“They’re already on the way,” he said. “Should be here in a couple of minutes.”
“Do you need me to stay around and lock up once they’re done?”
“No, sir,” he said. “We’ve got keys, so we can lock up. We can also call the physical plant people, get them to replace the glass in the morning.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Can you ask them if they’ve got wire-reinforced security glass, or bulletproof glass, to make sure this kind of thing can’t happen again?”
He nodded, and then I saw him looking at the bank of big windows across the front of the lab.
“I should probably give them a call, too,” I said. “Talk to them about some bars for those front windows.”
“I’d say that’s a good idea,” he said.
I looked at Miranda, realized what a close call she’d had.
“Wish I’d thought of that sooner,” I said.
“You can’t think of everything,” Miranda said. “If he hadn’t gotten in, he might have just been waiting for me outside. Point is, I’m fine.”
“That’s part of the point,” I said. “Another important part is to keep you fine.”
I offered Miranda my guest room for the night, partly because I was worried about her safety and partly because I feared she’d have trouble getting around with a badly sprained ankle.
“Not a chance,” she said.
“Why not?” I said. “I’ve got no designs on you.”
“I know,” she said, “and I couldn’t take the disappointment.” Then she turned serious. “Actually, I figure you’re the next item on this guy’s to-do list. He was probably looking for you when he came down here in the first place. I was just the consolation prize.”
A thought struck me suddenly. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I suspect you’re his new favorite.” When I quoted the line from the card on the flowers, the color drained from her face. Then she shook her head fiercely.
“No,” she said. “I’m not going to think that way. I don’t want to spend every moment looking over my shoulder, expecting some pervert or creep to be there.”
“Then don’t,” I said. “But at least keep some pepper spray handy.”
“I have some in the nightstand.”
I drove Miranda home and helped her up the stairs and into her house. “I’ve never seen your house before,” I said. “It’s charming.”
“You’ve never seen the inside,” she said pointedly. She saw the look of shame on my face, and she laid a hand on my arm. “It’s okay,” she said, and those two simple words of understanding and forgiveness were among the most profound and generous things anyone had ever said to me. I wrapped my arms around Miranda and gave her a bear hug, probably as tight as the one the UT police officer had given me outside the bone lab. After a moment she tapped me on the back, so I let go.
“I might need to go to the ER now,” she said. “I think you just fractured half my ribs.”
“God, you’re something,” I said. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d find somebody else,” she said. “The world’s full of brave, brilliant women. Hell, graduate school’s full of brave, brilliant women.”
“I don’t think there’s another one like you out there,” I said.
“Good night, Miranda.”
“Night, Dr. B.”
She closed her door. I waited at the bottom of the steps until I heard the dead bolt snick shut, and then I went only as far as my truck. I reclined the seat a few inches, rolled down the windows so I could hear, and passed the night in an uneasy vigil outside her house.
CHAPTER 22
AIM FOR THE HEAD, I REMINDED MYSELF AS I LINED up the sights. The center of the head—the surest kill. The gun felt solid in my hand, more solid than I felt within myself. As I took aim at the shadowy figure, I hoped I could borrow a bit of steadiness from the heavy weapon in my right hand. Sweat trickled down my forehead, pooling in my eyes and clouding my view, and I squinted to squeeze it out. Focus. Center of the head. Don’t rush your shot. My finger tightened against the trigger. Could I really shoot Garland Hamilton? Don’t forget what he tried to do to you, I told myself, yet still I hesitated. Don’t forget what he did to Jess, and what he might have done to Miranda. It was Hamilton, I felt sure, who’d attacked Miranda—the police had interviewed both Latham and Garcia, and had found their arms uninjured—so that left Hamilton the likely source of the assault and of the flowers that had preceded it. That did it. I pictured Jess’s body tied obscenely to another corpse, and Miranda laid out on the gurney, and the gun jumped in my hand as I yanked the trigger. “Die, you son of a bitch,” I hissed, “die.” I fired again and again, until the gun had nothing left to fire. My arm dropped to my side. I was trembling, I realized, and tears were streaming down my face.