When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(103)

“Knife,” she mutters, not a question, but an order.

I fumble around till I find my butterfly blade. I flick my wrist to snap it open, but my effort is so pathetic, I nearly drop the folded handles instead.

I register footsteps for the first time. Heavy and coming from the other side of the boulder where Kimberly has brought us—carried me—to cover. Someone is making a slow and stealthy approach. Stalking us.

This time, I snap my dragon-handled blade open successfully. The dark swims before my eyes, and I still feel the vague presence of Jacob pressing down on me.

The sensation brings me strength. I’m not a fresh-out-of-captivity survivor anymore, and Dream Jacob isn’t nearly as compelling as he thinks. I belong to me. And I came here by choice to help other people, including this hodgepodge team of investigators I’ve come to trust.

Now I’m going to have Kimberly’s back, as she clearly had mine. Then we’re both going home safely tonight. At which point I’m going to find Keith and spend more quality time exorcising demons.

The footsteps are closer. I’m not sure who’s on the other side of that boulder. I’m guessing, due to the relentless dark, that we are now in the mine. Kimberly grabbed me and made a strategic retreat. Had Walt turned on us in the end? Like father like son?

Except I remember the crack of a rifle, and Walt favored his shotgun.

Then I have an image of something else, Walt falling back in the grass, his chest stained red. That makes me remember a particular motel room, where I held a gun to his son’s head one moment, and felt the hot spray of blood and brains the next.

I wonder if Jacob had any idea when he snatched me off the Florida beach that he’d be dooming himself and his family. That one drunk foolish blonde, spinning on the sand to music only she could hear, would one day kill them all.

Kimberly grows tenser beside me. The sound of approach has stopped. Meaning our attacker is where? Right on the other side of the boulder, waiting for the rabbits to bolt? Or finding a ledge that would give him higher ground, the perfect sniper’s perch? He could shoot us dead in the space of twin heartbeats.

We should move. But to retreat would give up our position. Not to mention, I’m propped up like a four-day drunk against a boulder, and currently have just about as much coordination. We could go on the offensive, but how? The moment Kimberly pops up to fire her weapon, she’s exposed to return fire. And as for my knife, well, it really is stupid—a knife in the middle of a gunfight.

I have an idea. It’s not the best, it’s not the worst. It’s classical me, making the most of the resources on hand. I dig my fingers around in the dirt beside me till I find a decent-sized rock. Then I whack Kimberly against the leg till I have her attention. I pantomime my intent. If she’s dazzled by my brilliance, she certainly doesn’t show it. She shrugs, more like what do we have to lose?

Exactly.

Deep breath. My head hurts. My stomach churns. My heart . . . A piece of Jacob lives there; he’s not wrong about that. But he isn’t me, just a sliver of the past I’m finally learning to let go. All the more reason to survive into the future.

I toss the rock as hard as I can down into the dark void behind us. I aim for the wall on the other side of the tunnel, a long diagonal. There is a faint thump in the distance, nothing more.

Not enough for our stalker to take the bait.

So I grab another rock, then another and throw them in quick succession. One must hit hard, and the ensuing spray of pebbles makes just the right noise—two people scrabbling away in the dark.

The footsteps resume. Closer and closer.

Kimberly steadies her .22.

We both wait.





CHAPTER 41





D.D.





ONE MOMENT, D.D. SWAM IN a sea of black, disoriented. The next, her eyes snapped open, just in time to see a fire poker smashing down toward her skull for the second time. Instinctively she tried to raise her right arm, but the responding lance of pain took her breath away. She rolled to the side, just as the poker crashed against the stone floor next to her shoulder.

A fierce voice above her: “Die, dammit. Just die!”

Franny, the sheriff’s receptionist, loomed above her. The delicate gold cross still dangled around her neck, but the rest of her was barely recognizable. Her carefully styled ash-blond hair had unraveled into a mad scientist’s cap. Her pale blue sweater set was covered in dirt and soot, and a line of black smudge marred her hip where it appeared something had hit her. Some things remained the same, however. Her broad shoulders, surprisingly tall build, impressive upper body strength.

Fire poker, lifting back up.

Move, Sergeant, move.

Flat on her back, half in the tunnel, half out, and with a right arm that still throbbed angrily, D.D. was out of options. Continue worming frantically into the dark tunnel might give her cover, buy her some time, but . . .

Bonita.

What had happened to Bonita? She needed to protect Bonita. With a quick twist, D.D. jerked her torso through the passage door, into the stone chamber. Her arm said no, but the rest of her demanded yes, and she rolled beneath the giant oak table, hissing in pain.

Scream of outrage as Franny realized she’d just lost her target.

Don’t think. Don’t feel. Move.

D.D. popped up the other side. Her right arm was clearly injured. She could twist her wrist, wiggle her fingers, so maybe not broken, but currently useless for drawing her weapon. She knew something, however, that Franny didn’t: D.D. had suffered a major injury to her left arm years ago. And as part of her recovery, she’d taught herself to shoot one-handed, versus the required two-handed grip. She’d started with her uninjured right arm; then, out of sheer paranoia, when her left arm had recovered, she’d perfected left-handed shooting as well, so she’d never be at a disadvantage again.