slammed into Brandt’s head and almost sent him over the railing.
Louis grabbed the back of Brandt’s shirt and, with both hands, swung him sideways, trying to throw him down the stairs.
Brandt spun around, desperate for something to break his fall. The knife came around with him in a vicious arc.
Louis tried to jump away, but there was nowhere to go. No way to block the knife — both his hands were on Brandt’s shirt.
The blade ripped through the hard muscle of Louis’s chest. Fire razored through his torso.
“Jesus… Jesus,” Louis gasped.
He dropped to the step, hand to his chest. God, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but a wet burning beneath his fingers.
Somewhere in the night, sirens swelled and died and swelled again. Were they coming here? Had someone heard something and called the police?
Brandt… nowhere. He was gone. Louis dropped his head against the iron railing and tried to see the parking lot. It shimmered, wet asphalt and gauzy white spots of light. Blue lights sparked beyond the trees.
He blinked to clear his tears.
The Gremlin was gone.
Shockey…
Louis pushed to his feet and used the rail to steady himself as he stumbled up the stairs. Shockey’s door was ajar. Louis pushed it open and looked inside.
Shockey was lying on his back, a pool of blood soaking the gold carpet. His eyes were open and vacant, his face shredded.
Louis dropped to his knees next to him and tried to feel for a pulse, but the skin at Shockey’s neck was too slick. The smell of blood filled his nose. He shut his eyes, fighting a wash of nausea.
Louis’s head came up.
Brandt didn’t know where Amy was. Had Shockey been tortured into telling him?
Louis crawled to the shattered coffee table and found the phone. He dialed the hotel.
“Room four-ten. Hurry, please.”
The phone began to ring. Two, three times.
“Louis?”
“Joe, Shockey’s dead, and Brandt’s looking for Amy, and he might know where she is. Get out of the hotel, and meet me at the university hospital. Now!”
Chapter Thirty-six
The needle in his hand burned. The young nurse who had put it in had apologized over and over as she stuck him, over and over, trying to find his vein.
It had taken forever. Louis had almost fainted.
He fucking hated needles. He could stand almost anything except someone sticking needles in him.
He closed his eyes, letting his head drop back against the pillow. The IV was necessary, the doctor had told him. So was staying one night in the hospital, no matter how much Louis had tried to argue that point.
“I’m all right,” Louis had told everyone who hovered over him.
“Your chest muscle is slashed,” the doctor had told him. “We just want to watch you for twenty-four hours.”
Twenty-four hours… Brandt could be in Canada by then.
Detective Bloom had left ten minutes ago. He had questioned Louis relentlessly, his undercurrent of irritation kept in check only by his need to get things under control. Bloom had pulled rank on the Ann Arbor cops and taken charge of the search for Brandt. Not that anyone needed motivating. Even though Shockey had been fired, Louis knew the bond between cops didn’t end with a pink slip. Every available officer was out scouring the farmlands for Brandt.
Bloom had brought other news. A semi driver had found Margi by the side of a country road out near the Brandt farm. She had arrived at the hospital in Howell near death. They weren’t sure she would live.
Louis lay there, listening to the noises out in the hallway. Brandt wasn’t going to get in; there was a cop stationed outside the room. But Louis wasn’t going to get out — not even to go check on Shockey.
No one would tell him anything. Finally, a nurse checked and came back to report that Shockey was not expected to make it through the night.
“Oh, God.”
He opened his eyes. Joe was standing at the door.
“Oh, Jesus, Louis…”
Joe was there, suddenly, at his side, clutching his hand, her head on his chest.
“Easy, easy,” he whispered.
“What?”
“My chest…”
She drew back, her eyes wet as she focused on the swath of gauze encasing his chest. “They wouldn’t tell me anything,” she said. “I didn’t know if you-” Her eyes welled as they traveled over the other bandages on his arms.
“I’m okay, honest,” Louis said.
She ran a hand under her nose. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her face splotchy. She was wearing a Browns sweatshirt and a pair of shapeless pink pants imprinted with cats that Louis recognized as the bottoms of her favorite pajamas. He had a sudden vision of her, slumped on the floor of his cottage that night a year ago when a madman had broken in while he was gone. Invaded his home, attacked Joe, and left her for dead. His heart softened. She had every right to that awful panicked look on her face now. He knew what she was feeling.
Joe bent down and gently kissed him. Her lips were a balm on his dry mouth. She drew back and let out a ragged breath.
“I can’t believe Shockey’s dead,” she whispered.
Louis had forgotten he had told her that over the phone. “No, he’s in ICU,” he said. “But they said he’s not going to make it.”
Joe shook her head slowly. “Brandt?”
“On the run,” he said. “And they found Margi by the side of the road out near Hell. Looks like Brandt threw her from the car. She’s in bad shape.”
“God.”
He was about to close his eyes when it hit him, and he struggled to sit up. “Where’s Amy?”
“Out in the hall with the officer,” Joe said. She hesitated. “Can I bring her in? She’s worried sick.”
Louis nodded and lay back against the pillow. He didn’t want to admit to Joe that he felt weaker than he was letting on.
He heard a faint shuffling and looked toward the door. Amy was standing just inside the room, staring at him. Her eyes were dark and huge in her pale face.
He tried to smile, but it hurt, and he had the feeling a smile, given his beaten face, might make him look even more grotesque than he was. But as Amy came toward his bed, she didn’t look frightened. She looked…
“He did this to you,” she said softly. “Poppa did this to you.”
