A Perfect Life by Mike Stewart Page A

deeply that the simple embrace sent waves of nausea rolling through the pit of his stomach.

CHAPTER 8
    A tiny red light blinked in the dark of Kate Billings's bedroom. She stirred inside flannel sheets, glanced at the incoming-call light, and rolled onto her side. Kate had already turned off the phone's ringer, and she'd switched off her pager the minute she got home. She was off duty, she was exhausted, and whoever wanted her could damn well call back in the morning.
    As sleep settled over her like a warm blanket, she realized that there was something wonderfully delicious about ignoring someone rude enough to interrupt her sleep.
     
    Scott punched the OFF button and dropped the receiver on his bed. He spoke to the room. “You should've answered the phone, Kate.” He shook his head at the bedspread. “You really should have.”
    Worry churned the hospital coffee in his stomach as he climbed back into bed a few minutes before sunrise. Finally, exhaustion overtook misery and he descended into the comparative comfort of a fitful sleep.
    Less than an hour passed before Scott sensed some vague and whispered movement inside the room. Too exhausted to move—too tired to want to—he opened his eyes.
    The morning sun cut through drawn miniblinds, slicing dark furniture and flooring into intersecting bands of light. A shadow flitted across drawn blinds. Scott's breathing came faster. He tried to concentrate, but the room was empty and he was just so tired. Sleep had begun to take him under again when floorboards creaked in the outer sitting room. Moving slowly—moving, he hoped, like a man turning in his sleep—Scott once again scanned the bedroom. Still he was alone. But the sound had been real.
    He flipped the covers away, pivoted, and planted his feet on cold floorboards. Grabbing his glasses off the bedside table, he stepped to the closet and reached inside for the only weapon he owned. As his fingers closed around the leather grip of a softball bat, a hushed metallic sound sent something like an electric shock across his shoulders.
    The bedroom doorknob was turning. The sleepy ex-wrestler sprang across the room and flattened against the wall before his mind had finished processing what was happening. He raised the bat overhead, but it occurred to him that bashing in a burglar's skull was more violence than he was willing to do. Shifting slightly to the right, Scott assumed a batter's stance, staying as close to the wall as possible. The old door popped and shuddered a little as it cleared the frame, and the white kid in rapper duds who'd broken into his apartment the day before stepped into the bedroom.
    A jumble of thoughts tumbled through Scott's mind. He recognized the intruder; he understood that the second burglar from the day before was probably following the first into his room; he thought of what the second burglar might do if he pounded the first one with a bat. He swung hard at the intruder's stomach.
    The kid twisted instinctively backward as the bat came around. Scott felt the soft thud of contact a split second before the tip of his bat slammed against the door frame. And he heard pain in the grunt that followed. Seconds passed. Only the soft rush of labored breathing came from the outer room.
    Scott called out. “Who's there? Listen. The cops are on the way. I called 911. You'd better get the hell out of here.”
    “You wouldn't be lying to us, would you, jack?”
    Scott could feel the soft thump of his heart in his neck and temples. “What?”
    The same man's voice said, “You didn't call the damn cops.” The speaker made a repeated humming sound, like an old lady disapproving of an unruly grandchild. “Kick the door shut. Go ahead, Scotty. Kick the mother.”
    Scott pushed the door shut with the thick end of his bat. “Are you leaving?”
    “Soon.” The man's voice was muffled now. “Go ahead. Call the cops. Whatever you want. We'll be gone before they get here.” A loud crash came from the