Out Of Her League (30 page)

He sat very still. “Yeah, I sure did a helluva lot for him, didn't I?” He shoved his plate away and stood, his fist clenching at his side. “Goddamn it.” His good hand raked through his hair. “Goddamn, it, Chris, he was just a little kid. Six-years-old and his father blew him away like it was nothing at all.”

She bit her lip, those words forming images in her head she'd rather not see.

“He was looking at me with these wide brown eyes, scared shitless, like he was saying ‘save me'.” The torment in his voice speared her. “I threw myself over him as the guy started shooting, and the whole time I'm thinking ‘I can't believe this is happening. No fucking way would a father shoot his helpless little kid'... but he did. Everything happened so fast. I knew I'd been hit, but I thought maybe I'd gotten to him in time, and when they did the breach and came in after us I lifted off him and he was staring at me. Staring right at me with those terrified eyes, but he wasn't breathing.”

Her stomach clenched, the nausea making her throat spasm.

“I couldn't find a pulse, so I gave him a breath and was doing chest compressions when the paramedics showed up, and his eyes were still wide open.” He shook his head, as if trying to make it all disappear. “I thought I saw his little chest move.” A frown creased his forehead as he stood there on the other side of the kitchen, a million miles away from her.

She understood his need to pull away, knew exactly what that kind of deep shock felt like, how it numbed everything in an instant.

The phone jangled and she debated before going over to answer it.

The slightest pause. “Hello,” a woman's voice said in a southern accent. “Who am I speaking with?”

“This is Christa.”

“This is Rayne's mother, Emily.”

“Hi, Mrs. Hutchinson.” She met his gaze, raised her eyebrows. “One second, I'll put him on.” She crossed the room, giving him a few more seconds to compose himself. As she washed the breakfast dishes she caught the gist of the conversation, him filling his mom in on his latest escapade, trying to reassure her he was okay and would be fine. “Everything all right?” she asked when he'd hung up.

“Yeah. I told her you were taking real good care of me.”

“Oh, good. She sounded surprised when I answered.”

“She
was
surprised. She wants to meet you. I guess Bryn's been telling her about us.”

She set a sudsy mixing bowl on the counter. “Do you want her to meet me?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said, surprising her into silence.

She stared at him over her shoulder, prevented from answering when the phone shrilled once more. “Hello.”

“Chris, it's me,” Teryl said. “How's Rayne doing?” She'd called Teryl and Drew last night, so they wouldn't learn the news from the TV.

“Pretty well, really, considering what happened.” She didn't want to chat with her pal right now; she wanted to make sure Rayne was okay. She'd seen the awful grief in his eyes when she'd told him about Daniel, so no matter how hard he tried to shove it away, it was there, eating at him.

“That's great. Do you guys need anything at all?”

“Not that I can think of, but thanks. Everything good with you guys? Baby okay?”

“Yeah, it's still making me puke my guts out, which my doctor says means it's fine. Anyway, the national team head coach wants you to call her when you can.”

Christa's heart rate picked up. That was all she needed right now, a call confirming she'd been cut from the program. She wrote down the number, her stomach in knots. When, oh when, was she going to catch a break? She felt like she had a black cloud following her around, like Eeyore. “Thanks, Ter. I'll call you if there's any news, okay?” She hung up, trying to put everything in perspective. In the grand scheme of things did a softball team really matter? The man she loved had nearly died yesterday, and a little boy had been killed by his own father. Being cut from the squad suddenly didn't seem so bad.

“What'd she say?” Rayne asked, coming up behind her to put his hand against her skittering tummy.

“The national coach called, I guess to find out what's going on with me.”

“You'd better get back to her right away, keep her posted.” He laid his fingers over her lips. “I'm okay, kiddo, really. I'm going to go lie down for a while.”

She searched his eyes. “Are you really okay?”

“Yeah. I'm just... I don't know. Numb.”

She squeezed his hand and followed him with her eyes until he disappeared into the bedroom. He was retreating to his cave to lick his wounds, and much as her instinct was to nurture him, he was entitled to some time alone. When he was ready to come out, he would find her waiting.

Rayne heard the beep of the numbers as she dialed, sensing her trepidation even though she was trying not to show it. His arm and ribs aching, he gingerly lay on the bed, listening to her muffled voice. One thing he was absolutely sure of, Christa wasn't up to playing ball, wouldn't be for a while, and no way would he let her go anyway near another park while that psycho rapist was still on the loose.

He sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his hand over his face. Daniel was dead. He'd never been religious but he'd sure as hell prayed yesterday, spent a good chunk of the night praying the boy would pull through. He'd known the wounds were serious, had hoped Daniel felt no pain in his unconsciousness, had begged for a miracle.

And then there was his own mother, striving to keep her composure at the news of his injuries, trying to guilt-trip him into calling his father. “Your dad would understand,” she'd cajoled him. “He's gone through the same thing.”

Even if he had, Rayne still didn't feel like calling him.
Hey dad, it's me, your estranged son. So tell me, how did you cope with your post-traumatic stress disorder?

Well, I'll tell you, son. I took off and left my wife and kid behind
.

He pulled his mind from that train of thought and focused on taking slow, even breaths. He wasn't his father, never would be, because he wouldn't allow it.

A minute later he heard a sniffling sound. Oh, Jesus, he thought, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. They'd cut her from the team, and it was that insane whacko's fault. “Chris?”

She came into the room, one hand clapped over her mouth as if determined not to cry, those blue eyes swimming with tears, her pain intensifying his own.

Her hand lowered, revealing a tremulous smile. “I did it,” she whispered. “I made the team.”

He blinked. “You
made
the team?” She nodded and he laughed despite the spasms in his ribs, held out his good arm and she flew across the room to him. “Chris, I'm so proud of you.”

She laughed too, vibrating. “I'm in shock. I need a good cry. My head's going to explode. I can't take it all in.” She looked up at him, wonder and confusion in her eyes. “The coach said they'd already decided on me, so missing the last camp didn't matter, especially under the circumstances. The nationals aren't until August, and I told her with all the pressure the police are putting on... him, we hope this whole thing will be over by the next camp. I know I shouldn't be able to smile right now, with my stalker out there planning to kill me and the little boy dying, and you recovering from a bullet wound, but... it's crazy, right?”

“You're not crazy, and don't feel guilty. It's about time we had some good news, and I love seeing you so excited.” She shone so bright she almost hurt his eyes.

“I can't wait until I can get out on the field again.” She snuggled next to him, the smile still on her lips. “Now you can tell your mom you're dating a future Olympian.”

“I think you should tell her yourself, kiddo.” He gave her a grin. “What do you say? You want to come with me to Charleston and meet my mom?”

So she'd made the team after all. Good for her.

He leaned back in his chair, stared at the computer screen that laid out the national team's schedule. The next camp wasn't until the end of June, and he doubted Christa would miss it, even if she was afraid of him. No way would she would work so hard to make the team and then not show up.

Never a dull moment in her life, Seth mused. Her boyfriend had been wounded yesterday— he didn't know the details, but from the news footage it didn't seem life threatening. Which was too bad. Since Christa was still holed up with that cop in his condo, and he wasn't about to risk going after her there. That would be suicide. No, he'd have to stay as close to her as he could without getting caught, wait for an unguarded moment. Then he'd spring.

His eyes strayed to the digital photo he'd printed and framed, sitting next to his laptop. The kid he'd wired the money to had captured the exact moment when she realized what his last gift meant. Her face held that blank look of terror he remembered so well. If he used a magnifying glass, he could see the lines of strain around her mouth and across her forehead. The photo was so clear he could even tell how much her pupils had constricted when she'd looked up from that bakery box. Her beautiful eyes looked haunted, deep shadows smudged under them as if she hadn't been sleeping well.

Good. At least he wasn't suffering alone.

He shut off the computer, glanced around the cheap but clean apartment. Time to leave again. He'd been here far too long already, needed to change his appearance and move on, complete the next move in this chess game he'd initiated. He'd even leave the hard drive intact for the police to examine, simply to up the stakes. Most of the criminals he'd studied were idiots. They wound up in jail because they followed some pattern that made them predictable. Not him. Outsmarting the cops had become almost as big a thrill as hunting his prey.

His planning was almost complete, and this time nothing would stop him. He would finally get it right. His hands trembled as he wiped down the keyboard to remove the oil from his fingertips and folded the cloth into a neat square before tossing it in the garbage.

Did she know he was still coming after her? Probably. She was a smart girl. Beautiful, too.

Shame he had to kill her.

Luke Hutchinson was wedged under the hood of his vintage Mustang when he heard the kid he hired to cut his lawn calling him from the garage doorway. “What now?” he barked, trying to muscle a badly rusted bolt out of the engine block. The Louisiana air was so thick and heavy he could have wrung his shirt out.

“Phone call for you— again.”

“Can't you take a message?” Goddamn bolt wasn't budging.

“It's long distance. And it's a woman.”

Luke growled and tossed the wrench on the driveway with a clang, then reached into his back pocket for the rag to wipe his hands. Didn't it figure that when a guy got a day all to himself to putter on his car, everyone he knew suddenly wanted to talk to him on the phone?

He stalked over and grabbed the cordless from the kid, who turned and disappeared back into the house, presumably to finish watching the baseball game. Lazy bugger still had edging to do.

“Hello,” he said gruffly, wondering who in the hell it was that needed to talk to him so badly.

“Hi, Luke. I'm sorry to bother you... ”

He sucked in as much breath as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He hadn't heard that voice in four years, but it still made him ache inside, probably always would.

“You're never a bother, Em. You all right?” Something bad had to have happened to make her call him. The last time was to tell him his uncle had died. Her sigh made him brace himself.

“I'm fine, Luke. It's Rayne.”

Oh, Jesus. “What about him?” God knows he and his son didn't have a perfect relationship, but wasn't Rayne old enough and capable enough to call himself?

“He responded to a hostage situation yesterday, and things didn't go well.” That cultured Southern voice paused, presumably as she gathered her nerve. “He was trying to shield the hostage. A little boy. Got himself shot.”

Luke gripped the phone until his knuckles turned white. “Is he all right?”

“The bullet went through his upper arm, and they had to do surgery to stop the bleeding, but apparently there's no permanent damage. He cracked some ribs too, but his vest saved him from anything worse. Though they just found out the little boy he tried to save died... ” She choked back a sob.

“Oh, Em. Jesus, I'm sorry.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. His son hadn't bothered to call and tell him himself.
Hey, Dad. Got shot at work. How are things in Louisiana
? “Is he still in the hospital?”

“No, they discharged him pretty much right away. I was going to fly out there to stay with him, but apparently he's got a girlfriend looking after him.”

He made a noise in his throat to let her know he was still listening, wondering why she was telling him all this. Their son always had a girlfriend. Sometimes more than one.

“Well, anyway,” she continued when he didn't pick up the thread of conversation, “apparently he's coming out here awhile. Don't be surprised if he drives down to see you. With his girlfriend.” She let the significance of that speak for itself.

“Uh-huh. Was he planning also to maybe call me himself, or are you now officially designated as his messenger?” He couldn't keep the acid out of his tone.

“Don't be like that. I wanted to prepare you, so you could maybe think of how to help him. I figured if anybody knew what to do after what he's gone through, it would be you.”

That much was true. Having your entire platoon blown to pieces right in front of you sort of made you a kindred spirit when it came to trauma. “I'll talk to him, Em.”

“Thanks. Figured you'd know how to handle this better than me. I had a good cry of course. Always helps.”

“I'm sure you did everything right. He obviously knew you would, so he called you first.” Of course, he wasn't included in that cozy little circle of trust, not that he could expect to be. Not after what he'd done all those years ago.

“Well, I appreciate you talking to me, anyway. How are things down there? Y'all working too hard and sleeping too little as usual?”

Luke smiled wryly. She knew him too well. “Some things never change, I guess.”