Blood pounded in her ears, and beyond it, she could hear the heavy breathing of the man behind her, his fingers already pawing at her zipper, trying to pull her pants down, his throat making angry growls. She knew that if she could only focus, she might get out of this alive. She was sharp; he was consumed by lust. But she had no air, and all she wanted was to breathe. Her mouth opened and closed now, gasping desperately, trying to inhale. She tried grabbing the hand on her pants, the only part of him within reach, but she could do nothing. Everything faded, her fingers slack, hands dropping.
And the noose loosened. She could take a small, impossibly tiny breath. The world swam into focus. His fingers were in her pants, scraping her left thigh. He laughed to himself, the same high-pitched, maddened giggle that she had heard all those years ago. He was giving her air on purpose. He wanted her alive for this.
Too self-confident. Too cocky.
She threw her head back as far as she could. She had hoped to hit him in the stomach, but instead she heard a crunch and a roar of pain. He had crouched behind her to get her pants off, and she had just smashed his nose. The noose loosened completely as he stumbled back, and she drew in a wheezing breath, already moving. She leaped forward, not really able to stand yet but strong enough to crawl away and roll onto her back, see what Glover was doing.
He stood above her, blood streaming down his face, rage in his eyes, his mouth twisted in an animal snarl. He lunged at her, roaring, and she lifted one knee, kicked as hard as she could, hitting him . . . somewhere. Chest, stomach, she couldn’t really tell. It didn’t stop him. He was on her, flexing his fingers into a fist and punching her, pain bursting as his fist hit her cheek.
Her hand clutched at something hard—a rock; she swung up, the rock hitting him in his face, his broken nose. He fell back, howling. This time she wouldn’t crawl away. She pushed herself forward onto him, swinging her free hand, fingernails raking at his bloody face, searching for his eyes.
He screamed and shook her off. She rolled and felt a hot, sharp pain in her hip. Her hand flew down to the searing flesh, feeling blood pulsing between her fingers. Something had cut her.
The knife. He had dropped the knife when he’d choked her, and she’d just rolled onto the blade.
Her eyes searched frantically on the ground, noticing a glint. There.
She leaped at it, her fingers tightening in a hard grip around the knife’s handle. Glover turned his eyes on her, looking more like a beast than a man.
Almost like an actual monster.
Her hand tensed. The hand clutching the knife was on the ground, hidden in the grass. She hoped he couldn’t see it beyond the blood and the rage. She feigned weakness, stumbling, letting out a cry of pain that was hardly fake. She followed his eyes, knew how he’d move, where he’d strike. All she had to do was push her hand forward.
He lunged, and she thrust the knife, not realizing how weak she was, how dizzy. Instead of plunging it into his stomach like she had intended, she slashed his thigh.
He roared in pain, but there was something else there. Her mind processed the sound, years of training kicking into focus. Fear.
Her reflexes told her to turn and run again. She had the knife now; his leg was hurt. She had the advantage. She could get away.
Instead, she forced herself to get up, her body screaming in agony. Her slashed shoulder was numb with pain. She stood straight, holding the knife in front of her, and grimaced, her fingers tightening on the handle. Their eyes locked, and her grimace widened. Not a smile. The face of an animal baring its teeth.
Glover hesitated, then turned and ran.
She almost laughed as she lunged after him, but her adrenaline began to fade. Her head throbbed painfully, her shoulder burned, her neck prickled where he had cut her, and she realized she was still wheezing. Her throat still hurt. She could hardly walk, couldn’t even chase Glover, limping as fast as he could on his one good leg. She forced herself to remain standing. He glanced back, and whatever he saw made him keep running. She hid her weakness well.
Once he was out of sight, her knees buckled, her fingers dropping the knife, and she fell to the ground. A sob that was also a groan emerged from her throat.
She half crawled, half limped back. A hundred feet from the shore, she stumbled again and lay down in the grass, thinking she’d just close her eyes and rest for a second.
CHAPTER 55
Tatum counted his steps as he paced the waiting room in the hospital. One . . . two . . . three . . . he reached thirteen. Last time he had done it in twelve, and the time before it had been fifteen because someone had gotten in his way.
He wasn’t sure how many times he’d paced the same path, though. He had lost count of that. A hundred? Two hundred? A thousand?
The linoleum floor was scratched in numerous places. He guessed he wasn’t the only one who had paced it back and forth over the years. This room had already seen more anxiety and worry than most rooms saw in a lifetime. If the waiting room were to meet a classroom in a bar, it would say, “You think you know what apprehension is? Let me tell you . . .”
He lost his train of thought, the comical spiral of associations that usually swam through his mind fading into nothingness.
He had seen one glimpse of Zoe before a nurse had shoved him out of the emergency room. Her neck and torso had been drenched in blood, her face bruised and pale. Just that one glimpse had sent his heart into a flurry. The nurse had promised they’d let him know what her situation was as soon as possible.
And yet he had paced this room over and over, and no one had called him.
Martinez had been with him for about ten minutes before leaving. He said he’d come back later. He wanted to get the taxi driver’s statement and to see what the forensic technician had recovered from the crime scene.
The small, intense woman had seemed so helpless on that table. Unable to shout at him or contradict him in any way. His fists clenched, the desire to punch something overwhelming. Back in LA, he’d had a punching bag at home and would use it to relieve his work stress almost every evening. But he hadn’t had the time to hang one in his new apartment. How he missed that punching bag right now.
Not knowing what had happened was terrible. He had seen that with people over the years, begging him for a shred of information, asking a flood of questions that could easily be summarized into one word—why? What had she been doing in the Saganashkee Slough? Who had attacked her? Where was her attacker now?
Why?
She had seemed so subdued and worried earlier. At the time, he had thought it was only tiredness. But now he wasn’t sure.
He sat down and tried to empty his mind of the questions. He wasn’t much for praying, but whenever someone close to him was in danger, he found himself trying to cut deals with God. That was why he had stopped smoking three years before, when his partner had been shot—he had promised God he would if his partner lived through it. That was also why he hadn’t sold his brand-new Toyota Camry and given the money to the church: God hadn’t helped his mother overcome her kidney failure.
And now it was time to cut another deal with God. He tried to think what he could give God in return for Zoe’s life.
God, if Zoe—
“Tatum Gray?”
He whirled, looking intently at the nurse approaching him. Was there a comforting look in her eye? Worry? Motherly affection?
No. Just calm. He didn’t know what that meant.
“She’s in recovery, and she’ll be fine,” the nurse said.
Tatum let out a shuddering breath. “Can I see her?”
“Are you related?”
“No,” Tatum said, and as an afterthought, he pulled out his badge and flipped it. “FBI. She has some crucial information we need as soon as possible.”
The nurse pursed her lips. She wasn’t buying it. “Fine,” she finally said, her voice a tad colder. “You’ll be able to see her for a few minutes. I’ll come and get you once she’s ready.”
Tatum nodded, full of relief.
The nurse left, and Tatum sat down on an empty chair, pressing his palms together. He let out a long breath. And another one.
There was a rustle as someone sat by his side and offered him a paper cup.
“Here,” Martinez said. “Coffee.”
Tatum gratefully took the warm cup. “Thanks. The nurse just told me Zoe’s fine.”
“Oh, good,” Martinez said, relief in his voice.