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"What every Dom loves to hear. Go call the police. Then bring me the black case in the front seat of my truck. Don't rush. You're still not steady on your feet." His brown eyes held hers, his mouth taut. "Make the call, get the case and come back."
She looked toward the man. "He's not going anywhere," Des assured her, a hard note to his voice. "Houdini couldn't shake that tie."
She believed him. She was also getting more worried about Des, because he'd slumped down against the wall as if he lacked the strength to hold himself in an upright sitting position. The shaking was worsening. She scrambled to her feet, clutching the phone. He caught her jeans leg, drawing her attention.
"911 first," he reminded her. "Police. Not ambulance. Unless you need one."
He knew her too well. She'd intended to go to the truck first, to take care of what was happening to him, but he was right. The police were the most important thing, especially since she was going to ignore him and request an ambulance. She'd say it was for the bad guy, that she wasn't sure if he was hurt or not. If Des needed one, it would be here. He might insist the paramedics look at her in retribution. She was okay with that, as long as he had the help he needed.
She hurried toward the back entrance, not wanting to be away from him any longer than necessary, though she suppressed a shudder as she passed the shadowed areas she was sure her attacker had used to conceal himself until he'd found the optimal time to pounce.
She dialed 911 while rushing out to the truck. The small black case was there, next to his usual backpack. She told the 911 operator what had happened and that the police and an ambulance were needed.
"All right, ma'am. Stay on the line and stay where you are--"
"I can't. My diabetic friend is hypoglycemic and I have to go back to him. I'm going to lose the signal there. The police can come in the side door. I'm leaving it propped open. We're in the stage area."
She cut the connection. The operator would wisely tell her to stay outside where it was safe, where her attacker wasn't. But the operator didn't know how effective Des was at tying someone up, especially when he wanted i
t to be intensely uncomfortable and impossible to shake. Maybe it was petty of her, but she was glad he'd made it uncomfortable.
As she went back through the side door, she thought of the attacker's footprints being forever imprinted on the floorboards of her theater. She wasn't going to stand for that. She'd get a voodoo doctor or witch to cleanse the place. She normally didn't go for the New Age stuff, but it sounded like a good idea. There was a Wiccan craft store in Huntersville. She'd have someone come and burn sage or something.
Stop babbling, Julie. She flew back toward the stage area and then jumped back, almost landing on her ass with a little shriek as her attacker raised his head, gazing at her blearily. "Bitch," he snarled. "You better let me go or--"
"Or what?" Des came looming out of the shadows, shoving the guy's head back down to the boards with his foot. His skull made a resounding thump. She had no idea how Des had managed to get up, because he looked like a walking corpse. The shaking was affecting his whole body, but his eyes were feverish, glittering as he put the sole of his shoe on the man's throat and leaned his weight there. The man choked, tried to writhe away, but Des wouldn't let him go.
"Des," Julie said sharply, but Des didn't respond to her, holding the man's frightened gaze with one as pitiless as a shark's.
"Apologize," Des snapped. "For calling her a bitch. For all of it."
The man strangled as Des put more weight on his carotid. Julie lunged forward and caught Des's arm. He was still clammy. It was as if suddenly he'd become an old man before her eyes, but an old man still more than capable of dealing with this.
"Say you're sorry," she snarled at the man.
"Sorry," her attacker rasped, and Julie was able to pull Des away, probably because he almost fell backwards. She helped him into a seated position against her podium.
"Police?" he said hoarsely.
"They're on their way." She popped open the box and saw a syringe and vial. "What is this?"
"Glucagon. Because I can't... Christ, I'm sorry, love. I'm going to pass out. Just follow...instructions. Turn me on my side in case I...throw up."
Her gaze flew up to his face. It was as if he was speaking through cotton. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he folded over to the floor almost gracefully.
"Des. Des." She looked down at the open kit. Syringe, vial. Note. Unfolding the note, she read it quickly.
Glucagon Kit: In case I pass out, follow kit directions to inject under my skin. Nothing to it. Just pinch up some loose skin and stab. I won't mind. If I'm not back in 15 minutes, do it again. Don't let me die if you can help it, but don't worry if I do. It was bound to happen eventually. If all goes well, I should be back in a few minutes. Have juice and PB crackers standing by.
Finding a loose skin part on Des was no easy task, but after she injected the liquid into the vial of powder and mixed it with shaking fingers, she realized the looseness of his jeans gave her access to the upper rise of his buttock. She injected the medicine, afraid she was hurting him, because she'd never done anything like that before, but he didn't stir. Her heart hammered nevertheless, because she wasn't sure if she was doing it right. She wasn't sure of anything. She wished the police and ambulance would get here, now, now, now.
"Shithead gonna die," the man said sullenly. "And if he don't, I'm gonna sue him for trying to strangle me. I--"
She didn't think, galvanized by something so primitive inside her she would have been afraid to look in a mirror. Lunging off her knees, she pulled a belaying pin for the stage ropes from its slot. She closed the distance between her and the man and swung, hitting him full in his fat, stupid mouth. She was pretty sure a tooth went flying. His lip split in a spray of blood.
"One more word, and I will say you got loose and I had to bash your fucking head in to save my life," she growled, brandishing the pin over him. "Got it?"
His eyes were white with fear. She spun back to Des, kneeling next to him and dropping the pin. Rethinking that, she jumped back to her feet, ran to her mini fridge and came back with a juice box. She freed the straw with shaking fingers, stabbed it into the box, and put it to the side. Easing Des's head into her lap, she stroked his hair away from his face, and thanked God when she heard the sound of sirens.
