In the shadows, Jensen grinned and took careful aim. Verraday summoned the last of his strength and despite the grogginess and waves of pain surging through him, kicked with his one good leg at Jensen. He caught her hard on the shin, heard her groan with pain, felt his kick throwing her balance off an instant before the knife left her hand. He watched it tumble end over end toward Maclean as she emerged onto the landing.
Maclean saw it at the last moment, the realization so sudden that her face didn’t even have a chance to register surprise. Jensen’s aim had been thrown off just enough that when Maclean dropped down to the left, the knife whizzed past her cheek, missing her by a hand’s width. The uniformed officer directly behind Maclean never saw the knife coming, and he didn’t have time to react. The blade caught him in the throat, less than three inches above the top of his bulletproof vest. Verraday saw the look of surprise on the officer’s face, then his hand going up, almost in disbelief, feeling where the knife had penetrated. It was Bosko. Or so he thought. He wasn’t certain if he was hallucinating now from shock and blood loss.
Jensen ducked through the doorway of the study. Maclean was still recovering her balance but managed to fire off a quick volley from the Glock. The light in the hallway was dim, and though Verraday was partially blinded by the muzzle flash, he saw wood splinters fly as Maclean’s shots tore through the door that Jensen was slamming shut and locking behind her. He heard Jensen moan, then from within his study, the sound of a window shattering. Maclean sprang at the door, breaking it open on the first kick. He saw Maclean enter his study, pistol at the ready. She returned to the hall a moment later and pulled out her handheld radio.
“Dispatch, this is Detective Constance Maclean. I need EMS and backup. I’ve got an officer down with a knife wound, a wounded civilian in the home, plus a wounded suspect outside on the front walkway.”
From where he was lying, Verraday could see that Bosko was losing blood rapidly through the gash in his throat. Maclean leaned down to Verraday, pausing just long enough to pull the duct tape back from his mouth.
“Where did she cut you?”
“In the shoulder, hand, abdomen, and leg. No major arteries or organs though, I don’t think. She was trying to take her time.”
“Okay, hold tight,” said Maclean. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
She was already sprinting toward Bosko. She knelt beside the downed officer and applied compression to the wound in his throat. It was bad. Bosko had bled so much it had soaked through the carpet and was beginning to pool on top of it. Bosko’s eyes were closed now, his face expressionless. Probably unconscious from loss of blood, thought Verraday.
“Stay with me, stay with me,” he heard Maclean say. “Help is on the way. You’re gonna make it. You’re both gonna make it.”
Verraday felt a tingling sensation that started in his feet and quickly spread through the rest of his body. It was pleasant. It was, he realized, the sensation of the blood coursing through him. He wasn’t sure if it meant he was living or dying. He felt fear now, not just pain. His heart began to race. He felt it miss a beat, recover its rhythm, then miss another beat. He didn’t know if he was drifting into life or death. He pushed that thought away, focused on his breath, drew it in, counting the numbers off slowly. He heard distant sirens then felt his consciousness slipping away. The darkness began to envelop him. He released his breath one last time, closed his eyes, felt the tingling warmth. Whatever was happening, he’d resigned himself to it. He let go and allowed himself to be carried away into the void.
CHAPTER 34
Verraday gradually, reluctantly became aware of a bright light, so bright that even with his eyelids clamped shut, it seemed to penetrate directly into his optical nerves. He tried to raise his hands to block it, but found that he couldn’t move them. He tried to turn his head away but discovered that he couldn’t do that either. In fact, his body seemed to have taken leave of his consciousness. Maybe this is what people meant by “going into the light,” he thought.
The light grew in intensity as he gained consciousness, which, through his tightly closed lids, created the effect that he was staring into an orangey-red color field. He tried to speak but his tongue was thick and heavy. He felt like his throat was lined with sandpaper. So he groaned his annoyance instead.
“He always this happy to be alive?” a male voice asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ve only known him for a couple of weeks now,” replied a female voice archly. He recognized it and began to smile. Despite the blinding light, he struggled to open his eyes so he could see the face that went with that voice. When at last he had managed a squint, he saw Maclean and a doctor in a white medical coat silhouetted against a bright afternoon sky in an airy hospital room.
“This is Dr. Wellesley,” said Maclean. “He’s the surgeon who saved your life.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Verraday. “Figures, the one sunny day we’ve had since September, and I slept through most of it.”