The Perfect Victim

"It wasn't your fault."

 

Ignoring her, he drove like a madman through the silent streets of Siloam Springs.

 

"Your knuckles are bleeding. Jesus, you're shaking. Let me drive—"

 

The truck came out of nowhere. He mashed his foot down on the brake. The car slid sideways, barely missing the truck, and screeched to a halt, jerking them hard against their safety belts.

 

Randall stared blindly through the windshield, taking short, shallow breaths. "They shot him. Then they fucking burned him."

 

"Oh, no. Randall ... I'm sorry."

 

He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look into her clear, dark eyes and see her innocence marred by horror and ugliness. But closer to the truth, he didn't Want her to see the blackness that lay in his own heart. The need for revenge. For murder.

 

For blood.

 

 

 

Chapter 17

 

 

At four A.M., the usually bustling halls of St. Joseph Hospital were hushed with a serenity too precarious to acknowledge. Though she'd never been seriously ill, Addison harbored an irrational dislike of hospitals. It had been in another hospital ten months earlier that she'd been informed of her parents' deaths.

 

She remembered with perfect clarity the mercurial silence, the buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights, the smell of isopropyl alcohol and disinfectant, and other unfathomable odors as the on-call physician had relayed the news. She remembered the paging system blaring in the background, the squeak of a nurse's rubber-soled shoes against tile, the cool quiet of the room where she'd slowly lost control.

 

This was almost as bad.

 

She couldn't stop thinking about Jack. The terror he must have felt. The helplessness. The pain. She found it inconceivable that anyone could commit such a ruthless act, especially against a man in a wheelchair. She hated the dark side of human nature she'd witnessed in the last week.

 

She worried about the way Randall was handling it. He'd barely spoken during the endless flights that had taken them from Dayton to Chicago to Denver. Though he tried to conceal it, Addison sensed the fear and the barely controlled rage seething just below the surface. She instinctively knew control was important to him—just as she knew he was clinging to its remnants by a thread. She supposed his need for control was why he'd had such a difficult time dealing with his diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. It only frustrated her more that she couldn't seem to reach him.

 

Beyond exhaustion, she struggled to keep up as he strode into the surgical intensive care unit. Once through the set of double doors, he made straight for the brightly lit nurses’ station in the center of the ward.

 

His face looked strained beneath the stark lights, the angles and planes of his features giving him a menacing appearance. A day's growth of black whiskers darkened his jaw. He looked like a man who'd been living on the edge for so long he'd forgotten how to find his way back.

 

There was a dangerous recklessness in his eyes she'd never seen before. A wildness in his manner that made her wonder just how close he was to snapping. Something frightening and powerful had been unleashed inside him, and she feared for anyone who crossed him.

 

Neither of the two nurses noticed when they reached the station. Randall put his hands on the counter. "I need to see Jack Talbot," he announced in a voice that dared either of the women to cross him.

 

A nurse with pretty eye's and short brown hair rose from her stool and smiled tiredly. Her name tag identified her as Susan Morris. A button pinned onto her uniform read: I CAN BE DIFFICULT.

 

"Are you family?" she asked, coming around the counter.

 

"He's my brother," Randall's voice was hoarse and hostile.

 

A quick look told Addison he was quickly nearing the end of his endurance. She wished she could do something to comfort him, but so far her efforts had been rejected.

 

"How's he doing?" she asked.

 

The nurse grimaced. "They brought him up from surgery about three hours ago. He's awake and aware. Vitals are stable." She looked at Randall. "His condition is still critical, but you can see him if you want."

 

They followed her to a room down the hall. Outside the door, she picked up the chart, made a note, and then slipped into the room.

 

Randall turned to Addison. "Wait here," he said.

 

Before she could stop herself, she raised her hand and touched the side of his face. A jolt of emotion swept through her when he winced. Such a strong man, she thought. More vulnerable than she'd ever realized and in so much pain.

 

"Are you all right?" She knew he wouldn't tell her the truth. She knew he wasn't all right. That he wouldn't be all right until this nightmare was over. Looking deeply into his eyes, she wished there was a way she could ease his pain, take away the guilt, but there wasn't. All she could do was be there for him.

 

Surprising her, he closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into her palm. It was the first offer of comfort he'd accepted. A wan smile touched the comers of his mouth. "Better," he said and walked into the room.

 

*

 

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