Shield of Justice (28 page)

“Who, Raymond? Who doesn’t understand?” He was very deep into his psychosis, and she was beginning to despair that she could reason with him. Her only hope was to keep him talking—about anything. “They were wrong…I understand. We’ll fix that, but you need to explain it to me. What would you like them to know?”

“Just tell them you liked it,” he snarled, reaching for the nylon shorts.

“Yes, all right,” she said quickly.
I’m losing him.
“What would you like me to say? Tell me exactly what you want them to know.”

He stood up abruptly and pulled her head back roughly by the hair. His face, previously unnaturally calm, was suddenly contorted with rage. “I’ll do much better than tell you,
Dr. Rawlings
. I’ll show you. And when I’m done, you’ll know just how special I am. Then you can tell them all how very wrong they were.”

*

Rebecca had about given up hope when she spied the dim flicker of light through the shutters of the last boathouse in the row. The building obviously hadn’t been used in a long time, and she had to push vines and overgrown shrubbery away to get close to the window. To her own ears, her breathing sounded loud enough to wake the dead. She carefully, and noiselessly as possible, pried one piece of wood off the boarded up window and peered inside.

She turned her face to the small microphone clipped to the collar of her blazer and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve got them—rear of the last boathouse, ground floor. I’m going in. I need you
now
, Watts.”

“Wait for me, Sarge! You’ll get yourself killed!” Her voice had sounded strangely hollow in his ear—unnaturally calm. It spooked him.

Rebecca didn’t hear his message as she moved carefully toward the half-open door a few feet away. Didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have changed her mind.

“Hello, Catherine,” Rebecca said deliberately as she stepped inside. She could barely make out the shapes at the far end of the room, but she could see Catherine and the man who stood beside her in the glow of the candles well enough. He was staring back at her, a look of confusion on his face. “Who is your friend?” she asked, walking forward slowly, her jacket unbuttoned, the strap that held her automatic released.

“This is Raymond, Rebecca,” Catherine answered in a steady voice, astonished to see her but knowing better than to show it.
She looks so calm. Why does she look so calm?

He moved quickly, pulling Catherine to her feet and stepping behind her, partially shielding himself with her body. He pressed the automatic to her temple.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said petulantly. “You’ve spoiled everything. I wanted her to tell them about me. Now I have to kill her.”

“I don’t think so,” Rebecca said evenly, her eyes never straying from his face. She couldn’t look at Catherine, couldn’t think about her at all. There had to be only her and him—just the two of them—one on one. “I won’t let you do that, Raymond.”

“You have no idea who I am. You don’t know my power.” He laughed, sneering at her stupidity. “You can’t stop me.”

“
You
don’t know how powerful
I
am!” she responded, stopping fifteen feet from him. She knew precisely how accurate she was from this range. She hoped he wasn’t as good a marksman, but it really didn’t matter. She didn’t have any choice. “You can’t have
this
woman, Raymond. I’ve come for her.”

“You’re a fool. I’ll kill you both.”

“No, you won’t,” she scoffed arrogantly, fervently hoping that Watts was in position, and that he could still shoot straight. She was counting on him to save Catherine’s life when she drew fire. “You can’t kill me. Go ahead and try, you puny…pathetic…pervert. If you
were
any kind of man, you wouldn’t have to pull women into the bushes and rape them.” She raised her right hand carefully to waist level, her gaze locked on his. “I bet you can’t even get it up if a woman is looking you in the face. I bet you’re afraid to let her see just how weak you really are. I bet you don’t have the balls to shoot—”

His eyes flickered in the instant he moved the gun from Catherine’s temple. Rebecca rolled left, drawing and firing in one motion. She thought she saw Catherine pull away, but the impact of the bullet that tore into her chest pitched her backward. She was unconscious before she hit the floor.

*

She opened her eyes and immediately began struggling. Someone was holding her down, and she hurt. Jesus, she hurt. She tried to lift her arms, but she couldn’t muster any strength. She cursed, but she couldn’t seem to make any sound. Dimly, she recognized a voice, and her panic lessened.

“Rebecca, Rebecca,” Catherine murmured soothingly, watching the monitor rocking crazily above the stretcher as the ambulance careened around corners.
God, her blood pressure is falling.
She pressed her palm to Rebecca’s cheek.
She’s cold; she’s so cold.

“It’s all right, love,” she said, brushing the hair from Rebecca’s eyes, trying to calm her with her touch. The endotracheal tube in Rebecca’s throat prevented her from speaking, and Catherine wasn’t certain that the wounded woman even knew she was there. “You’re going to be fine.”

Rebecca was very tired, but the pain seemed farther away now. That was good. She wanted to tell Catherine not to worry, but it was so hard to talk. She fixed on Catherine’s face; she was beautiful, and she was safe. Everything was all right now
.
Now she could rest.

Catherine met the eyes of the EMT who was frantically hanging bags of IV fluid as blood poured from under the compression bandage on Rebecca’s chest. She saw her own fear reflected in his face, and her stomach lurched with sudden nausea.

“You should tell the driver to hurry,” she urged, struggling to maintain her composure as she watched Rebecca’s eyes close and her color fade to gray. She clutched Rebecca’s limp hand to her chest, and gasped, “We’re going to lose her. Oh, God…”

The rear doors were flung open, and a flurry of activity followed as people pulled the stretcher from the van and pushed it at breakneck speed into the trauma unit. Catherine followed as far as she could, and then abruptly found herself alone, strangely adrift in the now empty corridor. She turned slowly, disoriented, and saw a familiar figure hurrying toward her.

“She in there?” William Watts demanded, craning his neck to see beyond the heavy gray doors with the tiny windows set too high up for easy visibility.

“Yes,” Catherine said dully. “She’s in there.”
She’s in there, and she’s alone, and she’s dying. Please, please don’t let this happen.

“But she’s gonna make it, right?”

“I…I don’t know.”

Watts peered at her, shocked more by her tone than her words. She sounded like
she
was bleeding to death. Her hair was disheveled, her torn blouse was held closed precariously with two buttons, and she was shaking. He slipped off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. “Come on and sit down, Doc. The Sarge is steel. She ain’t gonna give up.”

Catherine followed him because she couldn’t think of what else to do. All she could do was wait. It was an agony worse than anything she could have imagined. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, feeling as if her own life were steadily seeping away.

*

Catherine stood in the doorway, listening. It was comforting, somehow, to hear Watts’s deep, hesitant voice in the near darkness of the deathly still room and to see him, a hulk of a man, leaning over the thin, sharp line of Rebecca’s motionless body. She supposed she should have left, but she just couldn’t bear to be that far away in case…in case…She closed her eyes, inwardly running from the unbearable thought of losing Rebecca. Trying to ignore her fears, she concentrated on Watts’s words.

“So, like I was saying, Sarge,” Watts continued conversationally, despite the fact that the woman in the bed gave no sign that she could hear him, “nobody can say for sure, not even Her Royal Highness Dee Flanagan, whose bullet actually killed the scumbag—yours or mine. But Mister Raymond Blake—that’s his name—is dead meat. Two shots, dead center, right between the eyes. Too bad the prick died right away; I’d like to have had a chance to kick him in the balls a few times.”

He rubbed his face, remembering what a fucking mess it had been with the Sarge lying on the floor bleeding like a river, the doc on her knees next to her screaming at him to untie her hands so she could help her, and him trying to call for backup and make sure the perp was dead. He eased into a chair next to the bed, thinking how much he hated hospitals.

“We don’t have the whole story yet, but I got the highlights. Raymond Nutcase Blake was some has-been, wannabe Olympic rower. Seems he almost made the team a few years back except he raped an assistant coach of the women’s squad first. He blamed her, I guess, for losin’ his spot. What he’s been doing is pinning a number on his T-shirt so he looked like one of the competitors during the regattas and using the water to come and go. That’s probably the ninety-seven that Ryan remembers seeing when she tangled with him. I’ll lay you twenty to one that Flanagan finds blood traces on his oars, too. I bet that’s what the bastard used to knock out the vics, which is why we never found any sign of a weapon. The shrinks will probably come up with some fancy reason why the gym shorts reminded him of the coach he raped, or why he liked to jump women when the river was filled with rowers, but who cares? Bottom line is—he was a scumbag asshole, and he got what he deserved. Thanks to you.” He blew out a breath, wishing he could be anywhere else, but afraid if he left, she’d…

“Detective Watts,” Catherine said gently. “Why don’t you go get some coffee? I’ll be here if she wakes up.”

He looked up at her, astonished, and wondered if she had read his mind. He pushed himself to his feet and replied gratefully, “Thanks, Doc. You might want to go home and get some sleep soon, too. They said it might be tomorrow before she comes around.”

“In a little while,” she murmured as she took Rebecca’s hand and folded her fingers into her palm. It had been all she could do to go down to the cafeteria for something to eat. She wouldn’t have, or even thought to change her ripped blouse for a scrub shirt, if Hazel hadn’t appeared and led her away by the hand. The entire time she had been gone from Rebecca’s side, she’d been terrified that something would happen to her or that she would awaken alone.

When Watts returned an hour later, Catherine had fallen asleep, still holding Rebecca’s hand. He backed away, embarrassed, and left them to each other’s care.

*

Rebecca watched Catherine sleep. She was more thankful to awaken and find Catherine by her side than to discover that she herself was still alive. Dying wouldn’t have been so bad, but losing Catherine would have been unbearable.

Catherine opened her eyes, sensing the gaze feather-light upon her skin. Rebecca’s blue eyes were clear and bright and, astonishingly, pain free. “How are you?” she said softly, leaning forward to stroke Rebecca’s face with her fingertips.
Thank you, thank you for coming back. I couldn’t have borne losing you...

“Okay. You?” Rebecca replied hoarsely, turning her head enough to brush her lips over Catherine’s fingers.

“Much better now,” she answered, trembling with relief. “Much, much better now.”

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” Rebecca said with fierce intent, but her voice was barely a whisper.

“No. He didn’t.” Catherine brushed her hand over Rebecca’s cheek. “He didn’t take you. That’s the only way he could have hurt me.”

Rebecca closed her eyes briefly, struggling to dispel the image of her lover bound and helpless, with a madman’s hands on her.
God, if I had been a minute later.
She shuddered.

“Rebecca? Are you in pain?” Catherine asked anxiously.
You came so close to dying, and you’re still so pale.

“No. Just a nightmare,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “I dreamed Watts was here.”

“He has been.” Catherine smiled in return. “Often.”

“Told you I was having nightmares.”

Catherine laughed, then leaned to kiss her. Her heart was beginning to beat normally as she finally let herself believe that she had not lost the woman who had claimed her soul. “You should get some sleep now.”

“Don’t go yet.”

“Ah, my love, I’m not going anywhere.” She couldn’t contain the tremor in her voice as she added, “I just need you to get well. I love you, and I want to continue loving you for a very long time. Promise me that I’ll have that chance.”

Rebecca lifted her hand and cupped Catherine’s jaw, caressing her softly. “I promise.”

Catherine smiled and her heart rejoiced. Rebecca Frye always kept her promises.

Radcly
f
fe
is a retired surgeon and full-time award-winning author-publisher with over thirty lesbian and anthologies in print. Seven of her works have been Lambda Literary finalists, including the Lambda Literary winners
Erotic Interludes 2: Stolen Moments
edited with Stacia Seaman;
In Deep Waters 2; Distant Shores, Silent Thunder
. She is the editor of
Best Lesbian Romance
2009 and 2010 (Cleis Press),
Erotic Interludes
2 through 5 and
Romantic Interludes
1 and 2 with Stacia Seaman (BSB), and has selections in multiple anthologies including
Best Lesbian Erotica 2006-2010; After Midnight; Caught Looking: Erotic Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists; First-Timers; Ultimate Undies: Erotic Stories About Lingerie and Underwear; Hide and Seek; A is for Amour; H is for Hardcore; L is for Leather; Rubber Sex, Tasting Him,
and
Cowboy Erotica
. She is the recipient of the 2003 and 2004 Alice B. Readers’ awards for her body of work and is also the president of Bold Strokes Books, one of the world’s largest independent LGBTQ publishing companies.