CHAPTER TWENTY

He shoved her legs apart. Allison tried feebly to bring them together but her limbs wouldn't obey her mind. She was consumed by the paralyzing fireball of pain in her stomach, where he'd punched her.

All she could hope for was to pass out before he did what he was about to do.

The kitchen door shuddered under a solid impact. The bolt and cheap fixture, screwed to the wall, snapped off. The door flew open, blinding light poured in. Hector Cesare charged into Allison's apartment with Eva close on his heels.

They stopped short, aghast, at the sight that met their eyes – the room trashed, broken furniture everywhere, and Allison mostly naked on the floor underneath a huge hairy brute.

Hector spat something vehement in Spanish. Eva screamed Allison's name at the top of her lungs.

"That's it!" Mr. Kaminski yelled through the wall. "I'm calling the cops!"

"Get off her you bastardo!" Hector shouted.

"Stay the fuck away from me, bro!" He jumped up, hauling at his pants. His face was scarlet and as he towered over Hector, he seemed to swell up with rage like the Incredible Hulk.

Quick as a cat, Hector bent and scooped something off the floor. He pointed it at the guy. It was the gun, the ivory-handled one from the buttercream-leather purse. "Don't make me shoot you, man!"

"Hector, no!" croaked Allison.

"Put the fuckin' gun down!"

"The police are coming," Eva said. "We'll wait for them."

"Fuckin' hell I will. You gonna shoot me, huh, bro? Come on. Come on and shoot me. You pussy. You're not gonna fuckin' shoot anyone. You don't have the balls."

He took a step toward Hector, reached out for the gun, and Hector shot him.

The gun was a thunderclap, kicking back hard in Hector's grasp. The red-haired guy staggered back, making a surprised glottal bleat. His calves collided with the recliner and he spilled into it. He touched his chest, and stared with dumb incredulity at the blood on his hand.

Hector threw down the gun as if it had bitten him. His face twisted in horror.

"Fuckin' shot me, dude," the guy said in a faint, faltering voice.

"Oh, shit!" Allison heard herself say.

Eva pushed past Hector and ran to the recliner. "Give me that towel! Have to apply direct pressure … somebody call the paramedics."

"I didn't mean to do it," Hector said. He was very pale.

"Give me the towel!" Eva ordered.

Allison, on unsteady legs that felt composed of loose springs and Silly Putty, got the towel she'd left draped on the back of her desk chair. She handed it to Eva, who folded it into a pad and held it against the red-haired guy's chest.

Someone was trying to batter down the hall door, and the frantic gabble told her that half of the building's tenants were out there. Mr. Kaminski must have made good on his threat because sirens warbled nearer.

She looked down at herself. Her camisole top hung in flaps from the satiny spaghetti-straps, hiding nothing. Her panties were mercifully still on, but her torn pajama pants were bunched on the floor like a shed snakeskin. She got her robe from the hook on the bathroom door, struggled into it and tied it shut. Then everything caught up with her, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, shaking.

"Hector, get the door," Eva said. "We need help here."

He opened it and neighbor-faces gawked avidly in at the damage. Teddi Lace elbowed her way through, telling everyone to stand back, stand back and let her by. She stopped in the doorway, mouth falling agape.

Allison buried her head in her hands. Her stomach churned sickly and throbbed around the place where he'd punched her. It felt like she had swallowed lava, which had seared its way down her throat and then cooled into a stony mass in her midsection. She hurt all over from other injuries, too many to count.

She couldn't think. Everything had gone abysmally wrong. A guy was shot and bleeding in her recliner. Shot with the gun from the purse, from the purse that had dumped out all over the floor. He had broken into her home, attacked her, tried to rape her, damn near beaten and strangled her to death, and Hector had shot him. He was bleeding in the recliner, Eva working feverishly to save his life. In the recliner, which had the envelope of cash taped to the underside of its foot cushion.

There were excited, upset people all over the place. She picked up parts of what was being said. Eva and Hector telling how they'd been awakened by the commotion and burst in to find Allison being attacked. Mr. Kaminski, puffed up with importance, claiming to have known something bad was going on so he'd called the police.

In the middle of it all, a woman sat down beside Allison. "Miss Montgomery?"

Dully, Allison lifted her head. It felt like it was made of lead and weighed ninety pounds.

The woman beside her was the same police officer she had seen earlier in the evening, when she'd arrived home as Mr. Abelard was being carted off to the hospital. Tony Rugerro's partner.

"Yes?" she tried. No sound came out. Allison cleared her throat, but that sent such a wave of molten agony rolling through her that tears ran from her eyes.

"That's okay," the woman said. "Just nod or shake your head. My name is Sandy. Sandy Flyte. I'm a police officer. We're going to get you to the emergency room –"

Allison shook her head. It hurt, but not as much as trying to speak had.

"You've been assaulted."

She nodded.

"Do you know that man?"

She started to shake her head, changed her mind, shrugged. "I've seen him around but I don't know his name," she whispered harshly.

Officer Flyte lowered her voice. "We'll need to have someone examine you."

"He didn't rape me," Allison said. "Hector and Eva got here in time."

"You've been pretty badly hurt, and we need to get you taken care of. And then we're going to have to ask you some questions."

"I'm all right."

A sympathetic look crossed Officer Flyte's face, and Allison supposed that she must look pretty terrible. He had hit her so many times she had lost count, and her neck felt swollen up like that of a bullfrog.

The room had cleared out. The red-haired guy had been bustled away by efficient medical personnel, leaving the recliner with a dark crimson puddle soaking into the upholstery. Teddi Lace had shooed the rest of the neighbors away and paced, chain-smoking, in the hall. She stole anxious looks in at Allison every time she passed the half-open door.

"Where's Hector?" Allison rasped.

"Next door," Officer Flyte said. "My partner's questioning him."

"He saved my life and was defending himself," she said as forcefully as she could, ripping each word out through her tortured throat. "You can't arrest him."

"No one's under arrest."

The policewoman's tone was soothing, but Allison wasn't soothed. This was a living hell … a cop in her apartment, and that damned stolen purse still right there on the floor! And Hector Cesare being interrogated for doing a good deed!

"That guy would have killed me," she said. "He choked me."

"I know. Maybe you shouldn't try to talk right now."

"I have to!" Allison's voice did not just crack on the high note, it shattered. She cupped her palm over her throat and moaned.

"It seems pretty clear to us that Hector acted in self-defense," Officer Flyte said. "We're just wondering where the gun came from. His sister swears it was on the floor when they came in. Did the man who attacked you bring it?"

Oh, how tempted she was to say yes, to blame it on him! But they'd find out, and the only thing worse than telling the truth to the cops was getting caught lying to the cops.

"It's mine." She closed her eyes as she whispered it, waiting to be struck by lightning. When no lightning was forthcoming, she opened one eye.

Officer Flyte looked serious. "Yours."

"I got it yesterday." Not technically a lie.

"Do you have a permit?"

She shook her head and tried to swallow a mouthful of nervous saliva. It stung like acid going down, and she blinked away more tears.

"I'm going to have to take the gun," Officer Flyte said, but sounded sympathetic again. "We can sort the rest out tomorrow, but in the meantime is there anyone we can call for you? Anyplace you can stay? I imagine you won't want to stay here."

"She'll come home with me," Uncle Bob said from the doorway.

Allison's breath hitched as she saw him. She wanted to run to him and hug him and have him tell her that everything was going to be okay, but at the same time she was consumed with embarrassment. Someone had phoned him, woken him up with this news, and he'd driven right over. Probably speeding and blowing through stop signs.

He wore pants, moccasins with no socks, and a white undershirt beneath a fleece jacket. His hair was uncombed, his face was stubbly and he still had pillowcase-lines imprinted in his skin.

This time she couldn't hold back the tears. Uncle Bob picked his way through the ruin of the room and sat on her other side, putting his arm around her.

"There, Allie-girl," he said. "It's okay."

He urged Allison to lean against his shoulder, and she did so, still crying and hating herself for it. She'd always wanted to impress Uncle Bob, to make him think she was smart and sassy and spunky. Now she was a blubbering wreck.

"You're her father?" Officer Flyte asked.

"Uncle. Bob Sherwood."

"From the second-hand store," she said, nodding in recognition.

"I came right over. Can you tell me what happened here?"

Allison was sniffling and fighting to get herself under control. Officer Flyte gave her another sympathetic look.

"Maybe we can do that in the hall while your niece gets dressed and packs a bag. Are you all right for that, Miss Montgomery?"

"Yes," whispered Allison, wiping her eyes and blotting her nose on the sleeve of her robe. "I'm sorry … I …"

"Allie-girl, don't be," Uncle Bob said. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Have you called them?" she asked in a watery croak. "Mom and Dad?"

"I didn't want to scare them until I knew the details. You go on and get some clothes, get some stuff together, and we'll worry about that later."

He patted her, then went with Officer Flyte into the hall and closed the door most of the way. She heard Flyte's low voice sketching it out for him, and imagined Bob nodding, listening grimly.

Alone for the first time since waking to find the guy in her room, Allison saw with fresh alarm the contents of the stolen purse scattered over the carpet. She quickly collected the photos and papers that had fallen out of the manila folder and slid it into a wicker basket amid copies of People and Entertainment Weekly. She popped the tape out of the tape recorder.

Everything else that had been in the purse, except for the money taped under the recliner, she crammed back into it. She didn't want it anymore, wanted it out of her house. It was bad luck. She stepped out onto the balcony. A ladder was propped against the rail. Here was how he'd gotten inside. Anger churned in her, and she was for one moment viciously glad that Hector had shot him. She hoped he died, the rotten bastard!

She leaned over, aimed, and depth-charged the purse into one of the large trash cans Teddi kept in a chain-link enclosure on the side of the building.

That left the money.

She thought about leaving it, not wanting to go anywhere near the blood-soaked recliner. But as soon as she left, the cops would probably be crawling all over the room. They might take the chair with them, or have some crime scene cleanup crew haul it away.

Out in the hall, Officer Flyte was telling Uncle Bob about the gun. Then she heard his reply, which was rueful.

"She was just Friday evening asking me if I knew anything about guns. I asked why and she wouldn't say, but I got the idea some creep had been bothering her. Following her around, like those stalkers you hear about."

Flyte sighed. "That was the impression I got, too. Do you know where she might've gotten a gun?"

"No. I thought there were waiting periods and all."

"There are, but between you and me, someone who knows where to look can buy damn near anything in this town."

"My niece is a good girl, Officer. I hope she's not going to get in trouble over this."

Hoping so, too, Allison gathered some clothes and went into the bathroom to dress. When she looked in the mirror, she wished she hadn't. It was a stranger's face, looking shell-shocked and battered. She had a puffy black eye, a bruised cut on her cheekbone, and drying blood crusted around a split lip. The mark of the belt was a livid red weal across her neck. Her hair was a nightmare, but her hair was the least of her concerns.

She had scratches, too, scratches she hadn't even noticed until she slipped out of the robe and the torn camisole. His chewed, dirty nails had left them on her shoulders, breasts, belly and thighs.

All at once she felt filthy, disgusting and filthy. She fell to her knees by the toilet and vomited until she was dizzy and dry-heaving. The acidic taste of puke clogged her sinuses. Her hair was hanging in it.

Sobbing some more, she rested her brow on the cool porcelain rim. Finally, the worst of it passed and she was able to get up again.

Maybe she was supposed to make this quick, but Allison could not bear to have the remembered feel of his hands on her body a moment longer. She shed everything she'd been wearing, even her socks, and climbed into the clawfoot tub for a shower. Hot as she could stand it. Hotter, even, until steam turned the small bathroom into a Turkish sauna and her skin was a boiled-lobster red.

**