Morgan Hayes - See No Evil

Maybe she’d try talking to him again, Stevie thought when at last she found the black duffel bag and shouldered it. Bracing herself to face the winter storm, she was about to leave when she saw the light upstairs. Gary’s office door was open, and the overhead fluorescents from inside glared coldly against the subdued night-lighting throughout the rest of the building.

Stevie shook her head as she checked her watch. That was Gary. Almost ten o’clock, and he was still at his desk. She was smiling to herself as she took the stairs to the upper-level catwalk and headed toward the office. Gary had always bragged about being able to outdo even a diehard workaholic like Stevie.

Well, if she had her way tonight, she’d convince him to take some time off. Maybe she’d even speak to his friend Allister herself, get him to side with her.

Stevie’s smile dissolved the moment she reached the office doorway. Gary’s name caught in her throat and the room seemed to tilt in slow motion as shock and disbelief washed over her. She saw the devastation of the office. She saw the smears of blood. And then she saw Gary.

He lay in a crumpled heap amongst blood-soaked files and papers; his face was turned away from her. One tentative step was as far as she got before her peripheral vision caught a sudden flash of red. It came from just inside the door to her right. She gasped and spun around, dropping her bag.

In an instant she registered the man’s bloodied hands, gloved fingers gripping the neck of a fire extinguisher. Gary’s blood, she knew. There was more of it on the man’s shirt, and a crimson streak along one high cheekbone. She saw the dark hair, the tanned face and raging black eyes.

He’d killed Gary. And he was going to kill her, too.

Stevie ran.

He yelled something after her, but she couldn’t make it out over the slamming of her hard-soled boots on the steel grating.

And then she felt the vibrations of the catwalk. He was coming after her.

She couldn’t afford to look back. She had to focus on the stairs. Get to the stairs, then through the main loading area and to the side door. She wouldn’t need the keys; pushing the handrail would unlock it. Then the car, and she’d be home free.

Frantically she slid one hand into her coat pocket and grabbed the Volvo’s keys.

Only another five yards to the stairs. She could make it.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her lungs screamed for air. And all the time, the walkway shook beneath her feet.

He had to be right behind her now.

Without slowing, Stevie readied her keys between her fingers. She’d be prepared if she couldn’t outrun him.

But the thought had barely formed in her mind when she felt his hand on her shoulder. The vicelike grip stopped her dead in her tracks.

She heard him say something. It sounded like “Wait,” but she couldn’t be sure. It was now or never. She had to defend herself. She had to swing at him before he had the opportunity to overpower her.

She brought the fistful of keys up—but he was too fast. With one forceful jerk, he spun her in the opposite direction. The smooth leather soles of her boots were useless against the hard surface of the catwalk. And in that critical moment, they slid out from under her.

She pitched backward, flailing for anything to stop her fall. For an instant she imagined herself plunging to her death on the concrete floor two stories below. That was before the pain, blinding excruciating pain that pierced through her head from the base of her skull. She slumped to the steel grating.

The shadows around her reeled and blurred. She heard the distant whir of the industrial ceiling fans spinning lazily farther up in the rafters, coupled with an intensifying buzz in her head, and then his voice.

“Oh, God. Stay with me now. Do you hear me? Stay with me.”

He was kneeling over her. A pallid finger of light from the dimmed lamps high above touched one side of his face as he came closer. And in that split second, through a semiconscious haze, Stevie saw the scar, a jagged scar, along the man’s left temple, twisting down from the corner of his eyebrow to the top of his chiseled cheekbone.

She didn’t think about death then. Nor did her life flash before her eyes as she’d always expected it would. Instead, it was the man’s scar. Absurdly, in that last shred of consciousness, Stevie wondered what might have caused such a scar.

And then, finally, the blackness swallowed her.

BENEATH HIS FINGERTIPS, the woman’s pulse fluttered rhythmically. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Allister withdrew his hand from the silken smoothness of her neck and eased her head to one side. Fearing the worst, he feathered his fingers back through her sleek, jet black hair, searching for injuries.

There was a small gash, hardly worthy of stitches, and a rapidly swelling lump. It would be pretty painful, he guessed, given the force with which she’d struck the railing when she’d lost her balance.

Lost her balance. Allister shook his head. No, her fall had had more to do with his manhandling than any action of her own. He’d been so determined to stop her, to explain why he was in Gary’s office and why he’d appeared poised to swing a fire extinguisher down on her head, that Allister had grabbed for her without any thought beyond selfpreservation.

Now she lay on the shadowed catwalk, unconscious, and most likely concussed. She needed medical attention. Even in his own panicked state, he recognized that.

It was one thing to leave Gary at the warehouse and remove himself from the crime scene for fear of being framed by Bainbridge; there was nothing he could do for Gary. But it was quite another to leave this woman here. He couldn’t do that.

Allister paced the distance between her and the office door, uncertain of his next move but knowing he had to do something. Finally he saw the black duffel bag. He picked it up. Giving her another sidelong glance, he unzipped it. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for, but when he brushed aside the nylon flap, Allister saw the Nikon.

This woman, no doubt, was Stevie Falcioni.

Allister looked at her again. Her right arm was stretched out toward him, her slender fingers partially curled. It was as if she was reaching for him. And the way her delicate face was angled, the tenuous light from the overhead lamps lending a warmth to her unconscious expression, only served to increase that impression.

No, he couldn’t leave her here, even if he placed an anonymous call to the police. Whoever had beaten the life out of Gary could still be on the premises. Gary had said Bainbridge didn’t have the coins. And when Allister had asked about the shipment’s whereabouts, Gary had mentioned Stevie. Chances were good that Gary’s killer would be back to look for the package—if he wasn’t still here.

Allister slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and knelt beside Stevie. Slipping his gloves on again, he realized the risk he was about to take. Yes, there was the very real threat of being framed by Bainbridge. And in all likelihood, the police would not believe his story once they’d placed him at the scene of Gary’s murder. Then there was Stevie Falcioni; it was going to take some pretty creative explaining to convince her that he hadn’t been trying to kill her when, mistaking her for Gary’s assailant, he’d come at her with the fire extinguisher. But given the circumstances, he thought as he lifted her limp body from the catwalk and shifted her weight against his chest, he would have to run those risks.

The stairs were the trickiest. After Allister maneuvered them, he found carrying Stevie through the warehouse to the side door relatively easy. Outside, the storm had risen to its full force; the wind howled and the snow had turned to biting pellets of ice. After struggling briefly with the passenger door of the Explorer, Allister eased Stevie onto the seat. He reclined it, then fumbled with the seat-belt clip until he heard it catch.