The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

No, better to shoot her. He began to pull the trigger as she pitched her gun to the sidewalk in defeat. He glanced at it, thinking, Something's wrong here . . . What was it?

She'd been holding the revolver in her left hand. But the holster was on her right hip.

Thompson's eyes returned to her and gasped as he saw the flashing knife cartwheeling toward his face. She'd flung it with her right hand, when he'd glanced at her gun for a second.

The switchblade didn't stick into him, or even cut--it was the handle that collided with his cheek--but she'd tossed it directly at his poor eyes. Thompson ducked away instinctively, lifting his arm to protect them. Before he could step back and draw a target, the woman was on him, swinging a stone she'd picked up from the garden. He felt a stunning blow on his temple, gasped at the pain.

He pulled the trigger once, and the gun fired. But the shot missed and before he could fire again the rock slammed into his right hand. The gun dropped to the ground. He howled and cradled his wounded fingers.

Thinking she'd go for the gun, he tried to body-block her. But she wasn't interested in the pistol. She had all the weapon she needed; the rock crashed into his face once more. "No, no . . . " He tried to hit her, but she was big and strong, and another blow from the rock sent him to his knees, then his side, twisting away from the blows. "Stop, stop," he cried. But in response he felt another blow of the rock against his cheek. He heard a howl of rage coming from her throat.

They'll kill you . . .

What was she doing? he wondered in shock. She'd won . . . . Why was she doing this, breaking the rules? How could she? This wasn't by the book.

. . . in a kiss.

In fact, when the uniformed officers sprinted up a moment later, only one of them grabbed Thompson Boyd and cuffed him. The other got his arm around the policewoman and struggled to wrestle the bloody stone from her grip. Through the pain, the ringing in his ears, Thompson heard the cop saying over and over, "It's okay, it's okay, you got him, Detective. It's cool, you can relax. He's not going anywhere, he's not going anywhere, he's not going anywhere . . . . "

Chapter Thirty-Three

Please, please . . .

Amelia Sachs was hurr

ying back to Boyd's bungalow as fast as she was able, ignoring the congratulations from fellow officers and trying to ignore the pain in her leg.

Sweating, breathless, she trotted up to the first EMS medic she saw and asked, "The woman in that house?"

"There?" He nodded to the house.

"Right. The brunette who lives there."

"Oh, her. I've got bad news, I'm afraid."

Sachs inhaled a deep breath, felt the horror like ice on her flesh. She'd captured Boyd but the woman she could have saved was dead. She dug a fingernail into her thumb's cuticle and felt pain, felt blood. Thinking: I did exactly what Boyd did. I sacrificed an innocent life for the sake of the job.

The medic continued, "She was shot."

"I know," Sachs whispered. Staring down at the ground. Oh, man, this would be hard to live with . . .

"You don't have to worry."

"Worry?"

"She'll be okay."

Sachs frowned. "You said you had bad news."

"Well, like, getting shot's pretty bad news."

"Christ, I knew she was shot. I was there when it happened."

"Oh."

"I thought you meant she died."

"Naw. Was a bleeder but we got it in time. She'll be all right. She's at St. Luke's ER. Stable condition."