Thanks to my habit of bookmarking sites on my browser, I was able to see which social media sites I went to on a regular basis, but the constant threat of a migraine made me post an ambiguous statement about my absence and clear out before the top of my head blew off. My IM chats with Jane Wilkinson showed that we shared quite a bit of our personal lives, though I still got the sense I hadn’t been entirely truthful with her about things in the past. No doubt because there were aspects of my job I couldn’t share with anyone outside the Bureau.
Reading my old IM threads, I saw there had been tension between me and John in the days leading up to my attack, but as I hadn’t shared the details with Jane, I still didn’t know what it had been about. I wasn’t entirely truthful with her now, either. I danced around the subject of my attack. I was fuzzy about the exact details of our friendship and I blamed it on the head trauma, without going into detail about the amnesia. Something made me keep that close to the chest, just the same. Not because I didn’t trust Jane. Because I didn’t trust… something. Some feeling that someone could be watching me. That my laptop information might be monitored, which, given the freedoms granted to the government by the Patriot Act, wasn’t as ludicrous as it might have been before 9/11. I had no real cause to think the NSA was specifically monitoring my online interactions. I was one of the good guys, right? Still, it was a creepy-ass feeling, and I hated it. I suspected that I was just plain bored and inventing boogeymen as a result.
Most of my friends were Internet buddies I’d never actually met. And, for all our previous interactions, life on the Internet had gone on while I’d been in a coma. Would anyone even have missed me had I died?
I recalled John’s face as I’d first seen it in the hospital—bleary-eyed from dozing in the chair beside me, several days’ worth of stubble masking the clean lines of his jaw—and the way his smile had lit up the room when he’d realized I was awake. Yeah. John would have missed me. And maybe the cats. Until they found someone else to feed them, that is.
But it was Friday. If John kept his promises—and I had a feeling that he did—then we’d be going someplace special this weekend, and I desperately needed something different to wear.
“Mrs. F, I need a car.”
She laid down her newspaper. “Well now, Lee, forgive me if I’m speaking out of place here, but aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy? John told me your head injury was quite serious, and that you mustn’t do too much. That was the whole reason for the two of you staying here instead of heading back to San Francisco, wasn’t it?”
“And why you’ve been driving me to therapy too, which I greatly appreciate by the way.” I sat down across from her and rested my chin on my good hand. “But I’m bored.”
Hah. I made her smile.
The position pissed off my too-sensitive neck, so I sat up straighter. “John and I never intended to be here long-term. We brought clothes for a short, work-related trip. I can’t keep wearing a suit all day around the house. Besides, John and I were thinking of taking a little road trip this weekend.”
“Really. A road trip?”
Jean had the same expressive eyebrows John had, and I wondered what John’s dad had contributed to the gene pool. Maybe the lanky body and the lean athleticism? Because Jean had the bone structure of a wren.
I was in a T-shirt, wearing the only pair of casual pants I’d brought with me. If John and I were planning to spend the weekend outside, in the boonies, I’d definitely need other clothing and different shoes. “I grew up near Halifax. John thought a trip down there might jog some memories.” Not that I wanted to go to Halifax. I had a different plan in mind altogether. It would all depend on whether I had the nerve to go through with it. “Either way, though, we need to buy some things. I’ve got some stuff on order, but it won’t get here before Monday. All John has is a couple of suits that look like they’re overdue at the cleaners.”
Jean’s mouth twitched. Damn. Now I knew where John got that little smile. “As a matter of fact, I’m dropping off one of his suits to be cleaned later this morning.”
I sat up like a dog at the sound of someone jingling the car keys. “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking me out with you? Really, Mrs. F, I’m going crazy here. I can only read for so long before my eyes start to cross.” I crossed my eyes for effect, stopping abruptly when it made my head hurt.
“You want me to take you shopping.” Jean squinted a little, like she was trying to picture the two of us at a mall.
“Well, if you aren’t comfortable loaning me your car. I get that. Really, I do. Just to pick up a few things. Something more comfortable to wear in hot weather, for starters. I also thought, while we were out, I might buy a few things for the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?”
Jean sounded as though I’d suggested we stop by a BDSM shop for sex toys. Well, given her skill in the kitchen, I might as well have. I drew nonsensical designs on the tabletop with a fingertip and avoided her eye. “It would give me something to do, besides absorbing everything I read like a sponge, that is. I like to cook. I’m good at it. It would be my way of paying you back a little for letting me stay here too.”
She waved me off. “Nonsense. That isn’t necessary. You’re a guest and you’re recovering from serious injuries. Please, don’t give it another thought.”
“But I like to cook. I find it soothing. And it would take my mind off things.” I might not have the Flynn charm, but I could turn on the puppy-dog eyes with the best of them.
Jean reacted as expected. She reached across the table and patted my hand, the one in the cast. “Well, that’s sweet of you, dear. Certainly you’re much better at it than I am, and John and Charles both seem to enjoy your meals. If you’re sure it’s not too much for you….”
Hah. Step one of my Master Plan to change the eating arrangements in the house accomplished. I moved on to step two.
“Thank you, Mrs. F.” I let my smile beam across my face. “I’ll just need to pick up a few things to, ah, make it a bit easier for me in the kitchen.” I raised my arm in the cast and waggled my fingers at her.
“Oh, very well.” She smiled like a mother giving in to a precocious child. “It would probably be best if we went to one of the shopping malls, then. They’ll have pretty much everything you need in one location.”
Which is how we found ourselves, not all that much later, heading out Huguenot Road toward the Chesterfield Towne Center. As we drove in her sedate Volkswagen Passat, Jean explained that the Center was sadly showing its age, but that it should have everything I could possibly want, which I doubted. I remembered buying fresh herbs from an open-air farmer’s market in California, and I swear I could almost taste the homemade blueberry scones I used to buy for Sunday brunch. Still, I was out and about, which was better than being in the dark basement.
I stared out the passenger-side window. Even if Richmond had one of the highest crime rates in the country, it still maintained a certain kind of genteel Southern charm. The air was already hazy when we left the house, and the sky had that odd sort of glare that suggested a thunderstorm wasn’t out of the question later that afternoon. I automatically registered the fat yellow Labrador barking behind his invisible fence as we pulled out of Jean’s garage and the door shut smoothly behind us. I noticed the mail carrier coming down the street—a little later than usual—which was why the Lab was barking. And I noted the blue Prius parked on the street (license plate ABX-1477) and the black Lexus in the driveway of the house that was for sale two doors down (license plate REALTR-1).
I frowned as a memory teased the corners of my mind without coming out where I could see it clearly. “Aren’t you putting your house up on the market?”
Jean shot a quick glance in my direction. “John must have mentioned that to you. Yes. Well, I was thinking of it at one time. But really, there’s no hurry.”
I made a noncommittal noise and frowned. I didn’t remember John mentioning that to me. Not at all. But when I’d walked
into Jean’s living room for the first time, I saw pictures of John as a young boy that I’d recalled but could not place until then. Which was beyond weird. According to John, I’d never been inside Jean’s house before the day I arrived with him from the hospital.
We made the rounds at the Towne Center, which was bigger than its name implied. At first, I was moderately excited by the sights and sounds of shoppers and wares, but within the hour, every ounce of energy had drained out of me as though someone had pulled the plug. Trying on clothing was a pain in the ass, given the cast and my overall discomfort. I ended up snagging clothing based on what I knew would fit, for both me and John. Jean commented at one point about my knowing John’s sizes, but I just gave her my best smile and tapped the side of my head. “That funky memory of mine,” I said, reminding her how good it was. “I checked the labels in John’s clothing this morning, before we left the house.”
I kept things practical, sticking with T-shirts and shorts, some hiking boots for both of us, as well as socks and additional underclothes. No need to get crazy. It was just a weekend trip. The alternative plan kept bugging me, though, and I made a detour to the menswear department, for something a little less suited for sitting on the couch watching the big football game and more appropriate for a hot date Saturday night. My zest for shopping ran out, however, before we made it to the cookware.
“I’m so sorry,” I said to Jean. “I’m starting to get a headache.”
“You poor dear.” She patted me on the arm. “I suspect you always have a headache.”
I acknowledged the truth of that with what had to be a wan smile.
“Never mind. I find these places exhausting, myself.” She briskly turned me back toward the exit where we’d parked the car, mercifully bypassing the various fast-food joints and snack bars along the way. My stomach roiled at the odor of greasy fried food. I don’t think I could have managed it if she’d suggested a hot dog or a giant pretzel.
The rhythmic motion of the car on the highway must have lulled me into a doze because I jolted awake when the car went over a speed bump as it turned into a small shopping center near Jean’s neighborhood.
“I won’t be but a minute,” she said, getting John’s suit out of the backseat. “I just need to drop this off at the cleaners. You can wait here and rest your eyes.”
Rest your eyes. I smiled at the old-fashioned Southern phrasing. My eyelids drooped as I watched Jean walk across the parking lot. The cleaners sat next to one of those ubiquitous chain coffee stores, and I mentally added a good coffeemaker to the list of things I wanted to get for Jean’s kitchen. It would have to wait for another day, though. On the other side of the coffee shop was a pet store, the kind that catered mostly to exotics, with a prominent display of iguanas in the front window. I let my gaze wander sleepily down the storefronts, only to stop on the next shop in line. Suddenly alert, I sat up in the car.
Oh ho. A cooking store. An upscale one too, judging from the impressive shiny cookware hanging behind the glass.
Jean was coming out of the cleaners as I reached the sidewalk in front of the shops.
“I’m just going to step in here a moment. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” She followed me into the store with the air of a nonreader stepping into a library for the first time.
I breathed in the atmosphere of the shop the way a bibliophile would smile over the odor of dusty books. Everything was just so. The cookware was stacked according to brand and function. Smiling faces of famous chefs adorned glossy posters that extolled the virtue of this line over that one. Kitchen utensils were displayed to show off their beauty as well as suggest their performance, and, thank the gods, there was a decent selection of high-end coffeemakers too. I could feel my bank card burning a hole in my pocket. I was prepared to pay well for what I needed.
Jean fingered one of the price tags on a stand of cookware and dropped it like a hot rock when she read the numbers. “Lee, dear. Everything is so expensive here. Why don’t I take you to—”
“Nope.” I cut her off with a raised hand. “I know what you’re going to say. One of those massive discount superstores where I’m lucky if I get more than one cheese grater to choose from. Trust me, I’m exactly where I want to be.” I closed my eyes and breathed out a happy sigh.
“Spoken like a man who knows exactly what he wants.”
I jumped at the sound of the voice behind me and opened my eyes to see one of the store employees. He was an older man, bald on top, with a circle of hair still remaining. He’d offset the baldness with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache that gave him the look of an Elizabethan gallant. It worked for him. “I’m Richard. May I help you?”
I enlisted Richard’s help. I suggested, without exactly saying so, that I was looking to restock a kitchen that hadn’t been updated since The Brady Bunch was on the air. He helped us select the bare minimum in cookware that I could live with. I compromised a little on some of the items he suggested, saving my money for a really good saucepan and, of course, the coffeemaker. When Richard gathered what I was after, he began carefully steering me into some good alternative choices, discouraging me from choosing items solely based on a recognizable name, and showing some less-expensive but still high-quality utensils.
Nevertheless, I spent a shitload of money. Oh well. It was mine to spend.
Jean was doubtful. “This seems like an awful lot of money, Lee. I do have pots and pans, you know.”
“Yes, but you would be astonished how much easier it is to turn out perfectly cooked meals with the right equipment.”
Richard nodded helpfully. I wondered, at first, if his interest was in me—or at least, my wallet—but he seemed riveted on Jean. Well, well.
“But it’s just food.” She glanced around the store. “As long as it provides needed energy, what more do you want?”
Richard winced.
“Ah, cooking is so much more than that. It’s about the chemistry of flavors. Cooking is a science.” I emphasized the word “science” slightly.
I could see I had her on that one.
“Oh yes!” Richard was enthusiastic. “No, he’s right. Food is more than just the consumption of calories. It’s about the combination of ingredients, the pleasing presentation to the eye, the burst of flavors on your tongue….” He reddened with embarrassment. “Ah, don’t mind me. I got up on my hobbyhorse there, for a moment. Your son is correct, however.”
“He’s not my son,” Jean said, just when I’d opened my mouth to state the same.
Richard shot me an assessing glance, but quickly turned his attention back to Jean again. “We do offer a basic cooking class on Tuesday nights, here at the store. The next class begins next week. Perhaps you’d be interested?”
“We’d love it. No. My treat,” I said, when Jean would have protested. “Come on, Mrs. F. It will be fun.”
Richard seemed to wilt a little at the “Mrs. F,” but perked up again when Jean agreed to sign up for the six-week course with me.
“You don’t even know if you’ll be here in six weeks’ time,” she said as we gathered our purchases and headed out the door.
“True, but at least you’ll be able to make use of them. Besides, I think Richard is sweet on you.”
“Richard!” Surprise made her speak too loudly. She turned her head to make sure he hadn’t overheard us. “For shame, Lee. I think you’re just making that up.” She blushed, though, and looked the prettier for it.
“I don’t joke about things like that. He wouldn’t have been so attentive if you hadn’t been with me.”
“Nonsense. Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll bring the car around?”
It seemed like a good plan, so I waited on the sidewalk with our various purchases while Jean crossed the parking lot for the car. I couldn’t hold everything, however, so I set the bags down around my feet. I was in the middle of a yawn and a stretch of my neck when a car came up rapidly to the curb near where I was standing. It was a silver Toyota C
amry, and the two men within were wearing ski masks.
Oh shit.
They boiled out of the car like bees from a hive, leaving the doors standing open as they descended on me. Had I not been so tired, I would have reacted faster, would have retreated into the store before they reached me.
Instead, I snatched up one of the bags, the one containing a boxed set of pans, and held it at the ready.
They flanked me like pit bulls pinning down a hapless puppy.
“Give it to me.” The taller of the two men growled at me, flicking a switchblade open.
“I don’t have any cash. I only have credit cards. If you want those, you can have them.” I fumbled a bit with the bag in my hand, using the cast as an excuse for my clumsiness and shifting it so I could swing it like a club, if necessary.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about.” The shorter of the two men had a distinctive Southern accent. He shook his finger aggressively at me. His sleeve slid up, revealing a thin white scar on the back of his tanned wrist.
“But I don’t. If you don’t want my credit cards, what do you want?”
Just then, the door to the kitchen store opened and Richard stepped out. “You left your registration—” He broke off at the sight of the confrontation.
“Go back in the store, Richard.” I spoke with authority, and a damn sight more calm than I actually felt.
Richard just stood there, his mouth open in a little O of surprise at the armed men.
Fortunately, before anyone could move, the squeal of tires heralded Jean pulling up to the curb at an angle. Her car blocked the front of the car of the would-be muggers. She had the passenger-side window rolled down. She leaned across the seat and, I swear to God, she held a long-barreled Colt .22 revolver. It looked like something out of museum. There sat John’s mother, pointing it at the men who accosted me.
Truth and Consequences Page 6