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“What about Rachel Dean? Did they find her?” Mills asked.
“I don’t think so. He didn’t mention her. Call it in. We’re going to need the crime lab team again.”
Eleven
Wyrick could hear Charlie’s voice. Then it felt like she was floating. She didn’t know that he was lifting her up, holding her tight against his chest.
They were moving now, but she couldn’t think what had happened. All she could feel was the throbbing pain in her head and neck. She tried to talk, but the only thing that came out was a moan.
Charlie reacted to the sound by holding her tighter as he kept carrying her back.
“I’m here, honey. I’m here,” he said. “You’re safe. Just hang on. Help’s coming.”
Moments later he emerged from the passage, moving through the debris-filled closet and back into the bedroom, then he carried her to the bed, gently easing her down.
His fingers were still bloody, and now so was she. He wiped them on his jeans before checking her pulse.
When she moaned again, he ran the back of his hand down the side of her face, wanting her to feel human contact and hear his voice.
“You’re safe, Jade. You’re safe. I’ve got you, and whoever took you is gone.”
She moaned again and then reached toward the back of her neck.
“What is it?” Charlie asked.
“Pain,” she mumbled.
“Let me see,” Charlie said and rolled her onto her side.
The red puncture mark was plainly visible. The bastard knew his stuff. Injection into a vein instead of a muscle could cause a victim to go into instantaneous unconsciousness.
“The bastard drugged you,” Charlie said as he eased her back down.
“Gone?” she mumbled.
“Yes, but not for long,” Charlie muttered.
Wyrick was desperately trying not to pass out again, but the drug was interfering with her ability to focus. She could hear Charlie’s voice, but the words were all jumbled. All she knew was that he was here and she was safe, so she gave in to the darkness washing over her.
Charlie felt her sliding away. She went limp again, and it was just as well. Pain would not visit an unconscious victim.
Within a couple more minutes he began hearing sirens, then a few minutes later the sound of footsteps running in the outer hall, then into the apartment.
“In here!” he shouted.
Seconds later EMTs were pouring into the room, throwing questions at him as fast as they were working on her.
“What happened? Where’s her wound?” one of them asked, while another was taking her vitals.
“The blood is mine,” he said and showed them his hands.
One EMT frowned and started to reach into his bag.
“You tore them up pretty bad. You need to—”
“Just tend to her,” Charlie said. “I’m fine. She was attacked in here,” Charlie said. “I think she was injected with some kind of knockout drug. There’s a red puncture mark on the back of her neck. Looks like a direct hit into her carotid. But she was dragged into a hidden passage behind that wall. I found her about fifty yards down. Just know that the police are going to want what she’s wearing, to check for DNA.”
They made notes of the info and began assessing her condition—blood pressure, pulse rate, checking her pupils for signs of a head injury, getting her ready to transport, and all Charlie could do was stand by, helpless to do anything but watch as they transferred her from the bed to a gurney.