She met Whitney in the surgical waiting room. Her shirt and trousers were soaked with Webster’s blood, her face pale as death.
“I screwed up. I was sure I could reason with him, that I could reach him and bring him in. Instead, he’s at large and another good cop’s dying.”
“Webster’s getting the best care available. Every one of us is responsible for himself, Dallas.”
“I took him along.” It could be Peabody on the operating table, she thought. Oh God, no way to win.
“He took himself along. Regardless, you’ve identified the suspect, and have done so through skilled investigative work. Sergeant Clooney won’t be at large for long. We have an all-points. He’s known. He fled with the clothes on his back. He has no funds, no resources.”
“A smart cop knows how to go under. I let him go, Commander. I did not take the opportunity to take him down nor did I pursue.”
“If you were again faced with making the choice of pursuing a suspect or saving a fellow officer’s life, which way would you go?”
“I’d do the same thing.” She looked toward the operating room. “For what it’s worth.”
“So would I. Lieutenant, go home. Get some sleep. You’ll need all the resources of your own to finish this.”
“Sir, I’d like to wait until they can tell us something on Webster.”
“All right. Let’s get some coffee. Can’t be any worse here than it is at Central.”
When she dragged herself home, her system was begging to shut down, but her mind refused. She replayed the moment in Clooney’s doorway a hundred times. Had there been a flicker in his eyes, one she should have seen, responded to, an instant before the knife came up?
If Webster hadn’t moved in, could she have dodged and deflected?
What was the point? she asked herself as she stepped into the house. Nothing changed.
“Eve.”
Roarke came out of the parlor where he’d waited for her. She’d come home bloody before, exhausted before, and carrying a cloak of despair. Now she stood with all three hovering around her and just stared at him.
“Oh, Roarke.”
“I’m sorry.” He moved to her, wrapped his arms around her. “I’m so sorry.”
“They don’t think he’s going to make it. That’s not what they say, exactly, but you can read it on their faces. Massive blood loss, extreme internal damage. The knife nicked his heart, his lung, and God knows. They’ve called his family in, advised them to hurry.”
However selfish it was didn’t matter to him. All he could think was, It could have been you. It could have been you, and I would be the one advised to hurry.
“Come upstairs. You need to clean up and get some sleep.”
“Yeah, nothing more to do but get some sleep.” She started toward the steps with him, then just sank down on them, buried her face in her hands. “What the hell was I thinking? Who the hell do I think I am? Mira’s the shrink, not me. What made me think I could get inside this man’s head and understand what was going on in it?”
“Because you can, and you do. You can’t always be right.” He rubbed her back. “Tell me what he’s thinking now.”
She shook her head, got to her feet. “I’m too tired. I’m too tired for this.”
She walked upstairs, stripping on her way across the bedroom. Before she could step into the shower, Roarke took her hand. “No, into the tub. You’ll sleep better for it.”
He ran the water himself. Hot, because she liked it hot, added scent to soothe, programmed the jets to comfort. He undressed, got in with her, and drew her back against him.
“He did it for me. Clooney was going for me, and Webster knocked me down and stepped into the knife.”
Roarke pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Then I owe him a debt I can never repay. But you can. By finishing it. And that’s what you’ll do.”
“Yeah, I’ll finish it.”
“For now, rest.”