Elisabeth Rees - Lethal Exposure

He turned onto Charles Street. “I’m here. Just hang on a little longer.” He had no idea if Rebecca could hear his voice over the speaker of the cell phone on the bathroom floor, but it didn’t matter. Talking to her made him feel more reassured. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. This was one promise he intended to keep no matter what, and the welfare of Rebecca and her children would always be his top priority.

He screeched to a halt outside her home. The front lawn was well-manicured, and the wooden exterior of the large house was pristine white. There was no sign of anything being wrong on this leafy Florida street. He grabbed his cell phone from the dash and slipped it into the top pocket of his linen shirt, making sure he kept the line open. Then he pulled a handgun from his glove compartment and exited the car, making his way quickly and silently to the front door. The door was closed but opened easily with a gentle push. The lock was lying neatly on the carpet where someone had gone to considerable trouble to disassemble it in order to gain entry. This guy was a professional.

The house was shrouded in darkness, and the only noise to be heard was the slow tick of the mantel clock in a living room strewn with papers and files from Rebecca’s cabinets. He noticed some of her award-winning prints amongst the clutter—photos of Somalian soldiers holding guns aloft, images of Chechen children caught up in a war they didn’t understand, pictures of ordinary Afghan people trying to rebuild their lives among the chaos of conflict. Rebecca captured more than the scene itself. She captured the pain in people’s eyes and the humanity behind the headlines. Her dedication to photographing suffering in the world humbled him, and to see her life’s work discarded on the floor made his anger bubble to the surface. Jack found himself hoping that the intruder had hightailed it out of there, lest he let his anger get the better of him.

Creaks on the floor above let him know that someone was walking through one of the bedrooms with hurried footsteps. He ascended the stairs with soundless movement, keeping one ear trained on any noise coming from the cell phone in his pocket. The dragging noises in the bathroom had ceased. He hoped it was a good sign.

Then the house was filled with sounds of dull, repetitive thudding, reverberating through the air on a menacing wave. It was coming from Rebecca’s bedroom, where she was hiding in the adjacent bathroom. He took the last few steps in one bound and burst into her bedroom to see a masked man bringing his foot heavily against the barricaded bathroom door. In one hand, the man held a semiautomatic pistol, raised level with his shoulder. Jack’s sudden presence in the room caused him to jump back from the door and point his gun, ready to shoot.

Jack dived to the side before the bullet had a chance to seek him out, and he saw Rebecca’s closet door splinter with a powerful impact. He rolled and sprang to his feet, running out into the hallway to see the black-clad man dart into Rebecca’s youngest daughter’s bedroom. The intruder yanked open the window with such force that the frame slammed into the casing, shattering the glass on impact. The guy let out an expletive and tried to force the remaining shards through the frame with his gloved hands, ready to make a quick getaway.

Jack took his opportunity and ran to the doorway, firing a warning shot into the wall right next to the man. The suspect immediately raised his hands in the air, shuffling on his sneakered feet, crunching on the glass beneath.

Jack looked at the shards scattered on Charlotte’s dollhouse, and his anger intensified. “You should be grateful the little girl who sleeps in this room isn’t here,” he said through gritted teeth. “What do you want with this family?”

The man didn’t answer. And neither did he turn around. He remained standing with his back to Jack, hands aloft, still holding his gun.

“Put the gun on the floor,” Jack ordered. “Slowly.”

The man began to steadily lower his arms and bend his knees to squat down on the floor.

“Jack.” Rebecca’s voice was faltering behind him. In his peripheral vision, he could see her walking hesitantly into the hallway.

He didn’t remove his eyes from the intruder, who was taking his time to lower his weapon to the floor. “You okay, Rebecca?”

He felt her hand come to rest on his shoulder and glanced down at it. Streaks of blood stained his shirt, and he momentarily let his guard slip.

“You’re hurt,” he exclaimed, taking her hand and holding it in his. He flipped his eyes back up to the suspect and was faced with an empty space. It had taken the guy barely a second to vault through the broken glass. Jack ran to the window and saw the man scrambling down a tree alongside the house. His wiry figure was illuminated by the flashing red-and-blue lights of the police car that had turned onto the street. He turned to race from the room in hot pursuit, but Rebecca gripped his forearm.

“Let him go, Jack,” she said. “The police will pick him up.” She looked at him intently. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

He saw the fear on her face and gave a small nod of his head. He couldn’t leave her when she needed him. He put his gun down and lifted her bloodied hand in his. There was a long cut that snaked down her forefinger to her thumb.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “I cut myself trying to move the shelf in the bathroom.” She laughed weakly. “When I bought it, I never thought I’d be moving it to use as a barricade.”

He took her noninjured hand and led her into the main bathroom. He flipped the light switch before remembering that the power was out, and he used his cell phone to activate a flashlight. He sat her on the edge of the bathtub, pulled a clean towel from the rack and wetted it a little to wrap around her wound. He then positioned himself on bended knee to hold the towel tight against the cut. Her usually honey-warm skin looked pale with a streak of blood across her forehead. He often thought that her skin had a luminous quality, and it seemed to sparkle when the sun shone down on her. Her eyes were the palest blue he’d ever known, in stark contrast to her dark, almost black hair. To say she was striking was a vast understatement. But at that moment her radiance was fading, and she looked exhausted.

He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’ve been in a lot worse situations that this.”

He tried to raise a smile. “Haven’t we all?” He immediately regretted saying these words, worried that she might think he was referring to the day that neither of them had ever spoken of—the day when her world stopped. She didn’t need reminding of that, not now.

“It’s fine, Jack,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here. Ian would be really grateful.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m really grateful.”

He held her hand, smoothing her fingers with his own, wondering how she always seemed to know what he was thinking.

A uniformed deputy appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Grey?”

She looked up. “Yes.”

The light in the bathroom suddenly flicked on, as did the lamp in the hallway. “Someone tripped your fuse box,” the deputy said. “My partner fixed it.”

Jack stood up. “Did you catch the guy?”

The deputy raised his eyebrows. “What guy?”

Jack ran his fingers through his hair. “The guy clambering down the tree in the front yard.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see him.”

The deputy straightened his shoulders. “And who might you be, sir?”

“Conrad Jackson. I’m a friend of Rebecca’s. She called me after your patrol car drove past her house on its way to Charleston Road.”