The Survivors Club

Chapter 42

MEG HAD DRIFTED OFF AGAIN. SHE WAS AT HOME, IN Molly's pink-colored room. They were preparing Barbie for her big wedding day, except this time Pooh's cape was blood red. Meg was trying to get the cape off when she looked down to see that Pooh's fuzzy cheeks had morphed into David Price's smirking face.

“Daddy!” Molly cried in delight.

Meg jerked awake with a scream. Her legs had given out beneath her, and her arms screamed at the sudden impact of her dead weight. Hastily she scrambled to get her footing on the rough dirt floor. Perversely enough, her arms and shoulders ached worse.

A sound. Up above. A door opening. Footsteps moving quickly across a wooden floor.

Meg couldn't help herself. The College Hill Rapist was back, and she was grateful. Her bloody wrists stung, her bound ankles hurt. She couldn't stand the feel of her urine-soaked jeans plastered against her skin. She wanted down. She wanted out. She wished… she wished so badly to feel human again.

She turned her head to where she believed the staircase was, and held her breath in anticipation of his approach.

Another click, the door opening at the top of the stairs. And then, “Hi, honey,” David Price's voice sang out clearly, “I'm home!”

Through her gag, Meg started to scream.

Five blocks from Griffin's old home, Fitz hit the brakes. Adrenaline demanded that they roar up to the front door and leap out, guns blazing. Prudence advised a different course. The three men gazed studiously around the neighborhood for any sign of David Price while Fitz drove a grid.

Up one street, down another. Around this block, around another. Clock ticking, tension mounting. Griffin could feel the knots bulging in his shoulders, while Waters cracked his knuckles incessantly.

The streets were quiet. The sun was beginning to sink and firing the sky bright orange and deep crimson.

They got within one block of Griffin's former home, where he had lived and loved and lost his wife. Then Fitz pulled over.

“How many points of entry?” he asked quietly.

“Three. Front door, side patio door and basement bulkhead.”

“We split up,” Waters murmured.

“Finesse job,” Griffin said. “David's armed and he won't hesitate to use Meg as a shield. Basically, it's a hostage situation that, given the neighborhood, could rapidly grow worse.”

“Contain him,” Fitz muttered.

“Yeah. Meg is bad enough. We don't want him to end up in another home, with an entire family to torment.”

No one asked the next logical question-at what point did they sacrifice Meg to contain Price? They had to hope it wouldn't come down to that.

“All right,” Griffin said.

They got out of the car, got out their firearms, and one by one disappeared into the fiery dusk.

The doctors poured in. Kids, really, in oversized lab coats raced into Carol's room and surrounded Dan's wife. Her left leg was twitching, her right arm thrashing. The machine beeped and the doctors shouted strange codes to the nurses, who were already pushing Dan aside as they scrambled for more equipment and one helluva big syringe.

“Carol, Carol, Carol…”

“You need to leave, sir.”

“My wife…”

“A doctor will be with you shortly, sir.”

“Carol-”

The nurse shut him firmly out of the room. He stood outside, alone in the hallway, while the doctors yelled, the machine beeped and his wife's body convulsed on the bed.

David touched her. His fingers stroked Meg's cheek and gently feathered back her hair. She tried to turn away, but she couldn't escape. He had taken off her blindfold first thing. All the better to see you, my dear, he'd crooned. The sudden glare of the bare overhead light hurt her eyes.

“You grew up,” David said now. “Pity.”

He ran one finger up her arm, then raised it to his lips and sucked her blood off his fingertip.

“You've been busy, my dear. Look at the mess you've made. It didn't help you at all, but it's sweet that you tried. Did Ronnie tell you I was coming, Meg? Did you work yourself into such a state, simply for me?”

She still had the gag in her mouth, so she didn't bother to reply.

“Well, I really can't delay too long,” David said briskly. “So let's get you unhooked and down to business.”

Meg eyed him warily. She could see the butt of a gun sticking up from the waistband of his pants. One side of his shirt carried a red stain, and his right cheek was flecked with blood. He reeked of gunpowder and death. She had no illusions what that meant.

He slipped his hand behind his back. It emerged with an ugly, black-sheathed knife.

“Courtesy of Jerry,” he told her, though she didn't understand whom he meant.

She watched him unsnap the leather sheath. She watched the large, serrated hunting knife slide into view, the overhead light caressing the menacing edge. She should've worked the wall anchor more. She should've tried harder. Who cares that her arms and shoulders had ached. Whatever David did to her now was going to hurt far, far worse.

He rested the tip of the blade against her collarbone. It felt cool and sharp against her sweat-soaked skin.

She closed her eyes, pressed her back against the wall and tried to tell herself it couldn't hurt forever. Everything, even pain, had to end. Poor Molly. Poor Mom and Dad. Poor Jillian and Carol… Poor Meg. She had been getting things together. Really, even without a memory, she had been looking forward to getting on with her life. And now… The knife moved. She whimpered helplessly…

And David cut her down.

Her arms fell forward abruptly, her bound hands hitting her stomach like a rock. In the next instant, blood flow returned to her strained limbs, prickling nerve endings to sudden life, and she nearly screamed at the sudden whomp of pain.

Watching her, David laughed. “Yeah, sometimes the recovery is worse than the injury. You know, I've spent the last year getting into yoga. Take it from me, if you had conditioned your muscles properly to begin with, it wouldn't hurt so much now. Jesus, Meg, did you wet your pants?”

She wanted to hit him. She couldn't move her arms. They felt strange and rubbery, as if they no longer belonged to her. And her shoulders felt different, overly loose. Parts were assembled, but someone hadn't done the wiring right.

“I had planned on playing here for a while,” David announced matter-of-factly, “but the fact that Ronnie's absent leads me to believe he might have been detained, and if Ronnie's been detained, then this house is no longer safe. In the good-news department, I see he's already procured a car. What do you say, Meg? Let's go for a ride. For no reason at all, I'm going to have you start the engine first.”

He stepped toward the stairs and when she didn't automatically follow, he looked back at her with a frown. “Come on, don't be shy.” Then his gaze fell and he finally noticed her bound ankles. “Well, well, looks like Ronnie didn't like to leave anything to chance. Believe me when I say I know exactly how you feel. Come on, I need you to walk.”

David got the knife back out. He bent and started sawing through the latex ties. The material finally snapped free. He looked up at her with a smile.

Meg smiled back. And then she drove her knee as hard as she could into the underside of his chin. His jaw cracked sharply. His face went bone-white as the pain ricocheted up to his forehead. David stumbled back, still gripping the knife.

Don't give him time to recover, their self-defense instructor had told them. Don't give your attacker time to think.

Meg lashed her foot out at David's groin; he blocked her with his thigh. She drove her foot down into his tender instep. He made a funny noise in the back of his throat. She went after the side of his kneecap and he finally went down.

She wanted his gun. She wanted his knife. She wanted to stick her fingers in his eye sockets and dig for his brain. But her fingers wouldn't move, her arms wouldn't obey.

Meg whirled toward the wooden staircase with her useless, bloody arms. She started to run.

Behind her, David yelled, “One more step, you fucking bitch, and I will blow you away!”

Meg didn't stop.

David opened fire.

Griffin was easing along the front of the house, approaching the front door, when he heard the first gunshot. It was quickly followed by many more. He ducked low, grabbed the doorknob with his left hand while holding his Beretta with his right. Twist, turn, he rolled into the front entryway and came up in time to see David Price standing at the top of the basement stairs only four feet away. David was bellowing, “I'M GONNA KILL YOU, BITCH!” and brandishing a gun that matched Griffin's own-apparently David had armed himself courtesy of his state police escorts.

Griffin squeezed the trigger just as David spotted him, dodged right and returned fire. Shit! Griffin hurtled himself into the room on the left, getting off a few wild shots while David splintered the floorboards at his feet. Another shape suddenly appeared on Griffin's left-Fitz, emerging through the side patio door.

Griffin yelled: “Down!”

David raised the barrel and squeezed off another shot as Fitz hit the ground.

Griffin fired again. David whirled around the corner into the kitchen, where he had access to the next flight of stairs.

“Damn!” Fitz swore into Griffin's ear, crawling to his feet. “I think he took out the last of my hair.”

“Where's Meg?”

“I don't know, but he shot the hell out of something in the basement.”

“You go down, I go up.”

“And let you have all the fun?”

“You get the girl.”

“Oh yeah. Enough said.”

Griffin scrambled across the floor, on his hands and knees now and finding the shattered flooring the hard way. He drove four splinters into his forearms before he finally arrived at the entranceway to the kitchen. He reached in with one hand, toppled a small table onto its side and dove behind it for cover.

Then he waited, letting his eyes readjust to the gloomy interior. A light glowed from the bottom of the basement, but apparently that was the only light on in the tightly shuttered house. Griffin blinked, worked on catching his breath, then turned his gaze to the ceiling above him.

Not a sound from overhead. Not a footstep, a scuffle or a muttered curse.

Seven-oh-five P.M. The house was deathly still as the sun began its final descent, and the combatants prepared for round two.

Jillian was trying to drive and read a printout from maps.com detailing how to get to Price's former address, which she'd found listed in old news stories detailing his arrest. The first time she drove right by the street. She went to do an illegal U-turn, then realized it was better this way; she would have a better chance at surprise if she approached the house on foot.

She had one canister of pepper spray in her hand, another in her pocket. Spray worked best up close. Go for the eyes and nose, get it in the mucous membranes. For someone like her, that would require stealth. David was looking for the police, after all. He probably had his hands full battling seasoned professionals like Griffin. Maybe he was even having difficulty controlling Meg. They would be the distraction.

She thought of Trish's apartment again. The man's weight pressing her to the floor, pinning her in place while her sister suffocated and died on the bed. The man laughing at her futile efforts. The man promising to fuck her good.

But she needed to keep those memories at bay. She needed to focus on the sidewalk beneath her feet, the cool metal canister in her hand and the house looming near.

Trish had died, the man had won. You couldn't change the past. Time to move forward. Focus on Meg. Think of the lessons she had learned.

And then return home to her mother, who truly needed her.

Jillian homed in on the house. She was still trying to figure out how to approach, when she heard a low moan, then a male voice shouted, “Jesus Christ, Waters. Oh man. Oh… Jesus… Hang in there, buddy. Oh man, we need a doctor quick!”

Meg was breathing hard. Her body had started trembling uncontrollably and she had to remain plastered to the bedroom wall or she was afraid she'd shatter into a million pieces. As she'd raced up the basement stairs, she'd heard gunfire behind her. At first she'd ducked instinctively, dodging imaginary bullets, then she'd realized that even more gunfire came from behind David. Someone had penetrated the bulkhead. For one moment, her spirits had soared. She was being rescued! The cavalry had arrived. Then she had heard a man's sudden, sharp exclamation. A stranger's voice. Someone else, not David, had been hit.

She had run and run. And still she had heard shots, coming steadily closer and gaining fresh intensity in the foyer. Then, just as abruptly as it had started, it was over. No more shots, just David's harsh exclamation as he careened up the first-floor stairs.

If the police had come, then he'd shot them all. Because David didn't seem to be running away. Instead, from what she could tell, he was now on the second floor with her. Somewhere down that shadowed hallway, he was looking for her.

Her gaze went around the dusky bedroom, now searching for some means of escape. The blinds were pulled, casting the room into a deep gray pall that made every shadow sinister and every piece of furniture a hulking monster waiting to attack. She spotted the bed in the room's far corner. Her first temptation was to crawl underneath, push herself to the back and curl up her legs and hide. He would look under the beds, of course. And once he found her, she'd be trapped, helpless. He'd grab her by the ankles and drag her out, his knife already in hand.

She couldn't get boxed in. She needed to preserve her options. She was trying to think: What would Jillian do?

The bathroom. Maybe she could find a razor or hairspray. Of course, a razor didn't exactly compete with a hunting knife and hairspray hadn't been known to checkmate a gun. Halt or I'll spritz you to death!

She almost giggled, then realized she was becoming hysterical and bit her lower lip. The movement pressed the gag deeper into the corners of her parched mouth. Her eyes teared.

What if she could make it to the bedroom window? She could open it, maybe get onto the roof. Or if the house didn't have a first-story overhang, she could always just jump. It would probably hurt. She might break a leg or worse. But given the alternative…

She heard a sound. It was a whisper, slithering down the long dark hall.

“Oh Meg, pretty Meg,” David crooned softly. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Fight or flight? Not much time left…

Poor beaten Meg made her decision.

Griffin had to get up to the second story. He wasn't sure how. As in so many small New England homes, the staircase was narrow and steep. With his build, he'd be a walking target all the way up. All Price had to do was hear him coming, turn the corner and open fire.

Then again…

Floorboards creaked up above. Price was on the move.

And then Griffin heard another sound. More old wood groaning, then the telltale squeak of a window finally giving way. But this noise came from the opposite corner from the first noise.

There was a second person upstairs. Oh no, Meg…

Griffin didn't have a choice anymore. He abandoned the cover of the table and made his move.

Jillian came around the side of the old house. The first thing she saw was Fitz on the ground, kneeling over another man. “Come on, buddy, come on, hang in there.”

“Detective Fitzpatrick?” she called softly.

He jerked around sharply. It was hard to see his features in the rapidly growing dusk, but his movements appeared dazed.

“Jillian, what are you… Never mind. Got a cell phone? I need it now!”

“Is he…”

“That son of a bitch David Price shot him as he opened up the basement bulkhead. Guess David was already waiting in the cellar.”

“Meg…” the man on the ground murmured. “Price… going to shoot… her.”

“Shhhh, Griffin's got her.”

“She's still in the house?” Jillian dropped down on her knees next to Fitz, then dug in her purse for her cell phone. The downed detective didn't look good. She could see the stain growing rapidly along his left side. His thin face was abnormally pale, sweat beaded his brow. He was going into shock.

“Here.” She thrust her phone out to Fitz, then took off her long coat and draped it over the man's chest. He was starting to shake now. The cold grass wasn't good for him, but she didn't know if they should move him. She glanced nervously around the bare yard. They were five feet from a house with an armed killer and the damn landscaping didn't even offer a bush or tree for cover.

Fitz was on the phone. In a quiet, controlled rush he was demanding backup, demanding an ambulance, demanding assistance for an officer down. “Detective Waters has been shot,” he said. “Repeat, we require immediate medical assistance.”

Jillian took Waters's hand. His fingers felt cold and clammy to the touch. “M-M-Meg.”

“Meg's fine,” Jillian lied. “Please don't worry.”

“Got up… basement stairs. I… distracted… Price.”

“Shhhh, it's going to be all right, Detective. Relax now. You heard Fitz. Griffin's inside. Griffin will take care of Meg.”

Fitz was done with the phone and was now looking from her to Waters frantically. Jillian understood his dilemma.

“I'll stay with him,” she said. “You go help Griffin.”

“He's a good guy,” Fitz said gruffly, still torn as he looked at a downed fellow officer.

“I have Detective Waters,” Jillian repeated firmly. “You help Meg.”

Fitz gave Waters one last look. The detective wearily, blearily waved him off. “G-G-Go.”

Fitz turned. He ran back around to the front of the house, where David Price waited with a gun, where Griffin stalked a killer and where Meg fought for her life.

Jillian sat down in the cold, damp grass. She clasped Waters's hand in hers. “Stay with me, Detective,” she murmured. “We're going to get through this. I promise you, we're all going to get out of this alive.”

Meg was at the window, exposed and vulnerable to the partially open doorway. She could hear movement now, creaking down the hall, growing rapidly closer. David was coming. Slowly but surely, he was checking out each small, bare room.

Not much time, not much time. Come on fingers, work!

She had her arms up, her elbows bent. Sensation was returning to her swollen fingers, and though they felt clumsy and sluggish, she finally had some movement. She'd gotten the blinds up. Now she fiddled with the metal half-moon window clasps until she finally got them turned.

Finally, the tricky part. Her arms were all wrong. Her shoulders still felt strange and disjointed. She didn't think she could push anything up, let alone an old window stuck in its casing. But there was only one way out of this house at the moment. Only one way to circumvent David.

I am not a victim. I am not a victim.

Meg was weeping. Her breath was labored, her whole body hurt. She thought of how much she loved her parents. She thought of how much she loved Molly. And then she shoved her arms beneath the window, sank her teeth into her bottom lip and pushed with all her might.

The window squeaked, her arms screamed, and then… The window rocketed up. She stuck her head out into the crisp night air. And found herself looking straight down at none other than Jillian.

David heard the squeak of a window opening. Meg! She was trying to bail on him. He took two quick steps down the hall, leading with his gun, then he heard another sound, also up ahead, but this time to the right. He halted immediately, straining his ears.

Griffin, he deduced, trying to sneak up the stairs. Goddammit, why couldn't he have just died in the foyer? David was running out of time for these little games. Dammit, he'd had a plan!

He frowned, caught the expression and forced his brow to smooth back out. Think. What could Meg really do from a second-story window? Fall? Break her back? All the easier to kill her later. Griffin posed the more immediate threat. He would deal with Griffin first.

David moved to the right side of the hallway. He pressed his back against the wall and brought his gun up to his chest in a two-handed grip. Griffin would be coming up the stairs low, trying to be less of a target. He might also be wearing a flak vest. So David would also go in low and aim for the head.

He bent his knees, sinking down to the hall floor. He felt fluid, smooth as silk, even after picking the locks of his shackles, divesting himself of his chains, and taking out a fully armed escort. In some ways, prison had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. He'd entered the ACI a physically weak man with a gift for charm. He'd emerged with a finely honed, absurdly flexible physique and a whole new understanding of human nature. Old David had preyed on kids. New David would prey on the entire world.

But first, he would kill Sergeant Griffin.

David eased steadily into the shadows.

“You can't jump,” Jillian was saying, low and frantic from the yard.

Meg shook her head desperately and leaned out the window.

“Dammit, Meg, it's too high-”

Meg couldn't speak through the gag, just show her bound, bloody wrists.

“Oh, Meg…”

Meg took a deep breath, then threw one leg over the windowsill.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Jillian cried. “Quick, I have an idea!”

Flat on his belly, Griffin slithered his way slowly up the hardwood stairs. He held his gun just in front of his face as he peered warily into the dark void waiting at the top. He grew closer and closer, knowing that at any time Price could strike.

Five steps from the top.

Groans down the hall. Squeaky floorboards, the sound of glass vibrating. He couldn't think about those things yet. He had to keep his attention on the top of the stairs.

Four steps from the top. Three, two…

And then.

Suddenly, quickly, David Price's face materialized in the gloom. A burst of fire. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

Griffin squeezed the trigger even before he felt the first bullet graze his forehead. He rolled sideways, hitting the unforgiving wall as he fired desperately, trying to hit a man he could no longer see. Rings of light exploded in front of his eyes, the muzzle flash temporarily breaking into his dark, dusky world and blinding him.

Blood. Pain. His head.

Griffin kept firing. Then he came up the stairs with an enraged roar.

David ran across the hall. He heard Griffin still firing. Good, good, good, blow your fucking wad, shoot up the staircase. David didn't have many shots left; he certainly wasn't going to waste them.

He darted into the bedroom, already looking for Meg.

A cool breeze immediately hit his cheeks, accompanied by a relatively brighter flash of fading daylight. He forced his gaze to readjust and realized that the blinds were up and the bedroom window was open. In the next moment, he heard a thump out in the yard.

David rushed to the open window. He stuck out his head in time to see a woman's shadowy figure scramble to her feet and run across the lawn.

No, no, no. It wasn't possible. Meg should be hurt. She couldn't just get away like that. She was his, his, HIS.

David raised his gun to fire. Just as a second shape suddenly materialized from behind the closet door.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

David whirled around. “Meg? What the-”

She caught him in the side with her shoulder and they both went smack against the wall as Griffin roared into the room.

David was tangled. He had to get to his feet, find his balance and regain control. He got one hand around Meg's neck and shoved her brutally aside. Just in time to encounter Griffin's fist.

David's left cheek exploded. He went down hard, registered the new threat in the room and rolled left. He came back up with his gun, squeezing off one wild shot before Griffin had his hand in his massive grip and started twisting his arm behind his back.

David cried out at the sudden pain. Then he grew royally pissed off. This was not according to his plan! This had not been part of his equation!

He went still, sagging forward and letting the sudden impact of his weight drag Griffin off-balance. They both fell forward. David rolled clear first and sprang up onto his feet. This time he had out the hunting knife. That was better.

He went for Griffin's ribs, just as his old friend and neighbor threw up his arm. David sliced through Griffin's shirt and had the satisfaction of drawing first blood. He danced back, watching Griffin rise thunderously to his feet. Griffin didn't appear to have a gun anymore. He had probably run out of bullets on the staircase, then thrown down his gun in disgust. Griffin always acted on impulse. All the better for David.

“I've learned a few things since we last met,” David said, bouncing around on the balls of his feet, flashing his knife. He'd lost track of Meg. He decided it didn't matter. What could a girl do?

“Needlepoint?” Griffin drawled.

“I'm not going back, no fucking way. I'm going to kill you, then I'm going to take out every goddamn cop along the way. I've already racked up at least six today. What's a few more?”

“I think you should take the car in the driveway,” Griffin said, circling warily. “You know, Viggio went to a lot of trouble to set it up just for you.”

“Shit! He rigged it, didn't he? Well, that just curdles my cheese. I'm the one who told him where to go on-line for the bomb-making guide, you know. Without me, that low-level turd would be nothing.”

David leapt forward, slashing at Griffin's unprotected thigh. Griffin, however, saw him coming, stepped neatly left and slammed him with a fresh uppercut to his left eye. David's head snapped back. He saw stars but didn't go down. Instead he spun away and worked to regroup. Griffin was bigger, all right. But David was smarter, and better armed.

Griffin didn't lunge again but just kept circling. He appeared strangely calm, almost curiously patient.

“Without you, Viggio could've been the College Hill Rapist forever,” Griffin said. “No one could ever rat him out-like you were planning on doing.”

“I wasn't necessarily going to turn him in. What do I care if he's running around this state terrifying college coeds? I sort of considered him a going-away present for you, Griff. Your job would never be boring. Now I'll just have to kill you instead.”

“So you keep saying.”

“What the fuck are you doing, Griffin? Where's the rage, where's the holy war? Don't you remember what I did to Cindy? Do I have to tell you again what her last moments were like?”

“Cindy died surrounded by the people who loved her. We should all be so lucky.”

“I told her every little detail.”

Griffin didn't say anything. David frowned. He didn't like this. Where the fuck was Griffin's rage? He needed his old friend's anger. He fed on Griffin's rage. Griffin's beautiful, dark, mind-fogging hate, which always lured the oversized detective into doing something stupid.

“She tried to close her eyes, Griffin. I held her eyelids open with my fingers. It's not like she could fight me.”

Griffin still didn't say anything. He appeared to be looking behind David at the doorway. David whirled around sharply, saw only the shadowed hall, then had to quickly twist again before Griffin jumped him from behind.

“What you looking at?” David demanded. He was getting the heebie- jeebies again, feeling his control of the situation slip away, though there was no logical reason why.

“I'm not looking at anything.”

“There's no one left, Griffin. I shot your stupid friend, the skinny one, Waters. 'Fraid you can't break his nose anymore, Griffin. He interrupted me in the basement, so I killed him.”

Griffin remained silent.

David waved his knife. “Do you hear me! You're all alone! I killed your friend, I tormented your wife. I murdered ten kids and you didn't do a thing. And now, my good friend, I'm out of jail. Yep, you helped me with that, too. Welcome, Great Sergeant Griffin. Welcome, the aspiring criminal's best friend.”

“Where's Meg?”

“What?” David drew up short again. Something was wrong. None of this was going according to the usual script. He had sweat on his forehead. And he felt… he felt strangely tired. All this effort. He was putting on a good show. What the fuck was up with his audience?

“Where is Meg?” Griffin asked again, circling, circling, circling.

“Meg's irrelevant.”

“You think?” Circling, circling, circling.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you haven't exactly gotten away yet, David. Think about it. You went to a lot of trouble to get out of prison, only to become trapped in your former home. That's a lot of running, I would agree, but not much progress.”

“Shut up.”

Griffin shrugged. “If you say so.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” David screamed. “Goddammit, yell at me!”

Griffin didn't say a word. Just circled, circled, circled.

And David… And David… Something went. In his head. Behind his eye. He felt a little pop, as if all of his homicidal fury had just exploded like a neutron bomb. And then his arm was above his head. And then he was running, because he had to kill Griffin. He had to kill this man with his calm face and steady voice and knowing, knowing eyes. Goddammit, after all of this planning, he deserved a better audience.

David screamed at the top of his lungs. He charged forward…

And Griffin pulled his gun out of the small of his back and shot him point-blank in the chest. Pop, pop, pop. David Price went down. He didn't get back up again.

Thirty seconds later, Fitz stepped into the room from where he'd been sheltering Meg in the hall. He approached David's body while Meg peered in cautiously from the doorway. The detective leaned down, discovered no pulse, and looked back up at Griffin.

“That was expertly played,” Fitz said grimly.

And Griffin said, “I learned from a master.”

He came out of the house, Meg and Fitz in his wake. Ambulances had arrived, their lights blazing, their sirens piercing. Funny how he had never heard their approach. In the bedroom, his world had been small, just comprised of David and the lessons of his past. Now it was lights, camera, action.

Jillian came around the house, fresh from her cameo as a fleeing Meg Pesaturo. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was a long, tangled mess, her clothes were stained with blood. He thought she had never looked better. She glanced at him once, her chin up, her gaze curiously open and proud. Then Meg was flying into her arms and she was holding the girl close, stroking her hair.

Griffin went to the ambulance where they were loading up Waters on a stretcher. An oxygen mask was over Waters's face, but his gaze was alert, focused.

“How is he?” Griffin asked.

“Gotta get to the hospital,” the EMT said.

“He gets the best.”

“Men in blue always do.”

“Mike…”

Waters tried a halfhearted thumbs-up. Then the stretcher was in the back, the doors were closing and the ambulance was pulling away.

More cruisers came screeching down the street. More lights, camera, action.

Griffin stood in the middle of the chaos of his old neighborhood, his old life. He looked at Meg. He looked at Jillian. He looked up at the bedroom where a dead David Price now lay.

And he whispered, “Cindy, I love you.”

The night wind blew down the street and carried his words away.

In the intensive care waiting room, Dan sat with his elbows on his thighs and his fingers digging into his hair. Thirty minutes had passed. It might as well have been a year.

A door opened and closed. Dan finally looked up to see a white-jacketed doctor standing before him. He tried to read the man's face, tried to steel his body before he heard the words.

“Your wife would like to see you.”

“What?”

“Your wife… She suffered an episode. But the good news is, she's now regained consciousness.”

“What?”

“Would you like to see your wife, Mr. Rosen?”

“Oh, yes. I mean, please.”

Dan went down the hall. Dan went into the room. And there was Carol, pale but conscious, lying on the bed. His feet suddenly stilled. He couldn't remember how to move.

“Honey?” he said.

“I heard your voice,” she whispered.

“I thought I'd lost you.”

“I heard your voice. You told me that you loved me.”

“I do, Carol! Oh I do. There has never been anyone else. You have to believe me. I've made so many mistakes, but Carol, I have never stopped loving you.”

“Dan?”

He finally got his feet to move. He took tiny, meek little steps toward the bed. She was awake now, capable of remembering all that he'd done, all of the ways that he had failed her. She was awake and he had not been a good husband, and…

Carol took his hand. “Dan,” she told him quietly. “I love you, too.”