Perfect Victim, The (53 page)

Her thoughts floated to Randall. Broken pieces of memory hovered just out of reach. She remembered the restaurant. Two shadows moving through the front door. Guns being raised. Deafening blasts.

The memory struck her like an electrical shock. Vivid images of the shooting flew at her like jagged shards. She bolted upright, a cry escaping her. Terror hammered through her. Nausea hit her like a fist to the stomach.

Randall.

She whispered his name: Involuntary. Instinctive. Clutching the bedpost, Addison sat up and blinked at her surroundings.

She was in an oddly shaped bedroom with unusually low ceilings. The lighting was muted, giving the wood paneling a rich, coffee brown patina. A vase of fresh-cut roses sat on the black marble surface of the built-in bureau. Opposite, a flat-screen television was recessed into the wall. Full darkness had fallen beyond tiny round windows.

Despite the opulent furnishings, the room was as stark and austere as a funeral parlor. It was an oppressive room, filled with all the extravagances of a lush hotel, soured by the smell of her own fear. She felt claustrophobic, as though the intricately carved panels were closing in on her. Where in God's name was she?

It was the slight rocking motion that finally conveyed she was onboard some kind of boat or ship. A glance at her watch told her she'd been unconscious for just over an hour. Despair settled over her like a dark cloud. For the first time in her life, Addison felt utterly and completely vulnerable.
Helpless. For several minutes, she sat on the edge of the bed and trembled
,
trying to absorb what had happened, struggling valiantly to mainta
i
n control
.
To lose control now would mean to accept defeat
.
She vowed never to surrender, especially to Garrison Tate
.

She knew firsthand what he was capable of. He'd murdered four innocent people
.
He'd almost killed Jack. She
'
d watched his thugs gun down Clint Holsapple.

Oh, dear God
,
she'd watched them gun down Randall.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the images, steeling herself against the sight of him jerking and crumbling. She raised her hands and looked at the d
r
ied blood caked around her fingernails and the creases of her palms
.
She wondered if it was his. A wave of hysteria bubbled inside her. Had his vest protected him? Or had the bullet struck his head or neck where an injury would mean instant death? Feeling her own vest press uncomfortably against her breasts, she felt only minutely reassured.

Holding her knuckles to her mouth, she told
herself she hadn't lost him
.
He wasn't dead; he couldn't be. He was too strong. Their love was too strong
.
There was no way love could simply cease to exist
.
The world wasn't that cruel
.
God wasn
'
t that cruel
.

Refusing to give in to the doubts
,
she took a quick mental tally of her physical condition. Except fo
r
the throbbing in her head and badly skinned knees, she was uninjured
.
Her coat had been removed and draped across her, but she was shivering with cold. She glanced down at her clothes, appalled by the sight of bloodstains on her slacks
.

"Oh, God." She pressed her hands against her cheeks.

"Take it easy," she whispered, determined to stay in control
.
"Just
.
.
.
take it easy
.
Don
'
t lose it
.
"

Abruptly, the thought struck her that she'd been spared. Why hadn't he killed her when he'd had the chance? Why was she here? She knew he wouldn't let her live. Not now. Not when she could tell the world what she knew
.
What could Tate possibly have in mind for her?

The question made her shiver
.

"Clint." Randall was so close he could smell blood. "Dammit, Clint, talk to me."

From the paramedic's seat next to the gurney, the young woman monitored Clint's vital signs. Outside, the siren blared like a banshee.

Randall watched as she inserted a needle into the I.V. line and depressed the plunger. "How's he doing?" he asked.

Shaking her head, she adjusted the amount of fluid dripping through the line. "He's pretty critical," she said with a grimace. ''There's a trauma team on standby at the hospital."

When he turned back to Clint, he was surprised to see the other man's eyes open. "Jesus, Clint."

Clint's eyes were glassy and strangely unfocused.

"Where is she?" Randall asked.

The dying man opened his mouth. Flecks of blood splattered against the oxygen cup.

Randall leaned forward, lifted the cup from his mouth. ''They double-crossed you, my man. Don't sell what's left of your soul for those bastards."

His eyes rolled back in their sockets.

"Where's Addison? Goddammit, they're going to kill her, Clint. I need to know where she is."

The bloody mouth formed a word, the voice came, a crude gurgling, unintelligible.

Randall cursed in frustration. "Damn you, Clint, don't you die on me. You owe me this. You owe it to yourself. Now, dammit, talk to me."

His tone drew the attention of the young paramedic. "You can talk to him, but don't agitate him," she warned.

Randall ignored-her. "Where's Addison? Where the fuck is she?"

Clint turned his head. Blood trickled from his mouth, spreading onto the sheet like red paint. "Lousy ten grand ..."

He felt no sympathy for the dying man. Loss perhaps,
anger, the bitter taste of betrayal, but not sympathy. It was necessity that had him blotting the blood with gauze. "Where did they take her?"

"Glover ... ark."

"Glover
Park?" Hope flared inside him. ''Where in Glover Park?"

Clint moved his head slightly. No. He closed his eyes, let out a breath. "Call Gavin .... " A fresh line of blood pumped from his nose.

Randall let it run
.
"How do I reach Gavin?"

"
.
.. lover park .... " He coughed. Blood spewed onto the surrounding sheets.

The heart monitor began to wail
.
Even as the dying man's final breath slid from his lungs, Randall knew he didn't have enough information. He wouldn't get any more information from Clint
.

The paramedic jumped from her seat and went to work.

Shaken, Randall moved back. He watched the young woman work, but he knew Clint was dead. He'd seen enough death to recognize it
.
Clint had merely been given the time in which to make
his final confession.

Too bad it hadn't been enough to save his soul
.

Fighting panic, he stood, starkly aware that time was slipping away
.
Indecision hammered at him. Dear God
,
he had no idea where to begin looking for Addison.

Clint had mentioned Glover Park
.
A year ago, Clint had lived in the upscale neighborhood north of Georgetown.

"Stop the ambulance," he said.

The paramedic looked at him uneasily. "This man is dying," she said. "We'll do no such thing."

"That's a fatal wound and you know it
.
" Randall clutched the I
.
V. bar as the ambulance negotiated a turn.

"You don't know that
,”
she argued.

He touched the young woman on the shoulder. "I'm a private detective. My client, a young woman, was kidnapped in that bloody fiasco back there." He searched her face, wondering if she saw him as just another crazy roaming the
streets of D.C. He could only imagine how he must look, desperate, high on drugs ... or insane.

Raking a trembling hand through his hair, Randall took a breath and lowered his voice. "I need to find her. Time is running out. If you don't stop this ambulance and let me out, I won't be able to get to her in time. They'll kill her."

Never taking her eyes from Randall, she turned to the driver. "He's a private dick, Dennis. Let him out."

The driver studied them through the rearview mirror. "Cops told me to make sure you went directly to the hospital."

Randall hadn't wanted to use violence, but he didn't have a choice. He reached for his pistol. Alarm skittered through him when he found his holster empty. He cursed, realizing the police must have taken it while he'd been unconscious.

Knowing he was going to have to bluff his way through, he stuck his right hand in his coat pocket and pointed his finger at the driver.

"I've got a .38 in my coat and by God I'll use it if you don't stop this ambulance," he said.

The ambulance screeched to a halt. Hanging onto the I.V. bar, Randall managed to keep his balance. "It would have been a hell of a lot easier if you had just stopped when I asked." Reaching for the radio, he yanked the microphone from its base.

"Just get the hell out of here, you crazy son of a bitch!" the driver shouted.

Randall reached for the rear door latch and swung it open. The ambulance had stopped in the middle of a busy intersection. Horns bellowed as he eased himself onto the pavement. Behind him, the door of the ambulance slammed shut. He lumbered through traffic to the sidewalk. Dizzy with pain, he spotted a Christian bookstore. Head down against the wind, he pulled the cell phone from his pocket and started for the store. Around him, the air was cold and held the threat of more than merely rain.

Chapter 24

Clint’s brownstone was located on a quiet street on the outskirts of upper Georgetown. Randall had the cab drop him at the comer, then waited until the taillights were
out of sight before ducking into the alley.

Ransacking Clint's house was a long shot, but it was the only place he could think of to begin. He desperately needed information, anything that might help h
i
m find Addison. Clint had mentioned Glover Park. He'd referred to the name Gavin. It was all Randall had to go on; it had to be enough.

He scrambled over a chain
-
link fence, trying in vain not to jar his ribs. The pain came hard and fast, wrapping around his chest like barbed wire. Head reeling, he went to his knees i
n
the grass and gasped for breath. He prayed his body held out long enough for him
to find Addison.