his eyes to blot out the feeling of helplessness, for just a moment,
an instant, but instead, he felt a deep, soul-corroding fear that a man
should never have to feel in his damned life. It was fear for his
child, and the knowledge that he was helpless to save her.
It was Krimakov, he knew it, deep in his gut, he knew, and they
had cremated the body. No, Krimakov wasn’t dead–maybe he’d
staged his death, murdered another man who resembled him. He’d
somehow found out about Becca and he had begun his reign of
terror. There was no doubt at all in Thomas’s mind now. Krimakov,
a man who had sworn to cut Thomas’s heart out even if he had to
chase Thomas to hell to do it, had his Becca.
He lowered his face in his hands.
Chapter 20
He was aware of ear-splitting noise–men’s and women’s voices
yelling loudly, car tires screeching, horns blasting, and movement, she
could feel the blur of movement everywhere, pounding feet, running
fast. She was moving as well, no, she was flying, then she hit hard and
the pain ripped through her. She lay on her side, smelling the hot tar
of the street, a light overlay of urine, hot and sour, whiffs of food, of
too many bodies, feeling the unforgiving cement beneath her. Cement?
People were yelling, coming closer now, and there were men and
women shouting,”Stay back! Let us through!”
She tried to open her eyes, but her muscles were too weak,
wouldn’t obey her, and the pain was boiling up inside her. She was
so very tired, nearly blown under with it. Then she felt a hideously
sharp stab of pain somewhere in her body, fierce, unrelenting, and
she knew tears were leaking out of her eyes.
“Miss! Can you hear me?”
She felt his hand on her shoulder, felt the sun beating down on
her, hot on her bare skin–what bare skin? Her legs were bare, that
was it. But he was over her, a shadow blocking the sun.
“Miss? Can you hear me? Are you conscious?”
She opened her eyes then because he sounded so very afraid.
Yes,” she whispered, “I can hear you. I can see you. Not clearly, but I can see you.”
“My God, it’s her! It’s that Matlock woman!”
More shouting, yelling, some curses, and so much heat, the press
of bodies, the running thuds of shoes and boots.
A woman lightly tapped her cheek. “Open your eyes for me.
Yes, that’s right. Do you know who you are?”
She looked up into Letitia Gordon’s grim, incredulous face.
Maybe there was also a touch of worry in those unforgiving
eyes. Becca whispered to that hard face over her, “You’re the cop
who hates me. How can you be here, right over me, speaking to
me? You’re in New York, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and so are you.”
“No, that’s not possible. I was in Riptide. You know, I never
could figure out why you hated me and believed I was a liar.”
The woman’s face contorted. Into anger? What?
“He drugged me,” she whispered, her mouth so dry she nearly
swallowed her tongue. “He drugged me. I hurt so much but I just
can’t tell where.”
“All right. You’ll be all right. Hey, Dobbson, is the ambulance
here yet? Get off your butt, usher them through. Now!”
Letitia Gordon’s face was really close to hers now, her breath
minty on her cheek. “We’ll find out what’s happening here, Ms.
Matlock. You just rest now.”
She felt hands pulling cloth down over her legs. Why were her
legs bare? She realized then that there was pain in her legs. But it
wasn’t as bad as the other pain. Where was she? In New York? But
that made no sense. Nothing made sense. Her brain nestled back
into the shadows. The pain faded away. Becca sighed deeply and
closed down.
She heard them speaking, soft, quiet voices not four feet away
from her, talking, talking. Then they were closer, much closer, talk
ing above her, which meant what? She opened her eyes. Blinked.
She was flat on her back. The people speaking were on the left, and