The blast lifted her off her feet, shot her back through a hot burst of air. She landed in a heap, across a stranger's grave.
She knew what was whizzing overhead, thudding into the ground. Pieces of an angel, pieces of dirt. Pieces of Roy.
Images flashed through her mind, fast, disjointed. The first time she'd met him, at a party, and the big megawatt smile he dazzled her with. Making love with him on the big bed in the hotel suite where he'd surprised her with a weekend, and roses, and champagne. The instant before their lips met the first time as husband and wife. Dancing.
Lights.
Then blank dark.
Someone was shouting for her.
Phoebe pushed up to her elbows. She caught a blur of movement as Duncan dove. And he was over her, holding her down. Through a tunnel she heard more shouts, pounding feet, the crackle of radio static.
She didn't struggle; there was nothing to struggle for.
"What have I done?" she whispered. "Oh my God, what have I done?"
Chapter 22
She'd told him to go home. It pissed him off What the hell did she take him for?
Duncan paced the area outside her squad room. He couldn't sit; he couldn't settle, and he wished to God he couldn't think. Unfortunately, he could, and his mind kept sneaking back to that moment, that ohmyjesusgod moment when what had been a man had become… nothing.
Bits and pieces of meat and bone, and something like a horrible red fog.
He couldn't remember, not exactly, moving. He remembered feeling something-like a quick punch of air, and the sounds, whizzing and shouting, thunks-thunks of statuary and earth and God knew hitting trees and ground, other stones and statuary.
He knew he'd seen a piece of what had been Roy hanging in the lacy webs of Spanish moss. He thought he'd seen the stone angel's disembodied head fly, her face splattered with red, her smile peaceful and serene. But he might've imagined it.
He didn't remember running, walking, jumping toward Phoebe.
Just being there, he remembered just being there on top of her while the chaos boomed around them. He remembered hearing her say: What have I done? She said it over and over until someone-Dave, he thought, the captain-had pushed at him, pulled at them.
Are you hurt? Are you hit? That's what he'd asked first, Duncan was nearly sure of that. His face had been as white as the flying angel's. It blurred some after that. Lots of movement, lots of sound, more sirens.
And she'd told him to go. She'd stood in the middle of that nightmare and told him to go. Fuck that.
She was in with the captain, that's what they'd told him. In with Captain McVee and some others. So he'd wait. He'd goddamn wait. He wanted a drink. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to touch her just to assure himself one more time they'd both come through it whole. But all he could do was wait.
"Dune."
He turned, and his stomach did one hard shudder when he saw Phin striding from the elevator. For reasons he couldn't explain, seeing his friend had his legs going weak enough to have him sinking down onto a bench.
"Jesus. Oh Christ."
"You're okay?" Phin took a hard grip on Duncan's arm as he sat beside him. "You're bleeding. Are you okay?"
Dully, Duncan looked down at his shirt. "It's not my blood." Just a little souvenir from Bonaventure, a little memento of Roy. "But I think I've got a ways to go before I get within shouting distance of okay. Jesus, Phin. Fucking Christ Jesus."
"What the hell happened? Do they know what the hell happened?"
"He blew up. He just… It's not like the movies. Man, it's not like that." He pushed a hand through his hair. "Loo? The kids?"
"Fine. Kids are sleeping. We got cops around the house. This was Carly's father?"
"Roy. Roy Squire. Had him chained to the ground on a grave, strapped with explosives. Poor son of a bitch. Something about being grabbed out of his own garage, beaten up some, maybe drugged. Phoebe was talking to the guy who did it through Roy-the ex. He had, ah…" Duncan made a helpless gesture at his ear.
"Okay, I get it." Studying his friend's face, Phin pulled a flask out of his hip pocket. "Take a slug, brother."
"I'd kiss you for this, but I'm not feeling romantic." Grateful,
Duncan took the flask and swallowed straight whiskey. "He wasRoy-he was crying, begging. The guy… Cooper," Duncan remembered. "He told Phoebe to call him Cooper. He wouldn't say what he wanted, he wouldn't say why. Then he must've told Roy to say goodbye. And he pushed the button, he set off the bomb. He blew apart, Phin. Fuck, he just blew apart."
"Duncan, did you set the security before you left your house?"
"What? No." Had he? No. "We were out of there too fast."
"Okay, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to make some calls, get some people over there to do a sweep and to secure the place." Duncan let his head fall back. "Because he went after Phoebe's ex, he may come after me."
"No point in being sloppy, is there?"
"No, no point."
In the office, Phoebe sat ramrod straight. Her family was safe, and their homes under guard. She could put that worry out of her mind. Roy was dead; she couldn't change that. She had to block that guilt out of her mind, her heart, her belly.
"Hilton Head PD is investigating. They've got a crime-scene unit going over the house and garage. We're looking for the victim's car."
"The grave has to be symbolic of something or someone."
"We're getting the information."
"I need my family protected, not just for tonight-"
"Phoebe." Dave spoke quietly. "They will be."
"All right. He was engaged. I only know her first name-Mizzy. I don't know if they were living together or-"
"It'll be taken care of."
Of course, yes, of course it would. "A personal attack of this na ture has to stem from a personal grudge. Who have I pissed off, hurt, threatened?"
"We'll need to speak to Arnold Meeks."
"Yes." She drew a deep breath. "He needs to be interviewed and his whereabouts confirmed. But this wasn't his doing. He was a bad cop, he's no doubt a violent man, and a complete asshole. But he's not a killer. If what this Cooper told me tonight is fact, he's killed at least twice now. In cold blood. Meeks acts in rage, short-term planning, without factoring in the consequences."
"Someone acting on his behest. With or without his knowledge."
"Maybe. But I think it's more personal yet. You hurt me, I'll hurt you, and a whole lot worse. Something I did or didn't do. Someone I didn't save."
When she closed her eyes, pressed her fingers against her lids, all she could see was Roy. She dropped her hands into her lap. "A failure, a professional failure that was personal to him. Who did I lose, Dave? When?
How? I need to go back over my case files, all the way back. Any hostage or hostage-takers, any cop or bystander, anyone who was injured or killed during an incident where I was negotiator.
"I think it's going to be a woman," she added. "Why?"
"Because he's Gary Cooper. Because Roy was chained to a woman's grave. We can't discount anyone, but I think it's going to be a woman. He knows, or he's learned how to handle, weapons and explosives. Maybe he was trained in the military or law enforcement. Or maybe he trained himself. Because he planned this. Roy wasn't impulse, not spur of the moment."
She pounded her fisted hand on her thigh. "I couldn't hear. How could I listen and know how to respond, know how to bring him down when I couldn't hear his voice, the inflection, the emotion?"
"Phoebe, you're not responsible for this."
"Then why did he set it off? Did I ask the wrong question, choose the wrong tack? All the time, trouble, the risk he took to get Roy where he wanted him, to get me there, then he ends it? I have to listen to the tape, I have to figure out what I said-or didn't say-what pushed him to end it."