him, she’d responded to a call from a concerned neighbor who had heard screams from the apartment next door; and as with him, when she and her partner had announced themselves as police officers, the husband had opened fire. Unlike her father, she had been lucky.
“You weren’t hit that first time, were you?”
“No.”
“Did it frighten you?”
“Not really,” Rebecca replied, wondering where he was going. “It happened quickly, and then it was over. We fired over his head, he threw out the gun, and we were on him in a second. There was nothing to be afraid of.”
“Did you think about it later?”
“No.”
“Dream about it?”
“No.”
“What about this time?”
It had been different this time. She’d known it was coming. She’d been prepared for it from the second that she’d stepped into the dark, cavernous room. She’d been looking right at Raymond Blake while he held a gun to Catherine’s temple. She could see him now as clearly as she had that night. He’d been twitchy, raving, and she knew there wasn’t much time. She wanted him to focus on her; he had to be angry at her; he had to move the weapon from Catherine’s head and put it on her . She knew exactly what would happen, exactly what was coming, as she goaded and taunted him into turning the semiautomatic on her.
“No.”
“What do you remember about it?”
“Not much,” she answered, sitting relaxed in the chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. “It was only a minute or two.”
He opened the file, shuffled a few papers, glanced down for a few seconds as if reading, then regarded her neutrally. “The report from Detective Watts says that you and the suspect—Blake—exchanged words, but your partner stated that he couldn’t hear what you said.”
Rebecca waited. He hadn’t asked a question.
“What did the two of you talk about?”
“I identified myself as a police officer and ordered him to drop the weapon.”
“That’s all?”
“There wasn’t time for anything else.”
“You were alone at the time?”
“No,” Rebecca replied evenly. “Detective Watts was behind me.”
“Outside the building.”
“Yes—with a clear sightline to the subject.”
The psychologist was silent for another few seconds. “I’m not IAD.”
She waited again. He might not be Internal Affairs, but she didn’t doubt that her confidential psych eval would be available to them for the asking. She was not about to say anything that they could use against her, now or the next time something like this happened.
“I’m not inquiring because I’m faulting your procedures, Sergeant,” he continued. “I’m wondering why a seasoned detective would walk into a situation where the risk was so high.”
“I felt that the hostage was in immediate danger of execution.”
“Dr. Rawlings.”
“Yes.” Catherine . The bastard had struck her, torn her blouse open, bound her wrists. He had put his hands on her. He hadn’t had enough time yet to do anything else to her, but I knew what he intended to do. I remembered his voice on the tape, describing it in detail, and I wanted to kill him then. I can still hear his voice. Sitting there now, recalling his smooth, intimate tone as he’d talked about fucking her lover, she had to concentrate not to clench her fists.
“Detective,” Rand Whitaker asked softly, “did you walk into that room intending to trade yourself for the hostage?”
Rebecca met his eyes, her cool blue eyes unwavering. Very clearly she replied, “No.”
Chapter Five
At 9:40 p.m., Catherine stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of a building that had once been a gracious Victorian before it had been purchased by the university and converted to offices. It was dark, the night was cool; summer was dying. A shadow moved from beneath a tree nearby, and she stiffened.
“It’s me. I’m sorry—didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Rebecca,” Catherine said with a soft sigh. She held out her hand.
M. Stratton, Skeleton Key