I started in surprise. Yes, I suppose having a pissed-off guy pull out a gun was cause for shock. But the surprise was simply seeing him with a weapon.
He set the gun on the bed. Then he reached between the mattress and box spring, pulled out a knife, and put it beside the gun. Money came next, taped under the bed, an envelope of hundreds, which he dumped onto the sheet. He walked to the closet, dug into the back, and took out a case of Coke.
When he walked wordlessly past me and out the door, I looked at those things on the bed, that odd collection of items he'd kept stashed away. The gun I understood, for home security. Gun plus a knife? Options. The money made sense. The case of Coke, though? I stared at that and I thought of the stew in the bathroom closet and then...
Then I understood.
As he walked back in, carrying the carton of stew, I said, "Oh."
He stopped short, still no expression but his jaw tensing as he said, "Oh?"
I opened my mouth to say that I got it, that I understood. Then I realized how presumptuous that sounded. And how much worse this could get if I was wrong, and it seemed I was trying to analyze him.
So instead I said, "When I was in first grade, my teacher went on mat leave and we had a substitute for two months."
That got a lifting of the brows and an expression that could best be summed up as Huh? I moved to the bed and lowered myself beside the weapons and money.
"She was a real bitch," I said. "She'd retired a few years before. I'm guessing she needed extra cash and resented that, so she took it out on the kids. She had this rule that you couldn't use the bathroom except at recess and lunch. I didn't think much about it until one day I had to go bad. Really bad. My stomach started cramping and, well, I'll spare you the details. Let's just say I had an accident. Then I had to sit there while it seeped...Yep, skipping the details. The point is that by the time I could get up, everyone knew exactly what had happened. For weeks, they called me a baby. One of the boys brought me a diaper and..." I stopped and looked over at him. "As childhood traumas go, I know that's really lame. Compared to-- Well, compared to most kids. But I had a damned near perfect childhood. Other kids liked me well enough, and I'd never been picked on, and for me this was traumatic. All I could think was that the whole thing could have been avoided if I'd had clean underwear in my backpack."
His brows lifted again.
"Yes, I know. That makes no sense. Clean underwear wouldn't have fixed anything. But it was like...it was like I needed to feel I could control the situation. To make sure that it never happened again. Which I could do by keeping clean underwear in my backpack. I don't even want to admit how many years I did that. It was about feeling that, if I had those, I'd never have to endure a trauma like that again. I was prepared."
I looked at the weapons and food and money, and I winced. "And that is the worst analogy ever. I'm sorry. I was trying...I wanted...Obviously, me and my clean underwear story isn't anything close to..." I pressed my palms to my eyes and got up. "I'm sorry. I'm tired and babbling. I just wanted..."
"To tell me you understood."
"Which I don't, obviously. I can't, and to even pretend I can is presumptuous."
He shook his head. "It's not."
"It is, and I'm sorry. Whatever reason you have for keeping this around is your business, and if you want to explain, then I'm happy to listen, but I won't analyze and pretend I get it."
"Tell me what you think it is," he said.
"I don't want to--"
"If you're wrong, that's fine." He looked at me. "But I don't believe you are."
I took a deep breath and turned to the items on the bed. "Weapons, money, food, drink...It's survival stuff. Like what people stash away in case of a natural disaster or a nuclear bomb or, hell, a zombie apocalypse. It makes them feel the same way I did, carrying around clean underwear. Like they're in control and prepared. Except you aren't worried about the end of the world. For you, it really is about survival. You lived for years where all this"--I waved at the items--"was a matter of life and death, and I'm sure there were times when you didn't have it, not nearly enough of it, and now you do and..."
I took another deep breath. "It's like my underwear times a hundred, because, let's face it, my childhood trauma isn't exactly traumatic. Yours--" I swallowed, biting back any observation that might make him uncomfortable. "I don't know how you did it, Gabriel. I don't know how you got from there to here"--I motioned at the room--"because I can't even fathom what it takes to accomplish that, and if having a case of Coke and a gun under your bed helps you feel like you'll never end up there again, then it's a small, small thing, because if it was me, I'd need a whole lot more than an envelope of money to give me what I needed to put my past behind me and move forward."
He nodded and said, "Yes." That's all he said. Yes. Then he picked up the case of stew and returned to the bathroom. When he came back with a roll of duct tape, I helped return the rest to where it went, and he didn't try to stop me. Didn't say a word, either, but that horrible, dead silence from earlier had passed, and this was...
I won't say it was comfortable. I could feel his lingering discomfort, pulling the room down, the mood somber. But it was relaxed enough for us to get everything back in place. Then I said, "Do you have ice cream?"
He looked over.
"I'm going to guess that's a no," I said. "And also, 'Why the hell are you asking about ice cream at four in the morning?' "
I won't say he smiled--or even that his lips moved--but his eyes warmed.
"That day with the underwear fiasco," I said, "my dad took me out for ice cream. I kind of feel like ice cream."
Totally untrue. I hadn't told my parents about the "great underwear incident" until a week later, when my dad finally convinced me to confess what was wrong. He'd gone to the school first. Then he took me to Six Flags, knowing the speed and thrill of the rides was the best thing to clear my mind and get me back on my feet. But I wanted to help Gabriel find his balance, and ice cream seemed a perfectly reasonable way to do it.
"I know there's a twenty-four-hour shop down the road," I said. "Can we walk over?"
"I believe I can do better than ice cream from a convenience shop," he said, the faintest smile breaking through.
"At four in the morning?"
"Let's see."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Gabriel did not know where to find an open ice-cream parlor at 4 a.m. He did, however, know where to find all-night restaurants, not surprising given the hours he kept. One of those was a takeout diner. I got a milkshake. Gabriel said, "The same," and when the waitress asked which flavor, he frowned at the list, as if annoyed that options existed. "Whatever she had," settled the matter efficiently.
We went to sit, only to notice a couple of men watching us and whispering. That was less common these days--I'm getting to be old news--but normally, when it happened, Gabriel ignored it. Tonight, the look he gave the men suggested that if they said a word, he'd have a few to say back.
"How about outside?" I said. "There's a park a few doors down, and it's not too cold."
We sat in the park until the first hint of sun touched the horizon. It wasn't exactly a warm night, and the milkshakes didn't make it any warmer, but once we got talking, neither of us seemed to notice. We talked about the lamiae case and Aunika Madole--hashing it out because that's what we did, talked and bounced ideas around and segued along any path vaguely related to the topic at hand.
When I slurped the melted last of my shake, he said, "Good?"
I nodded.
"Even if it wasn't ice cream like your father got you?"
"He...didn't actually get me ice cream. Not that time."
"I know."
I laughed softly. "I'm that bad a liar?"
"No, you're a decent liar. Not on my level, of course, but perfectly adequate. I could not, however, imagine you telling your father that story and him resolving it by taking you for ice cream. At least, not until he'd resolved the core iss
ue. He went to the school, I presume."
"Got the substitute teacher fired."
"Good."
"I feel a little bad about that."
"No, you don't."
I smiled. "Okay, you're right. I don't." I took his empty cup and stood. "How was the milkshake?"
"Excellent. I believe the last time I had one, I was five. The elders would buy them for me when I ran errands."
"They stopped when you were five?"
"No, I was five when I realized the shakes were, essentially, empty calories, and I could ask for something more nutritionally substantial." He leaned back on the bench. "Until I was eight and asked for money in lieu."
I laughed as I took away the trash, but the laugh was for his benefit, and as soon as my back was to him, I was no longer smiling. I was thinking of a five-year-old boy, telling the elders he'd prefer something more nutritious than milkshakes. I imagined them smiling and humoring him and, yes, kids go through those phases, when they learn that something isn't good for them and resolve to make better choices. But if a five-year-old voluntarily rejects sweets to eat healthy and then starts asking for the money instead, at some point you have to realize something is wrong. Seriously wrong. Like maybe he's asking because he damned well needs the decent food he's not getting at home. The elders should have figured out--
Behind me, pavement scraped underfoot. I turned to see Gabriel rising.
"Olivia?" he said, his voice perfectly calm, his gaze fixed on a stand of trees. "Your purse?"
I threw the trash into the bin with one hand and pulled my gun from my purse with the other. My attention--like his--never left those trees. Then Gabriel's swung to a brick pavilion. He started toward it at a slow lope. I covered him, breaking into a jog when he disappeared around the wall.
At a thump and a gasp, I was running, ignoring the pain shooting through my side. I saw Gabriel swing at a dark figure. Movement flickered behind him, but before I could call a warning, he'd knocked his target aside and was turning to the new threat. By the time I arrived, he had the second assailant pinned to the pavilion wall. The first was still on the ground, struggling for breath and holding his stomach.
The man on the ground wobbled to his feet. Gabriel let him. Then, without releasing his grip on the other assailant, he clocked the first guy, dropping him again.
The figure pinned to the wall was the man from Monday night, the one who'd pursued Aunika and me.
"If you have your switchblade, you might want to use it on that one." Gabriel nodded toward the man on the ground. "Preferably in his right side."
"He's the one who stabbed me?"
"Yes."
"You can't intimidate me, Walsh," the man said, rubbing his jaw.
"Intimidation suggests no intention of follow-through. I'd be quite happy to see Olivia stab you in retaliation. In fact, if I thought she'd do it, I'd insist. However, barring that..." Gabriel turned as the man rose again, and then kicked him in the gut so hard the man howled as he fell back.
"You--you bastard. I think you broke something."
"The correct term would be 'ruptured.' I'd strongly suggest you seek medical attention when you leave." He turned to the man he had pinned to the wall. "Who hired you?"
"Hired us? No one--"
"You are a gun for hire. Or muscle for hire, given that you don't actually seem to have a gun. Which is odd, suggesting that's a stipulation by the man who hired you. Who is also, presumably, the one who tried to stop your colleague here from attacking Olivia."
"I don't know what--"
"Let me go slower, then. You are hired muscle. A mercenary, to use the proper term. Former military, judging by that tattoo and your bearing. You've slipped a little in your grooming and your mannerisms, which tells me you've been out of the service for a while yet still try to maintain the lifestyle to project a military image for your clients. Ergo, mercenary."
"Who the fuck are you? Sherlock Holmes?"
Gabriel's lips twitched at that. He nodded to me, letting the actual detective take over.
"As for the gun stipulation," I said. "You're clearly more accustomed to using weapons than brute force, given how easily you were both rousted. That suggests the absence of a gun isn't your choice. Which also suggests you weren't hired to hurt Aunika. Just scare her. That goes for anyone else you encounter in executing those duties. Like me. You seemed to think Aunika knew why you were after her. But when she asked, you wouldn't tell her. What was the point of that?"
"You're the clever one. I'm sure you have an answer."
"You don't know why you're targeting her. Men like you don't need reasons. Even if your boss told you, I don't think you're bright enough to remember it."
"I'm sure my IQ is higher than yours, blondie. I don't want details for security reasons. The less we know, the better. The client told us that Madole knows exactly what's going on. She's just playing dumb. We're supposed to scare her until she breaks and does what the client wants."
"Which is?"
He fixed me with cool gray eyes. "That's not our concern."
"And your client thinks I'm connected? Is that why you're following me?"
The guy on the ground--clearly feeling left out of this confessional moment--said, "No, he wanted us to make sure you're okay."
His partner shot him a shut-the-fuck-up look, but his partner was tired of playing stoic paramilitary dude and continued. "We followed you from the hospital, but we couldn't get good-enough photographs. That's what he wants: pictures to prove you're up and around, no harm done."
"Shut--" the other man began...and Gabriel hit him. A punch to the jaw as effortless and casual as if he'd reached up to scratch his nose.
"You needed pictures of Ms. Taylor-Jones as proof she was not seriously injured," Gabriel said to the man on the ground. "You may tell your employer that she was injured--seriously--and when I find him, he will pay for that. Preferably through a civil suit, but other methods may be substituted as needed. Now, your client asked for proof that she survived her ordeal. Specifically her?"
"You, too, though he was more concerned with her."
Gabriel nodded, processing. "Do you have anything to add?"
"No."
"All right. Before I release you, I'd like the name of your client."
The man against the wall managed to laugh, wincing from his injured jaw. "Address, e-mail, and social security number, too?"
"Some method of contact would be appreciated."
"God, you're a piece of work, Walsh. That arrogance might work in a courtroom, but in the real world, people don't just give you whatever you want--"
"True." Gabriel pinned the guy, forearm at his throat, silencing him, as I began searching his pockets. "But I do like to give them the option. It's only reasonable."
I found a cell phone and a knife tucked in his shoe. I took both. That's when the guy on the ground decided rather belatedly to make a run for it. Gabriel tossed mercenary #1 aside and caught #2 by the back of the jacket. The guy didn't bother waiting for me to pat him down. He handed me a phone and a knife while his partner cursed him out. I still did the pat-down, and found only a set of car keys. We released the men, and I watched them struggle to pull their dignity back in place as they strode away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
We sat in the car, on a hill near the city limits, and watched the sun rise. It was Gabriel's idea. Even if he cannot quite fathom the appeal of watching something that occurs--without fail--every day, he knew that it'd been a ritual with my father and brought back good memories. So he got me a mocha and brought me here.
I went through the phones we'd confiscated. Texted instructions confirmed the two guys were hired help and that their mission had indeed been to provide proof that I was alive and well. Which was a little weird, and made Gabriel and me both wonder if the client knew who I was--not Olivia Taylor-Jones or Eden Larsen, but Matilda, prized by the Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn, both of whom were not pleased I'd nearly died.
I
was going through those when my phone buzzed. Incoming voice mails. A whole bunch of them.
"Seems the new phone is taking its time releasing my messages," I said as I flipped to the inbox. "I have three from Ricky. One--oh, shit. Pamela got my number, and I totally forgot to tell you."
Dismay crossed his face, disappearing under an impassive mask. I knew it was difficult for him to talk about her, as much as he pretended otherwise. This was the woman who'd had him framed for murder.
"She called right before I met up with Aunika Monday night. She found out about Ricky somehow. That he's in trouble. She says she has information that can help him."
"I'll speak to her."
"Absolutely not. She's just manipulating me, and I'm not even going to listen to her messages." I scrolled down the list. "Despite the fact she left six of them. How the hell is she doing that? When she called, I didn't get the penitentiary warning."
"She's borrowed or stolen a phone. It happens. However, it might be wise for me to contact her and tell her you're all right, given that your accident made the paper."
"Right," I muttered. "Shit."
"I ought to get a message to both Pamela and Todd, assuring them you are well."
"Can you tell Todd to call me? So I can let him know myself that I'm fine. And have Lydia handle Pamela. I really don't want you having contact with her."
That flash of dismay again. He saw avoiding Pamela as weakness. He cleared his throat and said, "We need to talk. I..." Another throat clearing, then he looked out the car window to see the sun was finally up and said, with some relief, "You wanted to see Ms. Madole's apartment. We'll do that now."
--
Gabriel picked the building's rear-door lock. We made sure no one was inside, and then hunted for the apartment access. I found it easily enough--a set of stairs behind what seemed like a closet door.
"This is more likely to have a security system," Gabriel said.
He picked the lock. As he pulled back, his bare wrist touched the metal, and he jumped as a red welt rose on his wrist.