The Collector
Page 128

He charged her again, would have rammed her like a bull, but she managed a staggering dance aside, a shaky pivot, and an underhand strike with the knife that missed by a whisper.
He grabbed her knife hand by the wrist, twisted, imagined snapping the bone like a dry twig. In panic and pain, she swept a leg out, nearly took him down, but he held on, used the momentum to take her back, around.
And he saw Lila swaying like a drunk, her face fierce, and a lamp in her hands like a bat or a sword. Relief and rage churned together. “Run,” he ordered, but she kept coming.
Jai fought against his hold. Blood-slick skin nearly allowed her to slip free. He tore his gaze from Lila, looked into Jai’s eyes.
And for the first time in his life, he balled his fist and punched a woman in the face. Not once, but twice.
The knife fell to the floor with a single hard bang. When Jai’s knees buckled he let her drop. He scooped up the bloodied tool, managed to get an arm around Lila as she pitched forward.
“Is she dead? Is she dead?”
“No. How bad are you hurt? Let me see.”
“I don’t know. You’re bleeding. Your arm is bleeding.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to call the police. Can you go in the kitchen, in the utility closet. There’s some cord.”
“Cord. We have to tie her up.”
“I can’t leave you alone with her and get it myself. Can you get it?”
“Yes.” She handed him the lamp. “I broke the plug when I pulled it out of the wall. I’ll fix it. I’ll get the cord first. And the first aid kit. Your arm’s bleeding.”
He knew he shouldn’t take the time, but he couldn’t stop himself. He set the lamp aside, then he pulled her to him, gently, gently. “I thought you were dead.”
“So did I. But we’re not.” She moved her hands over his face as if memorizing the shape. “We’re not. Don’t let her wake up. You have to hit her again if she starts to wake up. I’ll be right back.”
He took out his phone, watched his hand shake as he called the police.
It took hours, and felt like days. Uniformed police, paramedics, Fine and Waterstone, the FBI. People in and out, in and out. Then a doctor, shining lights in her eyes, poking, prodding, asking her who was president. Even through the glaze of shock she wondered at a doctor making an emergency house call.
“What kind of a doctor are you?” she asked him.
“A good one.”
“I mean what kind of doctor makes house calls?”
“A really good one. And I’m a friend of Ash’s.”
“She stabbed him—or it looked like more of a slice. I just fell down the stairs.”
“You’re a lucky woman. You took some hard knocks, but nothing’s broken. Throat’s pretty sore, I bet.”
“It feels like I’ve been drinking glass chips. Ash needs to go to the hospital for that arm. So much blood . . .”
“I can stitch him up.”
“Here?”
“It’s what I do. Do you remember my name?”
“Jud.”
“Good. You’ve got a mild concussion, some heroic bruising—that’s a medical term,” he added, and made her smile. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to spend the night in the hospital, just for observation.”
“I’d rather just have a shower. Can I just take a shower? She’s all over me.”
“Not by yourself.”
“I really don’t think I’m up to sex in the shower just now.”
He laughed, gave her hand a squeeze. “Your friend’s here—Julie? How about if she helps you out?”
“That’d be great.”
“I’ll go down and get her. You wait, okay? Bathrooms are minefields.”
“You’re a good friend. I . . . Oh, I remember now. I met you at Oliver’s funeral. Dr. Judson Donnelly—concierge medicine. Like the guy on TV.”
“That’s a good sign your brain’s not overly scrambled—another fancy medical term. I’m going to leave written instructions on the medication, and I’ll swing by tomorrow to take a look at both of you. Meanwhile, rest, use the cold packs on the bruises and skip the shower sex for the next twenty-four hours.”
“I can do that.”
He packed up his bag, then paused on his way out to look back at her. “Ash said you were an amazing woman. He’s not wrong.”
Her eyes welled up, but she fought the tears back. She wouldn’t break down, just couldn’t. She feared if she did, even for a moment, she’d never stop.
So she had what passed for a smile when Julie rushed in.
“Oh, Lila.”
“Not looking my best, and it’s worse under what’s left of this dress. But I have some very nice pills, courtesy of Jud, so I really do feel better than I look. How’s Ash?”
Sitting on the side of the bed, Julie took her hand. “He was talking to some of the crime scene people, but the doctor dragged him off to take care of him. Luke’s with him. Luke’s going to stay with him.”
“Good. Luke’s really good in a crisis. I really like Luke.”
“You scared the crap out of us.”
“Join the team. Are you up for standing by while I take a shower? I need to . . . I have to . . .”
The pressure dropped into her chest, stealing her breath.
Hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing.
“She ruined my dress.” She felt herself gasping, couldn’t stop. “It was Prada.”
“I know, sweetie.” Julie just gathered her up when she broke, rocked her like a baby when she sobbed.
After the shower, after the pain pill kicked in, it didn’t take much for Julie to persuade her to lie down. When she woke, the light was on low, and her head was pillowed on Ash’s shoulder.
She sat up—and the twinges woke her fully. “Ash.”
“Right here. Do you need another pill? It’s about time.”
“Yes. No. Yes. What time is it? It’s after midnight. Your arm.”
“It’s okay.”
But despite the twinges, she reached over to turn up the light, see for herself. The bandage ran from shoulder to elbow.
“It’s okay,” he repeated at her sound of distress.
“Don’t say it’s just a scratch.”