“You’re not going to talk about him, are you?” she asked as though reading my mind.
Dammit.
“Well…” I shrugged. “Confidentiality. Sorry.”
“No worries. But…” Her smile dimmed and her forlorn face turned up to me again. “Maybe… he just doesn’t like me?”
My heart squeezed. “No, I don’t think it’s that. He just isn’t very comfortable with other people.”
“He’s shy?” Hope lit her face. “Ace! Then I’ll bail him up and have another burl.”
“Uh…” I began, hoping for a translation.
“Cheers, love!”
She bounced away, leaving me wondering exactly what she’d just threatened to do to Reggie.
When he reappeared beside me, looking wary, I said, “Katie likes you.”
“Oh, for chrissake!” he snarled. “What is this, junior high? Get me the fuck out of here before I develop zits and an overbite all over again!”
I couldn’t help recoiling a step from his venom. “Jeez, I thought you’d be happy. She’s cute, blonde, and female. That’d do it for most guys.” I inclined my chin toward the opposite side of the room, where Katie stood bantering with several men who were giving her puppy-dog eyes, clearly wishing they could roll over and let her rub their tummies. Or rub something.
“I’m not most guys,” Reggie growled. “Let’s blow this fucking popsicle stand.”
I smothered a yawn that made my eyes water. Nora had kept her distance since our introduction, so apparently she didn’t want to talk where we could be observed. And I was too damn exhausted to hang around until the party wound down.
Fuck it. We could have our conversation tomorrow.
“Good plan,” I agreed. “Let’s corral the party animals.”
That proved as difficult as I’d anticipated. Reggie grew increasingly cantankerous while Murray and Melinda argued and cajoled in an attempt to stay longer.
At last my patience frayed. “I’m sorry,” I said firmly. “But Reggie and I are done for, and I won’t separate the group.”
Melinda began, “But Helmand’s staying…”, and I held up a quelling hand and talked over her.
“I checked, and there aren’t any beds here at the facility. If Arnie gets any sleep tonight it’ll be in a chair beside the weapons lockup. I’m not planning to join him, so neither are you. Put on your coats. We’re leaving now.”
Murray capitulated to my show of authority immediately, with a flush and a glint in his eyes that made me glad I wasn’t privy to his fantasy life. Melinda bowed to the inevitable with reasonably good grace.
Five minutes later I waved goodbye to Hellhound from the door and blew him a kiss. Smiling, he captured it from the air without missing a beat in his song.
Ian hurried up as I was turning away. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more,” he said, ignoring Reggie’s hostile glower beside me. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” I agreed, not wanting to stretch Reggie’s nonexistent patience any farther. “See you.”
I ignored Reggie’s muttered griping while we made our way back to the Hummer. With everyone safely installed in the vehicle, we wound our way back up the concrete ramp and I drew a breath of relief as we left its confines at last.
My relief was short-lived when we plunged back out into the blizzard, but at that hour traffic was sparse and the plows were hard at work. With cautious driving the Hummer performed faultlessly, and only ten minutes later we pulled under the portico of our hotel.
Murray volunteered to register and pick up our parking pass and cardkeys, and after a moment’s consideration I agreed. The service desk was clearly visible in the bright lobby. I’d have a good sightline to him, and I could protect Reggie and Melinda in the more vulnerable vehicle at the same time.
Alternating surveillance of the Hummer’s mirrors and Murray’s progress in the lobby, I had used up the last of my adrenaline by the time he returned unscathed. I gripped the steering wheel to conceal the trembling of my hands and navigated into the parking garage.
After parking in our assigned slot I dragged myself out of the Hummer and around to the back, where I lifted out Reggie’s wheelchair and unfolded it.
“Sit,” I commanded.
“Fuck off.” He glared at me across the chair.
Glaring back at him, I quoted Stemp’s words. “Kelly is in charge. You will obey her orders immediately, without question, and to the letter. So. Sit. The fuck. Down.”
“You’re such a fucking bee-yotch.”
But he sat. A small groan escaped him as he sank into the chair, and I quietly savored the knowledge that pulling rank had been the right thing to do.
“Here you go,” I said, piling his bags onto his lap. He said nothing, and I slung my backpack over my shoulders and moved behind him to the handles of the wheelchair.
“I can manage,” he growled, then added in a slightly less combative tone, “I need the upper-body workout. I haven’t done anything today.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
He dug his fingernails into the fake skin around his left wrist, working methodically to release it on all sides, then peeled the prosthetic hand off and vigorously scratched the back and palm of his pincer-hand. “Thank Christ,” he muttered. “That’s been driving me nuts all day.” He plopped the disembodied hand unceremoniously on his lap behind his suitcases and wheeled away at his usual breakneck speed.
Herding Melinda and Murray on ahead, I plodded behind. Somehow I managed to stay vertical until they were all safely installed in our adjoining rooms with instructions to open their doors to nobody but me, and to be ready for breakfast at eight-fifteen the next morning.
Then I stumbled into my own room and fell face-down onto the bed.
A sound woke me.
Before my body was even capable of moving, my brain had hurtled through its database of stored sounds and disgorged the translation and location:
The sickening thud of a body hitting the floor.
Reggie’s room.
Chapter 10
A massive jolt of adrenaline rocketed me up from the hotel bed. I twisted in midair and hit the carpet running.
Wrenching my own door open, I landed in front of Reggie’s in a single bound. The duplicate cardkeys to all the rooms were still clutched in my fist from when I’d fallen asleep, thank God.
I jabbed the first one into the slot.
Luck was with me. Green light.
I lunged through the door, Glock at the ready.
Gun. Aimed at me.
My body reacted almost before my eyes delivered the message. I sprang sideways into the bathroom, raking a glance around it as I landed in a crouch.
Empty.
I snapped around to face the door, my Glock hovering indecisively.
The voice attached to the gun growled, “Get th’ fug outta here right fuggen now, or I’ll blow y’r fuggen head off.”
“Reggie,” I said cautiously, “What’s going on?”
“Get th’ fug outta here, Kelly,” he grated. “Or I shwear I’ll cap y’r fuggen ash.”
“Well, I have to come out of the bathroom to leave your room,” I explained, my voice wavering slightly under the hammering of my heart. “And I haven’t quite mastered that ‘bulletproof’ trick yet. So maybe… you could just put the gun down? Please?”
“Ah, for fuckshakesh.” The slurred words were delivered on a weary breath, followed by the soft thud of his weapon hitting the carpet.
I eased as little as possible of my head and one eye out the door. Wearing only boxer shorts, Reggie sprawled facedown on the carpet, the gun inches away from his inert right hand. His empty-eyed half-face mask observed with macabre serenity from a stand on the table, but there was no sign of anyone else.
Sidestepping out the bathroom door, I pressed my back against the wall for an instant before pivoting around the corner gun-first.
Still nobody.
Reggie didn’t move.
In a co
uple of quick strides I checked behind and under the bed.
We were alone.
After scooping up Reggie’s gun and stuffing it in the back of my jeans, I holstered my own weapon and knelt beside him. My heartbeat shook my entire body and my fingertips tingled from the adrenaline overdose.
Two empty forty-ounce liquor bottles lay on the bed and the air was heavy with the stench of alcohol. Reggie was making strangled snoring sounds, and I carefully turned his head so he could breathe more easily.
“Thanksh,” he muttered. Then, “If I move, will you shoot me?”
“You can move.” As he squirmed slowly into a more comfortable position, I added, “I heard you fall. Are you hurt?”
“No.” He heaved his torso up on powerful arms and blinked blearily at me. My throat constricted at the roadmap of suffering etched on his body. The left side of his muscular chest and arm was a shiny patchwork of burn scars. Other brutal scars tore across his thighs, back, and abdomen. The precise tracks of a surgeon’s scalpel intersected them, somehow seeming crueller than the original damage.
Then I spotted the angry abrasion oozing blood and serum on the stump of his right leg. “Holy shit, that looks bad,” I croaked.
“Yeah, I’m a real fuggen prize,” he slurred caustically. “Tha’s why I wanted my own room. Didn’ want you to hafta look at…” His chin jerked down, indicating his devastated body. The good side of his mouth curled into a bitter grimace. “Bet you really wanna have my baby now.”
“No, dipshit, we already had that conversation,” I said with fake indignation. “I was talking about the abrasion on your leg.”
“Oh.” He flopped facedown again. “Can’t feel it now,” he mumbled into the carpet.
“Can I help you up?”
He snorted. “Dunno; can you?”
“If you’ll tell me what’s the best way to do it.”
“Fuckit. Jush leeme here. Gimme a blanket an’ I’ll be fine.”
I sat back on my heels and regarded him for a moment, willing my pulse back to normal. His nice business suit was crumpled on the floor beside his detached prosthetic legs. His wheelchair stood beside the bed.
“Did you get out of bed and miss the chair?” I asked.
“Yeah. Fuggen bedshpread shlid out from under me.” He rolled onto his back with a long sigh. Propping his truncated legs against the bed in an attitude of lordly ease, he waved a regal hand. “Well, c’mon, Florence Fuggen Night’ngale…” He hiccupped loudly, then continued, “…get me back in m’ chair. Gotta pish.”
“You are pissed.”
He blinked up at me with the owlish dignity only achievable by the completely plastered. “’Am… am…” he began, then let out another hiccup that turned into a bark of bitter laughter. “H’lo, ’am… am Reggie an’ I’m analk…hic…holic.” He bobbed his head as though accepting applause. “Thang ya verra mush.”
“Come on, idiot,” I said. “Put your arms around my neck.”
“Putcher… hic… arms ’roun’ me baby…” he warbled tunelessly, but he did reach up and lock his arms around me as directed.
I hauled him up to perch unsteadily on the edge of the bed, and from there we managed a perilous transfer to his wheelchair. He fell into it with a grunt.
“Thanksh, Kelly,” he said with a gesture that was probably supposed to be grandiose but in fact nearly struck me in the nose. “You can go now,” he enunciated carefully.
“Not quite yet.” I seized the handles of the wheelchair and steered him to the bathroom.
“Gonna watch me whiz?” He lolled his head back, leering at me upside down.
“Sure.” I manoeuvred the chair over beside the tub. “Come on, you’re going to sit on the edge of the tub for a minute.”
“’Kay,” he said, far more agreeably than if he’d been sober.
After another shaky transfer, I wheeled the chair out of harm’s way. Then before he could react, I dropped to my knees and spun, shoving my weight at him while I supported his back with one arm and clutched his head to my shoulder with the other.
As I had hoped, he overbalanced neatly into the bathtub while I protected his head from the impact. A spate of violent profanity erupted from his mouth, rapidly strangled when I transferred my grip to his hair, wrenched his head back, and stuck my finger down his throat.
It wasn’t subtle, but it did the job.
When he had finally finished retching, he glared up at me from the reeking vomit-puddled tub.
“Wha’ th’ fug-” he began, only to unleash another volley of swearing when I yanked the shower curtain shut and turned on the shower.
“Go ahead and piss in the tub,” I said. “Then wash. Yourself and the tub.” I slapped the tube of shower gel onto the edge of the tub.
He swore some more, but a few seconds later the sound of splashing and the herbal scent of shower gel signalled his obedience; although maybe he skipped the pissing part. I didn’t observe too closely.
After a few minutes the shower turned off and he pushed the curtain back, clean and looking more like his usual crotchety self.
I tossed him a towel. “Here. I’ll get you some dry shorts.”
He plied the towel in silence, and I retreated to rifle through his suitcase.
When I returned he was kneeling on the bathmat with the towel wrapped around his waist and his soggy shorts draped over the side of the tub. Wordlessly, he reached out a hand and I gave him the dry underwear. Leaning on the tub for balance, he pulled the shorts on and then discarded the towel.
“Bring my chair,” he growled. When I wheeled it closer, he instructed, “Face it this way. Set th’ brakes.”
I did as he instructed, then stepped forward to help him.
“Back off,” he snapped, and turned his back on me and the chair.
Hovering uncertainly, I watched his muscles ripple as he rolled his shoulders, then placed both hands flat on the floor.
A moment later his legs rose ceiling-ward as he unfolded into an unsteady handstand.
“Fuck!” I yelped. “Cut it out, you’ll kill yourself!”
“Shut up.” He wobbled, and I lunged forward to steady him.
“Get down,” I barked. “You’re shit-faced. Now is not the time-”
“Get… the fug… outta my way… or I’ll kick you… in th’ fuggen head!”
“Fine, asshole!” I let go and stepped back. “When you break your back on the bathtub, I’ll-”
His arms flexed, then exploded into a powerful upward thrust as he jackknifed his legs downward. The perfect handspring landed him seated and smirking in his chair.
“What… the…” I gaped at him.
“Not bad f’r a fuggen drunk cripple, eh?”
“Fucking drunk idiot, you mean. You could have broken your neck!”
“Been doing it f’r years. Never missed yet.” He spun the chair and wheeled out the door. When I followed he halted in the vestibule, blocking the way to his room. “Time f’r you t’go now. Buh-bye.”
“Wrong,” I snapped, and tried to push past him.
With a lightning-fast spin of the chair he blocked me, then spun again in another successful block as I tried to go around the other way.
“Buh-bye,” he repeated, grinning.
“Hello,” I countered. I sat down in his lap, bracing a hand on each of his shoulders and twisting to drape my legs over the arm of his chair.
For a frozen moment he stared at me from close range, his mouth hanging open. Then I pushed off and slid over the wheelchair arm to land in his room. Striding over to the armchair, I sank into it and scowled at him.
He groaned. “Christ, you crushed my fuggen nuts.”
“Nut,” I corrected irritably. “Your left is prosthetic, remember?”
“Whatever. Wha’ d’you want from me? Why won’t you go ’way?”
“I want to know why…” I drew a deep breath, trying to keep my temper. “…the sweet fuck…” My voice was rising in spite of my efforts. “…you p
ulled a fucking gun on me!” All my unspent adrenaline surged out in a roar of rage. “YOU FUCKING PRICK!”
“Oh.” His voice was small. “F’rgot ’bout that. Shorry.”
“You’re too fucking right you’re a sorry bastard,” I snarled. “Now tell me, what the fuck was that?”
“Sh… Sorry,” he repeated. “I was a bit waish… wasted.”
“No shit. You still are. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“You shcared the shit outta me. I was pished.” As I opened my mouth to yell at him again, he added, “Pished off, I mean. Sh… scared. Angry. Y’know.”
I closed my mouth. I did know. It was exactly what I was feeling.
He sighed and wheeled over to the bed. “Lookit it my way. I’m lyin’ here waishted outta my fuggen mind; I get up to take a leak an’ the fuggen bedspread dumps me onna floor; an’ two sheconds later my door flies open an’ I’m looking down a fuggen gun barrel. So yeah, I was fuggen pished off.”
“And you just happened to have a firearm on you at the time,” I prompted cynically.
He stared at me. “Well, hell yeah. Alla time. What, you don’ shleep with your gun?”
I blinked. “Well, yeah, of course, but…”
He made a ‘duh’ gesture and transferred himself onto the bed, where he stacked a couple of pillows against the headboard and flopped back with a yawn. “Sho… So… can I have my gun back?” When I hesitated, he added, “Please?”
“Maybe. If you explain why the hell you thought it would be a good idea to suck back two forty-pounders of hard liquor tonight.”
“Didn’t,” he muttered sulkily. “They were half empty when I lifted ’em from the bar. Hardly a decent drink in either of ’em. I wasn’t anywhere near alk’hol poisoning. You didn’t need to make me puke.”
“You stole them?” I sank my aching head into my hands. “Why?”
“’Cause I’m a fuggen alk’holic. ’S what I do.”
“Every night?” I studied him with concern. “You need help.”
“Got help,” he growled. “Thish’s my first time off the wagon in…” He heaved a defeated sigh. “Three years, five months, an’ forty-two days. Fuck.”
Once Burned, Twice Spy Page 8