Outside the hospital, Terry Bachman paced up and down, stamping his feet to maintain some circulation. “It’s cold out here.” A tech with a mini-cam on his shoulder called out to him, “Hey, Terry, how much longer we gonna wait around here and freeze our balls off?” “As long as it takes, Bill. They’ve got to make a statement soon,” he shouted back. He swung the mic cord, looking more like a stage performer than a reporter, which was not far from the truth. At thirty-seven, he was the Boy Wonder of the New York WABC-TV station. He sat down on the tailgate of the station van, jerking his collar up tighter around his neck. “Besides, Bill, New York winters are nothing compared to Oshkosh, Wisconsin.” Bill gave him the finger. “Who cares?” Terry smiled good-naturedly, emphasizing his country boy good looks. The crew often teased him, calling him the John Denver of News. He had pin-straight blond hair and deep brown eyes and looked more like twenty-one than almost thirty-eight. Before he got into journalism, he was a rising star, as his mother liked to put it. The guitar was his first love, country music his passion. After struggling in Nashville with only moderate success in clubs and a bad demo to his name, he joined the Marines at twenty. When he was discharged eight years later, he went back to college and studied journalism. When he uncovered a major scandal in the music business while on an assignment in Nashville, ABC picked it up as a side piece. The camera loved him, and the interview put him on the map. ABC gave him a shot as an investigative reporter and as the understudy to the weekend anchor. When the anchorman retired a short time later, Terry became the regular replacement. As the ratings soared, Terry was able to negotiate the cream-of-the-crop assignments. This was sure to be one of them. When the call came in that the Bathtub Murderer struck again, injuring undercover officer and high-profile society girl Roberta Wallace, Terry jumped on it. He had a knack for being in the right place at the right time before anyone else. But today was the exception. He looked around with mild disgust as every network hovered around like vultures on a carcass. “Hey, Terry, looks like they’re moving,” Bill called, following the stampede with his camera. The door to the emergency room opened to reveal a portly, balding man, who walked to a podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a brief statement.” He glanced at the paper in his hands and read aloud, “At approximately 12:30 a.m., Detective Roberta Wallace from the tenth precinct was admitted to this facility and remains in very critical condition. I will now turn the microphone over to Detective Fred McCarthy, spokesman for the New York City Police Department.” “Detective Wallace was injured during an undercover operation in Chelsea. The operation was focused on the apprehension of a serial murderer. The assailant remains at large. Contrary to reports, no charges in connection with this crime were leveled against night club owner Jason D’Amboise. No further comment will be made at this time. Updates on Detective Wallace’s condition will be made available.” “Do you have details on D’Amboise’s involvement?” a reporter called. “Who stabbed her?” another reporter asked. “Is her family here?” The reporters surged forward, attempting to get more information. “Please, that’s all I have for you at this time.” He stepped inside, and the doors closed. Three uniformed officers stepped in front of them, blocking the reporters from the doorway. The disgruntled reporters turned back to their vans, mumbling angrily over the lack of information. “Well, Ter, is that a wrap?” Bill asked. “Yeah, let’s do a wrap, and we’ll go,” Terry replied. “What, not going to wait and see who the limo’s for?” a reporter from another network asked. “What limo?” Terry asked. “The one that swept in here a few hours ago. Lay you odds it’s for Wallace’s family. I hear she’s really rich.” “Might be worth the wait,” Terry mumbled. “Shit, Terry. Let’s go,” Bill grumbled. “No. We’ll wait.” Terry directed his two assistants to the side entrances. “When the limo shows, let me know.” *** Dave, Ray, Mike, Rose and Marco waited with Max and the Wallaces, hoping for a clear path to leave undisturbed by the reporters. Dave checked with patrol, and all the exits were swamped. “No matter what, we’re going to run into them,” he reported. Max stood. “Let’s go then. I want to get Mr. and Mrs. Wallace home. They decided not to use the hotel. They’re headed to their penthouse. We’ll take the side exit.” He squatted by Evelyn. “Just keep walking and don’t pay any attention to what they say. They can be very persistent and rude in order to get what they want.” When Evelyn nodded, Arthur said, “Whatever you say, son.” He got up and used the phone, calling the limo to the exit. Max sat beside Evelyn. “She’s a fighter. I won’t leave her. I’ll see you back here in a few hours. You’ll have round-the-clock protection and hopefully some privacy.” “I understand, Max,” Evelyn said. “Bobbi is news—this time, bad news.” Max hugged her gently. “She’ll be okay.” Evelyn smiled and patted his hand. “Of course she will.” Arthur returned. “Grant is ready.” “Okay,” Marco said. “We will flank you on all sides and keep them back.” Just before the doors opened, they took their positions. Dave radioed to the awaiting patrol units to clear the path for the limo. As the doors opened, the lights from the cameras blinded them. Marco urged the Wallaces forward, Max taking Evelyn’s arm. The reporters swelled forward, a human wave of microphones and cameras. “Mr. Wallace, how is your daughter?” “Is she going to live?” a reporter yelled. “What’s her condition?” a group called out. “Is it true she was raped by the murderer just before she was stabbed?” Another reporter put a microphone into Arthur’s face. *** In the throng of the media cattle, Terry Bachman pushed forward. His eyes met Evelyn’s, and he hesitated. Her blue eyes bored into his own, a silent plea for peace cutting into his heart. He wheeled around, blocking off the other reporters. “Hey, come on. What the hell are we doing?” he shouted. “Get out of their way and give them some room. What kind of animals are we? Can’t we wait a few hours to get our damn story? What if it were your only daughter?” His fellow reporters fell silent at his rage, shocked by his uncharacteristic behavior. “Now get out of the way and let these people go home.” Terry pushed forward, knocking their thrust-out microphones aside. “We call ourselves professionals; let’s be human, for Christ’s sake.” The reporters parted, stunned by his words, stepping back and away, almost in fear. Terry led the group to the limo, and they quickly got into the car. As it pulled away, Max put his hand on Terry’s shoulder. “Hey, Bachman, thanks.” Terry watched the car drive down the street. “No sweat, Buckley. I owe you after the bad rap I gave you on that pedophile teacher case.” Max managed a smile. “Yeah, ‘owe’ isn’t the word.” Terry offered his hand “Even?” Max took it. “Even.” “Tell them I’m sorry, okay?” Terry asked. “I will.” Dave pulled up in a car. Max waved him on before heading back into the hospital. Terry leaned wearily against a car, gazing absentmindedly as the sun crept slowly up over the city. Bill walked up with the mini-cam. “You’re gonna be in deep shit for that move, my man.” Terry smiled. “I don’t care. I can look at myself in the mirror and know I did the right thing. Besides, I think I just bought my ticket into the middle of this case.” Bill chuckled. “I should have known.” *** Tuesday morning Felicity stretched slowly, snuggling up against Andrew’s back. He rolled over and slid his arm around her. “Good morning, filly,” he murmured into the satiny smooth skin of her neck. “That bitch has ruined my life. I can’t stay in this town anymore, but if you come with me, my exile will be delightful.” He kissed her furiously, and Felicity groaned with pleasure. Andrew pulled away, fumbling on the nightstand for the television remote. “I’ve got to check the market before I go.” Felicity pouted, sitting up against the headboard, the sheet falling below her soft white breasts. Andrew clicked through the channels, stopping suddenly as a picture of Bobbi caught his attention. “What the hell?” He turned up the volume. Terry Bachman’s voice came over as various photos of Bobbi flashed on the screen. “Early this morning, Detective Roberta Wallace of the NYPD tenth precinct was critically wounded while attempting to apprehend a man believed to be the Bathtub Murderer. The suspect was originally presumed to be well-known nightclub owner Jason D’Amboise. Police sources maintain that Detective Wallace identified Mr. D’Amboise as her assailant before slipping unconscious at the scene of her assault.” The screen flickered to the apartment building where Bobbi was injured. Bachman’s voice continued, “However, Mr. D’Amboise was released by police when witnesses maintained he was at his nightclub, Club Fantastique, at the time of the assault against Detective Wallace.” The screen switched again to D’Amboise as he climbed into his limo outside the police precinct. “It was a mistake that I was brought here,” he said clearly. “The police had no right to detain me, and I am guilty of no crime.” He waved and drove off. Terry came into view. “Detective Wallace remains in very critical condition at Bellevue Hospital Center. A news conference is scheduled for tomorrow, and we will keep you posted as to any further development. This is Terry Bachman for ABC News.” Andrew clicked the set off and turned to Felicity. “I warned Roberta her folly would get her killed—and poor Jason. How on earth could they suspect him?” Felicity nodded. “Really. Can you imagine?” “We must help him out,” Andrew said with a sick grin. Felicity slid her arms around him. “I agree. Jason and Arielle deserve our support.” “Good girl, I knew I could count on you. I have a plan I think will work.” *** Seventy-two hours after surgery Dr. Elliot hovered over Bobbi’s bed, watching the monitor and checking his notes. He concentrated on the tubes draining excess fluid from her chest, unaware she had opened her eyes and was watching him. He glanced at her and smiled. “Welcome back. I am Dr. Paul Elliot; you are in the hospital.” There was a flicker of confusion in her eyes, but he smiled reassuringly. “Bobbi, you were stabbed. You can’t talk because of the tube in your throat helping you breathe.” He pulled a penlight from his pocket and shined the light in both eyes. “Can you squeeze my hand?” He placed his hand against the palm of her bandaged right hand. Bobbi squeezed weakly. “Good, how about the other one?” He reached to the other side, and she complied. Moving to the end of her bed, he exposed her feet. “How about your toes?” She wiggled them ever so slightly. “Very good. Are you in any pain? Bobbi gave the thumbs-down sign, her body numb from the epidural infusion she was receiving. “I want you to rest. There’s a nurse watching you all the time.” Bobbi closed her eyes. She drifted off, sleep taking her once again. Dr. Elliot stopped at the nursing station to write some more orders. Bobbi’s nurse came up behind him. “She’s doing better.” “Better than I thought, but she’s far from out of the woods.” “Her pressure is still fluctuating, and her ‘lytes are still skewed to the left; kidney function is pretty poor. Do you want to start weaning parameters?” she asked. “Not yet. I want to minimize her breathing effort for now. If her lungs dry up a little more, we might be able to try tomorrow.” “Well, at least you will have some positive things to say at the daily press conference.” She smiled. “You’re becoming a star.” Dr. Elliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn, I forgot something. I better run. Page me if you need me.” *** The Wallaces joined the squad and Dr. Elliot in the hospital conference room after the news conference was over. Max sat next to Evelyn, her hand grasping his under the table. “Thanks again for coming, Dr. Elliot,” McCauley said. “And thanks for the care you are giving Bobbi.” “No thanks necessary. It’s my job. Those reporters can be a bitch though.” Max coughed. “They actually were pretty tame this morning after the riot act Terry Bachman read them the other night.” “Before I go, I want to reiterate she has a long way to go. I have to say I didn’t expect her to open her eyes this morning, and her ability to follow simple commands is encouraging, but we really won’t know how intact she is neurologically, or if she remembers anything, until we remove the tube. Please keep the visitors to a minimum, immediate family only. If she is awake, I’m sure she will be glad to see you.” The Wallaces and Dr. Elliot left. McCauley put up his hand to stop the rest of the squad. Standing at the head of the table, he spoke. “I know you’re furious about the way things went down, but we had nothing to hold him on. With the press getting ahold of San Raphael’s death, we really look like a three-ring circus. Now we have no suspect whatsoever.” “We have D’Amboise,” Rose snapped. “Once Bobbi is well enough to testify.” “It’s not going to work; didn’t you hear the doctor? We don’t even know if she will remember.” McCauley looked at Max. “Buckley, I’m detailing you to Bobbi and her family. You are their personal NYPD liaison.” Max smiled an exhausted smile, as he had not left the hospital since Bobbi arrived. He appreciated the boss’s understanding. “Get out of here.” Max didn’t need to hear it twice. He got up and flew out the door. *** The sound of a monitor’s alarm brought her into consciousness. When she forced her eyes open, Max’s face slowly came into focus. “Hello, Princess. How are you doing?” She saw his Adam’s apple bob and smiled faintly around the tube in her mouth, trying to talk. “Easy now, no talking, or you’ll get me kicked out of here.” He stroked her hair gently. “Besides, we will have plenty of time to talk when that tube comes out.” Bobbi acquiesced and let the ventilator do its work. The pain in her chest burned heavily, but she didn’t signal for pain medication. She feared sleep; her dreams were filled with bizarre, haunting images. A nurse came in and smiled briefly at Max before she drained fluid from the tube in Bobbi’s chest. The container was full, the fluid a brilliant crimson. She heard the monitor play a rapid staccato tune. “Miss Wallace, are you in any pain?” she asked. Bobbi couldn’t respond; her eyesight was growing foggy. The nurse motioned for him to follow her to the desk. Max leaned down and kissed her. “Be right back, Princess.” Bobbi closed her eyes as the heaviness in her chest increased. *** Max found Bobbi’s nurse at the desk. “What’s wrong?’ The nurse replaced the phone in the cradle. “I just paged the fellow, and Dr. Elliot is on his way in. The fluid from her chest tube is getting bloodier and larger in volume. Her heart rate is rising. I think she’s bleeding actively again. She may need to return to the OR.” “Is she strong enough?” Max looked toward Bobbi’s bed. “I don’t know. That’s up to Dr. Elliot to decide.” “May I use the phone?” “Certainly, Detective.” She handed him the phone. Max dialed Evelyn Wallace’s cell phone, but the call went to voicemail. He called the penthouse and was advised that the Wallaces were on their way to the hospital. He paced the corridor waiting for them. Meanwhile, Dr. Elliot flew past him into Bobbi’s room, joining the fellow already at her bedside. He came out a few minutes later, obviously very worried. “Detective?” He motioned for Max to join him. “How is she?” “Not very good, I’m afraid. The fluid from her chest, her lab results, and her heart rate change are all indicating she’s bleeding again. I’ve alerted the OR; I need to go back in again. Are her folks here?” “They’re on the way,” Max replied. “Good, I want them to see her before. Look, I won’t lie, this isn’t good, but she’s surprised us once already.” He started to leave. “You can stay until we are ready for her.”