the inside flap. Sure enough, it sensationalized Con’s politics and his personal life and promised to reveal the real truth about his death. He sighed and set the book aside.
The real truth was that Con’s personal assistant had killed him. No one, not even Andre Broussard, the assistant, had disputed Con’s proclivity for violent rages. The prosecutor convinced the jury that Broussard had finally had enough and snapped. He’d died in prison years ago, still proclaiming his innocence.
There wasn’t nearly as much about Michael, but Juliana had his school records, including his degree in architectural design. She had a copy of his contractor’s license, as well as newspaper articles about his indictment, his sentence and his release from prison after thirty months.
Dawson took a deep breath and shook his head. It was a lot of damning evidence—circumstantial but still damning. Juliana had done what Dawson himself had done—painted Michael Delancey with the same brush as his infamous father. And when she found out who he was, she’d do the same with him.
Dawson leafed back through the pages until he came to the newspaper article that mentioned Michael Delancey’s children. He read it again, clenching his jaw as he looked at the names. Three sons, John, Ryker and Reilly, and a daughter, Rosemary, deceased.
John. No mention of his middle name. But then, there was no reason the press would know that he went by Dawson. It was his dad and granddad who were locally notorious, not him.
He set the folders back on the coffee table and stared at them. He’d been right about Jules. She’d held on to those folders so vehemently, not because there was valuable information in them, but because they were all she had left now that her dad had been killed. He was no psychologist, but it didn’t take one to see that.
He understood. Once he’d decided that his dad was a crook who cared less for people’s safety than he did about saving a buck, he’d clung to his independence with every bit as much determination as Jules clung to her research.
But damn it, he wished she wasn’t so stubborn. He’d told her not to leave his condo. If she’d paid attention to him, her dad’s house wouldn’t have been firebombed. She wouldn’t have come way too close to death.