"You family?" she asked.
"I'm all he's got." Randall felt the detective's eyes on him as he headed for the front door.
"We'll send someone over to the hospital for a statement, Talbot," Murphy shouted.
Randall had already forgotten Detective Murphy by the time he climbed into the ambulance.
*
Sound drifted in and out of her consciousness like a lazy, meandering tide. The rhythmic thud of her heart beat. The ticking of a clock somewhere nearby. An occasional creak.
She was lying on her side with her knees drawn up to her chest. Softness cradled her body. The air around her was too cool for comfort and held the distinct smell of dampness. Her mouth felt gritty and dry, as though someone had filled it with sand, then hastily emptied it. A gentle throbbing emanated from the base of her skull.
Her thoughts floated to Randall. Broken pieces of memory hovered just out of reach. She remembered the restaurant. Two shadows moving through the front door. Guns being raised. Deafening blasts.
The memory struck her like an electrical shock. Vivid images of the shooting flew at her like jagged shards. She bolted upright, a cry escaping her. Terror hammered through her. Nausea hit her like a fist to the stomach.
Randall.
She whispered his name: Involuntary. Instinctive. Clutching the bedpost, Addison sat up and blinked at her surroundings.
She was in an oddly shaped bedroom with unusually low ceilings. The lighting was muted, giving the wood paneling a rich, coffee brown patina. A vase of fresh-cut roses sat on the black marble surface of the built-in bureau. Opposite, a flat-screen television was recessed into the wall. Full darkness had fallen beyond tiny round windows.
Despite the opulent furnishings, the room was as stark and austere as a funeral parlor. It was an oppressive room, filled with all the extravagances of a lush hotel, soured by the smell of her own fear. She felt claustrophobic, as though the intricately carved panels were closing in on her. Where in God's name was she?
It was the slight rocking motion that finally conveyed she was onboard some kind of boat or ship. A glance at her watch told her she'd been unconscious for just over an hour. Despair settled over her like a dark cloud. For the first time in her life, Addison felt utterly and completely vulnerable. Helpless. For several minutes, she sat on the edge of the bed and trembled, trying to absorb what had happened, struggling valiantly to maintain control. To lose control now would mean to accept defeat. She vowed never to surrender, especially to Garrison Tate.
She knew firsthand what he was capable of. He'd murdered four innocent people. He'd almost killed Jack. She'd watched his thugs gun down Clint Holsapple.
Oh, dear God, she'd watched them gun down Randall.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the images, steeling herself against the sight of him jerking and crumbling. She raised her hands and looked at the dried blood caked around her fingernails and the creases of her palms. She wondered if it was his. A wave of hysteria bubbled inside her. Had his vest protected him? Or had the bullet struck his head or neck where an injury would mean instant death? Feeling her own vest press uncomfortably against her breasts, she felt only minutely reassured.
Holding her knuckles to her mouth, she told herself she hadn't lost him. He wasn't dead; he couldn't be. He was too strong. Their love was too strong. There was no way love could simply cease to exist. The world wasn't that cruel. God wasn't that cruel.
Refusing to give in to the doubts, she took a quick mental tally of her physical condition. Except for the throbbing in her head and badly skinned knees, she was uninjured. Her coat had been removed and draped across her, but she was shivering with cold. She glanced down at her clothes, appalled by the sight of bloodstains on her slacks.
"Oh, God." She pressed her hands against her cheeks.
"Take it easy," she whispered, determined to stay in control. "Just ... take it easy. Don't lose it."
Abruptly, the thought struck her that she'd been spared. Why hadn't he killed her when he'd had the chance? Why was she here? She knew he wouldn't let her live. Not now. Not when she could tell the world what she knew. What could Tate possibly have in mind for her?
The question made her shiver.
*
"Clint." Randall was so close he could smell blood. "Dammit, Clint, talk to me."
From the paramedic's seat next to the gurney, the young woman monitored Clint's vital signs. Outside, the siren blared like a banshee.
Randall watched as she inserted a needle into the I.V. line and depressed the plunger. "How's he doing?" he asked.
Shaking her head, she adjusted the amount of fluid dripping through the line. "He's pretty critical," she said with a grimace. ''There's a trauma team on standby at the hospital."
When he turned back to Clint, he was surprised to see the other man's eyes open. "Jesus, Clint."
Clint's eyes were glassy and strangely unfocused.