“Best to get right to it, ma’am,” he said, trying to sound very official. Spencer pointed toward the far end of the third row of cars and they headed that way. “I’ve really enjoyed working with your team,” he added.
“I’m glad,” she replied, walking with determination and deliberate speed. “I’m grateful for your assistance.”
“This is a great thing you’re doing. A great thing. If you don’t mind my saying so… you do your daughter proud.”
“Well… thank you.” They rounded the end of the third row and started down it.
“I just wanted to tell you, while I had the chance… and I hope you don’t mind…”
“What is it?”
“Well, this security work, it’s a fine job and all, but it isn’t what I really want to do, you know? I mean, I’d hate to think of me ending up like one of those guys you see at the mall, gray hair and a paunch that stretches out a mile in front of the uniform. So old they don’t let them carry a gun.”
“We all get old, Harvey.”
“Yeah, but you’re doing work that’s important. Not just this but that… that stuff back in New York, helpin’ people find fulfillment and all. Anyway, I just wanted to say-after this is all over and you’ve caught the dirty bastard who took your daughter’s life, if there’s anything I can do for you-”
“If I ever need a security officer, you’ll be the first one I call.”
“Well… yeah. That’d be nice. Or anything. There’s a lot I can do. I’m good with a wood lathe and I make these pillboxes that my wife gives all her friends at Christmas. They really love ’em. I even play a little banjo…”
They reached her car. “You get in the passenger seat, ma’am. I’ll drive.”
“If you don’t mind.” She slid inside.
Harv walked around the back. Just as he came by the trunk, the headlights lit on a car at the far end of the row.
“Who the hell is that?” Harv muttered. He kept walking.
The car peeled out. Tires squealing, accelerating.
Heading straight toward him.
“Son of a bitch,” Harv muttered. “Stop! You’re under arrest!”
The car kept coming. Even faster.
Harv drew his weapon. “Stop!”
Despite the haze of the headlights, Harv realized-it was his own car.
And it was about to kill him.
He fired twice. Both shots hit the windshield. But the car kept coming.
Harv turned, trying to get out of the way. But he wasn’t nearly fast enough. The car surged forward, engine roaring, till it smashed into the back of Dr. Spencer’s car.
Bisecting Harv.
He unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out of the car. Then he paused, gazing down at what was left of his colleague. “Guess you’re not so tall now, huh?”
He opened the passenger-side door. Spencer was conscious, but her eyelids were fluttering. The twisted position of her body told him she had not been wearing a seat belt. A streak of blood ran down the right side of her head. She was breathing rapidly, panting, cowering, her hands clutched to her chest.
“Come,” he said simply. “We don’t have much time.” He held out his hand.
Spencer stabbed him with a pocketknife, ripping the flesh of his palm. Then she pushed him away and tried to scramble out of the bucket seat.
He grabbed her throat with his uninjured hand and squeezed. He knocked the knife out of her hand and shoved her forcefully back into the car, falling forward, halting his descent with a hand on the floor mat. She reached up and scratched the side of his face.
“Oww!” His face flushed red with rage. He pulled the syringe out of his coat pocket and jabbed it brutally into her neck. A few seconds later, the struggle was over.
His hand was bleeding. He had to be careful not to let it drip; the police would have a field day with a blood or skin sample and he didn’t have time to perform a thorough cleanup. Even this time of night, someone must’ve heard the crash. He pulled a tissue out of his shirt pocket and wrapped the wound, wincing at the hideous torn mess she had made of his hand.
He put the pain out of his mind. It had been a brilliant stroke, using Harv’s own car. Since the man had never been able to keep his mouth shut longer than it took to breathe, he’d known which car was Harv’s and where he left his keys.
He could not fault Dr. Spencer for attempting to defend herself. But he could fault her for what she had done before, how she had publicly and brutally maligned him. He could not let this offense pass. He had been told he must be strong, and so, like it or not, he had to act. For his honor. And for… for…
For the love of God, Montresor!
Yes, he thought, as he lifted her body and carried it back to his truck. For the love of God.
17
I saw him again. Standing at the foot of my bed, just like before. He was wearing pajama bottoms and no shirt. I always thought he was sexiest when he wore pajama bottoms and no shirt.
“Are you attracted to him?” David asked.
“I dunno,” I mumbled, still barely awake, if at all. “Maybe.”
“It’s okay, you know.”
“Well, yeah, we’re both consenting adults, even if he is-”
“I mean with me. It’s okay with me.”
“It is?” I tried to pull my head off the pillow, but my body wasn’t responding to commands.
“Of course.” He looked so strong, so manly, like when we were first married. Like a man who was capable of doing anything. “I don’t expect you to become a nun.”
“Well, sure, but still-”
“You have my blessing.”
“That’s damn straight of you.”
His face dissolved into that smile, that silly, toothy smile that used to turn my insides into goulash. “Well, I love you, you know.”
“You do? Even-”
“Even.”
It felt good talking to him, so warm and comforting. I felt as if I could sleep forever after that, like I could smell him, right there next to me in bed. So you can imagine the shock I experienced when I blinked and saw Lisa peering down into my face.
“What the hell have you done to yourself?”
I tried to bring myself around, but my head was screaming and there are some levels of pain that are impossible to mask.
“You’re hungover.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Did I slur my speech? “I had a tough night.”
“I can see that.” And then the most horrible thing happened. Horrible and horrifying. She started to cry. “Damn it, Susan, you said you weren’t going to do this anymore.”
“I-I wasn’t-”
“I’m supposed to be looking after you. God, what a shitty job I’ve done. I mean, you’ve only been out of the hospital for-”
“Lisa,” I said, concentrating on proper pronunciation, “it’s not your fault. I was just feeling a little stressed.”
“Oh, spare me your rationalizations.” She pressed her hand against her forehead. Tears streamed around the palm of her hand. “I talked to Dr. Coutant yesterday. He told me you missed your appointment with him. That you haven’t been going to IOP.”
“I’ve been working.”
“They have night sessions.”
“I’ve been working nights, too. You don’t want me to lose this job, do you?”
“Frankly, I don’t care about your job, Susan. I don’t even think this is a good job for you, not now. What I care about is you!”
And she did, too. I could see that in her watery eyes, not that I needed additional proof. I felt like something someone might scrape off the heel of their shoe. “Look, Lisa, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Honest.”
“That’s such bullshit.”
“No, I mean it this time.”
She walked away from the bed and stared out the window. “It’s just like they told me. You’re an alcoholic. And alcoholics are liars. They’ll say and do anything. Because deep down, no lover on earth can take the place of a chemical addiction. Addicts will lie, cheat, and steal to get their fix.”