All Fixed Up

by Linda Grimes

  “I don’t know. But we will catch him, and I will find out. One way or another. At least now we know for sure he’s connected to the New York murders.” The stony set of Mark’s face didn’t bode well for Loughlin’s future. “I’ve requisitioned more agents. Even brought in the FBI—he’s at the top of their Most Wanted list as of now.”

  “I thought you said the FBI were a bunch of idiots.”

  He quirked his mouth into an almost-smile. “Even idiots have their uses. They’re good at finding people.”

  I recognized the neighborhood we were headed toward and sat up straight. “No! Mark, I can’t go home now. I can’t.” There was no way I could face my family yet. If I had to explain what had happened, I’d lose it for sure, and I wasn’t at all certain I’d ever find it again. “Please,” I said, panic creeping into my voice, trying though I was to keep it out.

  “I’ve put more people on the house. Nobody can get at you there, I promise. I need you someplace safe.”

  “Please,” I said again. “Anywhere else. I can’t … I can’t see them right now. I can’t tell them what I did. Not yet.”

  “Ciel, it’s not your fault—”

  “Please.”

  He nodded. “Billy’s place okay? Is he back in town? I can put more men there, too.”

  I stiffened, willing myself to keep my face from crumbling, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from pooling. “Not a good idea.”

  Another sharp look from Mark. He made an illegal U-turn at the next intersection and sped toward a section of town I hadn’t seen since a visit I’d made with Thomas back when I was in high school.

  Chapter 18

  Mark’s off-the-grid apartment was in a sketchy part of town, a tiny jewel hidden behind a façade that would embarrass a slumlord. Once we were up the six flights of scuffed wooden stairs and through a door with hospital-green paint peeling off it, it was a high-tech wonderland of minimalist luxury.

  But yikes, those stairs. I fought to keep the wheeze out of my breathing. No wonder Mark was in such great shape.

  “Would it have killed you to find a building with an elevator?” I said.

  “Builds character,” he said with a teasing smile.

  I’d called my dad from the car and told him I was with Mark. That was all I’d squeezed out before I’d handed Mark’s phone back to him. He told Dad that I was helping him on a lead, and wouldn’t be in any danger. Didn’t mention anything about what happened, for which I was grateful. I knew my parents were of the opinion there was no better protection in the world than Mark, so they wouldn’t worry.

  I started to smile back at him, but it froze on my face, guilt stabbing me again. I was starting to think the ice pick would have been less painful.

  “I killed him, Mark. I killed a man.”

  He took the coat I was clutching (I’d removed it after the second flight of stairs), tossed it onto a chair along with his, and pulled me into an embrace, cradling my head against his chest with one large hand. “I know, Howdy. I know. It sucks. It sickens you, it terrifies you, destroys a part of you, and I’m sorry you had to do it. But listen to me. You had no choice.”

  “Maybe if I’d—”

  “Stop. Don’t ‘if’ it, Ciel. It was what it was. He had an ice pick”—the police must have told Mark that—“and he was going to kill you. You stopped him. That is all that matters.”

  I nodded into one of his pecs, and tried to believe him. “How do the police know he was trying to kill me? I didn’t tell them—I was afraid to say anything before you got there.”

  “The ice pick was still in the guy’s hand, and he had a rap sheet longer than his arm. Wasn’t tough to put it together.”

  “Don’t they wonder who the Japanese girl is? Won’t they want to question me more?” I shuddered at the thought.

  “As far as they’re concerned, she’s a foreign national under the protection of Uncle Sam. They know better than to ask anything more.”

  He led me to the sofa—small, modern, upholstered in soft gray Ultrasuede. I sat, relieved I wouldn’t have to face the police again anyway, while he went to the bar area of the peninsula that separated the living area from the kitchen. He poured hefty slugs of some fancy bourbon into short glasses, and brought one to me.

  “I’m not as good at making Manhattans as your dad is, but this will take the chill off your stomach,” he said, sipping his.

  I hesitated, my mind slamming up against a wall I didn’t want to face right now. I gripped the glass until I was afraid it might shatter.

  Screw it. Sorry, kid, I need this, I thought, and knocked it back. But a great big ol’ lump of guilt blocked my throat before I could swallow.

  Shit, Ciel, haven’t you done enough damage for one day?

  I ran to the kitchen sink and spat it out, but not before swishing it around in my mouth a few times. What a waste of good whiskey. But at least it had helped rid my mouth of the taste of blood I hadn’t thus far been able to squelch.

  I felt Mark’s hand on my back. “That bad?”

  I coughed, and pretended he was talking about the bourbon. “No. It tasted great. Really. It’s … um, maybe some tea would be better.”

  “Sorry. I’m not much of a tea drinker. But I have coffee.”

  “Decaf?” I asked.

  He looked at me like I was crazy.

  “You know, in case I have trouble sleeping…”

  “Ciel, if you have trouble sleeping, I’ll stay up with you. If you want to talk—about anything—we’ll talk. If you want to be quiet, we’ll be quiet. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

  God, the dove-gray eyes, soft and tender. In my current emotional state, if I wasn’t careful, they were going to undo me.

  I looked down at my ugly scrubs, noticing a few suspect stains. “Do you have an old shirt or something I can borrow? I feel like a reject from Grey’s Anatomy,” I said, forcing a light tone.

  “Sure thing.” He disappeared behind the door of a compact closet and returned with a dark green thermal and a pair of wool socks. “I’d give you some pants, but I’m afraid they’d fall right off you.”

  Normally the inherent innuendo in a statement like that would have me stifling giggles. It appeared my juvenile sense of humor was another casualty of the day’s events.

  “Thanks. This will be fine,” I said.

  I changed in a small bathroom so artfully laid out it seemed downright spacious. But first I took another shower, because even after scrubbing myself nearly raw at the police station, I didn’t feel clean. Maybe Mark’s soap would work better. At least it was a comforting smell, light and fresh, not at all overpowering like the industrial deodorant stuff they’d had at the station.

  The thermal came almost to my knees, and I had to roll up the sleeves multiple times, but the color worked for me. The socks added a warm and goofy touch that might have amused me under different circumstances. I peeked in the medicine cabinet, found a new toothbrush, and proceeded to make use of it for at least double my normal brushing time. When I joined Mark in the main room I felt slightly more human.

  “What do you think?” I said, striking a silly pose. “New fashion trend?”

  Mark pretended to study me critically. “The socks make the outfit.”

  I held a foot up, toes extended. The heel of the brown sock was above my ankle, the top almost to my knee. Alluring they were not, but they were warm. I opened my mouth, willing a witty sock comment to come to my lips. Came up empty. I dropped my leg, sucked in some air, and started to shake.

  “I can’t do this. God damn it, it’s not fair, not when I’m—” I swallowed the words in time. “I want a do-over! I don’t know how to be a killer,” I said, giving up my futile attempt at normalcy.

  Mark led me back to the sofa. He sat next to me, holding my hands steady in both of his, looking straight into my eyes. “You don’t know how to be a killer because you’re not a killer. You defended yourself, and someone died—a huge distinction.”

  “Even if
… if…” I didn’t want to say it, didn’t even want to think it.

  He squeezed my hands lightly, rubbing his thumbs across my knuckles. “If what, Howdy? Tell me. Let me help.”

  “When I saw the blood pouring out of him … when I saw the life fade out of his eyes … I was glad. No, I was ecstatic. I took a life, and got the same kind of rush as when I hit a home run, or win at bowling. What kind of sicko am I?”

  “Ciel, that’s a human reaction. You were flooded with adrenaline, fighting for your life, and you did win. You won a life-or-death contest. Of course your instinct is to feel satisfaction. It’s normal.”

  “But the blood … I think, if I’d been able to stand … I think I would have kicked his dead body. Stomped him to ribbons with my skates. God knows I wanted to.”

  “Adrenaline,” he repeated. “Nature’s motivator when it comes to survival. Look, Ciel, your body was in fight-or-flight mode. You couldn’t flee, so you fought. And I am damn glad you did.”

  He was starting to get through to me. It made sense. “Was it … was it like that for you … the first time?” I asked hesitantly. I knew he’d had to kill people—in his line of work it was inevitable—but he never talked about it.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Only there was nothing to stop me. I was caught off guard, a stupid rookie mistake, and didn’t have a weapon. He did, a knife, and he liked playing with it. He toyed with me, slicing me randomly while we fought, all the while telling me which parts of me he was going to cut off before he killed me. Scared the living shit out of me. When I managed—by pure luck—to knock the knife out of his hand, I jumped on him and started pounding. Kept pounding long after I knew he was dead. He didn’t have much of a face left when I was done.”

  I squeezed his hands back. Somehow it was easier to understand the reaction in someone else. “How did you deal with it? After, I mean.”

  “Harvey”—Harvey was Mark’s mentor at the Agency—“made me see a company psychologist. I resisted. Thought I could handle it myself. But Harvey insisted, and I’m glad he did. Doc’s a smart woman. Might be a good idea for you to see her, too. I can arrange it if you like.”

  The idea of talking to anyone else about what I’d done—no, I couldn’t see it. “Maybe later.”

  Mark didn’t press it. “No rush. For now, you can talk to me as much as you want.” He quirked a half-smile. “I’m not a doctor, but I can listen. And I do know what you’re going through, if that helps.”

  I relaxed. “It does. More than you know.”

  He nodded. “Think you might be able to eat something? I can fry a mean egg. I don’t usually burn toast either.”

  I wasn’t hungry, but it would be something else to focus on. “An egg and some toast would be great,” I said. “I’d offer to help, but…” I shrugged. Mark was well aware of my deficiencies in the kitchen.

  He ruffled my hair, and for a second I almost felt normal. “Watch and learn, Howdy. Watch and learn.”

  * * *

  The trouble started when I closed my eyes.

  I’d made it through dinner, managing to eat most of my toast and half an egg before my stomach put up a roadblock. We’d stuck to non-stressful topics, like how freaking cold it was, what kind of car Mark was considering trying out next, and old-school video games, after which I thought I was tired enough to sleep.

  But every time I closed my eyes the world turned red. The color flowed over me, harsh and ugly, oozing into my field of vision, making my heart race as the adrenaline punched me in the gut again and again.

  So I kept my eyes open, staring at the light coming from the bathroom door Mark had left open a crack, in case I needed to get up in the middle of the night. I was snuggled into the best sofa bed ever—apparently if you pay enough you don’t wind up with a bar digging into your back—but it couldn’t keep the red away.

  Mark was in the chair where he’d thrown our coats earlier, the coats having been banished to the floor. The chair reclined, and he’d claimed it was perfectly comfortable. I’d told him it made more sense for me to take the chair, since I’m a good foot shorter, but he’d insisted.

  “Want me to make you some warm milk?” Mark’s words gave me a start, low though he’d kept his voice.

  “How did you know I was awake?” I’d been trying my best to stay silent, figuring one of us should get some sleep.

  “You’re too quiet. Sleeping people are full of tiny noises. Even if they don’t snore, their breathing has a different quality than when they’re awake.”

  I sighed. “Anyone ever tell you you’re way too observant?”

  “It’s a curse,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.

  He went to the kitchen area, turned on the light over the stove, keeping it at the dimmest setting, and got out a mug and a quart of milk. I joined him, still wearing his wool socks and thermal.

  “You’re going to have some, too, aren’t you? I hate to drink alone,” I said, again trying for a touch of humor. It sounded flat to my ear.

  He got out another mug. “Sure. Can I add a little something to sweeten it up for you?”

  “Do you have any cocoa powder?”

  “No, but I have some honey.”

  “I guess it will have to do. At least now I know what to get you for Christmas,” I teased. If I kept working at it, maybe it would start to sound natural again.

  While the milk heated in the microwave he leaned back, his hands resting on the counter on either side of his hips. He was still wearing clothes, but at least he’d taken off his shoes and sweater. Guess the T-shirt kept him warm enough indoors. Heck, it was starting to make me feel warm, and I wasn’t even the one wearing it. I came close to asking him why he didn’t get comfortable and change into his pajamas, but figured it wouldn’t be wise. For all I knew, he didn’t even sleep in pajamas, and I certainly didn’t need to add that image to the muddled mess already tumbling in my head.

  Though it was certainly more pleasant to contemplate than the other ones …

  The kitchen felt smaller all of a sudden.

  Of course it does, idiot. He’s a big guy. Naturally the room looks smaller by comparison, I thought, staring at his biceps. He gripped the edge of the counter, the muscles in both arms flexing to life.

  The microwave beeped, pulling me out of my mini-trance, and my eyes shot up to his face. I could tell he’d caught me staring, and prayed the dim light would hide my blush.

  “Howdy…”

  I coughed, and turned to study the apples in the bowl on the counter. “Yeah?”

  “Never mind,” he said after a short pause. He got the mugs, gave each a squirt of honey and a stir, and placed one carefully in my waiting hands, his fingers brushing my knuckles in passing.

  All right, that felt way better than it should. I lifted the mug to my lips with trembling hands, sucking in the honeyed liquid like it was the antidote to what ailed me.

  “Delicious,” I said. “Almost as good as hot chocolate. Yup, I think this is going to do the trick.” I gulped down the rest, afraid to move the mug for fear of what Mark might read on my face.

  God, I really must be some brand of warped. Pregnant, deserted by my boyfriend, fresh off killing a man, and now here I was wanting nothing more than to jump Mark on the kitchen floor.

  He set his mug on the counter after a token sip, took my empty one from me, and put it next to his. Then he held my hand with both of his, keeping some space between us. “That’s normal, too. After.” His eyes were understanding, reminding me of the way he’d looked at me when I was nothing more than a kid crushing on him.

  “It is?” I said, not bothering to pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about.

  He nodded. “It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. It’ll wear off soon.”

  I looked at the hands cupping mine. So big. Strong and vital and alive. Without conscious intent, I uncurled his fingers and placed his palms over my breasts. “What if I don’t want it to wear off?”

  H
is fingers gripped me lightly, then tried to pull away. I held them close. “Can’t you help me not think for a little while?” I said softly.

  He kept his hands still, not yanking them away, but in no way caressing me either. “Ciel, this isn’t a good idea. Not now.”

  Funny, it felt like the best idea in the world to me, the only idea worth having at the moment. The one thing that might override everything else I was trying so desperately to keep out of my head. I stroked the backs of his hands, circling his knuckles with my fingertips. “One night. If I can get through tonight I think I’ll be okay.”

  “What about Billy?” he asked gently.

  “Billy ran out on me,” I said, my voice harsher than I intended. “I can’t think about him right now.”

  He moved his hands up to my shoulders. “Ciel, what happened?”

  “Damn it, Mark! I don’t want to talk. I want to fuck. And so do you.” I looked pointedly at his crotch. He’d have trouble denying that.

  His jaw tightened along with his hands. He took a deep breath and visibly relaxed himself. “Yeah, I do. But it’s not happening if we don’t talk. Why did Billy leave? Was it because of me?”

  I sighed. He’d have to know sometime. This day was already in the toilet. Might as well flush it.

  “He didn’t seem to care for the idea of becoming a father,” I said, going for ironic understatement but probably stumbling into rancor.

  Mark stared at me blankly for a second, then looked even more shocked than when I’d punched him at the gym. “You’re pregnant?”

  “Afraid so. Looks like Thomas’s heir is going to have a cousin to grow up with,” I said, and immediately regretted it because it couldn’t help but remind me that Billy and I had grown up together as cousins, albeit honorary ones.

  “How long have you known?”

  “Since my last day in Houston. Billy was there. He was as supportive as could be, even helping me with the test I was scared spitless to take. He was the perfect boyfriend … right up until he saw the little blue plus sign. Then he suddenly had somewhere else he needed to be, and I haven’t heard from him since.”