Page 82 of The Drowned Woman
It was a good move, would have worked, except Jack’s other hand had a firm grip on the railing. He fell against the railing, but quickly recovered, bringing his gun down against Leah’s skull. Stunned, she dropped, almost sliding under the railing. That’s when Luka saw that she’d lashed herself to the vertical support strut. Smart. She stopped her slide by throwing one hand around a train rail.
Jack straightened, taking aim with his pistol. Luka rushed him, swinging his tree branch like a baseball bat, aiming first for Jack’s gun arm, knocking the pistol from his grasp, and then on the back swing, hitting him in the solar plexus.
Jack staggered, off balance, his momentum propelling him toward Leah, who was crouched on the tracks. Using the hand gripping the railing above her for leverage, she launched her other fist into Jack’s throat. Jack slumped forward over the railing, all resistance vanished.
Luka grabbed his arms and quickly handcuffed him as Jack sputtered and gasped for breath.
“You okay?” Luka asked. Leah had blood trickling down her forehead into her eyes.
She nodded. Together they each took one of Jack’s arms and hauled him off the bridge.
“Put him into recovery position,” Leah instructed after Luka had placed Jack on the ground and searched his pockets, finding a cell phone along with Luka’s service weapon.
They rolled Jack onto his side. Leah checked Jack’s breathing, ignoring the glare Jack lasered at her. Luka stood guard over her, his weapon sighted on Jack as he dialed with his other hand. “Where’s Risa?” he asked Leah.
“At the pumphouse. He drugged her.” She took in a breath, wiped the blood from her face, and pushed to her feet. “He’ll be fine, but I need to get back to her.”
“I left my guys just down the road at the Homan farm.” The road was on the other side of a thin strip of trees. “I’ll have them come pick us up and call for an ambulance. It’ll be faster than you walking back.”
She nodded, but still seemed a bit stunned, taking a beat longer than normal before answering. “Why were you at the Homans’?”
“It’s a long story…”
Fifty
Two mornings later, Leah found herself hugging a pillow to her chest as she sat on the couch of her trauma counselor’s office. “How many times can one little girl be traumatized without it causing lasting damage?”
“But was Emily traumatized?” he asked, using that infuriatingly neutral therapist tone, as if they were discussing the cafeteria’s lunch menu and not her daughter’s life. “From my understanding, she was never in danger and handled the situation with extreme maturity.”
“She’s six!” Leah flared. “Her life has been threatened twice—three times if you count what happened at the Homan farm—and she saw her father murdered. Of course she’s been traumatized.”
“And is already in treatment for what happened around her father’s killing. Yes, she’s been through more than any six-year-old should, and yes, you’re worried about her, but I sense there’s something more beneath those feelings…”
Silence was one of his favorite weapons, Leah had learned. She understood why—she’d seen Luka use it as well, manipulating the human urge to fill the void with words. But it wasn’t going to work, not on her. Silence was her friend. In silence Ian’s voice could come through—or what she imagined he would say, always less harsh than her own judgment of her actions. Ian never made her feel guilty or fearful; it was her own voice that did that.
“We’ve spent almost this entire session discussing what happened to Emily,” he continued when she didn’t speak. “But how do you feel about what happened to you? You were kidnapped, drugged, almost killed, ran for your life. Then confronted a killer just as you did after Ian died.”
“I’m fine.” She tightened her grip on the pillow. Why was he wasting her time with this? Emily’s welfare was the priority.
“During all that, did you consider the fact that you might need to take another person’s life? How did that make you feel?”
“Feel? I was furious. And that’s exactly why I did survive. Why I fought. For Emily. I couldn’t leave her alone.”
“But your survival wasn’t solely in your control. No one’s is.”
Again a lengthy silence, the only sound the clock’s soft ticking behind her. Surely their time was up, Leah thought, anxious to leave this discussion and get back to work.
“Are you at all concerned that your new position, working so closely with the police, might place you in danger again?”
“Of course I am.” Was she really paying him to ask such idiotic questions?
“Then why not quit? I’m sure a talented physician such as yourself could find other opportunities.”
This time he didn’t break the silence that followed his question. Leah had answers—Emily’s need for stability, their financial security, etc. But none was the real answer. She knew it and, obviously, so did he.
Finally came the chime announcing the end of their session. Leah bolted upright, throwing the pillow back onto the couch. The therapist stood, reaching the door before her, blocking her path. “Before our next appointment, I’d like for you to think about what attracts you to a life filled with emergencies—whether as a physician treating patients or now as a consultant for the police.”
She frowned at him. “Saving lives and helping people isn’t good enough for you?”
