Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

I rinsed my hair.

I shouldn’t do it. I’d promised Justin I’d be strong for our daughter. He’d pressed me in the cell, probably already suspecting something would go wrong with the ransom exchange, needing the reassurance that I could raise our child without him.

Just two pills, I thought. Enough to take the edge off. My whole body ached and I needed the rest. I would be a better parent if I got some rest.

I wondered if this was how my mother had felt, the look on her face every time she’d gazed at a pack of cigarettes. Knowing she shouldn’t. But feeling the weight of the world upon her shoulders, the burden of single parenthood. She worked so hard. She deserved at least a little treat.

Justin had died for me.

Shouldn’t I be able to give up Vicodin for him?

I turned off the water.

One pill. Just…one. To help manage my own withdrawal. The sensible thing to do.

I should.

I shouldn’t.

I would.

I wouldn’t.

I opened the shower door, reaching for a towel.

And found a man standing in my bathroom instead.

IT TOOK ME A MOMENT. Maybe a full minute, while I stood in the glass enclosure, water dripping from my naked body. Then he leered at me, and that did it. The eyes were the wrong color—deep brown instead of crazy blue. And the checkerboard hair had been shaved, replaced by a smooth skull. Finally, his clothes, from commando black to European upscale.

But his face, his mean, merciless face hadn’t changed one bit, not to mention the fresh bruise over his left eye where my daughter had nailed him with a walkie-talkie only hours earlier.

I grabbed the towel, held it in front of me. Not nearly a good enough defense as I stood, trapped in my own bathroom by the man who’d murdered my husband.

“Miss me?” Mick drawled. He leaned against the doorjamb, his massive shoulders effectively blocking my exit. He knew there was no place I could go, nothing I could do. He seemed content to savor the moment.

“How…?” I had to lick my lips to get the words out. My throat was dry, my thoughts racing. Ashlyn, asleep downstairs on the sofa. Please let her still be asleep.

Then: She’d asked for a gun. Why hadn’t I made it to the basement gun safe yet? Why hadn’t I retrieved firearms first, then climbed into the shower?

“But I changed the security codes…”

“We got our own override code. You’d have to know about it to deprogram it, and you didn’t know about it. My intel is better than your intel.” He smirked at some joke only he understood. “It’s called irony, babe.”

“The police are watching the house,” I tried.

“Yep. Two patrols, one front, one back. Alternating intervals. And not a problem, since I only required sixty seconds to punch in my access code, open your rear garage door, then close it again. Police return to a secure-looking residence, and everybody is happy.”

“You’re wrong. Two detectives are coming over any moment. There’s already been a new development in the case. That’s why I was showering, so I’d be ready to answer their questions.”

He stilled, cocking his head to one side while studying me. One second passed, then another.

“You’re bluffing,” he declared. “Nice try, though. I like to think I’m worth the effort.”

He lunged. So quick I didn’t even have time to gasp. I wanted to leap back, into the glass-enclosed shower, but that would only trap me and I didn’t think for a second hard shower tiles would keep him from doing what he planned on doing next.

I snapped out with my towel. Was rewarded by his sharp cry as I caught him in the side of the face, hopefully on his bruise. I whipped the towel again, except this time, he grabbed the end, yanking me toward him.

I let go, and the sudden loss of counterweight made him stagger back. I bolted, heading for the door, jabbing out with my elbows, trying to catch him in the head again as I passed.

He grabbed at my waist, but my damp skin slipped through his fingers. Then I was free, flying through the master bedroom, hurling things behind me.

I didn’t know where to go, what to do. Instinct propelled me down the stairs toward the lower foyer. The police were outside. I didn’t care that I was buck naked. If I could just reach the front door, bolt out into the street…

Ashlyn, asleep in the family room. I couldn’t leave her behind.

I heard the thunder of pounding footsteps. My own muffled sob as I tried to pick up steam, faster, faster, faster. Hadn’t I already run this race today? Hadn’t I already lost it?

I rounded the corner onto the bottom landing. Looked up. Caught a brief glimpse of Justin’s face. Set. Grim. Determined. Wait, not Justin, Ashlyn. My daughter, Ashlyn…

“Duck,” she said firmly.

I did, as she swung her father’s golf club with both arms straight at Mick’s descending form.

He roared, twisting at the last second, taking the hit in his shoulder. Then he was bellowing with pain as he wrenched the club from my daughter’s trembling hands and heaved it over his own head.

I threw myself back at him, catching him around the knees as he stood on the second step.

Off balance, he stumbled, releasing the golf club to grab at the railing instead.

Ashlyn and I were off again. Front door wasn’t going to work. Too many locks, not enough time. We headed for the kitchen, driven by some primitive instinct toward the room best stocked with makeshift weapons.

I’d read somewhere that women should never grab knives. We were too easily overpowered, then the knife was used against us. Better, the proverbial cast-iron frying pan, which required little skill to bash over your opponent’s skull.

I had my mother’s frying pan. I was already flinging open the lower cabinet, scrabbling for it, when Ashlyn yelped.

She’d halted by the center island, grabbing my purse and throwing it back. But Mick had dodged effortlessly and now had the hem of her oversize T-shirt fisted in his hand. My daughter wasn’t going down without a fight. She was throwing back her elbows, stomping down with her bare feet, screaming at the top of her lungs.

And I could tell, from eight feet away, that Mick was enjoying every second of it.

Inside the cabinet, my groping hand found its target. I closed my fingers around the handle of the heavy pan and withdrew it, straightening slowly and confronting a man I loathed.

In return, he let his gaze wander up and down my still-naked form.

Then, like a man tossing garbage, he threw my daughter against the center island and advanced.

“How’d you know?” he drawled. “I’ve always liked it rough.”

Ashlyn hit the island hard, her head colliding with the granite. Now, out of the corner of my eye, I watched as her body slid bonelessly to the floor.

Don’t look. Don’t be distracted. One opponent. One chance to get this right.

Mick charged.

Too soon, too fast, I thought, and instead of swinging my pan, I dashed right just in time for Mick to feint left. I darted out of the kitchen, moving away from my unconscious daughter, toward the living room. If I could topple a lamp, make a disturbance visible through the front windows, maybe the passing patrol car would see it. The uniformed officer would stop to check it out.

Mick was moving. Sidestepping right, then left, then ducking, then lunging. The sliding, shifting rush confused me. Up, down, right, left. I had my frying pan up, trying to be prepared for anything, for everything, as he suddenly dove low, caught me around the waist and crashed us both to the floor.

I went down hard, fingers still locked around the handle of my pan. I brought it down onto his head, hammering, hammering, hammering. Except Mick had used my own trick against me. He was in too close, I couldn’t get enough momentum in the swing to really hurt him. His face was buried between my naked breasts and now, as I beat against him ineffectually, I could hear him laughing into my chest.