by Mallory Kane
She couldn't speak.
"It's time for you to drop the gun."
"Where's Archer?" She sounded like a frightened child.
An odd, high-pitched laugh answered her. "Don't look for him to come rushing to your rescue. He can't."
No, please. "What did you do to him?"
"You're wasting my time, Theresa. Come out of the closet. Or I'll drag you out."
Despite his ominous words, suddenly the blood-boiling terror drained out of her, leaving her feeling eerily calm.
She was done panicking. A cold anger settled deep in her chest. She might be cornered. She might be doomed. But she didn't have to go without a fight. She'd use every last grain of strength in her body to get to Archer. She had to know if he was all right. She had to see him one more time.
Tightening her finger on the trigger, she shook her head. "Just try," she growled.
The man aimed his gun at her feet and shot.
Resa shrieked and dropped her gun. Before she could even register that she hadn't been shot, the Lock Rapist grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the closet. She fell hard onto her knees.
Her gun was a few feet away. She lunged for it but the man kicked her in the ribs, sending her sprawling. Then his heavy boot pinned her wrist to the floor and a gloved hand grabbed the gun.
"Get up!"
His boot was crushing her hand. She couldn't move. All she could do was gasp for breath. "Go to hell."
He removed his foot and pushed the cold circle of his gun barrel into the back of her neck. "Get up, you meddling whore." She tried to push herself up, but her arms and legs wouldn't support her.
"I can't." Her voice was raspy. Her chest was so tight she couldn't breathe. She cringed against the expectation of a bullet slamming into her flesh. "Go ahead, shoot me."
"Oh no, sweetheart. You're not going that quickly, or that easily."
Then the gun's barrel was gone from her neck. Resa sucked in a breath and tried to make her legs work.
But immediately, a leather-gloved hand fisted in her hair and her attacker jerked her head up. "We're going outside, so your lover Archer can watch."
She heard his words through the pain that brought tears to her eyes. But if he ripped every hair out of her head it didn't matter.
Archer was alive.
"You've got your choice. You can walk down the stairs or I can drag you." His fist grew tighter.
She whimpered.
"Okay. I'll drag you. That'll be fun."
"I can walk," she gasped.
"What did you say?" He jerked her head up again and put his face in front of hers.
The face of the Lock Rapist. This was the man who'd ruined so many women's lives. This pasty-faced, puny little man with his close-set dark eyes.
She knew those eyes. She'd seen him that night.
She wanted to spit in his saggy, puffy face, but she couldn't gather enough saliva to swallow, much less spit.
"I'll walk," she croaked. She gathered all her will and pushed herself to her knees, then, with the help of his jerking on her hair, she managed to get to her feet.
He kept his fist in her hair and put his other arm around her, shoving the barrel of the gun into the soft flesh under her chin.
"Let's go."
He pushed her forward. She grabbed on to his forearm to keep from falling. Between his shoving and her desperate effort not to fall, they made it down the stairs and through the house to the back door.
He shoved her hard up against it and pressed his body obscenely against hers.
"Unlock the door and take off the chain."
Resa let go of his surprisingly strong arm and fumbled for the lock.
"Stop stalling! I told you Archer can't save you. He couldn't even save himself."
She finally turned the latch and slid the chain off. By now her eyes were streaming tears. Where was Archer? If he weren't hurt, the Lock Rapist would have never gotten in the house. "What have you done to him?"
"I told you to shut up." He jerked open the door and shoved her through it. She fell to her knees and tried to scramble away, heading across the porch toward the concrete steps. But he was too fast. He had her hair again.
She saw a flash of movement, and then pain exploded in her temple. "Try anything else and I'll knock you out."
Her temple throbbed, and she felt a warm stickiness running down her cheek. He must have conked her on the head with the gun's barrel.
"What's—" she gasped. "What's your name?"
He pushed her down the steps. Only his grip on her hair kept her from tripping.
"Me? I'm the Lock Rapist," he said. "Don't you recognize me?"
There was a note of pride overlaying the anger. He pulled her head back and stuck his face in front of hers again. "Remember? You saw me that night. How's your sister doing?"
She curled her fingers and scratched at his face. She connected with the side of his neck and felt flesh rip and sticky blood coat her nails.
"Ow!" He grabbed her wrist and twisted it until the bones rubbed together. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as she waited to hear her bones snap.
"I'm getting tired of you, Theresa. Now if you don't quit wasting time, I'll have to really hurt you." He let go of her arm and dragged her by her hair toward the pickup.
She grabbed his leg, trying to trip him, but all her efforts didn't even slow him down. He just kicked at her as if she were a bothersome terrier.
She kept trying, though. Finally a broken fingernail snagged in the material of his pants and she caught a handful of cloth. She jerked and he tripped and fell to his knees, losing his grip on her hair.
She dived toward his gun hand. She managed to stretch far enough to touch the tip of the barrel before he kicked her. His boot caught her under the chin. The blow stunned her for a few seconds.
"You're just a barrel of fun, aren't you, Theresa? Much better than your sister."
All she did was lie there.
His breathing was labored as he scrambled to his feet and grabbed her hair again.
He dragged her around the front of the pickup and threw her onto the ground, face first. Her cheek and chin slid through dirt and gravel, leaving considerable skin behind. He put his boot on her neck.
"Now, Theresa." She heard the click of a hammer being cocked. "Remember I told you I'd give you a choice." He let up on the pressure on her neck.
"Look at me!"
She blinked dust out of her eyes and tried to look up, but an unbelievable sight greeted her blurred vision.
Archer! He was stretched out on the ground, his bare torso streaked with dirt. His left hand was stretched out in front of him as if he were reaching for something.
She thought she saw a slight movement, and her heart soared. She blinked and looked again. But he lay deathly still.
What was wrong with his hand? It was black in the pale light of the moon. So was the side of his head. Black streaks marred his cheeks and chin, and dripped down his neck to mix with the dirt.
Blood! It was blood.
"Archer!" she croaked.
"I said look at me!"
Archer's eyes opened—she saw them glittering in the faint moonlight. And she thought he nodded. It was hard to tell with the tears overflowing her own eyes.
She turned her gaze to the monster standing over her. He had his eye on her, but his gun was pointed at Archer.
"So you see that your detective is alive—crippled but alive."
"You sick monster. What did you do to his hand?" She gulped in a sobbing breath. "What do you want from us?"
"What do I want? Oh, so many things, Theresa. You'll find out soon enough." Earl's pulse was hammering so fast it filled his ears like one loud drone. His hands were clammy, and sweat dripped down his neck, tickling his skin as it trickled along his backbone.
He'd never been so excited. The flames inside him made him feel as if he was glowing with heat.
He glanced in Archer's direction. The arrogant former de
tective was defeated at last. He lay on the ground, his bloody hand stretched helplessly in the direction his gun had flown. He'd groaned when Earl had dumped Theresa on the ground. But he hadn't made a sound since.
This was it. This was the triumph. Now his mom would be proud of him. Now he'd be all over the news.
You'll see me soon, Mom.
He turned back to Theresa, whose wide eyes were flickering back and forth from him to Archer.
"Here's your choice, Theresa. Does your lover get to watch you and me? Or do I kill him now?"
Chapter Thirteen
Archer's head was still groggy, his hand throbbed with every beat of his pulse, and he was having trouble focusing. But he heard the Lock Rapist's words, and they sent hot anger washing over him.
He blinked to clear the blood from his eyes, and studied Resa as well as he could in the dim moonlight.
Her little pink pajamas were ripped and filthy where the bastard had dragged her. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, as well as blood from several long scrapes. A large dark circle marred her chin. Anger swelled again. The miserable punk had hit her.
He wanted to vault up and knock him to the ground, then pummel him until his face was a bloody mess. But Archer knew he couldn't do that.
He had only one chance, and if he were going to be able to use that chance, he had to stay perfectly still until the Lock Rapist was certain he was no threat.
He knew he was losing blood—too much blood. And his hand—nauseating horror tasted like bile in his throat. But he swallowed it. He couldn't worry about himself now. He had to save Resa, if it was the last thing he ever did. And it very well could be. Strength was draining out of him as fast as his blood.
He watched helplessly as Resa's attacker grabbed her hair and forced her head back. He leaned down and stuck his face into hers. "I asked you a question."
Resa's eyes filled with tears. "I can't—"
He jerked her head and she cried out.
Archer's whole body tensed, but he couldn't move. Not yet.
"You have to. Which will it be? Do you want to watch Archer die, or would you rather he watched you?"
Archer stared at Resa, willing her to say the right thing. Me, he thought at her. Tell him to kill me first.
The monster wouldn't do it, but maybe the triumph of hearing her say it would cause him to let down his guard for a few seconds.
Tears streamed down Resa's face, mixing with the dust and dirt. Her wide green eyes met his, and what he saw in them made him want to cry. She believed in him. She believed he could save her.
God help him, he wished he believed it.
She closed her eyes and tears spilled over onto her cheeks. "Shoot him," she said, her voice small and broken. "Don't make him suffer."
Archer held his breath. The man turned to look at him, his eyes glittering. Archer met his gaze without lifting his head off the ground. "You pig," he growled, his voice weak.
The man laughed, a weird, high-pitched sound. "Get up, Detective. Get up and fight like a man, why don't you?" He gestured with the gun's barrel.
Archer pulled his useless left hand under him and tried to push his torso off the ground. He groaned and flopped back down.
Resa's eyes turned dark with fear as the Lock Rapist faced her. "There you go. See how well your boyfriend protects you?"
Archer lay there, practicing in his head exactly how he was going to handle the next few moments. He couldn't move too soon, or the attacker would figure out what he was doing. A second too late and Resa would suffer.
The most important thing was that the Lock Rapist not suspect that he'd found his gun. Or that he had it in his right hand, which was positioned between his ribs and the ground.
Moving as little as possible, he adjusted his right hand so that it hurt less. His SIG was ready to fire.
He had no confidence that he'd be able to handle the weapon, much less get off a clean shot. But it was Resa's only chance. His other hand had been ripped to shreds by the Lock Rapist's bullet.
"Get up!" the Lock Rapist yelled at Resa. "Get up on your knees. There ain't no way I'm going to shoot your boyfriend before he gets to see this."
The scrawny punk ripped off his hooded jacket and began to unbutton his coverall with his left hand. He still held the gun on Archer, but his attention was on the buttons.
"I told you to get up!" he yelled at Resa while he fumbled at the buttons.
Archer took a deep, silent breath and rocked backward. He lifted his hand, grimacing as the shortened tendons strained, and carefully squeezed the trigger. Don't let the shot go wild.
He heard a hollow report as if a gun had been fired in another room. Time slowed to a crawl. The Lock Rapist turned his head toward Archer and lifted his weapon. But his hand drooped, his head jerked backward and blood sprayed.
Resa screamed as he crumpled to the ground next to her.
Archer pushed himself to his knees, never taking his eyes off the fallen man. His hand twitched and ached, but with a strength he didn't know he had, he held the gun steady. The monster appeared to be dead, but he couldn't take the risk.
Resa's screams still echoed in his head. But she was crawling toward him, repeating his name over and over.
The screams, he realized, were sirens.
About the time Resa reached him, his knees gave out and he fell against her. She wrapped her arms around his head and shoulders.
The last thing he heard was her voice.
A blinding blue light flashed in his eyes. He turned his head and tried to raise a hand to block it. But the hand wouldn't move. He tried to lift his other hand but it wouldn't move either.
What the hell?
"Mr. Archer, you need to lie still."
Everything hurt. His head, his hands, his chest. Behind his eyelids, the lights kept flashing. He squinted.
Police cars. Their blue lights were flashing all around him, ramping up the pounding in his head.
Thank God the police were finally here, he thought. But he couldn't remember why.
Odd visions played across his vision in rhythm with the blue lights. A dark shadow darting bizarrely among the cast-iron targets. Clouds obscuring the moon. A lovely, dirty face, streaked with tears. A monster dragging her, hurting her.
Resa! Where was she? He'd failed her again and again. Dear God, don't let him have failed this time.
"Resa!" he cried, trying to sit up.
A firm hand on his chest kept him prone. "Don't try to move."
"Get the hell out of my way," he demanded. "Where is she?" He raised his head and pain stabbed his temples. Then he saw why he couldn't move. He was strapped to the gurney.
He cursed and strained against them. "Get these things off me! I have to get to her!"
The man in white who'd spoken to him loomed over him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Archer, but you've got to calm down. You're going to hurt yourself."
"I'm going to hurt you if you don't let me up!"
Archer saw the man hold up a syringe. "Don't! Get the hell away from me!" He felt a sting in his immobilized arm. "You prick! I've got to find her! She needs me!"
Resa heard Archer's desperate hoarse voice. It ripped right through her. She pushed away the gloved hand that was rubbing an antiseptic wipe across her forehead.
She'd tried several times already to make them let her go to him, but the med techs and the police seemed to be in a conspiracy to keep them apart. He was strapped to a gurney at the door of one ambulance and she was sitting in the open back of another.
"Leave me alone." She batted at the med tech's hand. "There's nothing wrong with me. I want to go with Archer."
The tech glanced toward the other ambulance. "I don't think that's a good idea. We need to check you out before we can release you."
Resa felt frustrated tears spring to her eyes. "I'm fine. But he's not. He's been shot. He needs me." She slapped at the woman's hands.
"I think maybe you need a sedative."
"Don't you dare!"
Several yards away, Clint walked behind a gurney with a covered figure strapped to it. Resa's entire body shuddered at the sight of the black-shrouded corpse.
The monster, the Lock Rapist, was dead. She covered her mouth to stop the sobs of relief.
Gulping in a lungful of air, she cried, "Clint! Detective Banes."
Clint glanced her way. He spoke to the young man in the CSU jacket who was pushing the gurney, then sidestepped it and walked over to the ambulance.
"Resa, how're you doing?" He looked at the med tech. "Has she been processed?"
The tech nodded.
"Clint, what about Archer? Is he all right?"
Clint glanced behind him and Resa saw that two techs were lifting Archer's gurney into the back of the ambulance.
"Where are they taking him? I need to go with him." She turned her head away when the tech tried to apply a bandage to a cut on her forehead.
"Resa, has anyone questioned you yet? I need to know a few things. First and most importantly, did Slattery hurt you?"
Resa stared at Clint. "Slattery? Is that his name? The Lock Rapist?"
Clint nodded grimly.
"Is he dead?"
"Archer shot him in the head."
Resa's heart twisted painfully as the memory hit her. Archer shifting position to reveal the glint of a gun barrel in his hand—his right hand. His other hand blood-soaked, useless, unmoving. The hopeless yet determined set to his jaw as he pulled the trigger.
Her breath caught in a sob. "Oh, Clint—his hand. He shot him in the hand."
Clint grimaced. "I know. But the doctors are going to take care of him." He reached out and squeezed her shoulder gently. "Resa, what did Slattery do?"
She watched the ambulance carrying Archer until it disappeared around the front of the house. Then she squeezed her eyes shut as hot tears burned behind them.
"He was a monster. He made me choose." Her throat closed up and her chest ached. "He made me choose," she choked out. "I didn't want to."
"Detective, I think she needs a sedative. She's obviously traumatized."
"Clint, no." Resa grasped his arm. "Please. Don't let them drug me. I need to be with Archer. I need to let him know—"
"Listen to me. The best thing you can do for Geoff right now is to let them give you something to calm you down. We're going to need your statement. Okay?"