"Then find T.J." Sam said urgently. He simultaneously wrote a note and signaled Wayne Satran. Wayne took the note, read it, and jumped into action. "She's somewhere in the building, and maybe she's still alive." Maybe. Marci had been dead from the first hammer blow. Luna hadn't died immediately, but she had also suffered head trauma so severe she died before she could completely bleed out from the stab wounds. The M.E. estimated, based purely on his personal experience, that she had lived, maybe, a couple of minutes after the initial attack. The attacks were vicious and overwhelming.
"Should I be discreet about it?" Strawn asked. "At this point, finding her fast is what's most important. Leah Street has already escaped. Alert everyone in the building to assist in the search. When you find her, if she's alive, do whatever you can to help her. If she's dead, try to preserve the scene. Emergency personnel are on the way." That was what Wayne had been doing, getting the wheels rolling. Law enforcement officers from several different jurisdictions were converging on Hammerstead, as well as medics and evidence techs.
"We'll find her," Laurence Strawn said quietly. Sam's instinct, as a cop, was to go to the scene. He stayed where he was, knowing he could do more good right there.
Leah Street's file was on Roger's desk. Sam called the Sterling Heights P.D. and got the detective who answered to look in the file and give him Leah's home address and phone number, plus her social security number. After a minute the detective picked up the phone and said, "I don't find a Leah Street. 'There's a 'Corin Lee Street,' but no 'Leah'."
Corin Lee? Jesus. Sam rubbed his forehead, trying not to wonder what in hell that meant. Was Leah a man or a woman? The names were too similar for coincidence. "Is Corin Street a man or a woman?" he asked. "Let me see." A pause. "Here it is. Female." Maybe, Sam thought. "Okay, thanks. That's the one I want." The detective read off the information Sam had requested. He copied it down, accessed the motor vehicle department and got her license plate number and description of the car.
He then had a BOLO "be on the lookout" issued for the car. He didn't know if she was armed; so far, she hadn't used a firearm, but that didn't mean she didn't have one, and she might well have a knife with her. She was unstable as hell, like nitroglycerin; she had to be approached with caution.
Where had she gone? Home? Only a real looney-tunes would but Leah Street was a real looney-tunes. He got officers en route to her house.
While he was getting everything in motion, he tried not to think about T.J. Had they found her yet? Were they too late?
How much time had lapsed? He checked his watch; ten minutes since he had talked to Strawn, so that was thirty minutes since Leah had left Hammerstead. She could hit the interstate highway system and in half an hour could be anywhere in the Detroit area, or have crossed over into Windsor, Canada. That would be great; they already had four or five jurisdictions involved, so why not bring in another nation?
He thought about calling Jaine, but decided to wait. He didn't know anything definite about T.J. and couldn't put her through the ordeal of waiting to hear, not so soon after Luna.
Thank God Jaine was at Shelley's house. She wasn't alone, and she was safe, because Leah didn't know who Shelley was or where she lived Unless Jaine had listed Shelley as her "contact in case of emergency."
Because he and Roger had divided the personnel files alphabetically, with Sam taking the top half of the stack of printed sheets and Roger the bottom half, Roger had Leah Street's file and he had Jaine's. There were more Bs than any other letter of the alphabet, and he hurriedly riffled through the stack. When he found Jaine's file, he jerked the pages out and quickly scanned them. Shelley was listed.
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He didn't bother with a land line; he dialed Shelley's number on his cell phone and was running when he went out the door. The reporters had done some investigating and tracked down Shelley, looking for Jaine. The constantly ringing phone got on their nerves so much that Shelley had finally turned it off, and they went out on the patio in back to sit by the pool. Sam had been so insistent that Jaine keep her cell phone with her that she took it outside with her and laid it beside her hip on the cushion of the teak chaise.
A large umbrella was angled overhead to block the sun, and Jaine dozed a little while Shelley read. The house was blessedly quiet; knowing Jaine's nerves were raw, Shelley had sent Nicholas to a friend's house to play, and Stefanie had gone to the mall with her friends. A CD of classical piano pieces was playing softly in the background, and Jaine felt her headache finally begin to recede, like a wave pulling back from the shore.
She couldn't think any more about Marci and Luna, not right now. Her mind and emotions were exhausted. In her lightly dozing state, she thought about Sam, and what a rock he was. Was it only three weeks ago she had thought he was the blight of the neighborhood? So much had happened that she had lost her perspective of time; it seemed as if she had known him for months.
They had been lovers for almost a week, and in another few weeks they would be married. She couldn't believe she was making such an important move so hastily, but it felt right. Sam felt right, as if they were interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She hadn't rushed into anything with her other three fiances, and look how well those engagements had turned out. This time she was just going to do it. To hell with caution; she was going to marry Sam Donovan.
There was so much to do, so many details to handle. Thank God for Shelley, because she was in charge of all the tactical problems, such as location and food, music, flowers, invitations, large awnings for shade and shelter. Never shy, Shelley had already talked to Sam's mother and oldest sister, Doro, and involved them in the preparations. Jaine was a little chagrined to realize she hadn't yet met any of Sam's family, but with Marci's death and funeral, and now Luna, she hadn't had the opportunity. She was just happy Sam had thought to tell his folks before Shelley called, or it would have been an even bigger shock.
The doorbell chimed softly in the background, pulling her from her drifting thoughts. She sighed as she glanced over at Shelley, who wasn't moving. "Aren't you going to see who's at the door?"
"No way. It's probably just a reporter."
"It might be Sam."
"Sam would have called Oh, right. I turned off the phones. Damn it," Shelley griped, putting her book facedown on the table between the two chaises. "I'm getting into a really good part. Just once I'd like to read a book without being interrupted. If it isn't the kids, it's the telephone. If it isn't the telephone, it's the doorbell. Wait until you and Sam have kids," she warned as she opened the glass patio door and stepped inside.
Sam alternated between cussing and praying as he wove between cars, his dash light flashing. There was no answer at Shelley's. He had left a message on the answering machine, but where could they be? Jaine wouldn't have gone anywhere without calling him, not under the current circumstances. He had never before in his life been so terrified. He had patrol cars on the way to Shelley's house, but, God, what if it was already too late? He remembered Jaine's cell phone. Driving with one hand, the gas pedal pressed to the floorboard, he glanced at his phone and pressed Jaine's speed-dial number. Then he waited for the connection to be made, and he prayed some more.
The patio gate rattled. The privacy fence around the pool was eight feet high, constructed of wooden slats in a solid lattice weave, but the gate was made of wrought-iron bars. Startled, Jaine sat up and glanced over.
"Jaine!"
It was Leah Street, of all people. She looked frantic, and with one hand she rattled the gate again as if she could shake it open.
"Leah! What's wrong? Is it T.J.?" Jaine bolted from the chaise and ran toward the gate. Her heart almost leaped from her chest, so strong was the panic that seized her. Leah blinked, as if Jaine's question surprised her. Her strangely intent gaze locked on Jaine. "Yes, it's T.J." she said, and shook the gate one more time. "Open the gate."
"What's happened? Is she all right?" Jaine skidded to a halt in front of the gate and reached to open it, then realized she didn't have a key to the lock. "Open the gate," Leah repeated.
"I can't, I don't have the key! I'll get Shelley " Jaine was almost weeping in terror as she turned away, but Leah reached through the gate and grabbed her arm. "Hey!" Startled out of her panic, Jaine jerked free and whirled to stare at Leah. "What the hell " The words died in her throat. Leah's outstretched hand had blood on it, and two of her fingernails were broken. The woman pressed closer to the gate, and Jaine saw more red splotches on the baggy skirt.
Instinct had Jaine backing up a step.
"Open the goddamn gate!" Leah shrieked, shaking the gate with her left hand as if she were a crazed chimpanzee on the inside of a cage. Her feathery blond hair flew around her face.
Jaine stared at the blood, and the blond hair. She saw the weird glitter in Leah's eyes, the twisted expression on her face, and everything inside her went cold. "You murdering bitch," she half-whispered.
Leah was as quick as a striking snake. She whipped her right arm away from her side and thrust it through the bars of the gate, swinging something at Jaine's head. Jaine lurched backward and lost her balance, stumbling several more steps before falling. She twisted to the side as she fell, landing on her hip. Driven by adrenaline, she bounced to her feet before she felt any pain from the jarring impact. Leah swung again. It was a tire tool, Jaine saw. She backed farther away from the gate and screamed, "Shelley! Call the police! Hurry!"
On the chaise, her cell phone began to ring. Involuntarily she glanced toward it, just as Leah, on a surge of insane strength, began beating the gate with the tire tool. The metal rang under the force of the blows, and the lock gave way.
Leah shoved the gate open, an unholy expression twisting her face as she stepped inside. "You're a whore," she rasped, raising the tire tool. "You're a lewd, vulgar whore, and you don't deserve to live."
Not daring to take her gaze off Leah, even for a second, Jaine inched to the side, trying to get at least a chair between them. She knew what the blood on Leah's hands and clothing meant, knew that T.J. was dead, too. All of them were gone, now. All of her friends. This insane bitch had killed them.
She had backed up too much. She was almost on the edge of the pool. Quickly she adjusted her direction, angling away from the pool.
Shelley stepped out of the house, her face white and her eyes wide. She carried one of Nicholas's hockey sticks. "I called the police," she said, her voice shaking as she stared at Leah like a mongoose watching a cobra. And like a cobra, Leah's attention swung to Shelley. No, Jaine thought, the word like a faint whisper in her mind. Not Shelley, too.
"No!" The roar burst out of her throat, and she literally felt herself expanding as a wildfire of rage burst through her, as if her skin couldn't contain it. A red mist swam in front of her eyes, and her vision narrowed, focused until she saw only Leah. She wasn't aware of lunging forward, but Leah wheeled back to face her, tire tool raised. Shelley swung the hockey stick, momentarily distracting Jaine. The thick wood hit Leah on the shoulder, and she screamed in rage, but didn't drop the tire tool. Instead she swung it in a broad, sideways arc that caught Shelley across the rib cage. Shelley screamed in pain and folded forward. Leah raised the heavy iron to hit Shelley on the back of the head, and Jaine crashed into her, all the force of her fury lending her strength.
Leah was taller, heavier. She gave way under Jaine's assault, banging Jane's back with the tire tool, but Jaine was too close for her to get in an effective blow. Leah stiffened and recovered her balance, and thrust Jaine away. She raised her weapon again and took two quick steps toward Jaine.
Shelley straightened, holding her ribs, her face suffused with rage. She lunged forward, too, and the three of them staggered back under her momentum.
Jaine's left foot slipped off the edge of the pool, and like dominoes, all three of them plunged into the water. Tangled together, struggling, they went to the bottom. Leah still gripped the tire tool, but the water impeded her swings and she couldn't get any force behind them. She twisted wildly, trying to break free.
Jaine hadn't had time to gulp in air before she went under. Her lungs burned, her chest convulsing, as she fought not to inhale water. She wrenched away and lunged for the surface, dragging in huge breaths of air as soon as her face was clear. She choked and sputtered, and looked wildly around. Neither Shelley nor Leah had surfaced. Jaine took a deep breath and ducked back underwater. Their struggle had taken them farther into the deep end of the pool. She saw the froth of bubbles, their twisting forms and floating hair, and Leah's full skirt billowing around them like a jellyfish. Jaine scissored her legs, kicking herself toward them.
Leah had one arm around Shelley's neck. Wildly, Jaine latched her hand in Leah's hair and pulled back as hard as she could, and Leah couldn't maintain her hold. Shelley shot upward like a balloon.
Leah twisted and got one hand on Jaine's throat, her fingers digging in. The incredible pressure made Jaine gag, and water rushed into her mouth.
She brought her legs up and braced them on Leah's stomach, and pushed. Nails clawed her neck as she tore free, and red stained the water in front of her face. Then Shelley was there again, pushing Leah down on the bottom of the pool. Jaine clawed her way through the water to add her strength to Shelley's, pushing and fighting and not daring to let go, needing air again, unable to breathe, unwilling to release Leah and surface. Leah's clawing hands fastened on her blouse and locked tight. Leah's struggles grew weaker. Her bulging eyes glared at them through the crystal clear water, then slowly glazed over.
The water exploded behind them. Weakly Jaine turned her head and saw a dark shape, then another, surging toward them in a stream of bubbles. Strong hands wrenched her out of Leah's death grip, while another pair pulled Shelley away and shoved her upward. Jaine saw her sister's bare legs kicking, and she tried to follow her, but she had been longer without air than Shelley and she no longer had the strength to kick. She felt herself sort of sink to the bottom, then one of the uniformed cops grabbed her and kicked strongly toward the surface, carrying them both up into life-giving air.
She was only half-aware of being dragged out of the pool, of being stretched out on the concrete. She gagged, coughing convulsively and curling in on herself as she fought to get air past her swollen throat. She heard Shelley's hoarse cries, and the cops were talking simultaneously, the words jumbling in her head. People were rushing around, and someone else jumped into the water, droplets arcing upward in the bright sunshine and splashing in her face.
Then Sam was there, his face utterly white as he lifted her to a sitting position and braced her in his arms. "Don't panic," he said reassuringly, his voice steady though his arms trembled. "You can breathe. Don't fight so hard. Just take slow breaths. Easy, babe. That's the way. Breathe in nice and easy."
She concentrated on his voice, on doing what he said. When she stopped gulping so frantically, her throat relaxed and oxygen rushed past the swollen membranes. Weakly she let her head rest against his chest, but she managed to put a reassuring hand on his arm to let him know she was conscious.
"I couldn't get here in time," he said rawly. "My God, I couldn't get here in time. I tried to call, but you didn't answer. Why didn't you answer the goddamn phone?"
"Reporters kept calling," Shelley gasped. "I turned the phones off." She winced and clutched her ribs, her face colorless.
There seemed to be a thousand sirens piercing the air, the sound reverberating in Jaine's ears. Just when it became unbearably loud, the sound cut off in mid-shriek, and a moment later, or maybe it was several minutes later, white-shirted medics were surrounding her and Shelley, and she was taken from Sam's supporting arms. "No wait!" She twisted frantically, screaming Sam's name, except the scream was a barely audible croak. He motioned for the medics to back off a minute, and put his arms around her again.
"T.J.?" she managed to ask, scalding tears burning her eyes.
"She's alive," Sam said, his own voice still raw with emotion. "I got the word on the way over. They found her in a storage room at work."
Jaine's eyes asked what had to be asked.
Sam hesitated. "She's hurt, honey. I don't know how bad it is, but the important thing is, she's alive." Sam didn't stay to watch Leah's Corin Lee's body being removed from the pool. There were enough officers present to handle everything, and this wasn't his jurisdiction anyway. He had more important things to do, such as be with Jaine. When she and Shelley were transported to a local hospital, he followed in his truck. They were whisked away to treatment cubicles. After making certain the hospital notified Al right away, Sam leaned against the wall. He was sick to his stomach; he had sworn to serve and protect, but he hadn't been able to protect the woman he loved more than anyone else in the world. Until the day he died, he would never forget the feeling of helpless terror as he raced through the streets, knowing he was already too late and couldn't get to Jaine in time to save her.
He had put the pieces of the puzzle together, but too late to save her and T.J. from harm.
T.J. was in critical condition. According to Bernsen, the only thing that saved her was that when she fell, she somehow rolled so that her head was partially protected by the base of an old office chair. Something must have frightened Leah away before she could finish the job, and she had gone in search of Jaine.
Sam was slumped in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area when Bernsen came in. "Jesus, what a nightmare," Roger said, dropping into the chair beside Sam's. "I heard their injuries are minor. What's taking so long?"
"I guess no one's in a hurry. Shelley Jaine's sister is being x-rayed for a broken rib. They're checking Jaine's throat. That's all I know." He rubbed his face. "I damn near fucked up, Roger. I didn't put it together until it was almost too late, then I couldn't get to Jaine in time."
"Hey, you put it together in time to get other people to them. T.J.'s alive, which she wouldn't be if they hadn't found her when they did. The uniforms who dragged the women out of the pool said they all came close to drowning. If you hadn't alerted them, got the officers there ahead of you " Roger broke off and shrugged. "Personally, I think you did a helluva job, but I'm just a detective, what the fuck do I know?"
The E.R. doctor finally came out of Jaine's cubicle. "We're going to admit her, keep her overnight for observation," he said. "Her throat is bruised and swollen, but the larynx isn't ruptured and the hyoid bone is intact, so she'll make a full recovery. We're admitting her just as a precaution."
"May I see her now?" Sam asked, standing.
"Sure. Oh her sister has two cracked ribs, but she'll be all right, too." He paused. "Looks like it was one hell of a fight."
"It was," said Sam, and stepped into the treatment cubicle, where Jaine was sitting on a vinyl examination table. Her eyes brightened when she saw him, and though she didn't say a word, her expression was enough as she reached out her hand to him. Gently he took it in his, then used it to pull her closer and fold her in his arms.
Twenty-two hours later, T.J. managed to open one swollen eye a tiny slit, and move her fingers just enough to squeeze Galan's hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.
"I can't believe you haven't told your parents," T.J. said. Her voice was still weak and slightly slurred, but the scolding tone was clear. "No, wait I can believe you didn't tell them, but I can't believe neither Shelley nor David did. How can you not tell your parents someone tried to kill both you and Shelley and almost succeeded?" Jaine rubbed her nose. "Remember when you were a kid and you'd do almost anything to keep your parents from finding out you were in trouble? It was kind of like that, but it..." She shrugged. "It was over. You were alive, and Shelley and I were both okay, and I didn't want to talk about it. There was all the media coverage driving me crazy, Luna's funeral to get through, and I couldn't handle anything else."
T.J. carefully turned her head, which was still swathed in bandages, to look out her hospital window. She had been out of I.C.U. for a week and change now, but much of the preceding week was forever lost to her. She remembered nothing about the day of the attack, so exactly what had happened was unknown. Sam and Detective Bernsen had put forth a logical theory, but no one would ever know for certain.
"I wish I had been able to go to her funeral," she said, her expression sad and distant.
Jaine didn't say anything, but inwardly she shuddered. No, you don't, she thought. She wished she didn't have that memory.
Two weeks had passed, and every night she had jerked awake from a sound sleep, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding in terror from a nightmare she couldn't remember. Of course, considering Sam's prescription for disturbed sleep, the experience hadn't been all bad. She might wake up in terror, but she went back to sleep with every muscle limp from an overdose of pleasure. Sam had had a few bad nights himself, especially at first. Hero that he was, it bothered him that he hadn't been able to reach her first. That lasted until she climbed into the shower one night, stuck her head under the water, and started yelling, "Help, help, I'm drowning!" Well, she had tried to yell, anyway, but her throat had still been bruised and swollen, and Sam said she sounded more like a bullfrog's mating croak. He had jerked the shower curtain back and stood there glaring at her while water splattered all over the floor.
"Are you making fun of my hero complex?"
"Yeah," she said, and stuck her head back under the stream of water for another drowning imitation. He turned the water off with a snap of his wrist, slapped her on the bare butt sharply enough to make her say, "Hey!" in indignation, then wrapped his arms around her and lifted her bodily from the tub.
"You have to pay for that," he growled, striding toward the bed and tossing her onto it, then stepping back to strip off his damp clothes.
"Oh, yeah?" Naked and wet, she stretched sinuously, arching her back. "What do you have in mind?" With one hand she reached out to stroke his bobbing erection, then rolled onto her stomach and captured him in her grip. He went very still.
Delicately, like a cat, she licked. He shuddered. She tasted the entire length. He groaned.
She licked again and ran her tongue along the underside. "I think I should really, really have to pay" she murmured. "And I think it should involve... swallowing." She took him in her mouth and suited actions to words.
Since then, at least once a day, Sam would put on a pitiful face and say, "I feel so guilty."
Hah.
His attitude, more than anything, had helped her through the trauma. He hadn't babied her. He had loved her, comforted her, made love to her so often she was sore, but that was it, and it was more than enough. She had been able to laugh again.
She had visited T.J. every day. Already T.J. was taking physical therapy daily to help her overcome the resultant disabilities from her head injuries. Her speech was slurred, but better every day; and her control over her right leg and arm was iffy at best, but that too, with work, would improve greatly. Galan had been constantly by T.J.'s side, and if the naked devotion in his eyes was any indication, their marital difficulties were behind them.
"Back to your parents," T.J. said now. "Are you going to tell them when you meet them at the airport today?"
"Not right away," Jaine said. "I have to introduce them to Sam first. And we have the wedding to talk about. Besides, I thought Shelley and I should tell them together."
"You'd better do it before they go home, because their neighbors are bound to rush straight over when they see your folks are back."
"Okay, okay. Ill tell them."
T.J. grinned. "And tell them they can thank me for delaying your wedding a week, which will give them time to rest." Jaine snorted. True, delaying the wedding a week would allow T.J. to attend, albeit in a wheelchair, but she doubted her dad, at least, would thank anyone. Having the wedding the next day would have suited him just fine, because there would be less hoopla for him to endure. She checked her watch. "I gotta go. I'm meeting Sam in an hour." She leaned over the bed and kissed T.J.'s cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow,"
Galan entered the room bearing a huge bouquet of lilies, filling the room with their perfume. "Just in time," Jaine said, winking at him as she sailed past.
"Yes," said J. Clarence Cosgrove, his voice reedy with age, "I remember Corin Street very well. The situation was very strange, but there was nothing we could do. We didn't even know Corin was a girl until she reached puberty. Oh, her sex was on her birth certificate, of course, but who checks that? Her mother said Corin was her son, so... we accepted it."
"She was raised as a boy?" Sam asked. He was at his desk, his long legs propped on an open drawer, the phone glued to his ear.
"To my knowledge, the mother never admitted or even acted as if she knew Corin was female. Corin was a badly disturbed child. Badly disturbed," Mr. Cosgrove repeated. "She was a constant discipline problem. She lolled a classroom pet, but Mrs. Street wouldn't accept that Corin could ever do anything like that. She made the statement, often and to anyone who would listen, that she had the perfect little boy."
Bingo, thought Sam. Mr. Perfect. That was the trigger that had set Corin Lee Street off like a bomb that had been slowly ticking down over the years. It wasn't the content of the List itself, but rather the title that she had found so unbearable.
"She took Corin out of my school," Mr. Cosgrove continued. "But I made a point of finding out what I could about the child. The behavioral problems worsened over the years, of course. When Corin was fifteen, she killed her mother. I remember it was a particularly brutal murder, though I can't recall the specific details. Corin spent several years in a mental institution and was never charged with the murder."
"Did the murder take place there in Denver?" "Yes, it did."
"Thank you, Mr. Cosgrove. You've helped fill in a lot of the blanks."
After he hung up, Sam tapped his pen on his desk as he pondered what he had learned so far about Corin Lee Street. She had entered the mental institution as Corin, but she was Leah evidently chosen because of the name's similarity to "Lee" when she came out. The picture that had emerged was that of an extremely unstable and dangerous woman who had been abused both mentally and physically by her mother until the violence that had been leaking out all of her life finally burst out of control. The psychiatrists could argue all day about which came first, the abuse or the violent personality, but Sam didn't care. He just wanted a clear picture of the woman who had wreaked so much destruction.
After he talked to Mr. Cosgrove, Corin's middle-school principal, he called the Denver P.D. and eventually got to talk with the detective who had investigated Mrs. Street's gruesome murder. Corin had beaten her mother to death with a floor lamp, then poured rubbing alcohol on the woman's face and set it on fire. When the body was discovered, Corin was incoherent and obviously mentally unsound. She had been confined in a mental institution for seven years.