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I cling to him, but I don’t protest. I know he must disappear. If he stayed, there’d be too many questions. Even though Rusk is the serial killer the FBI has been searching for all along, Charlie has his own crimes and secrets.
His big palm cups my cheek, his thumb gliding over my lips. He leans in close and whispers in my ear. “I love your blood, but I’m pretty sure that’s Rusk’s. Otherwise I’d kiss you goodbye.”
“So you owe me a kiss.”
He releases me and stands, moving so quickly and quietly that he’s at the door before I can blink. “I promise.”
That fast, he’s gone.
36
Sobbing, I scoot away from Rusk until my back hits something. The corner of the bed. Sheba races in, licks my cheek to make sure I’m okay, and then she races after the Master. Maybe she can catch him. Maybe she’ll get a goodbye from him. Better than mine.
“Ranay!” Matheson yells from outside. “FBI!”
“I’m here!” I call out. “I’m okay!”
Sirens roar up the road, their red-and-blue lights spinning crazily down the hallway to spill into the bedroom. No lone, inexperienced deputy this time, but dozens of cars from the number of lights. Matheson pauses at the door, standing to the side to scan the room with her gun out. “I’ve got a body! Anyone else here, Ranay?”
“No,” I whisper.
She tries the light and calls to the other officers. “Someone check the breaker, see if we can get power on. I need an ambulance.”
“He has a gun,” I warn her, in case he’s still alive.
Gingerly, she steps into the room, her gun trained on the man slumped in the center of the room. “Hands up. Drop the weapon.”
Rusk doesn’t move. I can’t tell if he’s still breathing or not.
Matheson’s leg sweeps out, knocking him over. He falls to the floor with a heavywhump, unmoving. She kicks the gun out of his hand and then bends down to feel for a pulse.
The living room light kicks on. Another officer comes into the room and flips on the light. Grimacing, I cover my eyes, waiting for them to adjust.
A low whistle from the man makes me drop my hands. I look around at the carnage and fight not to throw up.
The door hangs askew on its hinges. Blood pools around Rusk, but more splattered across the bed. And me, evidently. I look down at my hands and they’re coated with thick, congealing blood.
Matheson pulls off the black ski mask and drops it. “Rusk. There’s going to be one hell of a shit storm.”
“An FBI agent?” I look up, not surprised to see Cutler and his deputy both at the door, though Daniels looks green around the gills. “He was the serial killer? Not MacNiall?”
Matheson squats down in front of me. She looks worse for wear too, swollen face streaked with dried blood. Rusk must have beat her pretty bad before racing after me. “You’ve got a couple of nasty bumps and quite a shiner. Where else are you hurt?”
I blink, my hands feeling my stomach and chest for injuries or pain. “I don’t know.”
She pulls the comforter off the bed and drapes it around my shoulders. “He didn’t hurt you?”
My hand flutters up to my cheek and I wince, even though it makes my face hurt more. “He hit me. I think I lost a hunk of hair. He choked me.”
Matheson tilts my head back to get a closer look at my throat. “Yeah, you’ve got some bad bruising. Nothing else?”
“I don’t think so.”
Her eyes narrow in a quick flicker over me, no doubt cataloging all the blood. “Can you tell us what happened while we wait for the ambulance?”
Careful. Charlie’s gone. He’s safe. I want to keep it that way.
“I ran inside and hid. The door was unlocked and the alarm was off, though I’m sure I set it.”
