The Spy Who Kissed Me

by Pauline Baird Jones

  Willis noted my look, shook his head. “He’s taking a break.”

  There was little satisfaction in being right and Kel being wrong. If Willis got his way, I’d never get the chance to tell him, “I told you so.” I couldn’t let myself think about all the other things I wouldn’t be doing if Willis succeeded, not if I wanted to have a chance to stop him.

  There was no lock on the door, so I dressed in a hurry, then did a quick search of the far too sterile bathroom. All I turned up was a bar of soap, another bottle of Phisohex and a toothbrush.

  Great, I could disinfect him to death. I used the soap to write “Help” and “Willis” on the mirror, then shoved the Phisohex in my pocket. I knew from personal experience it could cause pain.

  Willis beat on the door. “What’s taking you so long?”

  I opened the door. “I’m a little nervous about dying.”

  “Like I said, you got spunk.” He grabbed my arm and shoved me towards the door. “Just don’t get carried away with it.”

  I didn’t look back. I’d given it my best shot. Now I had to concentrate on warding off Willis’ best shot until the cavalry came. I just hoped the pissed off cavalry didn’t think I’d run off with Jerome again. Hard not to think about the story of the boy who cried wolf one too many times.

  In the movies, potential victims try to get their killers to talk. It was practically obligatory. The killers seem to like this, so when he pushed me into the parking garage elevator and let me go, I decided to try it. I rubbed my arm where he’d gripped it and said accusingly, “You’re supposed to be a good guy.”

  He shrugged. “I happen to think I still am, in my way.”

  “Your way? By selling guns to terrorists? By killing boys, math teachers, and innocent authors for filthy gain?” I didn’t mention his murder of the round-headed man. It weakened my case.

  “This isn’t about money.” His response was quick and defensive. Had I found a weak spot?

  “Oh? You’re killing out of the goodness of your heart? Or, let me guess. You have a great cause?”

  He looked annoyed. “It’s too bad I missed you Saturday. You got a smart mouth.”

  “So, what am I dying for?”

  “You wouldn’t understand anymore than the Carter broad did.” He frowned. “Damn Bobby to hell for over-reacting.”

  “I suppose he killed Paul Mitchell because he noticed armament was missing?”

  He looked at me. I didn’t like the look and had to swallow a great wad of fear.

  “You’ve found out quite a bit for a ‘harmless’ author.”

  “Maybe not so harmless as you think. I found the papers Mrs. Carter took, they were in a typewriter. The CIA has them now. They know about the embassies. So it’s all been for nothing.” I watched him carefully as I hauled out the tried and true bluff.

  “Clever old broad. We wondered…”

  “We?”

  He smiled slowly. “Why, me and Bobby, of course.”

  “You’re going to die. Just like he did. They know everything. Kel told me—”

  “Your spook doesn’t know shit. He could walk up and lean on it and he still wouldn’t know. I didn’t start this, you know. They did.” His face darkened, his eyes taking on a weird glow that sent a series of tremors down my spine. “With their power brokering. If they’d listened. But they never do, not unless you got the money. After Tuesday…”

  He stopped, as if afraid he’d say too much.

  “Listen to what?”

  “Why,” he smiled, suddenly, “the second shot to be heard around the world.”

  I frowned. I knew about the first shot. I was a teacher, but what could a revolutionary war shot have to do with now? Was that it? Was he talking revolution? Now? When we were in the midst of a war?

  The elevator doors slid open, spewing us into the shadowy, empty depths of the parking garage. A chill that had nothing to do with the outside cold numbed my body and my brain as he hauled me across the concrete towards a silver Datsun.

  So he was responsible for that, too. He shoved me into the space between the cars and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket.

  “Gimme your hands.”

  If I let him handcuff me, the pathetically little chance I had of escaping dwindled into that negative, new math range. I hated new math. Hate put an extra spin on the old brain, the little ball landing in the Phisohex slot.

  “What are you going to do?” I half turned away from him and slipped the bottle out of my pocket, my thumb working at the stiff top.

  “I don’t want any trouble from you. Think I can’t see the wheels turning? Now put ’em out.”

  I let my shoulders droop in defeat. Stepped towards him, lifting my hands, palms down so that he wouldn’t notice the bottle. When his gaze dropped to my wrists, I turned the bottle and squeezed—just as cold steel snapped into place around my wrists.

  My cry of dismay got lost in his roar of pain. He clawed at his eyes with his free hand. I used his distraction to apply my knee where it would hurt the most and jumped back as he doubled over with another howl.

  For an instant I saw his inflamed eyes, bulging from Phisohex and rage.

  I turned tail and ran like a rabbit. I was a handcuffed rabbit, so my gait lacked effective forward motion. The elevator sign glowed like an ugly beacon through the gloom. The light showed it still on our floor.

  I tried to pick up my pace. Instead I went sideways and bounced off a parked car. A bullet thudded into the car next to me. I screamed and skittered the other way. Ahead of me, the elevator light went dark.

  I don’t know if my wail was internal or external. Oblivious to my plight, it started to descend. My only option was to follow. I leapt over the cement barrier of the down ramp. Behind me bullets ricocheted off metal and concrete. With all the grace of a disadvantaged kangaroo, I galloped down the ramp and made a turn toward the elevator.

  Only this level didn’t have an elevator.

  Above me I heard shambling footsteps and steady cursing. Despite this rare opportunity to enlarge my off-color vocabulary, I continued my ineffective scamper for the next down ramp. The pounding of my footsteps and heart drowned out his pursuit. I couldn’t look back without losing my balance. All I could do was run and hope.

  Several lifetimes later, I reached the next ramp. I went over the low curb and almost came a header on a patch of oil. I kept my balance, but never quite got back control. Several hops and a Beemer put me back on target for the elevator.

  The indicator showed it on the first floor—no, it was climbing.

  The bastard had taken time to push the button.

  I galloped forward.

  One. Two. Three…

  I was almost there—it swept past my floor bare seconds before my fingers found the button and pushed. It went up one level and stopped. After a short silence, I heard Willis’ footsteps start toward me.

  I pushed the button again. It didn’t move.

  Could he have blocked it somehow?

  I sagged against the wall, my chest heaving its need for more air. I was on the fourth level. There was no way I could run the lengths of four levels to the ground. I had to get back up to the elevator. Or hide until the cavalry came.

  If the cavalry came.

  A garage didn’t offer a whole lot in the way of cover, but if I could convince him I was still headed down, maybe I could work my way back up to the stalled elevator.

  I took a deep breath, pushed away from the elevator, and began jogging towards the other ramp, deliberately emphasizing my steps with teeth jarring thumps. It hurt like the dickens, but I heard his footsteps speed up. When I figured he was making too much noise to hear me, I dodged behind an ancient van with “Wild Thing” inscribed on the side.

  It seemed like a good omen.

  Sooner than I’d expected, Willis thudded past, his livid face contorted with rage. If he caught me now, he wouldn’t make it easy for me. I waited until he was out of sight, then did a crab walk around the
front of the van.

  Below me, Willis stopped running. I froze. If he’d already realized I wasn’t going down, I was toast. Even now he could be returning the way he’d come. I had to do something.

  I hardly had time to form the prayer in my head when the answer came in a resurrected memory of an action adventure movie from my past. The bulging pectoral hero had clung to the underside of a truck. I didn’t have the pecs, but I didn’t have to cling to it while the van was moving either. With my hands cuffed, it wasn’t easy getting under the van and not make noise, but I had good incentive to try. Once there, I focused so much on figuring out how to hook my joined arms around machinery, that at first I didn’t realize what I was seeing.

  A spare key holder.

  If it had a key in it—it did.

  Yes, thank you God. Driving out surrounded by lots of metal was much better than cowering in grease while waiting for a cavalry that might not come.

  I had the key in the lock when I heard Willis heading back my way. The door squeaked when I opened it, sending my heart and Willis’ footsteps racing. I scrambled into the driver’s seat, pulled the door closed and locked it. I managed to get the key in the ignition and cranked it. The engine hesitated, then turned over with a satisfying roar. With a painful pretzel of my arms, I got it in reverse.

  Willis’ face topped the cement curb. It was a fearsome sight. The eyes were red and swollen, the whites bulging out of puffy flesh crisscrossed by angry red scratches dripping blood.

  For a terrifying moment we stared across the concrete yards that divided us. He raised his gun. I stamped on the gas. The van shot back. A bullet starred the window of the car next to me. I cranked frantically. A bullet hit the side of the van. Another glanced off the windshield. I hit the brake. The van’s tires shrieked a protest, then we slammed into the car parked behind. An alarm went off.

  I turned the wheel to straighten the tires. Willis ran into my path and pointed his gun at me.

  I closed my eyes and hit the gas. The van leapt forward.

  Shots.

  Bullets thudded into metal.

  Another volley.

  The van veered right, wresting control from my shackled hands.

  A yell. A thump. A lurch. A skid sideways into another car. My head hit the steering wheel.

  Lights out.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Returning light brought pain. Instead of a soft pillow, hard plastic un-gently cradled my head. On the bright side, gentle fingers touched arms, my legs. Who?

  Memory wasn’t gentle. It slammed into my brain.

  Willis. Gun. Death.

  I started to struggle. “I have Phisohex!”

  “Is that what you did to the poor guy?” The voice sounded like Kel’s.

  “I told you I wasn’t safe in the hospital,” I muttered. Death could have me now that I knew he’d live the rest of his life tortured by guilt. I sagged back and waited. No light beckoned me into the next world, so I opened my eyes. It hurt. I didn’t want to do that again, so I left them open and tried out my arms and legs. I didn’t think I could be more uncomfortable.

  I was wrong.

  “You shouldn’t move,” Kel began.

  “No kidding.” I tried them again, but slower. They still hurt, but bones didn’t grind together. “Can you help me out of here?”

  “You should wait for the EMT,” Kel said, but he took my cuffed hands and helped me scramble clear of “Wild Thing.” Kel looked at the cuffs, gave a low voiced order to a man standing by him, then said. “That explains your driving, but not why you tried to run over Willis.”

  I gave him a haughty look. “He was going to kill me.”

  The man dug through the prone Willis, then tossed Kel some keys. Kel started to fit them in the lock, then stopped.

  “I think I’ll apologize before I unlock you. Phisohex doesn’t agree with me either.”

  I don’t know how he did it. Every bone and muscle in my body hurt, including my heart, but my lips still gave this little twitch, like they wanted to smile. The sharp-eyed spy saw this sign of weakness and compounded his crimes with an illegal use of his unregistered smile.

  He undid one side, then the other, his face turning grim when he saw their rubbed raw state. “You know, I’ve lost ten years off my life for every day I’ve known you.”

  “And someone has tried to kill me every one of those days,” I said it with only a little wobble in my voice. “Maybe someone is trying to tell us something.”

  He was standing close enough to singe, but my flesh didn’t seem to care. Every cell strained toward him. It took what was left of my willpower not to let the cells have their wicked way.

  “That we’re,” he didn’t touch me, he didn’t need to, “good together?”

  “I’m sure that must be it.” I felt my mouth stretch in a stupidly happy grin. I was insane. I liked it. I liked basking in the glow of being lusted after by the spy I wanted to lust after me. I’d figured it out. I’d finally found the right intersection of male wanting and female need. So much of my life had been missed cues and screwed up timing, surely I deserved to bask a little?

  Right then, I could have kissed Mrs. Macpherson for getting the flu. Course, I’d rather have kissed Kel—if all the extraneous cops would just go away.

  They didn’t. Instead, more came. Some firemen. Another EMT gave me a once-over. I ignored him and looked at Kel with a goofy expression on my face while he tried to act official and ask me some questions. I told him everything I remembered about my abduction and what Willis had said. He looked thoughtful, but didn’t say if any of it meant anything. I didn’t care if it meant anything. I was so tired I was seeing triple. My body had had enough.

  “I want to go home.”

  He promised to see what he could do, which turned out to be enough. The hospital couldn’t make a case for keeping me since I hadn’t prospered in their care. The double dose of SWAT team was ruining their healer image, so, after giving me instructions that I didn’t listen to, and making me sign a thousand forms, I was released into the custody of my mother and the CIA—in the form of Kel’s suits. Kel had a Tuesday deadline for the disaster and had to go do some spy stuff.

  I was sure that everyone who could possibly want me dead, was either in custody or deceased themselves, but Kel didn’t intend to make the same mistake twice. After a few more questions, my mother and I were ferried home by some new CIA suits. Now that Kel had a Tuesday deadline for the conspiracy that had almost killed me, his inquiries were more urgent.

  My mother took the news her daughter was under government protection pretty well. I heard her questioning the suits about their marital status. She married a cop, so a spy wasn’t that big of stretch—now that the minister was out of the picture.

  I was so embarrassed I told her about Jerome’s proposal. Horror left her speechless, and I was able to proceed directly to the shower when we got home. I would have sung in the shower but I had a feeling the bug was probably back on. I ate some chocolate instead. I spent what was left of my day watching the war and working on my roach book. Marion wouldn’t consider near extinction a reasonable excuse for missing a deadline. As it got towards evening, I shoved a music tape in my player. As Mama Cass began to wail about friends and lovers and I pondered what might be in my refrigerator for eating, I heard a knock at my door.

  Most of my guests enter through the main house, so I wasn’t too surprised, when I’d grabbed Addison’s collar and opened the door, to catch Kel with his government issue lock pick in one hand and holding some bags that smelled Chinese with the other.

  It is said one should beware of Greeks bearing gifts and men with etchings, but my mother never told me how to deal with a spy in tight-fitting jeans bearing Chinese food.

  So I let him in.

  * * * *

  “Éclair?” I held out the nearly thawed treat. I always keep some in my freezer to satisfy sudden cravings. Too bad I couldn’t keep Kel there, too. He was rousing all sorts of cravings th
at needed satisfaction. He accepted the treat, but didn’t appear to notice the lust that went with it, as he leaned back in his seat for a bite.

  “Aren’t you going to have one?” he asked.

  “I’ve been eating my dessert first, in case I don’t live through dinner,” I said. I slid off my stool and started cleaning up, shoving cartons and sacks into the garbage or refrigerator, depending on their state of emptiness. As I worked, I subjected Kel to a discreet study from under my lashes.

  If I were a romance heroine with a carefully constructed plot to aid me, this would be sack time. My conservative, Baptist self approached this idea cautiously. This was real life. My life. It was one thing to imagine love scenes between imaginary people. Quite another to become intimate with someone I knew—yet didn’t know at all.

  Kel got up to help, further disturbing my insides. It unsettled me to stand shoulder to shoulder and wash dishes with him. I kept noticing little things, like the soap bubbles popping on the wet skin of his arm. The way he smelled, a mix of musk, Chinese and chocolate. The shadow of a beard giving texture to smooth jaw line. How comfortable I felt with him even as every inch of my skin tingled with wanting.

  I’d seen men roll up their sleeves and wash dishes once or twice in my lifetime. Just this week I’d seen Mike in a robe and had three young bucks in tight jeans lusting after me, none of which affected me like watching Kel in my kitchen, washing my dishes, with no-name soap bubbles on his wet arms.

  When he dried the last bubble, an activity that shouldn’t have made his muscles flex enticingly, he didn’t roll his sleeves back down. Instead, he dropped on my couch and looped his arms behind his head, an action that stretched his shirt across his chest. It was a good chest, even with the bandage ruining the smooth line of his muscles. I should know. I’d put it under the microscope of my fingertips.

  “What a day,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Yeah.”

  Trying for the same relaxed air, I sank into a chair opposite him, and without thinking, swept a pile of magazines off the coffee table with my foot so I could stretch my legs out. I saw him looking at me with amusement but was too tired to do anything but grin.