“Sure thing.”
“Let me help you.” Roarke bent down, lifted Rockman by the lapels. He jerked the man up, steadied him. “Look at me, Rockman. Vision clear?”
Rockman blinked blood out of his eyes. “I can see you.”
“Good.” Roarke’s arm shot up, quick as a bullet, and his fist connected with Rockman’s already battered face.
“Oops,” Feeney said mildly, when Rockman crumbled to the floor again. “Guess he’s not too steady on his feet.” He bent over himself, slipped on the cuffs. “Maybe a couple of you boys ought to carry him out. Hold the ambulance for me. I’ll ride with him.”
He took out an evidence bag, slipped the gun into it. “Nice piece—ivory handle. Bet it packs a wallop.”
“Tell me about it.” Her hand went automatically to her arm.
Feeney stopped admiring the gun and gaped at her. “Shit, Dallas, you shot?”
“I don’t know.” She said it almost dreamily, surprised when Roarke ripped off the sleeve of her already tattered shirt. “Hey.”
“Grazed her.” His voice was hollow. He ripped the sleeve again, used it to stanch the wound. “She needs to be looked at.”
“I figure I can leave that to you,” Feeney remarked. “You might want to stay somewhere else tonight, Dallas. Let a team come in and clean this up for you.”
“Yeah.” She smiled as the cat leaped onto the bed. “Maybe.” He whistled through his teeth. “Busy day.”
“It comes and goes,” she murmured, stroking the cat. Galahad, she thought, her white knight.
“See you around, kid.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Feeney.”
Determined to get through, Roarke crouched in front of her. He waited until Feeney’s whistling faded away. “Eve, you’re in shock.”
“Sort of. I’m starting to hurt though.”
“You need a doctor.”
She moved her shoulders. “I could use a pain pill, and I need to clean up.”
She looked down at herself, took inventory calmly. Her blouse was torn, spotted with blood. Her hands were a mess, ripped and swollen knuckles—she couldn’t quite make a fist. A hundred bruises were making themselves known and the wound on her arm where the bullet had nicked it was turning to fire.
“I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks,” she decided, “but I’d better check.”
When she started to rise, he picked her up. “I kind of like when you carry me. Makes me all wobbly inside. Then I feel stupid about it after. There’s stuff in the bathroom.”
Since he wanted to see the damage for himself, he carried her in, set her on the toilet. He fo
und strong, police issue pain pills in a nearly empty medicine cabinet. He offered one, and water, before dampening a cloth.
She pushed at her hair with her good arm. “I forgot to tell Feeney. DeBlass is dead. Suicide. What they used to call eating your gun. Hell of a phrase.”
“Don’t worry about it now.” Roarke worked on the bullet wound first. It was a nasty gash, but the bleeding had already slowed. Any competent MT could close it in a matter of minutes. It didn’t make his hands any steadier.
“There were two killers.” She frowned at the far wall. “That was the problem. I clicked onto it, but then I let it go. Data indicated low probability percentage. Stupid.”
Roarke rinsed out the cloth and started on her face. He was deliriously relieved that most of the blood on it wasn’t hers. Her mouth was cut, her left eye already beginning to swell. There was raw color along her cheekbone.
He managed to take a full, almost easy breath. “You’re going to have a hell of a bruise.”
“I’ve had them before.” The medication was seeping in, turning pain into a mist. She only smiled when he stripped her to the waist and began checking for other injuries. “You’ve got great hands. I love when you touch me. Nobody ever touched me like that. Did I tell you?”