In Safe Hands (32 page)

The sheriff's attack on Chris still playing in her mind, Daisy attempted to shove past him, but he dropped the gas can and grabbed her arm. She tried to yank it free, but he held tight.

Daisy didn't hesitate. Lurching toward him, she moved in close. Sent off balance when she quit pulling against him, Tyler stumbled back.

Stepping into him, she drove the heel of her hand upward at his nose, forcing herself to follow through instead of pulling the strike like she had in training. The knowledge that he was trying to kill her helped, and rage added power to the hit. Tyler released a sound that would've made her feel bad if Chris wasn't being beaten at that very moment, and if that punk kid wasn't trying to keep her from him.

Her knee connected with his groin. When he doubled over in pain, she grabbed his hair as she raised her leg again, kneeing him in the face. Using her grip on his hair, she shoved him away from her, and he went down. She didn't wait to see if he got to his feet again, but turned and ran toward the stairs instead.

At the top, she jerked to a stop. Fire was everywhere.

Flames ran across the floor and danced up the walls, making it feel like she was about to descend into hell. Smoke filled the space, rolling in thick clouds at the ceiling. She glanced back at an unmoving Tyler. Even after everything he'd done, she couldn't leave a kid to burn.

Running for the hall closet, she grabbed a couple of blankets and hurried into the bathroom. Daisy turned on the shower and tossed the blankets into the tub before stepping under the spray. The freezing-cold water shocked her lungs, but she forced herself to stay until her clothes and the blankets under her feet were soaked.

She was shaking uncontrollably by the time she grabbed the blankets and ran back to a groaning Tyler. Tossing a soaked blanket over him, she wrapped herself in the other and then grabbed handfuls of his coat under his shoulders. Daisy pulled him across the floor to the top of the stairs.

With a rough jerk, she started pulling him down the burning steps. The first couple were the hardest, until momentum and gravity kicked in, and Tyler started sliding faster and faster. By the time they reached the bottom, Daisy was having to hold him back, fighting to keep his weight from bowling her over. She was desperate to stop and try to catch her breath, but she forced herself to keep moving, reminding herself that there was no catching her breath in a smoke-filled house.

Glancing behind her, she flinched at the flames that had overtaken the hallway.

Chris
, she reminded herself.
Help Chris.

Readjusting her grip on Tyler's coat, she started pulling. His body slid more easily across the wood floor, and she ran backward, the heat of the fire surrounding her. Steam from her clothes and blanket joined the smoke in the air, making it hard to see.

As she turned into the dining room, Tyler's legs bounced off the doorframe. Daisy, her chest heaving as she tried to suck in enough oxygen, felt her arm muscles shake under the strain of his weight.

“Almost there,” she told herself, coughing out the last word as the smoke burned her lungs. Just one more room to get through, and they'd be at the front door.

The kitchen was an inferno. Daisy didn't allow herself to pause or even slow. If she did, she'd never go into the kitchen, and then she, Tyler, and Chris would all die. She wasn't about to give Chris up—not for another seventy or eighty years.

Her fingers tightened around Tyler's coat, and she backed into the flames. The heat was incredible, covering her skin and the inside of her lungs in seconds. A piece of flaming debris fell from the ceiling onto Tyler's head, and his hair caught fire.

Grabbing a corner of his blanket, Daisy yanked it over his head, smothering the flames. As soon as it was out, she renewed her grip on his coat and started pulling again. As she slid Tyler past the stove, she thought of the gas lines it contained, how it could easily explode. Moving faster, she pulled Tyler through the entryway until she bumped against the interior door.

Yanking it open, she stepped through and then remembered. The world spun, driving her down to her knees.

Daisy couldn't breathe, much less speak. She fumbled for Tyler, pulling him across the tile until he was closer to her. The outside door loomed above her, appearing as enormous as the entrance to an airplane hangar, rocking from side to side. She fell forward, landing on her hands.

Chris.
The thought of his name didn't make it easier to breathe, but it did force her forward. One hand shifted and then a knee.
Chris is in trouble.
Her other hand inched ahead. It helped to focus on crawling, so much that she was startled when her head bumped the exterior door.

Don't think
, she ordered her brain as she tilted her head to see the doorknob.
Don't think of anything except Chris.
Bracing her hands on the door, she rose onto her knees and grasped the knob. She tried to turn it, but it slipped in her grip, the sweat that coated her palms greasing the metal. Her fingers tightened, and it finally twisted, unlatching with a sharp click.

She pushed, but nothing happened. It took a moment for her to remember that the door opened inward. When she leaned back, the door came with her, opening until it bumped her knees. Night air rushed through the space she'd created, and she made a helpless sound before she managed to clamp her lips together.

Chris
, she reminded herself.
Get to Chris.

Shuffling back on her knees, she worked open the door until there was nothing between her and the open space. Dizziness hit her again, and her vision started to gray around the edges.

“No!” she said out loud, making herself jump at the volume. No passing out. She was moving too slowly already. How many times had the sheriff hit Chris? She needed to run.

Using the hand still clutching the doorknob and the other braced against the doorframe, she managed to pull herself up until she was standing. Her knees wanted to bend, her body to crouch, as if she were trying to balance on a sloped roof. She had to ignore everything—the breeze, the night sky, the open darkness, and her terror—especially her terror. If she allowed it in, it would take over and make her useless, and then Chris would die.

Chris
, she thought, staring at the wood floor of the porch just outside the door. Forcing one foot forward, she crossed the threshold and stepped outside.

Daisy promptly threw up. The force of it took her by surprise, and she stumbled forward another step as she vomited, bile burning her nose and throat. Her head buzzed with the violence of it, and she choked and heaved for several precious seconds before turning back toward the door. Leaning down, resisting the urge to run back into the house—the
burning
house—she grabbed Tyler by the coat again and pulled hard. His body lurched forward, pushing her back, and she half ran and half fell down the four porch steps.

At the bottom, she almost stumbled onto the concrete walkway, but she dropped Tyler and caught the railing, afraid that if she went down to her knees again, there would be no way she could get back up. Once she regained her balance, Daisy turned, staring at the ground immediately in front of her feet, and started to run in the general direction of number 304.

The yard was rough and lumpy and tried to catch her toes, tripping her a few times, but she didn't fall. Her breathing was harsh, too fast for the short distance she was traveling. The scrubby brown grass ended, and she stepped off the curb, jolting her whole body when she landed. She watched the asphalt in front of her running feet, and then the tan fender of the squad was in front of her, and she couldn't stop in time.

She bounced off the SUV, stumbling back several steps before she managed to catch her balance again and plow forward. Skirting the squad, she stepped over the curb onto more grass. The living room window would be right in front of her, she knew. All she had to do was look.

Chris.
Repeating his name like a mantra, she forced her gaze from the ground and up at the house in front of her. Although still muted, the scene was much bigger now that she was directly in front of it. To her relief, Chris wasn't dead. He was even on his feet, locked in a battle with the sheriff. As she watched, he landed an uppercut, sending Coughlin's head snapping back with the force of the blow.

The sheriff recovered quickly, though, and hammered at Chris, driving him back toward the far wall. The movement jolted Daisy, and she rushed for the front porch. Her shins hit the first step, sending her sprawling over them. After a stunned moment, she started to crawl.

The front door hadn't been closed completely, and Daisy shoved through the entrance. She'd expected crashes and thuds, or at least some sounds of a fight, but silence greeted her. Furious that she'd let Tyler delay her, frantic about what she was going to find, she tried to lighten her footsteps as she ran left toward the room she'd been watching though the window.

The sheriff had his back toward her as he bent over an unconscious—
please let him just be unconscious
—Chris. Without allowing herself to hesitate, she charged toward Coughlin. In his hunched position, it was easy to reach up and wrap her arms around his neck.

With a roar, he straightened, but she hung on, clasping her hands together and pressing her left forearm against the side of his neck. Although she'd practiced the hold in training, she'd never actually used it until that moment, and she hoped desperately it would work. If her arm wasn't positioned correctly, or if she wasn't applying enough pressure to cut off the flow of blood to his brain, he could shake her off like a fly and then kill her just as easily.

The seconds felt like hours as he grabbed at her encircling arms. Then, just as she worried she'd messed up the hold, he went down hard, taking her with him to the floor. When Chris had taught her the move, he'd told her to help the unconscious person down so they weren't injured, but there was no slowing the sheriff's bulk when he went limp.

His body landed partially on top of hers, driving the air from Daisy's lungs in a pained grunt. She knew she had only a short time before he recovered consciousness, and she fought her way out from under his bulk. Shoving him onto his left side, she managed to wriggle free.

Unsnapping his holster, she slid out his gun. Daisy wasted a precious second debating what to do with the weapon. Except for some practice dry firing and cleaning the pistols Rory had lent her, she hadn't had any experience with firearms. Daisy thought of tucking it in the back of her waistband, but she wasn't sure if her yoga pants would hold the heavy gun.

The sheriff groaned and, in her panic, she slid the weapon across the wood floor away from them both. It skidded to a halt a few feet from Chris's unmoving form. Ripping her gaze away from him, she refocused on the sheriff. If she allowed herself to dwell on Chris's stillness, Daisy knew she'd lose her ability to do anything useful.

With a hard shove, she rolled Coughlin onto his stomach. He was moving his arms slightly, and she knew she had to act fast before he was fully conscious and able to fight her. He kept his handcuff case on the left rear of his duty belt, and Daisy fumbled to remove the cuffs.

Grabbing his left hand by the thumb, she twisted it onto his back and secured the cuff around his wrist. Holding the section between the cuffs in her left fist, she reached for his other hand with her right.

Before she could grab it, he rolled, swinging his left arm and jerking the cuffs out of her hand. The open side of the restraints flew toward her face, the metal forming a dangerous hook, capable of gouging eyes or delicate flesh. Ducking, she brought up her hands to protect herself, falling hard on her shoulder. She tried to roll, but Coughlin had followed her, pinning her back to the floor.

She thrust up her arm, sending a palm-heel strike toward his nose. When he jerked back, avoiding most of the impact, Daisy took advantage of the space he'd created and flipped onto her stomach. In her head, she could hear Chris coaching her.
Keep fighting, Dais. That's the most important thing. Don't give up.

Pulling her knees up under her, she drove her elbow into the sheriff's ribs, taking a vicious pleasure in his grunt of pain. Without pausing, she swung back her head, feeling her skull connect with something so hard that the impact made her vision blur for a moment. Whatever she'd hit had made him yell and back off. She dragged herself free of his loosened hold and scrambled to her feet.

When she turned, the sheriff was up, as well, his eye red and already swelling. Chris's voice rang in her head again.
Don't let up, Daisy. Keep the hits coming.
She kicked out, not wanting to get close enough to land a punch. Her front kick drove him back a few steps, and then she swung her leg in a side kick, hoping to hit that same place on his thigh where she'd landed the blow on Ian.

His hand caught her ankle before she connected, and he jerked her forward. She stumbled, and the sheriff yanked again, knocking her onto her back. The air rushed out of her lungs when she hit, leaving her gasping. He followed her down, pinning her again, and then he swung.

His fist hit her face with such force that all her training disappeared. The only thing that remained was the pain and the bewildering knowledge that someone—
the sheriff!
—had hit her. She was used to grappling and punching bags, but none of that had prepared her for the brain-shattering reality of a true hit.

When her mind cleared and the pain faded enough for her to have a rational thought, she realized that Coughlin's hands were around her throat. As she struggled against his hold, she stared at his face, at his normal impassive expression. The scariest part of everything was his lack of emotion. If he was about to kill her, he should at least be raging. There was nothing, though. His eyes were empty.

“This actually worked out for the best,” he said evenly as his fingers tightened around her throat. “You had to go next anyway. I hadn't figured out how to cover up Deputy Jennings's death, but now it can be a murder-suicide, a tragic possessive-lover kind of thing. It's a shame. He's a good cop. Too bad he's so infatuated with you.”

She tried to fight, to shove him back, but his hands held her still. It was so wrong, that people would think Chris had killed her and then killed himself. Her training finally kicked in, and she grabbed his right arm with both hands in the first step toward freeing herself from his hold. The lack of air was already making her limbs clumsy and unwilling to follow her directions, and her fingers couldn't keep their grip.

As her struggles weakened and her vision narrowed, all she could see was the sheriff's emotionless face, and she thought of how unfair it was to be killed right after she'd finally managed to leave her house. To have a
life
. In a final burst of strength, she yanked at his wrists, trying to free her airway from his compressing hands. It was like his arms were made of concrete, though, and her weakening, air-starved muscles were no match for him. Her hands went limp and fell to the floor, and a gray cloud darkened her vision.

A loud boom was quickly followed by two more, and Coughlin's face was covered in a waterfall of blood. She squeezed her eyes closed as it spattered onto her skin, right before his forehead crashed against hers. His hands had fallen away from her neck, and she sucked in air, trapped under his weight.

Then he was gone, pushed to the side, and she opened her eyes to see Chris's face—battered and bloody and grim, but still more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen in her life. Something was running into her eyes, making them sting and water. When she touched the side of her face with her fingers, though, she winced and reconsidered any kind of contact.

“Dais.” He reached toward her with shaking hands and then pulled back, as if he was afraid of hurting her. “God, Daisy. I thought you were dead. I thought I was too late.”

“Hey, Chris.” It hurt to talk, but it also hurt to not move, so she figured she might as well say something. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.” It was an obvious lie. She just had to look at him to see that, but at least he was conscious and talking and not dead. “Where are you hurt? Is any of this your blood?”

She blinked. Her lashes felt gummy, and she didn't know why. “What?” Raising her head, she looked down her front. Her hoodie had been light blue, but blood stained the top half, leaving it wet and sticky against her skin. If she continued to think about that, she'd throw up again, so she concentrated on Chris's question, instead. Everything was aching and sore, but she didn't feel anything that felt critical.

“Keep your head still,” he warned, pressing a hand on her shoulder. “Don't move until Med checks you out.”

Lowering her head to the floor, she watched as Chris yanked out his phone and tapped the screen. As he held the cell to his ear, he let his other hand brush her cheek so, so lightly. Although she knew something was off, that she was
too
calm, Daisy just lay still and enjoyed the feel of his fingers on her skin as he talked to Dispatch. She realized how scared she'd been that she'd never get to experience his touch again.

The ceiling was spatter-painted with chunky red, and she couldn't keep looking at that. Hoping that Chris was too occupied with the call to notice, Daisy turned her head. Inches away from her face were the sheriff's dead eyes. Caught by his vacant stare, she couldn't look away, couldn't even blink, until hands straightened her face, gently turning her gaze back toward the bloody ceiling.

To her relief, Chris's face blocked her view of the sprays of blood and…other stuff. “You still with me, Dais?”

“Yes.” Her voice was flat and as hoarse as a pack-a-day smoker's. “Did you shoot him?”

He nodded. “Three times in the top of the head. It was the only target available to me.”

She tried to nod, but his hold prevented it.

His forehead touched hers, and she held back a wince. The throb of pain was muted, though, and she didn't want to lose the contact with Chris.

“I didn't hesitate this time,” he said, so quietly she barely heard him. He didn't sound like himself, and she wondered if he was in shock. Daisy was pretty sure she was. It wasn't normal to be that calm. Maybe being terrified for so long had fried all the fear receptors in her brain.

Lifting a hand, she stroked the back of his head, trying not to think of how she was getting blood in his hair. “Thank you.”

“That's twice, Dais. Twice in two days that you almost died. Don't do it to me again.”

It was a choked hiccup of a sound, but Daisy still couldn't believe he'd actually made her laugh—here, covered in a murderer's blood, lying next to the sheriff who was missing the back of his head. There really was something wrong with her brain. “I'll try.”

“You better. I love you too much to lose you.”

“I love you, too, Chris.” Her hand paused on the back of his head. “Did you see? I left the house.”

“I saw. Knew you could do it.”

“I threw up on the porch.”

He made a sound very similar to her earlier parody of a laugh. “It's okay. I'm proud of you.”

“Tyler burned my house. He's on the porch, too.”

“What?!”

Before she could explain, the sound of booted footsteps came from the direction of the front door, followed by two voices calling out, “Sheriff's department!”

Chris raised his head, revealing his newly blood-streaked forehead, and Daisy propped herself up on her elbows so she could see. Two deputies charged into the room, guns out. The gory scene brought them up short, and they stared in silence for a frozen second.

“Dad?” A bloody-faced Tyler appeared in the doorway behind them. One of the deputies turned, holstering his gun, and used his body to both stop Tyler from entering and to block the boy's view of the room. “Dad! What's wrong with him? What'd they do to him? Dad!”

As the deputy backed a still-screaming Tyler toward the front door, the other cop finally shifted his shocked gaze from the sheriff's body to Chris. “What the
fuck
happened here, Jennings?”