Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

The embrace.

I broke free, made a grab for one of the guitars, Mexican-made Strat, a cheap one. Solid ash body. I swung it like a bat and hit him full face.

His knees gave way. He went down on his back. The knife flew through the air right at me. I dodged it, and it hit the floor, skittered away.

He stayed down, lying still, one leg curled beneath his body.

White filled the eyeholes of the ski mask. His breathing was rapid and steady.

I peeled back the mask, felt the fabric snag on whiskers. Gordon Shull’s rugged face looked as if he’d kissed a lawn mower.

A small voice behind me said, “Who is he?”

Robin, shaking, teeth chattering. I wanted to hold her but couldn’t. Shull had begun to stir and moan. He bore my full attention.

I searched for the knife, found it. Purpling of the steel blade snapped my attention at the wounded man I’d jumped over when I came in.

Kevin Drummond? A two-man game?

How had Robin gotten the best of him?

His chest was inert. The blood pool had widened.

“Oh my God, we have to help him,” said Robin.

I thought that was curious, said, “Call 911.” She ran out and I went to examine Drummond. Dark hair, no mask. Faint pulse in his neck. I rolled his head carefully.

Not Drummond. Eric Stahl.

The blood beneath him was copious, rich red, syrupy. His skin was taking on that green-gray cast. I ripped off my coat and set it gently beneath the wound. I saw no signs of respiration, but his pulse was still going.

I said, “Keep going, Eric, you’re doing great.” Because you never know what they hear.

Several feet away, Shull stirred again. His bent leg quivered.

I jumped to my feet just as Allison appeared in the doorway.

“He’s the bad guy,” I said. “This one’s a cop. Robin’s calling 911, make sure she’s okay.”

“She’s on the phone with them right now. She’s doing fine.” She walked in carefully. Stepping around the blood on her deep green Jimmy Choo’s.

Little chrome friend in her hand. Cool, unwavering appraisal in her blue eyes.

Not afraid. Annoyed.

Shull groaned and flexed his right hand. His eyes opened. Allison was at his side in a flash.

Shull tried to punch her but his fingers refused to clench. Hers didn’t. She hit his arm hard, pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple.

“You need to be quiet or I’ll shoot you,” she said, in the calm voice of a therapist.

Petra hung out in the ICU observation area, doing nothing. The closest she’d gotten to Eric was looking at him through the glass wall.

No new information since an hour ago when the trauma surgeon, a good-looking guy named LaVigne who looked like a TV doctor, had told her, “He’ll probably make it.”

“Probably?”

“He’s not in imminent danger right now, but with abdominal wounds, you never know. The key is preventing infection. There’s also the blood loss. He’s almost been totally replaced. He was in shock, out, could go in again.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Something in her tone made LaVigne frown. “I’m being honest.”

“Only way to be.” She turned her back on him.

Shortly after that, Milo came by with Rick, and he used his MD credentials to read the chart, confer with the staff behind closed doors.

He came out, looking doctorly, and said, “No promises, but my instinct is he’ll pull through.”

“Great,” said Petra, drained, weak, useless, guilty. Thinking: Hope your instincts are worth a damn.

When she stepped out into the waiting room, the only other person there was a blond woman in her midthirties, sitting in a corner with a copy of Elle , wearing a tight, black, ribbed turtleneck, equally snug white jeans, high-heeled sandals, pink toenails. This one had it all: the hair, the chest, a once-flawless face now only terrific.

Dress for distress.

She and Petra exchanged glances then Petra sat down and the woman said, “Excuse me are you a… police person?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman stood and walked over. Petra recognized her fragrance. Bal a Versailles. Lots of it. Pink nails, too. A lighter pearlescent shade. She wrung her hands nonstop.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m a… I know Eri- Detective Stahl. The hospital called me because he had my number on a piece of paper in his pocket, and they…”

The woman trailed off.

Petra stood and extended her hand. “Petra Connor.”

“Kathy Magary. Is he all right?”

“He’s doing better, Kathy.”

Magary let out a long whiff of spearmint breath. “Thank goodness.”

“You and Eric are friends?”

“More like acquaintances.” Magary was blushing. “I mean we just met. That’s why he had my number. You know.”

Stahl, you Don Juan. May you live long enough to keep surprising me.

Petra said, “Sure.”

Magary said, “I mean I didn’t know if I should come over. But they called me. I felt kind of… an obligation?”

“Eric needs friends,” said Petra.

The woman seemed confused. Given the circumstances, that seemed the appropriate state of mind.

“I do hope he gets okay. He’s a nice guy.”

“He is.”

“What… exactly happened?”

“Eric was involved in a police incident,” said Petra. “Apprehending a suspect. He got stabbed in the abdomen.”

Magary’s hand flew to her perfect mouth. “Omigod! All they told me is he was hurt. And then, when I got here, they said I couldn’t go inside.” Pointing to the ICU door. “I guess you got in because you’re a police person.”

“I’m his partner,” said Petra.

“Oh.” Magary’s eyes got wet. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“He’s going to be all right,” said Petra with phony confidence. Magary relaxed and smiled.

“That’s great!”

Maybe, thought Petra, I picked the wrong career. There’s always telemarketing.

Magary said, “I guess I’ll go now. Think it’s okay if I come back tomorrow? Maybe he’ll be better, and I can go in there?”

“It’s more than okay, Kathy. Like I said, he needs all the support he can get.”

Something about that knocked Magary down a notch. “It’s still real bad, isn’t it? Even though he’s going to make it.”

“He incurred a serious injury. He’s getting really good care.”

“Good,” said Magary. “The only doctor I know is my orthopedist. I’m a dancer.”

“Ah,” said Petra.

“Well,” said Magary. “I’ll be going. I’ll come back tomorrow. If Eric wakes up, tell him I was here.” She kissed her fingertips, waved them at the ICU door. Smiled at Petra and sashayed down the hall.

Shortly after that, Petra spotted Dr. LaVigne exit an elevator, talking to two gray-haired people. The three of them stopped and continued their conversation out of her earshot.

The man was in his sixties, short, slight, wore a brown sport coat, a white shirt under a tan sweater, and pressed beige slacks. Gray crew cut, steel-rimmed glasses. The woman was tiny- maybe five feet tall, also slender. Blue sweater, gray slacks.

LaVigne said something that made both of them nod. They followed him past Petra, into the ICU. LaVigne emerged a half hour later, ignoring Petra as he hurried by. A quarter hour after that, the gray-haired couple came out.

Petra had been slumped in a horrid orange Naughahyde chair that squeaked every time she exhaled. Trying to chase away her thoughts by reading a magazine. The words might as well have been Swahili.

The woman said, “Detective Connor?”

Petra stood.

“We’re Eric’s parents. This is the Reverend Stahl, and I’m Mary.”