"Maybe I'd better swing by her place. I planned to let her game play itself out, but I don't want to see any bloodshed."
As Dean left the building, the jailer sauntered back to Fred's cell. When there was a lady around, Fred O'Connor was always in good hands. It was dark as he peddled, headlamp on, down the side streets of the now-quiet town and out the back road the short distance to Lydia's place. There was a sheriff's vehicle parked out front, but Dean wasn't sure if it belonged to Fitzgerald or Lydia. There were no lights showing in the apartment.
A knock on the door brought only silence. When Dean persisted, he heard movement, followed by a cough. He called Lydia's name but it was several minutes before he heard steps, and more time before the door was opened.
Lydia Larkin was bent over at the waist, hardly able to stand, clutching her mid-section. She stumbled back after leaving the door open barely enough for Dean to enter.
"What took you so long?" she rasped.
Dean slammed the door behind him and hurried after her into the darkened room. "Did that bastard do this to you?"
"Of course," she answered, in not much more than a whisper.
She was no more than a silhouette in the pale light. Dean felt the wall behind him for a light switch. She blinked back the flood of brightness and covered her eyes as she slumped back on the sofa. "You need a doctor, Lydia," he said as she reached for a rag on the coffee table. It was already reddened and after again coughing she wiped away a fresh smear of blood. She looked up at him and in spite of her obvious pain, actually smiled.
"Nice to have you come white-knighting to the rescue every time I need it. Too bad I'm always at my worse when you gallop up, isn't it?"
"What in hell happened?"
"Guess."
"Fitzgerald did this?" She nodded. "Lydia. . .."
"I've got it under control. Just look around. Take pictures or something."
For the first time, Dean did look around. A corner table was overturned, a lamp smashed, and a bottle of vodka broken against the wall. Large spots of blood puddled the tile in a dozen places. Lydia's blouse was ripped nearly in half from the neck down, with one portion hanging nearly to her knees while she clutched the other about her breasts. The side zipper of her shorts was split open, revealing the white of her thigh. Lydia's gun rested on the coffee table. Dean instinctively sniffed the air for the smell of cordite but his nostrils picked up only the scent of alcohol. She reached for the gun and slid it into a drawer in the table.