Free Lost by Michael Robotham

up and pul his arm through the wheel of the chair. Spinning it a half turn, I jam his wrist against the frame. Another quarter turn wil snap it like a pencil.
    He is flailing now, trying to reach me with his other fist. I keep twisting away from him, with the chair between us.
    “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
    Cursing and struggling, his mask is nearly off. Suddenly, he changes his point of attack and sinks his fist into my damaged leg, grinding his knuckles into the bandaged flesh.
    The pain is unbelievable and white spots dance in front of my eyes. I spin the wheelchair sideways, trying to escape. At that same moment I hear the crack of his wrist breaking. He groans.
    Both of us are on the floor. He launches a kick at my chest, sending me backward. My head slams against the wal . Up on his knees, he grips me by the back of my shirt with his good hand and tries to drag me toward the lift shaft. I kick at the floor with my one good leg and wrap my fingers around the harness on his jacket. I'm not letting go.
    Exhaustion is slowing us down. He wants to kil me. I want to survive. He has strength and stamina. I have fear and bloody-mindedness.
    “Listen, Tarzan, this isn't working,” I say, sucking in air between each word. “The only way I'm going down that hole is if you go with me.”
    “Go to hel ! You broke my fucking wrist!”
    “And someone shot me in the leg. You see me crying?”
    Somewhere below us an engine grinds into motion. The lifts are moving. He glances up at the numbers above the door. Scrambling to his feet, he stumbles down the corridor, carrying his busted wrist as though it's already in a sling. He is going to escape down the stairs. There is nothing I can do.
    Reaching for my shirt pocket I feel for the smal yel ow tablet. My fingers are too large for such a delicate task. I have it now, squeezed between my thumb and forefinger . . . now it's on my tongue.
    The adrenaline leaks away and my eyelids flutter like moth wings on wet glass. Someone wants me dead. Isn't that strange?
    I listen to the lifts rise and the murmur of voices. Pointing down the corridor, I mumble, “Help Maggie.”

    6
    There are police patrol ing the corridors, interviewing staff and taking photographs. I can hear Campbel berating some poor doctor about hampering a police investigation. He makes it sound like a hanging offense.
    The morphine is wearing off and I'm shaking. Why would someone want to kil me? Maybe I witnessed a murder on the river. Maybe I shot someone. I don't remember.
    Campbel opens the door and I get a sense of déjà vu—not about the place but the conversation that's coming. He takes a seat and gives me one of his ultra-mild smiles.
    Before he can speak I ask about Maggie.
    “She's in a room downstairs. Someone gave her a broken nose and two black eyes. Was it you?”
    “No.”
    He nods. “Yeah, that's what she said. You want to tel me what happened?”
    I go through the whole story—tel ing him about “Fireman Sam” and the wheelchair sprint down the corridor. He seems happy enough with the details.
    “What did the cameras pick up?”
    “Sod al . He blacked out the lenses with spray paint. We got one image from the nursing station but no face behind the mask. You didn't recognize him?”
    “No.”
    He looks disgusted.
    “I'm convinced this has something to do with Mickey Carlyle,” I tel him. “Someone sent a ransom demand. I think that's why I was on the river—”
    “Mickey Carlyle is dead.”
    “But what if we got it wrong?”
    “Bul shit! We got it right.”
    “There must have been proof of life.”
    Campbel knows about this. He's known al along.
    “IT'S A HOAX!” he rasps. “Nobody believed any of it except you and Mrs. Carlyle. A grieving mother I can understand—but you!” His fingers curl and uncurl. “You were the officer in charge of a successful murder prosecution yet you chose to believe a hoax that cast doubt on the outcome. First you ordered a DNA test and then