The doors banged shut, a siren cried, rattle and bump as the ambulance cut across the Kents’ front lawn.
Scissors snipped through the remnants of Trish’s uniform and Ally’s party dress. The medics reported pulse rates and respirations and blood pressure readings, and up front a radio crackled with a dispatcher’s voice, but all of that seemed far away.
“My dad was part of it,” Ally whispered. “He was … with Cain.”
Trish reached across the narrow space between them and clasped the small pale hand. “I know.”
They lay quietly, holding hands. One of the medics said something about Demerol. That was a painkiller, wasn’t it
It would be good to have no pain. And a bath. Trish wondered if they would let her have a bath, even if only a sponge bath. She was so dirty, so tired, and every part of her was a separate, throbbing ache.
On the radio the driver was reporting to the hospital. “Fifteen percent dehydration … one gunshot trauma, one smoke inhalation … It’s a war zone back there. She must’ve bandaged the wound herself, like my old corpsman in Nam…. A rookie too, can you believe that She’ll have some story to tell…. ETA in ten.”
His cool monotone lulled her half asleep. Or maybe it was the Demerol they’d mentioned.
Whatever the reason, she was fading, fading, when Ally said, “Trish …”
She blinked alert. “Yes”
“You won’t leave me, will you I mean, once we’re out of the hospital …”
Trish gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “What makes you think I’d split up a winning team”
“Well, you know. Wonder Woman usually flies solo.”
“Nice try, kiddo.” She shut her eyes, pain receding. “But it’s not that easy to get rid of me.”
From Ally, a low giggle. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Trish smiled, and Ally went on laughing softly, a bright girlish sound, Marta’s laughter from long ago, as the ambulance carried them away.
Author’s Note
As always, readers are invited to visit my website at www.michaelprescott.net, where you can find information on my books, as well as unpublished essays and other writings, and an email address.
Mortal Pursuit, the last of six books I wrote under the pen name Brian Harper, was originally published in December 1997 as a Signet paperback. It was out of print for many years until I decided to bring it back in a new, self-published edition.
For this edition, I made some minor changes in the manuscript but didn’t alter or update the essential story, which still takes place in 1997. Thus the outdated technology (no cell phones) and occasionally dated slang.
The team at Dutton Signet-editor Joseph Pittman, associate publisher Michaela Hamilton, and publisher Elaine Koster-all did a fine job of guiding the story from initial proposal to final draft. Throughout the process, my agent, Jane Dystel, offered valuable support and assistance.
LAPD officer Spencer Marks reviewed the manuscript for accuracy in the depiction of police procedure, firearms, and security systems. Whatever verisimilitude the story achieved in these areas was largely to his credit. Any remaining mistakes were and are wholly my own.
-Michael Prescott
First Printing, December, 1997
Copyright c Douglas Borton, 1997
All rights reserved
