Naked in Death (In Death #1)(95)

She swore as she lost her grip, as he began to smile.

“You fight like a woman.” He shook his hair back from his eyes, and the blood from his torn cheek welled red. “I’m going to rape you. The last thing you’ll know before I kill you is that you’re no better than a whore.”

She sagged, and aroused with victory, he ripped at her blouse.

His smile shattered when she pumped her fist into his mouth. Blood splattered over her like warm rain. She hit him again, heard the crunch of cartilage as his nose fountained more blood. Quick as a snake, she scissored up.

And again, she jabbed at him, an elbow to the jaw, torn knuckles to the face, screaming and cursing as if her words would pummel him as well as her fists.

She didn’t hear the battering of the door, the crash of it falling in. With rage behind her, she shoved Rockman to his back, straddled him, and continued to plunge her fists into his face.

“Eve. Sweet God.”

It took Roarke and Feeney together to haul her off. She fought, snarling, until Roarke pressed her face into his shoulder.

“Stop. It’s done. It’s over.”

“He was going to kill me. He killed Lola and Georgie. He was going to kill me, but he was going to rape me first.” She pulled back, wiped at the blood and sweat on her face. “That’s where he made a mistake.”

“Sit down.” His hands were trembling and slicked with blood when he eased her onto the bed. “You’re hurt.”

“Not yet. It’ll start in a minute.” She gathered in a breath, let it out. She was a cop, damn it, she reminded herself. She was a cop, and she’d act like one. “You got the transmission,” she said to Feeney.

“Yeah.” He took out a handkerchief to wipe his clammy face.

“Then what the hell took you so long?” She managed a ghost of a smile. “You look a little upset, Feeney.”

“Shit. All in a day’s work.” He flipped on his communicator. “Situation under control. We need an ambulance.”

“I’m not going to any health center.”

“Not for you, champ. For him.” He glanced down at Rockman, who managed a weak groan.

“Once you clean him up, book him for the murders of Lola Starr and Georgie Castle.”

“You sure about that?”

Her legs were a bit wobbly, but she rose and picked up her jacket. “Got it all.” She held out the recorder. “DeBlass did Sharon, but our boy here is accessory after the fact. And I want him charged with the attempted rape and murder of a police officer. Toss in B and E for the hell of it.”

“You got it.” Feeney tucked the recorder into his pocket. “Christ, Dallas, you’re a mess.”

“I guess I am. Get him out of here, will you, Feeney?”

“Sure thing.”

“Let me help you.” Roarke bent down, lifted Rockman by the lapels. He jerked the man up, steadied him. “Look at me, Rockman. Vision clear?”

Rockman blinked blood out of his eyes. “I can see you.”

“Good.” Roarke’s arm shot up, quick as a bullet, and his fist connected with Rockman’s already battered face.

“Oops,” Feeney said mildly, when Rockman crumbled to the floor again. “Guess he’s not too steady on his feet.” He bent over himself, slipped on the cuffs. “Maybe a couple of you boys ought to carry him out. Hold the ambulance for me. I’ll ride with him.”

He took out an evidence bag, slipped the gun into it. “Nice piece — ivory handle. Bet it packs a wallop.”

“Tell me about it.” Her hand went automatically to her arm.

Feeney stopped admiring the gun and gaped at her. “Shit, Dallas, you shot?”

“I don’t know.” She said it almost dreamily, surprised when Roarke ripped off the sleeve of her already tattered shirt. “Hey.”

“Grazed her.” His voice was hollow. He ripped the sleeve again, used it to stanch the wound. “She needs to be looked at.”

“I figure I can leave that to you,” Feeney remarked. “You might want to stay somewhere else tonight, Dallas. Let a team come in and clean this up for you.”

“Yeah.” She smiled as the cat leaped onto the bed. “Maybe.”

He whistled through his teeth. “Busy day.”

“It comes and goes,” she murmured, stroking the cat. Galahad, she thought, her white knight.

“See you around, kid.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Feeney.”

Determined to get through, Roarke crouched in front of her. He waited until Feeney’s whistling faded away. “Eve, you’re in shock.”

“Sort of. I’m starting to hurt though.”

“You need a doctor.”

She moved her shoulders. “I could use a pain pill, and I need to clean up.”

She looked down at herself, took inventory calmly. Her blouse was torn, spotted with blood. Her hands were a mess, ripped and swollen knuckles — she couldn’t quite make a fist. A hundred bruises were making themselves known and the wound on her arm where the bullet had nicked it was turning to fire.

“I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks,” she decided, “but I’d better check.”

When she started to rise, he picked her up. “I kind of like when you carry me. Makes me all wobbly inside. Then I feel stupid about it after. There’s stuff in the bathroom.”