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Any half-hearted protest Wallace was about to express died on his lips without a sound in deference to Bowie’s authority.
“Everybody all right here?” the chief asked, concerned. His kind green eyes swept over the three people he knew in the room.
Bowie spoke up. “I am, but Bigelow here needs an ambulance to take him to the hospital.” He turned toward Marlowe. “And it might be a good idea to have Ms. Colton checked out, as well.”
Marlowe immediately vetoed the suggestion. “No, I’m fine, really,” she assured the chief, who looked as if he was ready to whisk her off to the hospital himself. “Or I will be as soon as you get that man out of my office and into a jail cell.” Her eyes were filled with loathing as she thought of all the harm her stalker could have done if he had fired his weapon.
Barco turned his attention to the bleeding, semi-conscious man on the floor. “I take it this is the man who took a shot at you in your condo,” the chief said. “Cuff him, Donovan,” he ordered.
The officer eagerly produced a set of handcuffs and quickly complied.
“If you check the bullets that were gathered up in front of the hotel when someone took a few shots at me, as well as the bullet that killed my personal bodyguard,” Bowie told the chief, “I think you’ll find that they all match this man’s gun.” Hysterical, the stalker had confessed to Marlowe and Bowie after he’d been shot. He nodded at the stalker as Donovan was dragging the man up to his feet. Marlowe had told him all about the man stalking her and it was all he could do to keep from strangling the man with his bare hands.
The chief’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the prisoner. “Get this scum out of Ms. Colton’s office, Donovan.”
The officer nodded. “With pleasure, Chief,” he told his boss.
Fully conscious now and in pain, the stalker began to yell. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he shouted at Marlowe.
“I wouldn’t bet on that, you bastard,” Bowie said with loathing.
“But we were meant to be together. We were!” the stalker insisted, a frantic look entering his eyes. “Tell them, Marlowe. Tell them we belong together and that they’re standing in the way of true love!” He was practically shrieking now.
Seeing the maniacal look on the stalker’s face was when it suddenly hit her. She knew who her stalker was. “Edward Jones,” she cried, moving forward past Bowie. “You work in the mail room!” Marlowe recalled how uncomfortable the man’s intent stare made her feel whenever she had occasion to be anywhere near the mail room.
She could feel her flesh creep now.
Jones took her recognition to be an omen. “See?” he cried, trying to yank away from the officer who was leading him away. “She remembers me. She knows we’re supposed to be together! Get these cuffs off me, you stupid ape!” he ordered hysterically.
“Yeah, right. In your dreams,” Donovan said. “Keep walking.”
Jones was still shouting as Donovan led him outside to where the police car idled, waiting.
Meanwhile, the chief had glimpsed Marlowe’s face as her stalker was being led out.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Colton,” Barco reassured her. “I am personally going to lock that scum up and throw away the key.” The chief looked from Marlowe to Bowie. “He won’t be bothering either one of you anymore,” he promised. “And whenever you’re feeling up to it, come by the station and I’ll take down your statements.” He tucked away his cell phone. “Right now my advice to you is to go home and put all of this behind you.”
“That’s good advice,” Marlowe agreed. “But I’m not about to do that until I see Wallace get the care he needs.”
“It’s just a scratch, ma’am,” Wallace told her. He obviously didn’t want to be a burden to her.
But Marlowe frowned as she looked at the man’s bloody forehead. “You could have bled to death from that scratch if I hadn’t found you when I did,” she informed him.
“But, ma’am—” Wallace began to protest.
Bowie stepped in, interrupting the bodyguard. “Just say yes, Bigelow. Trust me, I’m telling you this for your own good. It’s a lot easier than trying to win an argument—any argument—with her.”
Marlowe pinned Bowie with an almost lethal look. “And when did you ever win an argument with me?” she asked.
Bowie laughed under his breath. “The key word here, Ms. Colton,” he said, addressing her formally, “was trying.” Hearing a siren in the distance gradually growing louder, Bowie looked at the man he had hired to keep Marlowe safe. “Sounds like your ride’s here, Bigelow.”
Minutes later, two attendants came in pushing a gurney between them.
“No need to ask who the patient is,” the taller of the two attendants said. “Don’t worry,” he said to Wallace, “they’ll have that stitched up and you’ll be good as new in no time.”
“Make sure that he is,” Marlowe told the attendant.
“Yes, ma’am,” the other attendant replied.
