unpleasant in Swedish, the girl went away, and came back with the phone.
“Thanks,” Carey said. “Go to bed. Get some sleep. I promise not to lapse into a coma.”
Anka sniffed her disapproval at her employer’s sense of humor but left the room.
Carey touched the key to retrieve her voice mail, entered her password, and closed her eyes as the messages played through.
A call from Ted Sabin, Hennepin County’s version of a district attorney and her former boss, expressing his concern for her, having heard about her attack. He promised to bring the full force of his considerable power to bear in the apprehension and prosecution of her attacker.
A call from Kate Quinn, an old friend from her days in the county attorney’s office, calling for the same reason, telling Carey to call her and she would be there ASAP. Kate had worked as a victim/witness advocate. Carey had never imagined she would ever call on her friend in her professional capacity.
Then Chris Logan’s voice was in her ear, anxious, upset, full of bluster, the usual way he reacted to unpleasant news over which he had no control. “Carey, goddammit, I just heard. Are you all right? Are you in the hospital? Why the hell didn’t you take a deputy to the garage with you? Jesus, I should have walked you out, pissed off or not. Call me.”
She deleted the message and put the phone down beside her on the bed. A feeling she couldn’t quite identify rippled through her. A blend of regret, sadness, loss. It would have been nice to have someone strong and protective to turn to now. Someone she trusted. A shoulder to lean on.
But she didn’t have that. After their one brief interlude, she had never called Logan in search of that kind of support. Not that she hadn’t been tempted. After what he’d said to her in her chambers, she would never want to again. She felt betrayed by him for taking the cheap shot about their one night together, and now she wouldn’t trust him.
She had never really quite trusted him, she admitted. Not absolutely. That was why there had been no other nights shared before or since. Logan was a big package of single-minded ambition. He cared about winning, about seeing justice done, no matter the cost to himself or those around him. They had been friends back in their days working together, but Carey knew he had also seen her as a rival, and that had never sat well with her.
Her father would have been there for her, as strong as the Rock of Gibraltar, as he had been all her life. But for all intents and purposes, her father was dead. His body had yet to get the message, but the essence of him was gone. The shell of him sat in a rest home, waiting to shut down.
Feeling alone and adrift, Carey closed her eyes and fell into a shallow sleep disturbed by menacing dreams. Dreams of her attacker, of who he might be. In the dark theater of her mind, she lay on her back on the cold concrete, struggling against a man she couldn’t see. At first, his face was nothing but black, blank space, and then gradually it became clear.
The images flashed in her mind like lightning, a different face in each blinding burst. Karl Dahl. Wayne Haas. Chris Logan. David. Marlene Haas, her face partially decomposed, dead eyes bulging from their sockets.
Carey jerked awake, crying out, trying to sit up. The pain knocked her back, and she rolled to her side as the nausea crashed over her again. She was sweating, shaking, breathing too quickly.
The cell phone beneath her hand rang, startling her. David, she thought, half hoped, though she wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to say he was coming home or that he wasn’t.
“David?”
There was silence on the other end just long enough to raise the hair on the back of her neck.
When the caller spoke, she didn’t recognize his voice. It was a low, hoarse whisper, the words stretched out, strangely distorted.
“I’m coming to get you, bitch” was all he said.
13
KOVAC HAD JUST PULLED up to the curb
“Thanks,” Carey said. “Go to bed. Get some sleep. I promise not to lapse into a coma.”
Anka sniffed her disapproval at her employer’s sense of humor but left the room.
Carey touched the key to retrieve her voice mail, entered her password, and closed her eyes as the messages played through.
A call from Ted Sabin, Hennepin County’s version of a district attorney and her former boss, expressing his concern for her, having heard about her attack. He promised to bring the full force of his considerable power to bear in the apprehension and prosecution of her attacker.
A call from Kate Quinn, an old friend from her days in the county attorney’s office, calling for the same reason, telling Carey to call her and she would be there ASAP. Kate had worked as a victim/witness advocate. Carey had never imagined she would ever call on her friend in her professional capacity.
Then Chris Logan’s voice was in her ear, anxious, upset, full of bluster, the usual way he reacted to unpleasant news over which he had no control. “Carey, goddammit, I just heard. Are you all right? Are you in the hospital? Why the hell didn’t you take a deputy to the garage with you? Jesus, I should have walked you out, pissed off or not. Call me.”
She deleted the message and put the phone down beside her on the bed. A feeling she couldn’t quite identify rippled through her. A blend of regret, sadness, loss. It would have been nice to have someone strong and protective to turn to now. Someone she trusted. A shoulder to lean on.
But she didn’t have that. After their one brief interlude, she had never called Logan in search of that kind of support. Not that she hadn’t been tempted. After what he’d said to her in her chambers, she would never want to again. She felt betrayed by him for taking the cheap shot about their one night together, and now she wouldn’t trust him.
She had never really quite trusted him, she admitted. Not absolutely. That was why there had been no other nights shared before or since. Logan was a big package of single-minded ambition. He cared about winning, about seeing justice done, no matter the cost to himself or those around him. They had been friends back in their days working together, but Carey knew he had also seen her as a rival, and that had never sat well with her.
Her father would have been there for her, as strong as the Rock of Gibraltar, as he had been all her life. But for all intents and purposes, her father was dead. His body had yet to get the message, but the essence of him was gone. The shell of him sat in a rest home, waiting to shut down.
Feeling alone and adrift, Carey closed her eyes and fell into a shallow sleep disturbed by menacing dreams. Dreams of her attacker, of who he might be. In the dark theater of her mind, she lay on her back on the cold concrete, struggling against a man she couldn’t see. At first, his face was nothing but black, blank space, and then gradually it became clear.
The images flashed in her mind like lightning, a different face in each blinding burst. Karl Dahl. Wayne Haas. Chris Logan. David. Marlene Haas, her face partially decomposed, dead eyes bulging from their sockets.
Carey jerked awake, crying out, trying to sit up. The pain knocked her back, and she rolled to her side as the nausea crashed over her again. She was sweating, shaking, breathing too quickly.
The cell phone beneath her hand rang, startling her. David, she thought, half hoped, though she wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to say he was coming home or that he wasn’t.
“David?”
There was silence on the other end just long enough to raise the hair on the back of her neck.
When the caller spoke, she didn’t recognize his voice. It was a low, hoarse whisper, the words stretched out, strangely distorted.
“I’m coming to get you, bitch” was all he said.
13
KOVAC HAD JUST PULLED up to the curb
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