They stayed the night there, in the old bed, talking, making love. It
was late when the phone rang. Brian answered it only because there was
no other way to end the interruption.
"Hello."
"Brian McAvoy?"
"Yes, speaking."
"This is Michael Kesselring. I've been trying to track you down."
"Kesselring." He regretted saying the name the moment Bev stiffened
beside him. "What is it?"
"It's Emma."
"Emma?" He sat up quickly, mouth dry as dust. Bev's hand was on his
shoulder, squeezing. "Has something happened to her?"
Michael knew from experience it was best to say it all quickly, but he
had a difficult time forming the words. "She's in the hospital, here in
L.A. She's-"
"An accident? Has she had an accident?"
"No, she was beaten pretty badly. I'll explain when you get here."
"Beaten? Emma's been beaten? I don't understand."
"The doctors are working on her. They tell me she's going to be okay,
but she's going to need you."
"We'll be there as soon as we can."
Bev was already up and pulling on her clothes. "What happened?"
"I don't know. She's in the hospital in L.A." He swore, fumbling with
the buttons of his shirt.
"Here." Quickly, Bev did them up. "She's going to be all right, Bri.
Emma's tougher than she looks."
He could only nod and take a moment to hold her against him.
IT WAS DARK. There was pain, a dreamy, distant pain that drifted
sluggishly through her body. Like a warm red ocean it seemed to cover
her, weigh her down, so that she was trapped away from air and light.
Emma tried to rise above it, to sink below it, but couldn't seem to
outmaneuver the dull ache. She found she could accept that. But not
the dark, not the quiet.
She struggled to move. There was panic when she realized she didn't
know if she was standing or sitting or lying down. She couldn't feel
her arms or legs, just that nagging, somehow fluid ache. She tried to
speak, to call out to someone, anyone. In her mind she screamed, but no
one answered.
She knew she had been hurt. All too well she could remember the way
Drew had looked at her. He'd been waiting for her. He might still be
there, watching her, waiting in the dark. This time he would ...
But maybe she was already dead.
She felt more than pain now. She felt anger. She didn't want to die.
Moaning in frustration she strained, using all her strength and will,
just to open her eyes. They might have been sewn closed for all the
control she had over them.
A hand brushed her hair. She sensed it, just the whisper of a touch
that rammed screaming panic against the pain.
"Rest, Emma. It's all right now. You have to rest."
Not Drew. Neither the voice nor the touch was Drew's.