“Not yet, but you’ll be the first to know. Simon said they’ll be back to me tonight. I’ll call you as soon as I have them. And no, I won’t knock it off. It’s time you got back to your life. It wasn’t your fault you had to shoot Martin. He attacked you, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like you were in love with the guy—”
“That’s enough!” Taylor was flushed and angry. She didn’t have time to rehash her own nightmares either, and she didn’t like it when Sam preached at her. She rose and put on her coat.
“I’m going home. Call me if you hear anything.”
Sam’s phone rang. She held up a finger. “Hold on. Let me get this first.” She put the phone to her ear. “Sam Owens. Yeah. Mmhmmm. You’re kidding. Really? That’s great, thanks so much. I’ll call you back in the morning.”
Taylor had her arms crossed on her chest, breathing heavily through her nose. “What is it?”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “You may change your tune about talking with Dr. Baldwin when you hear this.”
Twenty-Seven
“Garrett, I’m out. These Nashville people don’t need me, they know what they’re doing. Please, just…don’t call me again.”
Baldwin hung up on his old boss’s voicemail. He threw the phone toward the couch, where it bounced off and lay prone on the floor. He’d been fuming around his house for the past hour. He was as pissed at himself as he was at the damn homicide team. He knew Fitz was baiting him, trying to see if he could be taken seriously. He’d shown them, with no questions, he couldn’t. He was even more furious with himself that he gave a crap.
He reached for another beer and started to gulp. He finished in record time, even for him, the now professional drinker. He stared at the bottle, willing it to fill itself so he could just drown in it. It didn’t. He threw it across the room, satisfied when it shattered against the wall.
He felt the familiar calm sweep over him. He luxuriated in it. This wasn’t drunkenness; it was the finishing point. He’d felt it before, and knew what he needed to do.
He went back to the bedroom. His gun was on the nightstand, right where he’d left it. He picked it up, caressing the steel. Having it in his hand made him feel better, calmer. He’d made this decision before, when he started the game. He’d always given fate a little room for chance. Now he was acting on sheer, reckless bravado. He would no longer allow himself to be steered off course.
He walked with purpose back to the living room. He tidied up a bit, but left the broken shards where they were. Looking at them helped his tranquility; knowing he might be scattered carelessly over the wall above them gave him comfort.
Baldwin sat in his favorite chair, and didn’t waste any time. Tonight would be different, he could just feel it. He checked the speed loader to make sure the bullet was in place, leaned back, and gave the cylinder a vicious spin. Put the gun to his head.
Pulled the trigger at the very same moment someone started knocking on his door. The noise startled him, and the gun jerked. A bullet flew out of the 2-inch barrel of the Smith and Wesson at full velocity, grazing his cheek. He heard shouting and thought he recognized the voice. God, was that Taylor Jackson? What in the hell was she doing here?
His door crashed opened, and the homicide lieutenant flew into the room with her weapon drawn, looking wildly around.
Baldwin drew down on her purely by instinct. A worthless move on his part, considering the Winchester .38 bullet that had lived in solidarity in his gun for the past few weeks was now lodged in the wall of his living room. They faced each other, guns sighted point blank between the other’s eyes.
Taylor was the first to flinch. She slowly holstered her weapon, never letting her gaze stray from Baldwin’s face.
“Why don’t you put the gun down, Baldwin?” she said softly. “I’m not here to shoot you. Or to get shot. Come on, put it away. Christ, you’re bleeding.” She started toward him, still mindful of the gun trained at her head.
Baldwin started laughing. Taylor was caught short, then smiled cautiously. He lowered the weapon, and she quickly took it from his hand and tossed it into the kitchen. He was doubled over by now, hysterical with laughter.
“Baldwin, I think we need to get you to a hospital. You’re bleeding badly.”
He hiccupped, still snorting with mirth. “No, Taylor. No hospital. What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here?” He was calming down, but still held his sides as if he would explode.