Lucidity (18 page)

Drawing in a deep, sobbing breath, she hoped Vic was as skilled as he’d claimed, so that the end, at least, would be quick. And thought that she might be insane after all, as she vaguely wondered what dream she might dream once this one was cut short.

The knife curved and hesitated. “I wonder, Ms. Phelps, exactly what you’ll have to say, how you’ll account for your sins, once you meet your Maker.”

“How ’bout we say hello to yours first?”

A familiar voice sliced through her terror. Her eyes sprang open as her spine sagged forward, and the dense shadows gave way to the angelic luster of a pearly white shape just beyond Vic’s shoulder.

Parker.

Stooped, muddied and barefoot, he’d found her, somehow, without making a sound. Carly screamed again, a high-pitched squeak of renewed hope, as Vic’s body went stiff.

Parker eased forward, one step, then another, his favorite pistol in hand, his gray eyes cold, dead black. “Doyle. You can drop the weapons now. Or after you’re dead. Guess which I’d prefer?”

With the savage snarl of a trapped animal, Vic twirled behind her, the knife beneath her ear, his .22 at her temple. Parker adjusted his aim with one narrowed eye, shoulders slumped beneath the low ceiling.

Hesitating.

She knew him. Parker was nothing if not confident. But he didn’t want to risk the shot. He was afraid of hitting her instead.

In the next heart-stopping instant, he proved her wrong. With his body taut and rigidly tense, he crooked his trigger finger.

And the renowned pearl-handled pistol clicked—but did not fire.

Bits of sound, glimpses of images. Parker’s eyes went wide. Vic chuckled behind her, ever so softly. Cursing, Parker let his gun slip, his hand quickly curling to his back for another. Vic grunted, angling his weapon away from her head and balancing it, barrel forward, on her shoulder.

Dear God. He was going to shoot Parker instead.

The terror that had kept her cold and numb drained away. She couldn’t let this happen. If the world was worth fighting for, so was
her
world.

She acted without thinking. Snapping her neck back from the nearly forgotten blade, she landed a solid head-butt against Vic’s face. For that split second of surprise, she was free, and she let herself go limp, sliding down his body into the cool mud and twisting her hips so that she faced her assailant—just as a shot resounded in the eerie peace of the underground tomb.

Chapter Sixteen

Shepherd watched, intrigued, as Parker stood with his back against the bathroom door, Carly’s phone held like a weapon in his hand. His body was one unflinching, immovable barricade. That profile belonged on Rushmore somewhere. He could crack walnuts with the set of that chin. And the deadly determination in those eyes might’ve been enough to bring down an asteroid without help.

Very impressive. If he swung that way, he’d be ready to jump Munroe’s bones himself about now.

“She’s fine,” Parker muttered in response to Shep’s concern. “She’s gonna be fine. It’s only natural to want to wash away all that smell and filth and fear.”

“A good scrub-down doesn’t take this long, y’know. Carlotta’s been in there quite a while.” Shepherd blinked innocent eyes. “Maybe I should pop into the shower, just to be sure she’s okay?”

“Not if you were hoping to get out alive,” Parker growled. “I’ve got it covered. A few soapings and she’ll be fine. Just fine.”

Shep nodded, barely resisting the perverse impulse to grin. Of course the girl would be fine. She’d seemed more distraught by the news of her friend’s death than what had happened to her.

Carly’s reaction had even moved
him
. She’d covered her face with trembling hands, swaying erratically, as if to some faint, macabre music only she could hear. Both he and Munroe had remained still, helpless to think of anything that would console her. There was horror in that silence. No weeping, no sign of tears. Silence. Women, he thought, knew suffering in a way men could never comprehend.

But they were also tougher than men thought. She would survive.

He’d never seen
Munroe
as shaken up as he was now, though. And that was okay. He had a feeling it’d do the big fella some good.

With deliberate force, he punched a needle into his friend’s tightly folded arm. Because he knew he wouldn’t do it himself. “Antibiotic. Bullet bit your shoulder, but it’s just a flesh wound. You might wanna stitch it up,” he said, nodding at the impressive first aid kit he’d retrieved from the munitions hole. “My needlework’s a little rusty.”

“Later.”

The blood from his shoulder had already dried on his vest. Shep shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “You must be slipping, Munroe. I’ve seen you come out of half a dozen firefights without a scratch. And you get shot protecting a civilian from some decrepit loner?”

“She isn’t just a civvie. She’s special, remember?”

Yeah. She definitely was. Turning his satisfied grin away from the threat of violence, Shep focused on their muddied prisoner who sat sullen and handcuffed on the sofa of his own vacant suite. Perched on the padded arm, he finished his perfunctory exam of Uncle Vic’s bruised face with some satisfaction, wiping the last trickle of blood from his nose with a wet towel. “Too bad we can’t save the taxpayers the cost of putting you out of your misery. But we need info. You’ll live, old man. And consider yourself lucky I don’t let my partner finish working you over anyway.”

“Wasn’t him. It was the bitch.”

“What?”

“It was that horror of a mutant bitch that done it.” Vic scowled and spit a plug of pink saliva onto the floor. “Rose up outta the mud and flew at me like one of the Furies once Munroe went down. Kicked me right in the nuts and tried to scratch my eyes out with the plastic cuffs.”

Shepherd blinked at his partner. “Our little love guru did this kinda damage?”

“Kicked his sorry ass.” Parker’s lips trembled with barely repressed pride. “I had to pull her off him, and she did not go gently.”

They’d returned to one of the unoccupied suites of the bed-and-breakfast against Parker’s wishes. He was all for whisking her away to another safe house immediately, away from all memories of this nightmare. But Carlotta Phelps, who hadn’t so much as wept or whimpered, had insisted on showering as soon as possible, and her guardian had relented.

He might as well get used to it. Shepherd had a feeling she could talk him into anything.

Shep tested Uncle Vic’s cuffs one last time, giving them an unnecessary wrench. His hard feelings weren’t just about the mindless attack. This was
personal
. Yeah, he’d go to hell and back for his buddy. Durn near had on more than one occasion. But he didn’t appreciate being out in the wet and cold, getting his uberexpensive athletic shoes hopelessly muddied in the search. “How’d you figure it out, Munroe? There’s no telling how many holes this guy had dug out there.”

“A hunch. He did the Cushing girl in the bathroom. Smart place for a slaughter; good for wiping down prints or washing off blood in a pinch. It made me think of the outhouse. No blood, no bother. I knew it was just there for show. I’d even mentioned it to Carly. And that got me thinking. Other than that moth-eaten elk head, the place is bare-bones essentials. Why would a guy who couldn’t be bothered having a pretty painting on the wall or so much as a welcome mat leave that hull of an outhouse out there as some kind of cute ornament? And that was exactly where I’d found the sewer rat target shooting one morning. Too much coincidence.”

“But I thought you were heading for the woodpile.”

“I was. Had the tarp in my hand, ready to dig in. But then I got this image in my mind, and I couldn’t let go of it. I kept thinking about that crazy maze of colored pipes, like connecting sewers, running across that goddamn computer of his. The way the photos just seemed to bloom out of that screen saver. First Carly, then Violet, who reminded me of flowers. And that reminded me of something he’d said. He called her my ‘little lotus’. Vic don’t exactly wax poetic, but even a meathead like me knows that’s the flower that takes root in the mud and muck. Carly told me the devil was in the details. She was right.” An uncharacteristic hoarseness roughened his voice. “Nothing has ever scared me as much as thinking she might already be gone—except seeing her struggle in that pissy mud, trying to save me.”

Shepherd swallowed hard. Yeah. The lady was special. The big guy was a goner. And he, for one, was glad to see it.

“You’d better be damned glad I found you in time.” Parker eyed their prisoner with an expression of pure hatred. “I should serve up your fucking balls. With eggs.”

“Ah, well, that’s probably my cue to get him out of here.” Shepherd pulled his prisoner to his feet. “You sure the girl will be fine, Munroe?”

“She’s fine,” he snapped. “I’ll see to it. Fine.”

Shep wiped a smile from his face, herding the older man toward the door.

“Hold up.”

Parker left his position to loom over Vic, his pupils dangerously dilated. “Just so you know? If my buddy here hadn’t heard the shot and come running, I’d have finished what the girl started. You’d be decomposing down there right now with the rest of the shit.”

“You think I’m worried, Munroe?” Vic sneered at him, sniggering softly. “I’m not heading for a Russian gulag. Club Fed’s a picnic, and you can’t touch me there. Besides—God’s gonna see to it that none of us suffers for very long.”

Parker wrapped one huge hand around the man’s throat and squeezed. And squeezed, and squeezed harder, until he gasped desperately for breath. “It’s a small world. I’ve got a lot of mean friends in a lot of peculiar places, Vic. This old planet may or may not make it, but let me leave you with a promise. Federal pen or not…you won’t.”

Shep nodded a gleeful confirmation. Yeah. If he ever switched persuasions, he was
so
gonna do Munroe.

“Shep?”

Shepherd stopped in his tracks, blinking in disbelief as Parker casually handed him his pearl-handled pistol. Jesus. It really
was
the end of the world. “Are you kidding me, dude? You love that gun.”

Parker shrugged, extending his arm. “I want you to have it. She needs a little tuning up, but I’m sure you’ll take care of it. Consider this part of an apology from someone who was idiot enough to doubt a true friend—and a promise it’ll never happen again.”

“You said it was your good luck charm.”

“I think I’ve found a better one.”

“But your father—”

“Would want it to go to somebody enforcing the rules, whatever they might be in the time to come. Not my gig anymore. I’m going off radar. This is just my way of saying…well, thanks. You know. In case I don’t see you again.”

Shepherd took the weapon, felt the weight in his hand. It was smooth and cold as marble, and in nearly perfect condition. He started to speak but stuttered as he felt himself get choked up again. “My old man always said only pimps and gamblers carried pearl-handled pistols.”

The trace of a smile flitted across Parker’s mouth as he resumed his post at the bathroom door. “You’ll do.”

Shep nodded and carefully tucked it into the pocket of his leather jacket. “I called in a couple of boys with toys to patrol the perimeter. They’re assigned for twenty-four hours. After that, you’re on your own,” he said briskly. Turning away from his friend, he gave his prisoner a shove. “You realize the Temple will disavow any knowledge of your actions, right? So let’s go chat with the feds about your other blogging buddies, Uncle Vic. And you’d better sing loud and clear. You got me out of a hot woman’s bed and messed up my shoes, man. Do you have any idea how much these puppies cost?”

“Carlotta? Um…telephone.”

There was an urgency to Parker’s voice outside the door, and Carly could hear the whimsical tones of the alien tune, even through the hard-running water. And she was aware of how very important it all was.

She just couldn’t seem to respond.

She’d lost count of how many times she’d dragged the soapy washcloth over her skin, scrubbed shampoo through her hair and reminded herself that she was safe now.

But she didn’t feel safe. She didn’t feel
anything
. It was only as an afterthought that she covered her privates with her hands when he knocked and carefully entered the bathroom.

“Carly, you’ve gotta snap out of it, baby.” He stepped into the stall, muttering, as she watched. Fully dressed. Why was he getting himself all wet? Her brain felt as dense as the steam swirling in patterns through the vacuum of the open door.

She opened her mouth to protest as he turned off the water, and found herself swept off her feet and out of the shower. Good thing. She didn’t think she could walk.

He didn’t bother with a towel but carried her into the bedroom, wrapped her in a blanket and headed for the sofa, placed strategically before a healthy fire in the hearth.

“I can’t do it, Parker.” Her words were muffled against his vest, the stink of the outhouse still in her nose. “I want to go back. Back to dreaming of lucky finds at garage sales and cheap weekend getaways. I want to go back to working at the grocery store so my biggest worry will be soaking my aching feet at night and scraping enough money together to pay the rent. Back to thinking of Violet as alive and well, instead of…” She heard a shuddering sob escape her body, despite her best efforts. “I tried to tell you. I’m no heroine. If I didn’t realize it before, I do now. I’m falling apart here.”