Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(105)

I could taste sweaty salt beading down my face, feel stinging in my hands and arms. Charlie continued to slash madly. I continued to batter at his face, working with my right hand to hit his eyes, while defending with my left.

I was quicker. He was better armed. I was bleeding. He was short of breath. He sliced left, flaying open my cheek. I slammed the heel of my hand into his sternum and he fell back with a gasping cough.

I got my hands beneath me. Staggered to my feet. Lurched for the door.

I couldn't do it. Couldn't leave Bella. He'd kill her for sure.

Charlie was already up, weaving forward. I scuttled back toward the kitchen cabinets. He kept coming. I reached behind me, working the wooden edge of the cabinet with my fingers.

He came within range. I kicked for his chin. He ducked beneath and I finally showed a little skill, reversing my motion, catching the top of his head, and slamming it toward his knees. Not as much force as I wanted, but enough to get the job done.

I got the cabinet open, starting sifting through the disordered stacks of pots and pans.

Charlie was straightening up.

Come on, come on.

And then I found it. Edge of my cast-iron frying pan. The perfect weapon.

Charlie started advancing once more and I prepared to do something I never thought I'd do: kill another human being.

Suddenly, in the distance, the sweetest sound I've ever heard. Footsteps, pounding up the stairs. Charlie froze. I stilled.

Bobby, I thought, Bobby coming to rescue me.

A brown UPS uniform burst through my apartment door.

"Ben!" I gasped.

Just as Charlie said, "Benji?"

And Ben answered in a shocked voice, "Christopher?"

*

BOBBY GOT CAUGHT in traffic. Of course he got caught in traffic. Because this was Boston, where driving was a blood sport, and just because the other vehicle had a siren and you didn't was no reason not to be an *.

He dialed Annabelle's number again. Got the answering machine, hung up. Punched the steering wheel.

"Temper, temper," D.D. drawled.

"Something's wrong."

"Because lover girl isn't waiting anxiously beside the phone?"

He shot her a look. "Seriously. She knew I was returning to take her to a hotel. She wouldn't just leave."

D.D. shrugged. "She has a dog. Maybe she needed to take her out or go for a run."

"Or maybe," Bobby said flatly, "Charlie Marvin beat us there."

His phone rang. He flipped it open without bothering to glance at the display It wasn't Annabelle, but his buddy, Detective Jason Murphy from the Massachusetts State Police.

"Ran Roger Grayson, like you asked," Jason shot off rapid-fire. "Found record of a storage locker in a facility right off Route Two, north of Arlington. Grayson had been prepaying the fees in five-year chunks. Latest payment ran out a few years back, so the owner's filed a lien. In fact, if we want to come down and clean out the whole thing, that works for the owner. He'd like to get the space back in circulation."

"Excellent."

"Criminal history was negligible. Nothing more than a traffic infraction, and that was twenty-five years ago. Grayson must be a regular choirboy."

"Traffic infraction?"

"Excessive speed. November fifteen, 1982. He was caught doing seventy-five in a sixty zone."

November 15, 1982. Three days after Dori Petracelli was never seen again.

"What else?" Bobby asked the state detective.

"What else? I just started an hour ago, Bobby—"

"What about Walter Petracelli?"

"Nothing yet."

"You'll let me know?"

"I live to serve. Not for nothing, Bobby, but don't let working for the city go to your head."

Jason clicked off. Bobby slid his phone back into his breast pocket. He whooped his sirens again. Nothing happened. The traffic was snarled too tight for any car to give way

He glanced at his watch. They were on Atlantic Avenue now. One and a half, maybe two miles from Annabelle's apartment.

"I'm pulling over," he announced.

"What?"

"Forget the car, D.D. We're strong, we're fast. Let's run."

[page]

BEN, BEN, THANK God you're here. He's stabbed Bella. He's insane. You gotta help us. Bella, poor Bella, I'm here, girl, it's okay it's gonna be okay."

I'd abandoned the cast-iron frying pan in favor of my dog, pulling her onto my lap. I could feel the warmth of her blood oozing all over her fine white fur. She whimpered. Tried to lick at my hands, tend her cut.

"Ben!" I shouted again.

But Ben wasn't moving. He was standing in my doorway, staring at Charlie Marvin.

"It was you? Oh my goodness, still waters do run deep!" Charlie said.

"She's mine," Ben said flatly. "You can't have her. She's mine."

"Call the police," I was sobbing. "Call nine-one-one, demand Detective Bobby Dodge, ask for EMTs. I don't know who they send for dogs, but an ambulance should do the trick. Ben? Are you listening to me? Ben?"

Ben finally looked at me. As he stepped into my little apartment. As he closed the door and started working the locks, one by one, behind him.

"It's okay now," he told me solemnly. "Uncle Tommy's here now, Amy, and I'll take care of everything."