Double Take (11 page)

Her terror froze her brain, paralyzed her for a moment. She'd been helpless Thursday night—dear God, only two nights ago— she'd been so surprised by the sudden attack that she'd have died before she understood what was happening. But she wasn't so surprised this time. And she was ready. She'd rehearsed her movements a dozen times in her mind until her body obeyed without her mind coaching her. She scooted to the side of the bed, quietly slid the side table drawer out, and picked up her pistol, its nitron finish glacier cold, and a second magazine. She'd practiced with it yesterday until it felt perfect in her hand, worked with it until her finger knew exactly how much pressure to put on the trigger. Her heart pounded, but the terror transformed itself into a huge hit of adrenaline that made her shake and feel incredibly powerful.

Her SIG P239 couldn't stop a dream that kept running at night in her brain, it couldn't stop a charging rhino, but all she needed from it now was to protect her from a single man. She pulled the covers over a king-sized pillow as she heard another footfall, closer, nearly to her door.

It was very dark in her bedroom; she'd closed the draperies against the bright moonlight. Julia's bare feet made no sound on her run to the opposite side of the bedroom door. Good, she didn't want him to hear her. To make it harder for him, she kneeled down, her back pressed against the wall. And waited. She could hear her own heart, pumping fast, but she held steady, slowed her breathing. Another soft footfall, then nothing. He was here, right outside the door, his ear probably against it, listening for any sound. She pictured what would happen, what she would do.

Was it the same man who'd tried to kill her at Pier 39? The man with his glasses, his Burberry coat, and his lovely smile?

The doorknob turned very slowly. He was coming in to kill her, shoot her in her bed, shoot her dead in her sleep, the bastard. Fierce anger punched up her adrenaline again, enough to make her shake, but it didn't matter. She was ready.

The door opened. She saw a gloved hand first, holding a gun.

She eased down to her stomach and held perfectly still as he walked slowly into her bedroom. He moved gracefully, all his attention focused on her bed. She could make out the faint glint of his glasses, the outline of his dark jacket and dark pants.

When he was not more than four feet in front of her, slightly off to her right, he raised his gun. He shot once, twice, two more times into the pillow, the low thumping sounds of a silencer, she realized. He paused, then shot again where her head would have been. He lowered the gun, took a step toward the bed.

“Drop that gun right now or I'll blow your head off.”

The man jerked around, fast, and fired at the same moment Julia did. Her bullet smashed into his arm, and he jerked back.

His shot was too high, slamming the wall right where her heart would have been if she'd been standing. He yelled and cursed as he fired again, six more times, the bullets striking the wall above her head. Had she been on her knees, he would have killed her.

But she wasn't, she was flat on her belly.

She fired again, but the shot went wide, into her bedside lamp, smashing it to the floor. He tried to pull the trigger again but his clip was empty. She fired again, heard the bullet strike the wall behind him, and fired two more times as he bolted in a zigzag out of her bedroom. She heard his boots on the long corridor. She hadn't hit him again, dammit.

Julia leaped to her feet and ran after him, fired several more times as he bounded down the stairs. He was moving too fast, dodging from left to right. He suddenly whirled to face her, went into a crouch, paused a moment to aim. No, he wasn't aiming, he was trying to shove in another clip.

She went down on her knees, pulled back behind the railing, shoved a new clip in the SIG and fired again, missed him by inches, but knocked off a chunk of a newel post, sending wood shards flying. Small pieces flew like darts into his face and neck. He grunted in pain, his hand jerking up to cover his face. She continued to fire as she ran down the stairs right at him and he turned and ran. She realized her second clip was nearly empty. She didn't want to run out of bullets. But she couldn't prevent herself from firing one more time. The bullet struck a tile next to his right foot, and she heard him curse. He jerked the front door open as she fired once more, and he was gone. There was no screaming wail. There was no sound at all. He'd disarmed her security system.

She raced across the entry hall, stuck out her hand to grasp the handle. No, don't open the front door, don't give him another chance. He's probably got that new clip in. He could be standing right outside, waiting for her to show herself, grinning as he waited to shoot her. She sucked in deep breaths, felt her heart pumping so loud it hurt. She calmed herself. She was okay.

Her hand closed on the doorknob. She trembled from the rush of adrenaline still shooting through her. No, she had to be smart, she couldn't go after him.

She'd put a bullet in his arm and wood splinters had dug into his face and neck. She'd done good. She hoped he would drop over in her front yard. She wanted desperately to open the front door and look out after him. Wait, how many bullets did she have left in her own clip? Not many, she couldn't have many left.

She cracked the front door open, heard a car start from perhaps half a block away, heard it moving, the sound of the engine dying away.

She ran over to the phone, but she didn't dial 911. She dialed Special Agent Cheney Stone's cell.

CHAPTER 17

Cheney drove from Belvedere Street in Upper Haight-Ashbury to the Ransom mansion on Broadway in just under eight minutes. He cell-phoned Captain Frank Paulette, told him what happened, that he was on his way to Julia Ransom's house.

She was standing just inside the cracked-open front door when he swung into the driveway. He jumped out of his Audi, fanned his SIG around him, examined the shadows. He saw no one, no movement of any kind. He holstered his SIG, held up his hand to keep her back.

When he was nearly to the front door, he said, “You okay?”

“Yes. Don't you remember? I already told you three times I was okay. Come in, come in. I was a fool, an idiot. I could have killed him, but no, I had to tell him not to move and then he turned around—Oh God, Cheney, he moved so fast, but I was down on my stomach on the floor and I did shoot him in the arm. Then he shot at me, fired lots of times but he missed me, he was shooting where he expected me to be and he was too high.

“I shouldn't have told him not to move, all I had to do was shoot him and keep firing like you told me, but I didn't. Then I shot my lamp. I'm a moron. But I did shoot him in the arm, so that's something. Maybe he'll get blood poisoning, you think?”

Her voice was manic high. When she crashed, he knew it would take her to the mat for hours. She went on talking, repeating herself another two times, while he took in every inch of her. She sounded and looked like a teenager on drugs, nearly incoherent words flying out her mouth. She was wearing a long dark blue sleep shirt with Wonder Woman on the front, gym socks on her feet. Her hair straggled around her face, the bruise just beginning to fade from her jaw.

He placed his fingers lightly over her mouth to shut her up. She talked through his fingers for a moment before she fell silent. When he moved his fingers, she opened her mouth, gave him an insane grin, then managed to close it again, but not before more than a dozen words spilled out.

He said, “The excitement's something, isn't it? You did good, you won. It's okay that you didn't kill the guy. Really, it's okay, you disabled him, maybe.”

She took a breath and said, “I guess I didn't shoot him flat out at first because I wanted to know who wanted me dead. Well, maybe I'm rationalizing what I did. I don't remember what I was thinking. But maybe I thought I'm so bright I could take him prisoner and question him. Pound my head against the wall, Cheney, smack me.”

“Not yet,” Cheney said, smiling. “Keep talking, Julia, only slow down. Okay, so he ran out the front door—”

“I didn't go after him, but I did crack open the front door, and then I heard his car turn over, maybe half a block away. I was hoping he'd be lying dead by the rhododendron bushes, but hey, he's hurt, right? That bullet could have hit an artery in his arm—no, I couldn't be that lucky and besides, where's the blood? When you hit an artery, there's a fountain of blood, right?”

She was speeding up again to manic tempo so Cheney broke in, speaking slowly, his voice loud. “Look over there on the sidewalk. You can see the splatters of blood from here. You didn't get an artery, but you did put a bullet in him. That's enough.” He eased the gun from her hand.

“But I should have shot his head off. He got away. He's still out there. Oh, come inside, Agent Stone, come in.”

“It's nearly two o'clock in the morning. Make it Cheney.”

She started, then laughed. “You're right, this is the second time you've seen me creeped out, only this time you didn't have to get wet.” She looked down at the white gym socks on her feet, saw a small hole in the big toe, and grinned. “Can I have my gun back? I'll be careful, I promise. It makes me feel safe, more in control. He would have shot me dead if I hadn't had it.”

She was coming down, more herself again, so he gave her back her SIG. She sort of slinked sideways into the living room, fanned her gun toward the shadows.

He didn't smile. “You can put the gun down, Julia. The guy's gone.”

“Yeah, okay—” She carefully laid her SIG on top of an antique marquetry table, and turned to see him speaking on his cell. When he punched off, he said, “I called Captain Paulette again, told him I'd arrived. He and his team will be here soon. He'll have his patrol officers out looking for this guy. His officers will start interviewing the neighbors in the morning. It was the same guy, right?”

“Oh yeah, like Thursday night, he didn't even bother trying to hide his face because he planned to kill me. Didn't I already tell you that?”

“Yeah, but tell me again.”

“Okay. I couldn't tell all that much when he was in my bedroom because it was really dark, but when he ran out into the corridor, I could see him plain as day. He was wearing his glasses, but not his Burberry. A dark leather jacket. I think he was wearing black boots. I've got to take more shooting lessons, the guy moved so fast. That second time I shot at least two feet wide. I killed my lamp. Then I shot my newel post but that turned out okay. It exploded shards of oak and gouged his face and neck. Got him good, that had to have hurt.”

“Well done.”

She sighed, and for the first time felt a smack of cold exhaustion.

“Captain Paulette will take care of notifying all the hospitals. Maybe his arm is bad enough that he'll need medical help. Maybe his eyes too. Okay, I want you to start at the beginning all over again.”

She sat on one of the brocade sofas next to him, turned to face him. Before she got started, Captain Paulette walked in. “The front door was unlocked,” he said.

“Good timing, Frank,” Cheney said, and nodded to Julia.

“Hello, Captain Paulette. Okay, I can do this. The thing is, it all happened so fast, but I think I can get it right now.”

But for the moment, she couldn't speak. She tugged her sock over the hole in the big toe.

Cheney saw Frank give Julia Ransom the once-over, just as he had. Her eyes were still dilated, confused, and he knew she was trying to adjust to the threat of death suddenly gone. “Okay, Julia, while Captain Paulette contacts hospital ERs and gets his men situated, I want you to lean back, close your eyes, and replay the whole thing in your mind. Take deep breaths, try to think clearly.”

“But—”

“You'll think of more details to tell Captain Paulette, you'll see.”

Julia heard cars driving up, but no sirens, and that was a relief. Her neighbors still hadn't stopped giving her sideways looks since August's murder six months before.

Cheney saw she was still too wired. He rose, offered her his hand. “Tell you what. While Captain Paulette speaks to the officers, let's make some coffee.”

Captain Paulette sent his eyes heavenward. “Thank you, make it strong. Then I want all the pesky details, Mrs. Ransom.”

It was 4:00 A.M. when Julia watched the people from the forensic unit pack up their gear and tell Captain Paulette they'd be back to finish digging the bullets out of the walls in the morning. “Lots of flying lead,” one of the techs said. “We've already marked several drops of his blood inside the house and outside on the walkway. We've got maybe another couple of hours tomorrow.”

Captain Paulette said to her, “I called the cops off your house after it was quiet last night, had them doing drive-bys tonight. Sorry, bad call. You'll have full-time protection again. I should take your gun in but I won't, particularly after I went to so much trouble getting you a permit on Cheney's say-so.”

“Thank you, Captain Paulette. I fully plan to keep sleeping with my SIG.”

Julia and Cheney watched Captain Paulette detour to a patrol car parked at the curb. She said to Cheney, “Thanks for volunteering to stay. Even with officers right outside, I'm scared down to my bones. I want to say I can take care of myself—I mean, I sure did tonight, didn't I? But, well, still, I appreciate it. Follow me, I'll show you to a guest room.”

She paused a moment, eyed him up and down. “I don't think the bougainvillea room is quite in your style. It's too girly-girl. I'll take you to August's room.”