He backhanded her once, hard, across the face, sending her back to her knees. Lola cried out in pain, unable to stop the tears as they streaked down her cheeks. Where are you, Jacob? When he took a step closer, she inhaled deeply, fully prepared to scream at the top of her lungs.
As if sensing the swollen air in her lungs, he dove on top of her, pinning her legs with his own as his large hands encircled her throat for the second time in just two weeks. Lola only managed to let a small squeak loose before he crushed her windpipe closed, stopping her air supply by pressing big thumbs down on her throat. She clawed with her hands, aiming blindly for his face as her heart raced with panic, and her chest burned from the lack of air.
When her nails connected, she heard him hiss out a sharp breath and loosen his hold on her throat in his surprise, but before she could scream, he’d re-tightened his grip and began bashing her head against the hard floor. Her vision blurred and even as she felt her frantic panic begin to subside, and her arms begin to fail, she was distinctly aware of two facts: the killer was strangling her, and his erection was pressing into her stomach.
A single shot echoed from James Barrowman’s office. Jacob paused in his full sprint from the elevator for only a moment before he drew his gun, his eyes forward as he crouched low and hurried towards the open door at the end of the hallway.
When Burns and Williams came up behind him, he said, “Call 911.” God, please let it not be Lola. He waited a split second for Burns to nod, then raising his voice, shouted, “Police!” as loudly as he could.
No reply. No screams for help. Nothing.
Usually, he would have followed protocol, would have identified himself once more before kicking open the slightly ajar door. But the fact that Lola was missing settled in his mind and without giving it another thought, he kicked the door open all the way, his gun raised, ready.
He smelled the blood before his eyes even registered what he was seeing, felt his stomach rise in his throat when the scene in front of him flooded his brain. Lola was underneath James Barrowman, her eyes closed, unmoving as a pool of blood collected around her head. Barrowman was slumped over her, on top of her, his charcoal suit jacket a red mess where Jacob could see a single bullet wound in his back. Mary Jane Barrowman was kneeling at Lola’s head, her eyes focused on Lola’s face as if she were in a trance.
Jacob saw the gun clenched in her hand, took a second to notice that although her wrist was limp and the gun was resting on the floor, her finger was still wrapped around the trigger. “Mrs. Barrowman,” Jacob said firmly, his gun raised, locked on her chest.
She turned blue eyes on him slowly, as if she weren’t quite sure that he was there. When their eyes met, he saw a brief flicker of awareness in them before it dissolved into hazy confusion. “Mrs. Barrowman,” he repeated.
She picked up the gun again, cradled it against her chest as she looked down at Lola. “He killed her too,” she whispered quietly, her soft voice forcing through his calm. “Not again.” Closing her eyes, she rocked herself back and forth.
Refusing to believe that Lola was dead, Jacob took a step forward. He couldn’t see her chest moving at all, and a single, cold bullet of dread hit him solidly in the chest. For a moment, as he looked down at her pale face, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see past the blood by her head.
“I’m going to help her,” he managed finally, needing to touch Lola more than he needed to disarm Mary Jane. “Can I see how bad her injuries are?”
Mary Jane looked at him in confusion, her blue eyes far away, unfocused. “I told you. She’s dead.”
“Mary Jane,” he said quietly, putting down his gun. “I’m…” He pointed down at Lola. “I’m in love with her. Please…” He met her eyes, “let me check for myself.”
“You won’t…?” she blinked, trailed off, then continued her rocking.
“No. I want to protect her.”
When she nodded, he practically ran the last few steps to Lola, pushing James Barrowman off her as he came close enough. The City Attorney’s body slumped over easily, and Jacob leaned down to check for her breathing. When he felt nothing, no gentle rise, and fall of her chest, no warm breath from her nose, he put his fingers to her pulse. Nothing.
He felt his heart stammering in his chest and quickly glanced up at Burns. “How far is the bus?”
“One minute. Maybe less.”
He started chest compressions without further prompting, counted the thirty quick, hard pumps that he slammed into her chest before leaning down and, pinning her nose shut, exhaling three long breathes into her mouth as he watched her chest rise from his breath.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of Burns reading Mary Jane Barrowman her rights which he knew meant that they’d disarmed her, but he shut them out as he focused on Lola, focused on the alternating chest compressions and breaths.
When the EMTs arrived ninety seconds later, he was drenched in sweat, his eyes blurred from the tears that were streaking down his face. The medic nudged him out of the way, taking over the CPR where Jacob had left off, as his partner quickly checked James Barrowman’s pulse, before quickly moving back to Lola and pulling a portable AED out and popping the buttons on Lola’s blouse with one clean rip so that he could place the pads on her chest.
Jacob sat on the floor, his hands on his head, Lola’s blood on his pants, watching as his life fell apart around him. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how he could help, or how he could make things better. So instead, he focused on what the medics were doing, thought about how efficient they were, how calm, how confidently their hands moved over her. When the AED beeped, the first medic started CPR again.
Jacob felt the sob rising in his chest and bit it back. Needing to do something, he stood so that he could face Burns and Williams. They had cuffed Mary Jane Barrowman, and stood, hovering near the door as they all looked upon the scene with dread. “Mrs. Barrowman,” he began, “how did you know that your husband had killed Veronica Tally, Selma Holt, and Deborah Duran?”
“I didn’t.” She looked at him then, her blue eyes filled with pain. “I hadn’t been to the group in a few weeks because…I had a bad fal-” Her eyes focused on her dead husband, and she stood a little straighter even though her hands were cuffed behind her back. “I was home after…James…” She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, they were clearer, focused. “He broke three of my ribs.”
He saw the fury burning brightly in her eyes, felt the heat of her hate as if it were directed at him. Ignoring it, he asked, “When was the last time you saw any of the girls?”
“Nearly three weeks ago at the last meeting I attended.”
“So, how did you know that your husband was after Lola Michaels?” He said the words quietly, forced his voice to calm so that she didn’t shut down. He wanted to scream at her, deliberately clenched his fist at his side so that he didn’t lash out at the closest breakable thing.
“We have a pulse.”
The words, coming from behind him, forced a choked exhale out of his chest. Jacob turned to the two detectives, aware of the fact that Mary Jane Barrowman was cowering under his gaze. “I need you two to handle this. I’ve got to go to the hospital.”