To the Nines (Stephanie Plum 9)

I was swimming in suffocating blackness, unable to surface. Voices only partially penetrated. Words were garbled. I ordered myself to open my eyes. Open them. Open them!

Suddenly there was daylight. The images were blurred, but the voices snapped into focus. The voices were calling my name.

“Stephanie?”

I blinked a couple times, clearing my vision, recognizing Morelli. My first words were, “What the fuck?”

“How do you feel?” Morelli asked.

“Like I've been hit by a truck.”

A guy I didn't know was bending over me, opposite Joe. A paramedic. I had a blood pressure cuff on and the paramedic was listening.

“She's looking better,” he said.

I was on the ground in the parking lot and Joe and the paramedic brought me up to sitting. An EMS truck idled not far off. There was a lot of equipment beside me. Oxygen, stretcher, medical emergency kit. A couple Trenton cops stood hands on hips. A small crowd was gathered behind the cops.

“We should take her to St. Francis to have her checked by a doctor,” the medic said. “They might want to keep her overnight.”

“What happened?” I asked Morelli.

“Someone shot you in the back with a tranquilizer dart. The impact was partially absorbed by your jacket, but you got enough tranq to knock you out.”

“Am I okay?”

“Yeah,” Morelli said. “I think you're okay. More than I can say for me. I just had three heart attacks.”

“I don't want to go to St. Francis. I want to go home . . . wherever that is.”

The medic looked over at Morelli. “Your call.”

“I'll take responsibility,” Morelli said. “Help me get her to her feet.”

I walked around for a couple minutes on shaky legs. I was feeling really crappy, but I didn't want to broadcast it. I didn't want to overnight in the hospital. They take your clothes away and hide them and make you sleep in one of those cotton gowns that your ass hangs out of. “Jeez,” I said. “What was I shot with, an elephant gun?”

Morelli had the dart in a plastic evidence bag in his pocket. He held the bag out for me to see. “Looks to me to be more large dog size.”

“Oh great. I was shot with a dog dart. That doesn't even make good bar conversation.”

Morelli eased me into his truck. “We'll leave your car here. I don't think we want to put you behind the wheel yet.”

I wasn't going to argue. I was developing a monster headache.

There was a single red rose on the dash. A square white card in a plastic evidence bag had been placed beside the rose.

Morelli gestured at the rose. “That was left on your windshield.” He reached across and took the card and turned it so I could read the message. You should be more careful. If you make it too easy, the fun will be gone.

“This is creepy,” I said. “This is definitely psycho.”

“It started right after you became involved with Singh,” Morelli said.

“Do you think it's Bart Cone?”

“He'd be on the list, but I'm not convinced he's the one. I can't see him leaving roses. Bart Cone doesn't strike me as a man who has a flare for the dramatic.”

I wanted it to be Bart Cone. He was an easy mark. I had a fantasy scenario going in my head. Stephanie and Lula break into Bart's home, find the tranquilizer gun stashed beside the gun that killed Howie, and call the police. The police immediately arrest Bart. And Stephanie lives happily ever after. Needless to say, the fantasy scenario didn't include Stephanie doing time for illegal entry. “This has moved way beyond my comfort zone,” I said to Morelli. “If I wasn't shot full of tranquilizer you'd be seeing some first-?rate hysteria.”

Morelli left-?turned out of the lot. “What were you doing here, anyway?”