Damned patch!
But she was afraid to tear the patch off now, afraid of sudden brilliance and pain that might be worse than vision with one eye.
She remembered a tacky glass vase on the table near the sofa, swiveled her head so she could see it through her left eye. Fixed its image in her mind. When the man charged her again with the knife, she avoided the blade and dodged left, toward the table.
He whirled and came at her low, using the knife underhand this time. It would be harder to avoid his upward slashes, more difficult to see them coming from below eye level. Pearl felt for the cheap vase, a florist's pressed- glass giveaway designed to hold one rose. She fumbled it, feeling it slide from her fingers.
Then she lowered her hand and caught the vase as it toppled. She got a good grip on it and slammed it into the man's face.
It didn't shatter. She swung it again and felt it make solid contact with the man's head.
The force of the blow made her lose her grip on the vase. It bounced on the floor and passed from her range of vision.
She no longer had the vase as a weapon, but it had bought her precious seconds. She knew how to use them. She bolted for the door.
Had her fingers wrapped around the knob.
Was pulling the door open.
But she knew she wouldn't be fast enough. She was trapped in one of those horrible slow-motion nightmares.
She was aware of the knife suddenly protruding from the door frame, near her face, where it had penetrated enameled wood after the man's desperate throw, his attempt to cut her on the run.
At least he isn't armed now.
Gunfire exploded behind her.
Oh, shit!
He's got a gun, too! And he's determined!
So was Pearl. She had the door open and was almost in the hall. If she could get around the corner, out of sight, she might make it to the stairs. Screw the elevator. No time.
She felt the familiar smoothness and grit of the hall's tile floor under the sole of her left shoe.
Gonna make it!
A truck slammed into her back.
She knew she'd been shot. She stumbled forward, then seemed to strike an invisible wall and bounce off it. Her balance shifted, as if the floor tilted.
Pearl felt herself moving backward, back, back into the apartment on numbed legs. Exactly where she didn't want to go.
The impact of the second bullet was greater than that of the first. It flung her against the door, slamming it shut and trapping her inside with her assailant. Everything around her began to whirl, making her dizzy.
She was looking up at the door. It was square in her one-eyed vision and moving farther and farther away, getting smaller.
Odd…Am I floating…?
She realized she was on the floor, her upper body on soft carpet, hardwood floor solid beneath her bare heels. Had the force of the shots knocked her out of her shoes? She'd seen it happen.
She looked again and found the door. It was standing wide open. There was more noise, banging sounds, but she could barely hear them, as if they were coming from far away.
Gunfire?
There was Quinn, crouched in the doorway in shooting stance, filling the doorway, blasting away with that antique revolver of his.
Quinn.
It was strange how calm she was now.
Quinn. Looking so serious. A serious man, Quinn. So simple and complex. A good man. Hard to find, hard to lose. She was going to miss him so…
She thought she might have smiled at him.
78
'You with me, Pearl?
Quinn's voice. There was a horrible taste in Pearl's mouth, and her lips were glued together with dried mucus.
Yuk!
'Pearl?'
She didn't want to open her eyes, but she did.
There was Quinn, standing over her, looking serious.
It came back to her in a rush, the man in Jill's apartment, the struggle, the gunfire.
Jesus, I've been shot!
'Don't try to move, Pearl.'
She felt her lips rip apart. 'Wha' happened?'
'You were shot and spent five hours on the operating table. You've been unconscious for a while, and now you're back.'
Mingled scents came to her: pine disinfectant, peppermint, fresh linen. She let her gaze roam, painfully and with one eye. Her vision was slightly blurred more than a few feet out, beyond a tray on which sat a green plastic glass and pitcher, a box of tissues. She was in a hospital bed.
'Unconscious? A while?'
'Three days,' Quinn said.
Three days! Serious. Maybe critical.
'That qualify as a coma?'
'Sure,' Quinn said.
'I'm gonna live?'
'Yeah, if from now on you do everything I say.'
'Quinn…'
'I'm sorry. You're gonna be okay, Pearl. You're in Roosevelt Hospital. You were shot twice. One bullet broke your collarbone. Another entered your back near the shoulder blade and deflected downward and lodged near your liver. They've both been removed. You're gonna be fine.'
'So I really will live?'
'You will.' His smile came and went like a ghost. 'You've got a lot of physical therapy ahead of you.'
Pearl tried to move but found she was too weak. 'My back, nothing hurts. Everything's numb.'
'It's the drugs. It'll hurt later, Pearl.'
'Good old Quinn, giving it to me straight.'
'Few enough people will, in this screwed-up world.'
'Don't I know it? When can I get out of here?'
'Maybe in two or three more days. They're gonna evaluate you again.'
'Jill okay?'
'Fine.'
'What the hell happened?'
'Feds and I caught up with Palmer Stone on the stairs of Jill's building, and he admitted faking his suicide, killing the man who had become his double and thought he was going to become Stone after the real Stone disappeared. We tried to get more out of him, but he went silent and asked for an attorney.'
'He decided to lawyer up after admitting to murder?'
