At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(71)

She laughed sardonically and dumped the water onto his face. He felt it going into his nose and down his windpipe. He began to choke and started to black out again.

“Ah-ah-ah, Professor. Come back. I’m not finished with you . . . yet.”

He felt her straining to turn him over on his side. She thumped him on the back and the water dribbled out his nose. He gasped for breath. He felt her finger on his jugular vein and wondered if she was now about to administer the coup de grace.

“I can see why our security agencies waterboard people,” said Jensen. “Your pulse is nearly one hundred and sixty beats per minute! You’re exhibiting a full-on panic reaction. But don’t worry. You won’t drown. I need to keep you alive just a little bit longer. Now where were we? Oh yes.”

He felt the cold steel of the stiletto tip against his belly.

“If I’ve calculated correctly, and if you hold very, very still, this will miss all your major organs. Here goes!”

He screamed as she once again plunged the stiletto into his abdomen.

Verraday felt the world slipping away again, but then, as if from the bottom of a well, he heard faint but frantic knocking from downstairs and the persistent ringing of his doorbell.

Jensen put her finger to her lips.

“Shhhh! Be a good boy and don’t make any noise.”

He attempted a grunt anyway.

“You’re not listening to me,” she hissed at him.

Jensen balled her gloved hand into a fist and swung it down hard. He felt an explosion as the cartilage of his nose cracked and the blood immediately began running out of his nostrils. At the same moment, just as he was about to drift off into darkness, he felt the floor vibrate heavily under him. Despite the excruciating pain and the sensation of his skull being on fire, he knew the tremor was too heavy to be anything that originated from within him. It was help on the way. He rallied himself to stay awake. He heard the crash of his front door erupting in splinters, the clatter of broken window glass spraying across his foyer. Then he heard Maclean’s voice.

“James! Where are you?”

He was choking now on the blood running from his nose into his throat.

Jensen leaned in toward him, an angry, caustic expression on her face. She whispered, affecting an imitation of Maclean’s voice.

“‘James’? You’re on a first-name basis with that bitch now, are you? You cheating bastard.”

She kicked him hard in the ribs. Despite the air being stomped out of him, Verraday managed a tortured grunt.

“He’s upstairs,” Maclean shouted.

Jensen backed away from Verraday’s face, to his feet. She reached into her gym bag and drew out a throwing knife.

Maclean hurtled up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Verraday tried to shout a warning to her but all he could get out was a faint gurgle. Jensen raised her right hand, holding the serrated blade of the knife between her thumb and index finger as she chambered it, preparing for the throw. Verraday’s legs and arms felt like concrete. He watched in horror and frustration, time slowing to a crawl as, in his peripheral vision, he saw Maclean’s face emerging from the gloom, Glock service pistol raised in front of her.

In the shadows, Jensen grinned and took careful aim. Verraday summoned the last of his strength and despite the grogginess and waves of pain surging through him, kicked with his one good leg at Jensen. He caught her hard on the shin, heard her groan with pain, felt his kick throwing her balance off an instant before the knife left her hand. He watched it tumble end over end toward Maclean as she emerged onto the landing.

Maclean saw it at the last moment, the realization so sudden that her face didn’t even have a chance to register surprise. Jensen’s aim had been thrown off just enough that when Maclean dropped down to the left, the knife whizzed past her cheek, missing her by a hand’s width. The uniformed officer directly behind Maclean never saw the knife coming, and he didn’t have time to react. The blade caught him in the throat, less than three inches above the top of his bulletproof vest. Verraday saw the look of surprise on the officer’s face, then his hand going up, almost in disbelief, feeling where the knife had penetrated. It was Bosko. Or so he thought. He wasn’t certain if he was hallucinating now from shock and blood loss.

Jensen ducked through the doorway of the study. Maclean was still recovering her balance but managed to fire off a quick volley from the Glock. The light in the hallway was dim, and though Verraday was partially blinded by the muzzle flash, he saw wood splinters fly as Maclean’s shots tore through the door that Jensen was slamming shut and locking behind her. He heard Jensen moan, then from within his study, the sound of a window shattering. Maclean sprang at the door, breaking it open on the first kick. He saw Maclean enter his study, pistol at the ready. She returned to the hall a moment later and pulled out her handheld radio.

“Dispatch, this is Detective Constance Maclean. I need EMS and backup. I’ve got an officer down with a knife wound, a wounded civilian in the home, plus a wounded suspect outside on the front walkway.”

From where he was lying, Verraday could see that Bosko was losing blood rapidly through the gash in his throat. Maclean leaned down to Verraday, pausing just long enough to pull the duct tape back from his mouth.

“Where did she cut you?”

“In the shoulder, hand, abdomen, and leg. No major arteries or organs though, I don’t think. She was trying to take her time.”