Spittle raises his drink and finishes it on a gasp. “Jackpot.” He slumps back down on the couch, waving his glass in the air before him. “As you were.”
Esther backs up. “I’ll go check on your lady.”
Lady. I smile to myself. Not Beau. “Thank you.” I don’t think I’ve shown so much appreciation in such a short space of time.
“What the fuck is going on?” Otto whispers, moving into my side.
“Yes, please do share,” Goldie pipes in. “I feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of The Addams Family.”
Brad Black strolls in and stops abruptly when he clocks Spittle on the couch. His arms come up, all welcoming. “Spittle, my friend, guess what?”
“What?”
He grins, and it’s fucking wicked. “I’m not dead.”
Spittle sags. “So you lured me here to kill me, I expect.”
Brad heads for the desk across the room, but rather than taking the chair behind it, he pulls another out from this side of the room, turning it and lowering. He catches my interested expression, but his face remains deadpan as he gives Spittle his attention. “So you sent The Enigma to kill me? I’m deeply hurt, Spittle. After everything I’ve done for you.”
“You’ve made my life a fucking misery, that’s what you’ve done.”
“I expected way more begging than this,” Brad says over a laugh. “So, The Bear?”
“What about him?”
“How friendly are you?”
“No one gets friendly with bears.”
“Well, that depends,” Brad muses, kicking his ankle up onto his knee, “on the bear.” He pouts. “But if you’re gonna be a bear, then be a grisly, eh?” He beams at Spittle, who is suddenly twitching. Actually twitching. His eyes start to roll, and his face starts pulling some pretty fucked-up expressions. Then, quite dramatically, he plummets forward and hits the carpet face first, his body thrashing around.
I stare at him, as does everyone else in the room, and for a few minutes, no one says a word, just watches him convulse. I cannot believe what I’m seeing.
“Take him,” Brad orders, and Nolan moves in, his muscly form preparing to drag Spittle’s short, sturdy frame out of the office. “I’ll decide what to do with him another time.”
Nolan doesn’t take Spittle’s legs. He takes his head, and starts yanking it, tugging him along in short sharp bursts. “For fuck’s sake!” Spittle cries, rolling onto his back. “Don’t you men have any humanity in you? I was having a fucking seizure.”
“You were having a brain malfunction, Spittle,” Brad seethes, standing from his chair. “A bit like when you ordered The Enigma to kill me.”
“I was cornered,” he argues. “For fuck’s sake, what was I supposed to do?”
“You cornered yourself when you opened your big, fat fucking mouth.”
“I’ve got murderers coming at me from all fucking directions.”
“You were trying to cover your corrupt, stupid fucking ass, you piece of shit.” Brad waves an impatient hand. “Get him the fuck out of here before I stab the fucker in the throat.”
I smile. Brad won’t kill him. He hasn’t had the order.
Flicking my eyes across to Goldie and Otto, I see they’re both looking like fish out of water, confused as fuck, their stares following Spittle’s fat body as it’s dragged with little effort out of the office. I’m a fish out of water too. How I do things. My ways. I’m no showman. I get the job done and move out.
I stall for a moment, thinking. I’m lying to myself. I’m really no different to Brad Black. I’m the biggest showman of them all. How I kill. How I taunt them. How I maintain my illusiveness until that very last second before I end them. The pleasure I take when they realize who I am.
Brad pours himself another drink and sits on the edge of the desk. “So what’s your plan?”
“Kill.”
“What do you need from me? Men?” Brad cocks an eyebrow at Goldie, and she growls.
“Say one word,” she warns lowly, threateningly. “I’ll break your dick off and floss with it.”
“Ooh, she’s a feisty one. Does she bite?”
“She doesn’t bite, she eats whole.”
He smiles, and it’s a smile that could tip Goldie over the edge. “For now, I just need a safe place for Beau to recuperate.” While I plot. “And we need to find this guy,” I say, as Otto slaps a photo of Dexter in front of Brad.
“Dexter Haynes. MPD. His license plate number is on the back.”
Brad nods, and I leave the office, heading back upstairs to Beau. The doctor is still watching her closely, and Esther is changing her sheets. “You don’t have to do that,” I say, approaching, giving Beau a quick look over. She looks no different. No worse, but no better either. My heart sinks. I’m not going anywhere until she’s on her feet, so death will elude The Bear for a little while longer.
“It’s my thing,” Esther says, pulling on a new pillowcase.
“Changing sheets?”
“Faffing.” She smiles and gently lifts Beau’s head, slipping the pillow under, getting her comfortable. “There.” She collects a few things. “Come on, Doctor, I have a few scones in the oven.”
They leave together, and I smile my thanks, settling on the edge of Beau’s bed. I pull the sheets from her legs and take her foot, cupping the back with my spare hand to support it. “Time for your exercises, baby,” I say quietly, slowly starting to bend her leg at the knee and elevate her lower leg in slow, smooth motions, circulating the blood. Up, extend, tuck in, back down. Over and over, at least half hour on each leg. And the whole time, I watch her face.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Praying.
68
BEAU
Walk away from the light. Walk away from the light. Walk away from the light.
There will be no freedom. There will be no happiness. If I walk into the light, there will be no James.
I still and listen, waiting for his touch again, my skin begging for the heat. The only heat I can tolerate. I breathe in through my nose, searching for his unique scent. There it is.
And a heat I’ve come to recognize meets my ankle. My leg rises. Extends. Lowers.
Over and over.
I open my eyes and let out a shallow sob when I see his beautiful, traumatized face above mine. The mere sight injects my useless body with strength. The pain has gone. I can breathe easy. I can see clearly. “I couldn’t find you,” I murmur.
He sighs, coming as close as he can, letting me hug him with one weak arm. My tears are unstoppable, seeping into the threads of his T-shirt. “I’m here,” he whispers. His voice. That in itself is a medicine. “I’m here.” He gently pulls away and spends an age gazing at me, wiping away the tears. He looks so troubled. “Do you remember what happened, Beau?”
I divert my eyes, shying away from the memories his question spikes. “Dexter,” I say quietly, seeing a vivid image of his hostile expression the moment before he disappeared out of the door. I haven’t the capacity or strength to try and unravel it all. Not now.