She reached up and placed her index finger vertically on my lips. “We can talk later,” she whispered and then pressed herself more closely against me, this time her head against my shoulder, taking my hands and moving them to slightly more intimate places, just this side of inappropriate. So much for my plans. She swayed slowly with me, lost in her own world. Even if I had the skill to read minds, I would have been afraid to eavesdrop on her thoughts. I had no thoughts. At least not any I would acknowledge.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her coming. It was Chicken Woman. Moving our way, a determined look — a woman on a mission. Uh oh. Not only was she focused on me, but she had also seen me recognize her. The determination modified with a large, artificial smile that required significant energy to maintain. As she got closer, she walked into better lighting. Her hair, dyed for the event, was a slightly different shade of red than before. It was now a shade of red not found anywhere in nature.
I stiffened and brought Marilena back to Earth by saying, “Trouble. Margaret Townsend, my eleven o’clock, thirty-five meters, incoming.”
“Oh, she wants to talk to you, I am sure of it,” Marilena said sleepily. A total lack of concern.
“Well, I want to talk to her too. But not now, not here. When I’m ready. I’ll just ignore her.”
“That won’t work.” More singsong sleepiness from my supposedly grown up date, the note of her voice rising as she spoke each word in the short sentence.
“Sure, it will.”
“Thomas, is she still coming our way?”
“Yep. Right at us. I’m trying not to look.”
“She plans to cut in — to dance with you. Then she can talk and you can’t get away. Women do it all the time.”
Holy shit! I was cornered. This was bad. “You’re kidding?” I choked out. “I don’t want to dance with her!” It was time to go on the offensive. I stopped moving and said with no small amount of determination, “All right then, I’ll just straighten her out right now.”
Marilena didn’t let go. Instead, she leaned slightly away and looked up at me. “If we are going to get some cooperation from these people, it will not help to have been in a public altercation with one of their executives.” Then, after a brief pause, she quietly continued, “I can prevent this. Do you want me to keep her away without making a scene in front of these very civilized society patrons?” she asked, her demeanor calm, a mildly quizzical look on her face as if she didn’t care how I answered.
She was right. Starting a war wasn’t going to help. If she had a way out, I was all for it.
“Yeah, sure, anything.” I was desperate. It showed.
“Do you trust me?”
Strange question. “Of course. You’re smoother at this stuff than I am. Do what you have to do.”
“Tell me when she gets to within five meters of us,” Marilena instructed, never yet having seen Chicken Woman, still so calm that she seemed barely awake. Whatever she was planning, she wasn’t having any pre-combat nerves.
“Soon,” I said. “Twenty feet. Now.”
On cue, Marilena reached up with her right hand quickly putting it behind my neck. Without warning, she pulled my head down toward hers and before I knew what was happening, she kissed me. She kissed me hard. I think she kissed me with more intensity than anyone ever had before. She had gone from dreamy, sleepy sounding, slow moving, and too-close-dance-partner to tigress. Her entire body involved in the act. Holy shit, again! She briefly broke lip contact and implored, “You need to help,” and then resumed what I hoped was an act with the same level of energy. I can be slow, but eventually I got it. I pulled her in hard and kissed her back. She ratcheted up the steam factor by opening her mouth and by sliding my left hand, the one not hidden by our bodies, up from her waist and alongside her right breast. She twisted slightly, naturally, completing the maneuver causing a more intimate contact between her insufficiently covered body and my hand. To an observer, it would look like I had made the move. Had I?
In my peripheral vision, I could see that Chicken Woman had stopped dead in her tracks. Her mouth fell open; the fixed smile gone. After about four long seconds during which her breathing seemed to have ceased, she turned quickly and marched away even faster than she had come toward us. Marilena’s ploy had worked.
Marilena managed a quiet warning, “Don’t stop, she might be watching.” So, I didn’t. And for a moment, maybe a long, long moment, I allowed myself to take a dangerous step. I enjoyed the woman, the closeness, and the intimacy of the moment. Finally we slowed down, and I worked to get my breathing under control. Marilena looked at me and laughed quietly. She said, “Thomas, I told you I could handle it.” To my distress I noticed that my hand was still holding her breast. I jerked my hand quickly away. She laughed at me again.
So much for brotherly dancing.
INTRUDER
I kept my promise to Ricardo. We were headed back to the condo in limo-enabled security, the dangers of the horse-buggy death trap, successfully avoided. Between Marilena fending off unwanted dance partners and Ricardo providing secure transport, I was the safest person in Manhattan. This, however, discounted the fact that I was allowing myself to get closer to the only woman I had ever thought of as dangerous to me, to the life I had crafted and did not want to see changed. My previous relationships with every other member of the fairer sex had been on my terms — I knew that at some point I would move on. I had no worries about walking away, and with each of them I did. With Marilena, it would have been different. I had been absolutely certain about this and my opinion had not changed.
Earlier, after scaring off Townsend, she had immediately returned to her sleepy, contented dance posture as if nothing had happened. I was very aware that something had happened and could only manage two more songs on the dance floor. She had a tremendous capability to compartmentalize her life. When she was focused on some aspect of her job, there was no deterring her efforts. I’d seen it often enough. It could be intimidating to watch. But at other times, like right now, she could put all of that in a box, the lid tightly in place, personal goals having replaced professional ones.
Noticing from across the dance floor that our table was no longer occupied, our dinner companions had drifted off to mingle with others not worthy of the Presidential Table. We slipped out and linked up with Ricardo for the ride home. He didn’t need a twenty-minute warning. He had stayed, on the clock with Marilena’s blessing. Little was said between Marilena and me en route as neither of us wanted to start a complicated conversation and not have the time to complete it. I needed to get my mind busy with something else, even though I was putting off a problem that I knew I should address now. I copped out and rationalized that there were other, more important, tactical concerns.
During the course of the evening as dinner date and dance partner, I had managed to come in contact with most of her body, leaving very few and those very small places untouched. Where was she was hiding the Glock?
“Where is your gun?” I asked Marilena, bringing her back from wherever she was, lost in her thoughts. She turned her head and looked at me.
“Locked in my suitcase under the guest room bed.”
“What?”
“You have yours,” she replied, a very reasonable statement to her.
“What?” I was incredulous. “Aren’t you supposed to carry at all times?”
“Yes. And tonight, I assigned that responsibility to you. If I need to shoot someone, I am sure you will do it for me. I promise, I will ask nicely.”
“What?”
Ricardo pulled up in front of the condo. Antonio opened the door. It must have been his turn to work the night shift. He was most pleased that I had returned the beautiful Signora unharmed.
When we arrived at the condo door, it was time to exchange gentlemanly protocol for one mandated by security issues. Touching her arm, I indicated that she should stay behind me. I opened the door as quietly as I could and stepped inside. The rooms were wel
l lit by several lamps. I eased the butt of the Beretta up out of its concealed location and kept my hand on it. There was no immediate threat.
Moving from the doorway, I stopped in mid step — something was wrong. I’m not sure how I knew. Maybe my subconscious had observed that some item had been disturbed; I don’t know. But, I have had this experience before and have learned to trust my gut without question. Someone had been here. Someone might still be here.
Placing my finger to my lips, the international sign of, “Please keep quiet and humor your testosterone-fueled and security conscious friend — PLEASE!” and hoped that my internationally traveled friend knew the code. Moving to the center of the room, gun now in hand, I listened for movement. The code either forgotten or misunderstood, Marilena headed for the guest room, she was going to look inside, ignoring the fact that I was the only one armed on our team. I moved quickly and got between her and the open guest room doors.
“Hey, no gun, remember? Stay behind me. Please!” I whispered. She gave me a small shrug and mouthed, “OK” in what appeared to me to be a little patronizing. I was going to have to lay down the law about tactical procedures. Either she would demonstrate to me some extra sensory perception that could consistently determine the presence of threats, or I would re-sensitize her to an appropriate level of urban assault paranoia. Her life may have been a diplomatic mission, but mine had not.
Suddenly, in my peripheral vision, I saw a figure, obscured in detail due to a baggy, hooded sweat suit, dash from the den and heading fast for the front door. I dropped my gun on the couch as I passed by it, gathering speed, leading my target, legs pumping, my body leaning forward as the intercept velocity increased. I launched myself at the running body and made a mid-air tackle, my arms surrounding the intruder, shoulder driving into ribs. He was medium height and skinny. I could tell by the lack of resistance to my inertia that I had fifty pounds on him, maybe more. We hit the floor together — he took the brunt of the impact as I had planned. The reason for the physical takedown and not a gunshot was that I wanted to question this intruder more than I wanted to kill him. I could always kill him later, no gun required. It was a small risk as I had not seen a weapon and even if he had one, a running, fleeing shooter is a poor marksman against a fast-moving target. There had never been a consideration to raise my pistol and do the, “Stop or I’ll shoot” thing. They didn’t teach us that in the Corps. When I point a gun at someone, that person should plan on getting shot — maybe several times — cartridges are cheap, pulling the trigger easy.
Getting quickly to my feet, I was a little surprised to see that my tackling dummy had as well, but he was staggering more than standing. Adrenaline alone had gotten him off the floor. The unarmed combat the Marine Corps teaches is not fancy, not some mysterious Asian art form. It is based on boxing, street fighting, upper body strength. It is dirty, fast and effective. A quick fist, thrust hard with full-body follow-through to the gut below his sternum was all that was needed. He was lifted off his feet by my blow and sailed backwards through the air, legs trailing. He landed hard on his butt, the wind fully knocked out of him, falling backward. The final sound was his head hitting the hardwood floor.
The hood still covered his head, but I don’t think it had cushioned the impact with the floor very much. I climbed on top, pinned his arms with my knees, my two hundred pounds an effective hindrance to escape. I roughly pushed the hood back away from his face only to discover that it wasn’t a he but a she. My opponent was a young woman. A painful expression surrounded by blonde hair, she was in her early 20s and attractive. I frisked her for weapons without objection. She was still an enemy, gender notwithstanding.
“I’m gonna be sick,” her first words, gasped while her diaphragm was attempting to rejoin the civilized world. I got up and let her roll on her side. She made good on her promise and puked, the expected reaction.
Marilena looked distressed, “Someone I should know, Thomas?”
“Maybe. I’ll introduce you just as soon as I know who she is.”
She was clutching her middle still in pain. “You hit me!”
“Keep your hands in sight or I’ll hit you again.”
Marilena went to the kitchen, got a dampened towel and a glass of water. While she did this, I retrieved my gun, but I kept my eyes on our intruder.
“Why did you hit me? I feel like my ribs are broken!”
Marilena had returned. She said, “I’m sorry, dear; his manners are terrible.” Helping her sit up, she wiped the girl’s face and hair with the towel and offered her the water, which she accepted. I wasn’t happy about Marilena being this close to her yet. She seemed substantial enough to do some serious harm. Though thin, she was tall for a woman. Watching Marilena clean her up, I knew that mopping up the mostly liquid mess on the hardwood floor would be left to me.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Who am I? Who are you? What are you doing here?” she replied, some anger starting to build, and then she was gripped by a coughing fit.
When she finished, I spoke again, leaving the menace in my voice. “Answer my question, little girl. You can see that I’m not constrained by old-fashioned ideas about hitting and gender restrictions.” She was getting a large dose of the bad cop. Marilena said nothing; her good cop constrained to personal housekeeping.
Her eyes widened, and she answered quickly, “I’m a friend of Ron’s — Dr. Briggs. He’s my friend. He was my friend,” she corrected. “I’m allowed to be here. I’m on the list. Who are you? Are you on the list?”
“What list?” I said, forgetting what I should have remembered.
“The list at the desk downstairs. They gave me a key. Here.” She fumbled about and pulled a key out of her sweatshirt pocket. I took it from her. It was the twin to mine. I didn’t return it.
“Why did you try to run?” I asked.
“I saw you from the den. You had a gun! You scared me! WHO ARE YOU?”
Marilena answered for me, “This is Thomas. He is Ron’s brother.”
“Thomas? You mean, Tom? You’re Tom? Yeah, I can see it from all the pictures that Ron showed me. You’re the Army guy, right?”
“That could get you hit again,” I said.
“What?” she recoiled, fear back, displacing the anger.
Marilena said quickly, “Thomas!”
She then looked at our captive, “Don’t worry, dear, he won’t hurt you again. All evidence to the contrary, he’s actually a very nice man — you just surprised us. Let me help you. There is a bathroom where we can finish cleaning up.”
I got paper towels and spray cleaner from the kitchen and mopped up the floor while the girl stuff happened in the bathroom. Presently, they returned and sat close together on the couch. The young lady obviously still viewed me as harmful, Marilena a potential source of safety.
Marilena began, “Thomas, may I introduce April. April June.”
Looking down at the young woman, I said, “April June? Don’t tell me. Your middle name is May.”
She answered without enthusiasm — she had heard this question before, “Yeah, actually it is. My parents were high when they named me.” She was serious.
Marilena gave me a quick look — she wanted me to let her do this. OK? She looked back to April, “How did you know Ron?” She hadn’t started like I would have with, “TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE DOING HERE!”
April answered, “I came to return the helicopter.”
There were a lot of things that she could have said. This, however, was one that I wasn’t expecting.
“The helicopter?” Marilena asked, as if she had misunderstood her words.
I had already started for the den. Marilena would keep her from running, if she tried. The empty shelf, empty no longer. A model of a Bell Jet Ranger, green and white, “Cascade Fire Fighters!” in red metallic paint, emblazoned down the tail boom, rested in its assigned place.
Taking it down carefully, I carried it to the dining room and set it on the table in vi
ew of the living room couch and the two women.
April spoke, “I had it at my place, keeping it for Ron.”
I started to say something, but Marilena shot me a look — it was still her show.
She probed again, “April, he asked you to keep it? Why?”
“I don’t really know. It’s not like I’m into remote control planes or anything although he did take me to the park a couple of times to watch him fly the helicopters.”
“Do you know why he asked you to keep it?” the same question, a police technique, but repeated in a gentle voice.
“I really don’t know, but he scared me when he did. First time I ever was afraid when I was around him. I wasn’t afraid of him. I was afraid for him.”
“Why was that?” Marilena said in a voice a little softer with each question, pulling April in, making her comfortable, trusting.
“He told me to keep it, and if anything should happen to him that I was to give it to Tom when he came to New York.” She looked at me. “He wouldn’t tell me much, just to keep an eye on the condo and when you showed up to give it to you. The only other thing he said was that if something did happen to him, I was not supposed to get involved. Especially not to call the police and tell them about the helicopter. He said that I would not be in any danger if I just gave the helicopter to you and didn’t tell anyone else about it. That you would know what to do! That’s when I got scared. But I did it for him because of what he had done for me. I called the security desk every day after he died. Yesterday, they said that you were here, that they had given you a key. So I came over with the damn thing. If I had known that it was you coming in, I wouldn’t have tried to run. All I saw was the gun, and this is New York after all.”
Ron had known he was at risk. He suspected problems. He had told her that something might happen to him. What he should have done was call me. I would have set the new Tokyo to New York speed record getting here. I would have had some special friends grab Ron and keep him safe. They wouldn’t even have told me where he was in case I became compromised — I wouldn’t have asked. Whatever the problem, I would have dealt with it and Ron would be alive.
Death of a Cure Page 15