TWENTY-ONE

A few hours later, my sleepy eyelids opened, not to morning, but a semidark place . . .

Flames were still crackling in the master bedroom’s hearth, casting their warm, red-orange glow on the art-covered walls. The feather pillows felt like clouds, softening the hard knocks of the last two days, and the mahogany four-poster was a solid ship for drifting away to dreamland.

But I wasn’t dreaming now.

Rubbing my eyes, I rolled over to discover Mike’s shoulder holster on the nightstand, its leather straps wrapped around his weapon. The empty bottle of Lambrusco sat next to it, along with a pair of drained glasses.

Mike and I must have brought the wine up here after dinner, I realized, although my memory was foggy. We must have done something else, too . . .

A simple conclusion, given my state of dress—or more like undress. No emerald sheath, no lacy nightgown, not even a shred of underwear. The crisp sheets and soft quilt were the only things covering my naked curves—

Until a heavy arm draped itself around my midriff.

Mike’s lips touched my neck, and I smiled into the shadows.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Even with my eyes closed . . .”

Then his mouth and hands began to roam, exciting me all over again. I turned in his arms, and soon we were moving together beneath the bedcovers, making physical what we both felt in our hearts.

Breathing hard, our bodies finally collapsed against each other.

Exhausted but contented, that’s how we fell back to sleep, my cheek on his strong chest, his chin resting on my dark hair . . .

*   *   *

A short time later, a strange noise woke me.

Sitting up in bed, I peered into blackness. The hearth had gone cold, its orange flames now white ash. And the shadows in the room were thick as sea fog.

The noise came again—a strange bumping—and then I saw it.

“Mike, wake up!”

I shook his shoulder, and he slowly stirred.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I saw something moving, just outside the bedroom window—”

“A tree branch?”

“Not a tree branch. A shadowy shape, in human form . . .”

Mike sat up, awake now, and stared at the dark glass.

“I don’t see or hear anything, Clare. And there’s no fire escape on this side of the building.”

“I know that.”

“So how could someone be outside your fourth-floor window?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay . . .” Mike yawned. “You had a nightmare, that’s all. Go back to sleep.”

“But I saw something—”

Hooking my waist, Mike pulled me back down, against his big, warm body. I struggled lightly until one of his long legs curled possessively around the pair of mine, and his lips began whispering things to ease my worries—sweet, thrilling, very distracting things. And then . . .

BANG!

BANG-BANG-BANG!

Omigod. “Mike, someone’s shooting out there!”

By the time I sat up, Quinn had rolled out of bed and was going for his shoulder holster.

“Be careful—”

“Stay back!”

Crossing the bedroom, he pulled his weapon free of the leather and tossed the holster aside. With two hands on the gun, he approached the window from the side and quickly opened it.

Freezing night air swept in, and I shivered in bed, watching Quinn lean out the window to survey the street below.

“Be careful!” I warned. “There’s someone out there. Not in the street. But much closer—”

BANG!

The shot rang out with horrific clarity, hitting Quinn directly in the head. He dropped his gun, and his body pitched forward.

I gasped in disbelief as the man I loved disappeared into the darkness.

Kicking off the bedcovers, I rushed to the open window and looked down. A body was lying in the street below, blood pooling on the concrete, but it wasn’t Quinn.

The body belonged to Sully Sullivan.

What? I rubbed my eyes. This makes no sense. What is going on?!

Sirens began to wail, and a helicopter dropped like a spider, straight down from the clouds, its blades battering my eardrums. Flashing red lights drew my attention to the street, where two paramedics were now loading Mike Quinn’s limp body into their vehicle.

“Wait!” I shouted out the window. “Wait for me!”

I threw on clothes and ran out of the bedroom, into the hall, but it wasn’t a hall anymore. Suddenly, I was standing in a small paneled room with no doors and no windows.

Frantic, I turned around and around, looking for a way out. But there was none. Then I looked up and saw Panther Man above me!

I screamed so loud I hurt my own ears—until I realized the ceiling was a mirror. When I moved, Panther Man moved. I looked down at myself and saw no costume. Yet my reflection told me . . .

I was Panther Man!

Just then the room lurched and vibrated, moving like an elevator. With another lurch, everything stopped. One wall parted, swishing open on a brightly lit hospital ward. That’s when I heard Mike’s voice.

“Clare!”

“Mike!” I called. He sounded far away. “Where are you?!”

“I’m here!”

Down an impossibly long hall, I saw Mike’s body, strapped to a gurney. Orderlies wearing white coats were wheeling him rapidly away.

“Stop!” I cried, chasing them. “Don’t take him away!”

But the orderlies ignored me, pushing the gurney through a pair of white double doors. I tried to follow, but the white doors were locked tight.

“Let me in!” I shouted. “Let me through!”

I beat on the doors, but they wouldn’t open. I was so frustrated, so angry, so scared. Tears were streaming down my face as I pounded and pounded.

“Excuse me? Can I help you?”

I turned to find a nurse standing there, reading a file folder.

“I’m looking for a shooting victim named Michael Quinn. I was told he was in this unit.”

The woman in white closed the file she’d been reading and gave me a hard, bureaucratic stare.

“You’re Mrs. Quinn?”

“No, I’m—”

“You’re his friend?”

“Yes.”

“Friendship has no legal status.”

“You don’t understand. I love him, and I need to know if he’s okay.”

“I can’t give you any further information. You’ll have to get it through the family.”

“But I’m his family!”

I turned to try the doors again, but they were gone; in their place stood a stout iron gate. As I reached to open it, a masked figure slammed through, striking me down.

Flat on my back, I tried to see who’d hurt me, but the shadows closed in and the world went black . . .

*   *   *

I opened my eyes to darkness. The flames of the fireplace had turned to ash, and the bedroom window was shut tight.

Mike was snoring softly beside me, his heavy body curled possessively around mine. My limbs felt languorous from our lovemaking, but my mind was spinning from my nightmare, so vivid and so awful.

The particulars of the dream might fade, but I knew two things would stay with me: the image of Mike being shot; and a phrase, seemingly harmless, now stuck inside me like a dagger—

Friendship has no legal status.