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He lifted his hands up to his face. “Don’t hurt me!” he shrieked in a high-pitched voice. “Please!”
“William Holden,” Faith said firmly. “You are under arrest for the murders of Dr. Gemma Montgomery, Patrick Jeter, and Kevin Malloy, and for the attempted murder of Shirley Brooks.”
William’s face changed suddenly, the wide-eyed, terrified look replaced with a contemptuous scowl.
“Boy, get your ass off that floor and fight back!”
Faith blinked in surprise. The voice that came out of Holland wasn’t that of a man in his thirties but of a much older man. Her momentary hesitation allowed Holland time to get to his feet and throw a hard left hand. Faith ducked under the blow, but it glanced off of her temple with enough force to cause her to stumble. Before she could recover, Holland kicked her in the ribs. She cried out and fell to the ground.
Holland cackled, the throaty wheeze of an old man. “Caught her right in the tits,” he said in that old man voice. “Now git, boy!”
He turned back to the truck, and Faith pushed her pain away and grabbed him. Holland was slight and far from athletic, but he fought her with an almost inhuman strength, tearing her arms off of his waist. She tried to pull away, but he wrenched her wrist, forcing her to fall back against the truck. With a vicious twist, he bent her wrist backward. She collapsed to her knees and watched as Holland brought his knee up toward her face.
She managed to push the knee away, but once more, it glanced off of her head. Her teeth rattled, and her vision swam. She was aware of falling to the ground, but when she told herself to get up and fight back, her body ignored her instructions.
Holland stood over her, swimming in her vision. “She’s pretty,” he said in the younger man’s voice.
“You want her phone number or something?” the old man replied. “Get the hell out of here!”
Holland turned back to the truck, and as Faith watched him lift himself into the vehicle, a cold rage took over. With a yell, she stood and grabbed Holland again.
Holland shrieked and tried once more to throw her off of him, but Faith’s rage lent her strength. With another cry, she lifted him bodily off of the chair and threw him to the ground.
He tried to stand, and she kicked him hard. He cried out and tried once more to get up, but she kicked him again, then again, then again, each blow connecting solidly with his ribs.
Then Turk leapt in between them, growling down at Holland. Faith pulled her foot back and allowed Turk to hold Holland on the ground.
“No!” Holland cried out, lifting a hand to protect himself. “Please don’t hurt me!”
Almost immediately, the old man’s glare and his reedy voice came back.“Dammit, boy! I told you to git!” The terrified look came back, mixed with childlike guilt. “I’m sorry, Grandpa! I just wanted to see her!” The scowl came back. “You ain’t gonna see nothing but the inside of a jail cell now, boy. I shoulda knowed you wasn’t worth my time.”
His face changed again, this time blanching with horror. “No! Grandpa, I’m sorry! I’ll do better!”
“How you gonna do that?” he argued with himself. “You’re going to prison, boy. You failed. I’m done with you.”
“NO!” he shrieked. “Grandpa, no! Please don’t leave me! Please! I’m sorry! I’ll do better! I’ll escape somehow and do better! Please! Noooooo!”
The last cry ended in a long wail. Faith watched, stunned into silence as William burst into tears, covering his face with his hands and curling up into a fetal position as he wept.
“No,” he whined. “No. Please.”
Faith knelt down and handcuffed him. He made no effort to resist.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
“Well, Shirley Brooks is going to be fine,” Dr. Heath said. “I talked to the trauma center, and they were able to get her stabilized. She needed two transfusions, but she’s responding well to treatment.”
“Good,” Faith replied, “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Me too,” Dr. Heath agreed. “It’s nice to know we were able to save someone.”
Faith thought of Kevin Malloy, who would never get to see his daughter again. “Yes,” she replied. “It’s nice to be able to save someone.”
“So what’s next for you guys?” Dr. Heath asked. “Celebratory beers and pats on the back, then on to the next psycho?”
“Yep,” Michael replied. “Another day in the life.”
“Hey, it could be worse,” Dr. Heath replied. “You could be the guy who has to clean up dead bodies and catalog the evidence you scrape off of them.”
