Killing Joe

by Marie Treanor

  “Fine? How could he be fine?”

  Alastair shrugged tiredly. “We did all the tests—no obvious brain damage. He didn’t say much, but I got the impression he doesn’t. His perception was spot on. We bandaged up his ribs again and off he went.”

  “You mean…no one came to collect him? You just let him take off?”

  “Couldn’t stop him. To be honest, I didn’t think he’d make it to the front door, but he did. Climbed into a taxi and away he went. He did say thanks. As if it hurt his jaw to get the word out, but he still said it.”

  “But his internal injuries were massive…”

  “Well, we already saw how fast these were healing when he was unconscious. Like I say, why study medicine when this joker turns it all on its head anyway? Bring back wise women and witch doctors, I say. On which note, Scottie, energize.”

  When he’d gone, she reached for the office phone and dialed Anna’s number. Once again, there was no answer from either her house phone or her mobile. Helen left a brusque “Call me!” message on both her answering services.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she dialed another number. It was answered quickly.

  “Darren. It’s Helen.”

  She heard the grin in his voice as he started to speak and part of her was delighted. But they were both working and she had to get her message across. Interrupting him, she said, “Darren, Lopez woke up and discharged himself and Anna isn’t answering her phone. Any chance you can make sure she’s okay?”

  There was a pause. Then in an even voice that told her he was disappointed, he said, “Sure, I’ll drive by. I’ll check that Lopez is still in the hotel, too.”

  “Thanks, Darren.” This time, she allowed the warmth to seep into her voice. “Got to go, but I’ll call you in the morning if I don’t hear from you.”

  ***

  By now it seemed natural to the assassin to lie still and wait for the pain to pass. He had spent a lot of time in his dreams doing just that. In a surreal storeroom full of crash test dummies and overalls. And whisky.

  Fuck, but the human brain was weird, and he suspected his was weirder than most. It seemed guilt had finally caught up with him, punishing him in his comatose dreams. Though why it should also have given him a love affair—and a night of mind-blowing sex—with the beautiful Dr. Baird was beyond him. To make him feel all the more of a bastard, maybe.

  Sourly, he wondered what all those hospital monitors had made of his dreams. Just remembering them now made his cock harden inconveniently in his pants. Interesting that his cock always seemed to function at full strength. Unfortunately, the rest of him was incapable of doing anything with it. Even if Anna Baird sat in his lap right now, stark naked with that sultry do-as-you-will look in her beautiful eyes…

  In self defence, Joe flicked the switch on the TV remote, and found one of Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti westerns. He dropped the remote and eased himself into a better position. His ribs protested, but he ignored them.

  A knock came at the door. Brisk, businesslike.

  Joe was not at his best. With an effort, he rolled off the bed, drew a small, lethal knife from the sleeve of the coat on the nearby chair, palmed it and walked across to open the door.

  A policeman stood there, young, fresh-faced, curious.

  “Evening, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Sorry to disturb you. Mr. Lopez?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just making sure you’re all right, sir. The hospital informed us you’d discharged yourself, since we’d been involved in trying to trace your next of kin.”

  “I’m fine.” As an afterthought, he added, “Thanks.”

  “Do you mind if I come in for a few minutes?”

  “Yes,” said Joe baldly. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Okay. I’ll just ask you here then. In your wallet, you were carrying a photograph of Dr. Anna Baird. Do you know her?”

  Though it was totally unexpected, Joe had grown up dealing with surprises that were a lot less pleasant. Without a pause he said, “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Then why do you have her photograph?”

  “I don’t.” He let a hint of annoyance into his voice. “The only photograph in my wallet is my girlfriend. Her name isn’t Anna and she isn’t a doctor. Thanks for your concern, Officer, but I’m going to bed now. Good night.”

  Deliberately, he closed the door and went back to sit on his bed. On the other side of the door, the policeman hovered for a few seconds, then Joe heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.

  Anna. They knew the photograph was Anna. How the hell had that happened? This was a small city, but surely it wasn’t that cozy?

  Anyway, it didn’t matter. Bleakly, he stared at the television screen. Did anything matter? Sitting here in the luxurious hotel, he remembered the feeling of comfort, of life, that he’d found in a bare storeroom, with Anna. In his dreams.

  Had he really turned into such a sick, feeble specimen that he was fantasizing over “nice” girls falling in love with his bad-ass self? Not just any nice girl, either. Her. His hit. The girl he would have killed if he hadn’t been in his own accident and dreamed of loving her instead, of wanting to protect her from his own client.

  Never rule anything out… On impulse, he picked up his phone and dialed the Balmoral’s reception.

  “Hi—just checking if Mason Grenville has checked in yet.”

  It was a long shot. Even if Anna had spoken the truth in his dream, there were many hotels in Edinburgh; he didn’t have to be staying in this one.

  “Yes sir, last night. Shall I put you through?”

  “No, that’s all right, I’ll call in later. Which room number is he?”

  Dropping the phone beside him, he wanted to laugh. So now he could keep an eye on Grenville, protect the girl just as he’d wanted to in his dream. If only he could move without damaging himself beyond endurance.

  ***

  “There you are!” Helen exclaimed when Anna opened the door of her flat. Without waiting for an invitation, she barged in, demanding, “Why don’t you answer your phone, Anna?”

  “So people come round?” Anna tried. She closed the door and followed her friend into the living room.

  “I thought you’d be at work,” Helen said, casting her a quick, shrewd glance.

  Anna shrugged. “Took a couple of days off.”

  “You look like shit,” Helen observed.

  Anna smiled lopsidedly. “Thanks.”

  “What’s the matter?” Helen asked quietly. “Work?”

  “Sort of.” Anna moved restlessly through to the kitchen, switching on the kettle, finding relief in going through the expected motions.

  She felt numb. There was grief and horror at losing Joe in such a way, and yet relief for him that it was finally over. She had helped the technicians put the dummy back together, but there had been no sign of Joe in it. She had kept watch to find out. And even when Lesley made her go home, she had driven back to the Institute in the middle of the night. She knew that Joe had gone, that he was free of the crash cycle and that was what she’d wanted. She thought he’d appreciate the irony of Grenville achieving it for him.

  She knew that what she should be worrying about was how to combat the triumvirate of Grenville, Lewis and Quinn, but right now her brain was too numb.

  Making coffee, she was aware of Helen’s perceptive gaze. She knew she wouldn’t get away with silence, and she didn’t really want to. She just didn’t know what to say.

  Shoving a mug across the counter to her friend, she said abruptly, “I think I’m probably insane. But it feels like love. And grief.”

  Helen’s eyes widened. “Spill.”

  “I can’t.” The tears she hadn’t cried made her throat ache. “Not yet.” She tried to smile, picked up the other mug and walked back into the living room.

  “Anyway, where’s the fire?” she asked lightly, as she sat down in her favourite chair, drawing her legs under her body.

  “Oh, nowhere. I was
just worried about you.” Helen sat on the sofa and regarded her. “I wasn’t going to tell you this in case it worried you, but Darren—he’s my toy boy cop—says you sound a lot stronger than I give you credit for. And he’s right.”

  “Now you’re being mysterious. What could worry me?”

  Helen sighed. “We had this patient. Guy in a coma after a road accident. A Yank, and we had a terrible time tracing his next of kin. Never did. But we did find a picture on him—it was a photograph of you.”

  Anna blinked at her. “Me?”

  “That’s why I was asking you the other night about Joseph Lopez. Anna, I’m afraid he’s some sort of stalker, fixated on you.”

  “Joseph?” Anna stared at her. “You didn’t tell me he was called Joseph!”

  “Does it make a difference?” Helen didn’t sound quite amused.

  “And a road accident? Where? When?”

  “Wednesday morning. Glasgow Road.”

  “He’s in a coma?” Anna whispered. Suddenly, she couldn’t sit still. She had jumped to her feet without realizing it, slopping coffee over the floor. Excitement flooded her with an intensity she couldn’t have imagined feeling again only a moment before. “Why didn’t I think of that? Why didn’t I check hospitals? I thought he was dead! We both did! And he was your patient all the time! Helen, will he recover?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It looks like he already has. He discharged himself from the hospital yesterday.”

  Anna threw herself back in the chair, eyes closed as emotion raged through her. Then, after the surging relief, came understanding. Opening her eyes again, she stared at Helen.

  “He discharged himself? Then I can’t find him? How can I find him?”

  “Quite easily actually,” Helen said ruefully. “He’s staying at the Balmoral Hotel. Anna!” She yelled the rest after Anna bolted out of her chair and out of the room. “This guy is trouble! Darren’s met him and there is definitely something up with him. He oozes danger, some sort of threat…”

  Anna, her jacket on, glanced ‘round the door with a radiant smile on her face. “I know.”

  ***

  Mason Grenville thought he’d won. He may not have entirely discredited the research or Dr. Baird, but clearly he’d rattled the girl, judging by her very odd behaviour after the crash test yesterday. He rather thought she’d discredited herself there.

  Stepping out of the lift in front of reception, he thought he could probably afford to be understanding about her when he met the First Minister this morning. Quinn and Lewis would do the rest for him. He reckoned he was home and dry.

  Throwing his key across the reception desk to the girl who smiled at him, he turned toward the front door. Already, he could see his car waiting for him in Prince’s Street, just beyond the kilted doorman.

  Since he was in a good mood, he stood aside for the old ladies just entering the hotel, and as he did so, his gaze fell on two women hurrying across the foyer to the stairs. One was talking urgently to the other, but it was the quiet one he recognized.

  Anna Baird. In a great hurry to get somewhere. Thoughtfully, he turned back to reception, pushing in now in front of the old ladies to speak to the still fixedly-smiling receptionist.

  “Do I have visitors?” he asked. “Were the two young ladies there asking for me?” Unfortunately, the two young ladies had disappeared from view, but she knew who he meant.

  “No, sir. Someone else,” she said surprisingly, and before he could turn on the charm and ask who, she turned to the old ladies. “Lady Lawson, lovely to see you back again.”

  Grenville hesitated. He really didn’t want to miss this appointment with the First Minister, since it seemed likely to grant him what he came here for. On the other hand, it entered his head that Anna Baird was here to see her lover. The Assassin…

  Now there was a match made in hell. He couldn’t imagine what the pair possibly had in common—apart from an obvious ambition to thwart Mason Grenville. He supposed it was sex. The superior little bitch was just a dirty slut underneath her pristine lab coat, desperate for a bit of rough between her legs. Grenville wished he’d thought of fucking her himself. Might have saved a lot of time. And money.

  Somehow it had never occurred to him that the hit man would stay in this very hotel. It offended Grenville’s sense of appropriateness. But then, why not? Judging by the guy’s fees, he wasn’t exactly a poor man.

  Suddenly, Grenville needed to know who this shadowy figure was. Time and again he’d discovered that knowledge was power, and actually uncovering the identity of the hit man would make damn sure he was never double-crossed by him again. Might even get him his wasted money back.

  What didn’t enter his head was the fact that he would really be safer not knowing this particular identity.

  While he paused, Baird’s friend stepped out of the lift alone. She didn’t look happy. Crossing the foyer, she sat down on one of the large, comfortable sofas and grabbed a magazine.

  Making up his mind, Grenville sat in the one opposite and took a newspaper out of his briefcase.

  ***

  Anna stood outside the door, her trembling hand raised for the third time. The thundering of her heart threatened to drown out the faint sounds coming from the television within.

  It was ridiculous. She didn’t even know what she was afraid of, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to knock at his door. She almost lowered her hand yet again, only she knew she couldn’t leave without seeing him. She’d even sent Helen away—much against her friend’s will—so that she could meet him alone. She had to see him. So she had to knock.

  She knocked. More loudly than she’d intended. The sound almost made her jump. Apart from the TV, she heard nothing inside the room.

  The door opened quite suddenly and her breath stopped. She gazed up at Joe.

  Much as she remembered it, his straight black hair fell forward over one side of his forehead, though the rest seemed to be tied behind his head. His eyes, dark and hard as agates, stared down into hers, and for a moment she thought she saw the reflection of her own shock.

  She tried to smile. “Joe.”

  He said nothing, though his eyes scanned hers, one to the other as if looking for something. Fear grasped her heart like a fist and squeezed.

  She said, “Can I come in?”

  Slowly, reluctantly it seemed, he opened the door wide. She brushed past him, remembering the scent, the heat of his body.

  It was a large room, with two comfortable sofas and a large double bed. The bed had been made, but it still bore the imprint of his body. He had been lying there when she’d disturbed him.

  He didn’t ask her to sit down. He didn’t say anything at all. He just closed the door and looked at her.

  He wore dark jeans and a t-shirt and reminded her of nothing so much as a wary panther.

  She swallowed. “Do you remember me?”

  “I know who you are.” He moved at last, walking forward to stand in front of her, close but not touching. It wasn’t the nearness of affection. But at least his voice was the same, deep and low with that fascinating mixture of American and Latin. It still melted her. “How do you know me?”

  She gave a lopsided smile. “I spent some time in a storeroom with you.”

  His hand came up involuntarily, rubbing his forehead. “Shit.”

  Though it was hardly the reaction she’d been hoping for, perseverance made her say, “You remember then?”

  “I thought it was a dream. They told me I was in a coma.”

  “They told me that, too.”

  “Who did?” he asked at once.

  “My friend. She’s one of the doctors who looked after you.”

  He didn’t respond to that, except to move a little way from her. “So what are you doing here?”

  Cold, impersonal, not even very curious. It felt like a blow in the stomach. Somehow, she managed to say, “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  He turned his head to
stare at her again. “You know what I am and what I came here to do, and you’re checking on my health?” He came back to her suddenly, large, strong, overpoweringly male. His sexual magnetism was still devastating. “How do you know I won’t kill you now?”

  “I suppose I don’t,” she said shakily.

  “Best run along then.”

  “Joe, don’t…why are you being like this?”

  “This is who I am, for Christ’s sake! What did you expect? Words of love and a happily ever after?”

  Since that was so close to the mark, she flushed under his harsh, sardonic gaze. Some of what she felt must have shown in her eyes, for he said, “Fuck, you really did.”

  She couldn’t meet his stare now. She felt battered.

  He moved restlessly. “I don’t understand any of this, but I have to say you make a pretty fucking amazing dream for a man who thinks he’s dead. So I’ll do you a favor. Get the hell out of here.”

  Her gaze flew back to his. Just for a second he had sounded like her Joe.

  But his face was hard and closed, his black eyes still glittering with callous mockery. “Face it, Doctor, I’m no longer dead, so I don’t need you to save my wicked soul. Or fuck me senseless.”

  With his every word, the blood drained further from her face. Each felt like a knife twisted in her gut, all the more painfully because they were so palpably true. Lonely and frustrated, she had made the strange events between them into something they were not. Like men the world over, he had simply taken what was offered.

  Held together by a thread, she dragged her eyes free, managed to nod.

  “Fair enough.” Her voice barely shook at all, giving her the confidence to add, “Glad you’re all right,” as she tried to get herself to the door and out of the room. Of all the mistakes she had ever made…

  “Oh Jesus Christ.”

  Abruptly, he caught her arm and pulled her roughly back against him, his fingers digging hard into her flesh. She caught the barest glimpse of his angry, desperate eyes, and then his mouth swooped down and seized hers, bruising, searing, invading. As she hung helpless in his arms, relief flooded her, bringing tears of sheer emotion before she struggled to kiss him back. Both his hands came up, holding her head steady and gradually the kiss grew deeper and softer.