| This was the way it had been between us for months. I noticed that Christine’s eyes were red rimmed. She’d been crying. “You’re off on another murder case now, Alex. I suppose that’s good—it’s your life. You’re obviously very skilled at it.” I couldn’t keep silent. “I’ve offered to leave the police department, to go into private practice. I’d do that, Christine.” She frowned and shook her head. “I’m so honored.” “I’m not trying to fight you,” I said. “I’m sorry, go ahead. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” “I have no life here in Washington anymore. I’m always afraid. Petrified is a better word. I hate going into the school now. I feel as if my life has been taken away from me. First George, and then what happened in Bermuda. I’m afraid that Shafer is coming back for me.” I had to speak. “He’s not, Christine.” “Don’t say that!” She raised her voice. “You don’t know. You can’t!” The air in my lungs was slowly being sucked away. I wasn’t sure where Christine was going with this, but she seemed on the edge. It was like the night she’d had a nightmare that Geoffrey Shafer was in her house. “I’m moving away from the Washington area,” she said. “I’ll leave after the school year. I don’t want you to know where I’m going. I don’t want you looking for me. Please don’t try to be a detective with me, Alex. Or a shrink.” I couldn’t believe what I’d |
right leg and yanked the hand holding the knife. The blade stuck several inches into the wooden desk. The masked man grunted and cursed. Now what? I couldn’t chance bending down to get my gun from my ankle holster. The masked man easily wriggled the knife free. He swung it in a small, lethal arc. He missed the thrust by a few inches. The blade whistled past my temple. “You’re going to die, Cross,” he screamed. I spotted a cut-glass baseball on his desk. It was the only thing resembling a weapon that I saw anywhere. I grabbed it. Sidearmed it at him. I heard a crunching sound as the paperweight struck a glancing blow off the side of his skull. He roared loudly, angrily, like an injured animal. Then he wobbled backward. He didn’t go down. I bent quickly and pulled at my Glock. It hitched once, then came free in my hand. He flailed at me again with the large knife. “Stop!” I yelled. “I will shoot you.” He kept coming. He roared out words that were unintelligible. He took another swipe with the knife. This time, he cut me on the right wrist. It burned, hurt like hell. I fired the Glock. The bullet hit him in the upper chest. It didn’t stop him! He spun sideways, righted himself, and he was on me, screaming, “Fuck you, Cross. You’re nothing!” He was too close for me to swing, and I didn’t want to shoot again and kill |
