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Half a dozen scenarios played through his head, each one worse than the one that came before. “Bigelow, where is she?” he demanded.
For one awful moment, he was afraid the big man was dead. But then he heard the bodyguard emit a low moan. Relieved, he knew he couldn’t waste any precious time trying to make the man regain consciousness. He had the very sick, uneasy feeling that seconds counted and he might have already gotten there too late to be able to save Marlowe.
“Marlowe!” he shouted, scanning the area. “Where are you? Are you all right?”
There was no answer, only the sound of his own voice echoing back at him.
“Marlowe, say something! Anything!” he pleaded, fear all but closing his throat.
And then Bowie heard it.
It sounded like a muffled cry. Like someone, he realized, whose mouth was being covered to keep her from crying out.
Scrambling back up onto his feet again, he called, “Marlowe, I’m coming!” It was more of a promise than a declaration. “Just hang on—I’m coming!” he cried, racing toward the sound of the muffled cry.
Bowie ran into her office and saw someone at the far end of the room brandishing a gun and dragging Marlowe into the stairwell that was located at the very far end of the wide office.
Her private stairwell, he remembered. He wasn’t sure where it led, but he had the awful feeling that if the stalker was able to drag her inside, he could barricade himself and Marlowe in there. The very least that could happen was that the stalker might wind up harming her—and their unborn baby.
Bowie knew he couldn’t let the man succeed in getting in there with her.
Exerting practically superhuman effort, he all but flew through the room, cutting the distance between himself and Marlowe and the stalker at an incredible rate. With one giant surge of effort, he leaped up and then into the man, tackling him before the man could succeed in making off with Marlowe.
Marlowe tumbled backward, but the shock of the blow he’d sustained when Bowie crashed into him had the stalker dropping her hand.
Backing up, Marlowe watched Bowie battling her would-be kidnapper. Despite his slighter build, incensed with fury, her stalker was able to match Bowie swing for swing. Desperate to help, Marlowe looked around the immediate area, searching for something—anything—to use as a weapon so she could knock the other man out.
Feeling half-crazed, she saw the commemorative statue of an oil rig her father had given her. Grabbing it, she intended to swing it at the stalker the very first clear shot she got of the man.
But the stalker and Bowie kept switching positions as they grappled for the weapon.
And then suddenly, the gun went off.
Marlowe screamed, terrified. Her heart froze. Who had shot who?
For one long, horrible moment that seemed all but suspended in time, she couldn’t tell. Both men looked ashen.
And both men, she realized one awful, awful moment later, had blood on them.
Finally, Bowie staggered up to his feet. With a sob, Marlowe threw her arms around him.
“Are you hurt? Did he shoot you?” she cried, running her hands all over his upper torso, searching for the bullet wound. “Tell me he didn’t shoot you,” she begged Bowie.
But he didn’t have to.
At that moment, the man shrieked, and then his body crumpled, falling to the floor. That told Marlowe all she needed to know: he had been the one to catch the bullet, not Bowie.
“I’m all right,” Bowie told her, pulling himself together. “What about you?” he asked, quickly scrutinizing every inch of her. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?” he cried, searching for some telltale sign of an unseen wound.
“I’m fine,” she assured him, leaning her head against Bowie. “He didn’t hurt me.”
Chapter 21
Once Bowie placed the call to the police station, Chief Barco and one of his people, officer James Donovan, arrived at Colton Oil headquarters within minutes of the call.
When the two men walked into Marlowe’s outer office, Wallace was just trying to get to his feet. But Bowie placed his hand on the man’s wide shoulder, making the bodyguard stay where he was.
“Don’t get up,” Bowie ordered him.
