The INS translator told them over and over that their families wouldn’t be harmed, that they would be able to go home. Finally they calmed enough that, warily, they began to think she might be telling the truth. Their ordeal, the long trip from Russia and the brutal conditions they had endured, made it difficult for them to trust anyone right now. They huddled together, watching the black-clad people move around them, frightened by the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles as they arrived, but making no further effort to escape.
Jack stood over Sykes as the medics evaluated the wounded men. Blood from the chest wound soaked the entire left side of his body, but Sykes was conscious, his face ashen as the medics worked to stabilize him. In the background, Phillips’s screams had deteriorated to guttural moans. Sykes looked up at Jack, his gaze vague with shock. “Will. . . he live?”
Jack glanced over his shoulder at the second knot of medics. “Maybe. If he doesn’t die of sepsis. I didn’t nick the femoral artery, but groin wounds can be a bitch when the colon is involved.”
“Groin...” Sykes almost managed a grin. “You shot... his balls off.”
“I haven’t checked. If there’s anything left, though, it won’t be in good working order.”
Sykes gasped for breath, and the medic said, “We’ve radioed for a helicopter to transport him,” meaning every minute counted if Sykes was to survive.
“I’ll... come out... on top yet,” said Sykes, and looking down at him, Jack figured that if sheer willpower could keep the man alive, then Sykes would be testifying at Nolan’s and Phillips’s trials.
At six-thirteen, Jack trudged into his office. He hadn’t been home, hadn’t showered, and still carried his black rifle. He was more tired than he’d been since . . . hell, since the last time he’d carried the rifle, but he felt good, too. All he wanted to do was take care of some details and go home to Daisy.
Both Sykes and Phillips were in surgery at a hospital in Huntsville, but even if Sykes died, they had more than enough to prosecute.
Sykes had been a regular fountain of information. Mitchell had been killed because of his habit of dosing the girls with GHB; he’d killed two of them, so Nolan had decided he had to be dealt with. When questioned about the date-rape drugs, Sykes had rattled off the names of the dealers he knew. A dozen different investigations had been launched as a result of what Glenn Sykes had to say.
Having been given all the details by Todd, Jack had personalty asked Sykes if he knew anything about the woman who had been given GHB at the Buffalo Club and raped by at least six men. That was one question for which Sykes didn’t have any answers, though; Jack didn’t think there ever would be any answers.
When he opened the office door, he stared in disbelief at Eva Fay, sitting at her desk. She looked up and held out a cup of fresh, hot coffee. “Here, you look like you need this.”
He took the coffee and sipped it. Yep, it was so fresh he could still smell the coffee beans. He eyed her over the cup. “All right, Eva Fay, tell me how you do it.”
“Do what?” she asked, a look of astonishment on her face.
“How do you know when I’m coming in? How do you always have hot coffee waiting for me? And what in hell are you doing here at six-fifteen in the morning?”
“Yesterday was a busy day,” she said. “I had a lot of stuff I didn’t get done, so I came in early to handle it.”
“Explain the coffee.”
She looked at him and smiled. “No.”
“ ‘No’? What do you mean, ‘No’? I’m your boss, and I want to know.”
“Tough,” she said, and swiveled back to her computer screen.
He knew he should go home and clean up first. He knew he desperately needed some sleep. But what he needed most was to see Daisy, to be in the company of a woman who would never park in a fire lane or even jaywalk. After the filth and sordidness he’d seen, he needed her cleanness, her simple good-heartedness. And even though he knew she was all right, he needed to see her, to let his eyes reassure his brain. He wasn’t sure exactly when she’d become so important to him, but there were some things a man couldn’t fight. Besides, she’d let him use her shower.
She opened the door almost as soon as he knocked. “I heard you drive up,” she said, then got a good look at him. “Goodness.”
“It’ll wash off,” he said, swiping at the remnants of black face paint. He’d done a halfhearted job using paper towels in the men’s rest room at the station, but there hadn’t been any soap, and the job definitely called for soap.
She eyed him dubiously. “I hope so.”
She was carrying Midas, and the puppy struggled madly to reach him. Midas didn’t care what he looked like, Jack thought, reaching out to take the fuzzbutt in his arms. Midas began his frantic licking ritual, and Daisy frowned at him. “I don’t know if you should let him do that,” she said.
“Why not? He always does this.”
“Yes, but you usually aren’t covered with . . . stuff. I don’t want him to get sick.”
Jack thought about grabbing her and getting some of that stuff on her, but she’d probably smack him. She looked good enough to eat, he thought, with her blond hair tousled and her odd-colored eyes sleepy. Her skin was fresh and clear, and the thin pink robe she wore was almost thick enough to keep him from being able to tell she wore only a pair of panties underneath.
“I thought you’d like to know it’s all wrapped up.”