by
Diane Maxwell
Manuscript Complete / 200,000 words / Contemporary Romance
Copyright 2001 All rights reserved to the author
No copying in any form electronically or by any given means without the expressed written consent of the author
Chapter 35
A policeman caught Michael's limp body, shouted, "Freeze!"
"No!" the figure screamed. He grabbed Rose and slammed the gun in another vicious slap across her face. "You will die!"
Her head still swam from his first punch. The second, combined with worry, fear and guilt for Michael, made her disoriented, slowed her reflexes almost to the point of total unresponsiveness.
He flung her against the wall, atop the railing. Off balanced, her body began to fall. Her hand somehow still grabbed a thin section of railing even as she flew over the side.
She flailed in mid-air with nothing solid beneath or around but the rail she gripped in a frantic hold tight enough to bend the iron.
He leaned over with a snarl of pure killing rage, hit at her fingers with the butt of the gun. She hung on despite the pain, her body twisting continually in the cold dark emptiness surrounding her.
Her hand slipped lower, where iron met stone foundation. Blood poured from numerous scrapes along her fingers. With all her strength she held then spit in his eyes as he leaned further over.
He cursed viciously, lifted his hand to untangle her fingers--
Another shot filled the air. He stumbled and also tumbled over the edge.
Rose caught the shoulder seam of his blue jean jacket. She curled her knees to her chest, braced them against the stone wall with numb feet. The wind howled like a living beast around them, yanking, snapping at them, sapping her strength.
He clawed at her, tried to pull them both free. His jacket seam ripped, lowered him from her chest to her bare thighs. But she didn't let go. She couldn't.
"Let go, you whore bitch!" Mark yelled, his face a mask of fury and desperation. His body jerked and tugged with the strength of two dozen men. The hand that still held the gun slowly raised. . .
"No," Rose gasped, felt her strength ebb more under their weight and the fear of being shot, of not being able to hold on. Of what Michael's streaming blood might mean. "You'll answer. For everything."
"You'll go to hell with me!" He began to take aim at her face.
"No," she gasped once again and turned her head away. The wind blew her tears across her face, froze them to her cheeks. She heard the police shouting above and the sound of an ambulance far, far below. He had to answer for all he'd done. He had to!
But could she hold much longer?
She must know Michael would live. Even if she died. Yet her aching fingers cramped and slipped off the railing.
"It's okay Rose." Detective Fogle appeared and grabbed her shoulders, his grip tight enough to bruise. "We've got you. Got you both."
Two other officers helped pull Rose and her attacker back over the railing. Only then did she release her strangle hold on his jacket. They quickly disarmed Mark and handcuffed him against his violent struggles.
Jim Fogle helped her stand and dabbed at the cuts on her hands with a handkerchief. "Sorry we waited so long. We heard him confess to murdering Annie and decided to see if he'd say more. I had to hold Mike or he'd have broken away sooner." He glared at the murderer.
Mark glared back, not one ounce of fear or repentance in his eyes or on his face.
"Lucky for you the lady doesn't hold a grudge." Jim Fogle shifted again, his hand firm and secure around her waist.
Mark spat at his face. "That's no lady. She's a whore. I'll kill you right along with her if you don't--"
"Right. Sure you will." Jim exchanged a glance with his fellow officers. "Halloween always brings out you loonies. Your case is no different."
"You go to--"
"Just let me warn you up front that being insane won't get you off, though. One confessed murder. Several attempted ones, including a former policeman, a world famous architect, the Governor, congressmen. . . Oh, the court's just going to love you."
Mark grinned and Rose shivered. He didn't look at all sorry. He looked. . . . happy. Almost delirious. "Yeah? The media will, too. Especially when I escape and you can't find me." His dark gaze turned to her. "Your days are numbered, bitch. Remember that."
Rose shook her head. Even now, knowing all he'd done, that he'd killed Annie, tried to kill Maye and Sloan and her, and even Michael, she couldn't hate him. She pitied him. Lord, how sorry she felt for him.
He'd never know love as long as he clung to his hate.
"Why"? she asked him softly, trying to understand, wanting so much for him to be the kind, dedicated foreman she'd thought. "Why?"