Cassidy and the Princess

“She’s ill and shouldn’t be disturbed,” Mrs. Merrick said.

“Mrs. Merrick,” he added patiently. “Perhaps you didn’t understand what I said earlier. Women have been killed. She’s the only one who’s survived an attack by this man, and she’s all we have. We need her help.”

Their eyes met. “Then, you don’t have anything. She didn’t see a face,” Mrs. Merrick finally said.

“Come in,” came a soft voice from within the room.

Cara Merrick looked startled, then dismayed.

“Mother, let them in.” The voice was stronger this time.

Reluctantly, the woman opened the door and stood aside, as Cassidy and Manny entered.

The curtains were closed and the room was dim. The figure in the bed looked fragile and small. Her hair was long and the color of honey, and her eyes were as blue as a summer’s evening sky. And they were intent on him.

Their gazes met, locked. An odd flash of recognition passed between them.

No. He didn’t believe in immediate attraction. Or whatever you called it.

Still, he almost stopped breathing. For one of the few times in his life, he was nearly tongue-tied. He told himself that the twitch in his heart was merely male admiration for a pretty woman. And for her courage.

He went to the side of her bed, as she pushed a button raising the head of the bed and bringing herself to a sitting position. “You said other women were killed?” Her eyes looked tired and her face was pale. He saw her wince as the bed moved.

He nodded. “I’m MacKay, a detective with the Atlanta Police Department. This is Manuel Sharman. We believe the same man who attacked you has killed at least four other women.”

Something flickered in her eyes. She had not known. His eyes went to Cara Merrick. The expression in her mother’s face did not change.

“He wanted to kill me,” Marise Merrick whispered. “I could feel it.”

“Did you see his face?”

“He was wearing a face mask, but I tore it off,” she said slowly. “It was too dark to see much. I don’t think I would recognize him.”

Cassidy’s heart was beating faster. At least she’d seen something, and she probably knew far more than she realized.

“I could have a police artist here later today.”

“I don’t think I saw that much.”

“Will you try?”

She nodded, despite a protestation from her mother who had moved to her side.

Cassidy’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Height? Weight? Race?”

“He was tall. Perhaps Paul’s height, which is six feet,” she said, then smiled again. “Everyone looks tall to me. Bulky build.” She looked at Manny. “And he was white.” She hesitated. “He was wearing gloves like the nurses wear here.”

White. Tall. The first building blocks.

“Clothes?”

“Dark.” She closed her eyes as if trying to remember. “Track clothes. Like mine. Something else,” she said. “An odor. Almost sweet.”

“Could it have been medicinal?” Cassidy asked.

“I don’t know…it wasn’t familiar.”

She moved, and he saw her grimace.

“She needs rest,” her mother said, reaching out to push the call button.

Her daughter stopped her. “No,” she said. “If I can help…”

But Cassidy realized she was in pain. For a moment, he regretted that he had to do his job, but he pressed ahead. “Could you tell me anything else? Even impressions?”

“I don’t think so.” She moved again, and this time pain was evident in her face. “I wish I could help you more.”

“Do you think you might have seen him before? Could he have been following you?”

Her body seemed to shudder. “No. I…don’t think so.”

“Why were you outside—alone?”

She hesitated. For the first time Cassidy saw something secretive in her eyes. Then she shook her head. “Just fresh air,” she said.

“We’ll have the police artist over here,” he said. “Try to remember everything you can.”

Her eyes closed for a moment, then fluttered back open, and he saw exhaustion in them. He had more questions but they could wait a few hours. After she had some rest.

“You won’t be leaving?” he asked.

Cara Merrick started to say something, but the woman in the bed stopped her. “No,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you want. I want him caught.” There was sudden strength in her voice. Determination.

“How did you get away?” he asked.

“I kicked him in the crotch,” she said. She grinned. Weakly, but it was a grin.

He was momentarily stunned. It was the last thing he had expected to hear.

“I have strong legs,” she added, as if unsure whether he believed her.

“I imagine you do,” he said.

“Did you find the knife?” she asked.

“Knife?”

“He dropped it when I kicked him. But maybe he picked it up when he left,” she said.