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She leapt at him again, but her anger and pain robbed her of coordination. He didn’t even bother hitting her this time, just stuck his foot out so she tripped and fell heavily to the floor again.
She lay there, trembling with rage and frustration while he stooped over Turk. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered, hating that she was powerless to back up the threat.
After a moment, he nodded and stood. “Turk will be fine,” he reassured her. “He’s been knocked out, but nothing’s broken, and I see no sign of concussion. Of course, you’ll want to have David look at him to be sure. I’m a psychologist, not a veterinarian.”
“I’m going to kill you,” she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m going to kill you, I swear to God.”
“Be careful,” Dr. West warned her. “From what I’m made to understand, God takes oaths very seriously.”
She kicked at him, but he sidestepped easily and headed for the front door. “It may be a while before we speak again,” he said. “But know that no matter how far apart we are, my thoughts are always on you.” He stepped outside but paused in the doorway.
He turned around, a wistful look on his face. “I’ll miss working with you, Faith. Men like me rarely meet anyone who can intrigue them. It’s a shame we have to become enemies so soon.”
He smiled softly, then left.
Faith tried to get to her feet again, but her battered body refused to cooperate. She collapsed to the ground and stared at Turk, who also remained where he lay.
It was happening again. Once more, she had gone on her own to find the most dangerous serial killer alive today, and once more, she had been beaten badly. Once more, she and Turk lay bruised and broken. Once more, the killer had them completely at his mercy and Faith wasn’t sure if it was a gift or a curse that he, unlike Trammell, had chosen not to try to finish the job.
CHAPTER THREE
She must have drifted off because the next thing she was aware of was Turk licking her face. She stirred and opened her eyes to see him standing over her, whining and staring with bleak, anxious eyes. When she pushed herself up onto her elbows, his relief was palpable. He yelped and began licking her harder and faster, tail wagging furiously.
His attentions softened her anger. The void left was filled by dejection, and it was several more minutes of coaxing from Turk before she found the strength to get to her feet.
She felt terrible. Her right wrist throbbed, and her head pounded. She felt bruises in her ribs and her stomach. She carefully opened and closed the fingers of her right hand and winced as pain shot through her. Nothing was broken, and it didn’t feel like anything was torn, but it was definitely sprained. She tried to make a fist and found she barely had the strength to bring her fingers together.
She took a breath and looked around. Her vision swam, red, white and purple strobing across her eyes. Her ears hummed, and she realized numbly that she probably had a concussion.
She blinked, trying to steady her vision, but the red, white and purple continued to flash. She gave up and started toward the door. Her left foot slid on something underneath her, and she cried out and fell to her knees again.
A wave of nausea coursed through her, and she took several deep breaths, rising only when the dizziness passed. She stood and saw that the object she had slipped on was her handgun. Dr. West had evidently chosen to leave it behind. She shuffled toward it and picked it up to see that it was still loaded.
“Put the weapon down!”
The shouted command shocked Faith. She jumped and spun around to see a young uniformed police officer brandishing his own weapon and staring at her with huge, frightened eyes.
“Put it down and get on your fucking knees!” he shouted again.
Faith blinked and slowly lowered the weapon to the ground, grimacing from the aching in her joints. “I’m FBI,” she said, “I have an ID in my vest pocket. May I reach for it to show you?”
He hesitated and didn’t answer, but another voice replied for him. “That won’t be necessary, Special Agent.”
A middle-aged woman wearing a pantsuit and a windbreaker stepped into the room and regarded Faith with calm, mildly contemptuous eyes. “Fancy meeting you again.”
Faith recognized her as the detective who interrogated her after Gordon’s death. She stifled an eye roll and asked, “Who called the police?”
“Who called you?” the detective retorted.
Faith didn’t answer.
The detective—Harris, according to her nametag—narrowed her eyes. “You have to know how suspicious this looks, special agent.”
Faith sighed and closed her eyes. "Yes. My Special Agent-in-Charge will confirm that I'm not a suspect."
“I’ll be sure to call him,” Harris said.
“I’m sure you will,” Faith muttered.
