Standing in the Shadows
By
Shannon McKenna
For Nicola
ti amo
Copyright © 2003 by Shannon McKenna
Prologue
The windowless room was dark. The only light came from banks of machines that flickered, and made soft, intermittent beeping sounds.
The door opened. A woman entered the room and flipped on a lamp. The light revealed a man who lay upon a narrow mattress made of high-tech black latex foam. His sallow, wasted body bristled with hair-fine needles attached to wires, which fed into the machines behind him.
The woman shut and locked the door behind herself. She was middle-aged, dressed in a white lab coat, with steel-gray hair and an imposing jaw. Her thin lips were painted a bright, cruel red.
She removed the needles from his body with movements both brisk and delicate. She anointed her hands with oil, breathed deeply, and performed preparatory energetic exercises to stimulate the power and heat in her large, thick-fingered hands. She then proceeded to massage him expertly, front and back, from his feet to his balding scalp. She massaged his face, her brow a scowling mask, fearsomely intent.
That done, she took several blood samples. She measured his blood pressure, his pulse. She reapplied the complex pattern of needles, made adjustments in the machines. She replenished the nourishment and medications provided by the plastic bag that dangled from the IV rack. Then she cupped his face in her hands. She kissed him on both cheeks, then on his half-open mouth.
The kiss was prolonged and passionate. When she lifted her head, her eyes were glowing, her face flushed. Her breath was rapid, and the marks of her lipstick against his pale skin made him look as if he had been bitten.
She flicked off the light and left him, locking the door behind her.
Once again, the darkness was broken only by colored lights that flickered and pulsed, and soft, intermittent beeping.
Chapter One
The silver cell phone that lay on the passenger seat of the beige Cadillac buzzed and vibrated, like a dying fly on a dusty windowsill.
Connor slouched lower in the driver's seat and contemplated it. Normal people were wired to grab the thing, check the number, and respond. In him, those wires were cut, that programming deleted. He stared at it, amazed at his own indifference. Or maybe amazed was too strong a word. Stupefied would be closer. Let it die. Five rings. Six. Seven. Eight. The cell phone persisted, buzzing angrily.
It got up to fourteen, and gave up in disgust.
He went back to staring at Tiff's current love nest through the rain that trickled over the windshield. It was a big, ugly town house that squatted across the street. The world outside the car was a blurry wash of grays and greens. Lights still on in the second-floor bedroom. Tiff was taking her time. He checked his watch. She was usually a slam-bam, twenty-minutes-at-the-most sort of girl, but she'd gone up those stairs almost forty minutes ago. A record, for her.
Maybe it was true love.
Connor snorted to himself, hefting the heavy camera into place and training the telephoto lens on the doorway. He wished she'd hurry. Once he'd snapped the photos her husband had paid McCloud Investigative Services to get, his duty would be done, and he could crawl back under his rock. A dark bar and a shot of single malt, someplace where the pale gray daylight could not sting his eyes. Where he could concentrate on not thinking about Erin.
He let the camera drop with a sigh, and pulled out his tobacco and rolling papers. After he'd woken up from the coma, during the agonizing tedium of rehab, he'd gotten the bright idea of switching to hand-rolled, reasoning that if he let himself roll them only with his fucked-up hand, he'd slow down and consequently smoke less. Problem was, he got good at it real fast. By now he could roll a tight cigarette in seconds flat with either hand, without looking. So much for that pathetic attempt at self-mastery.
He rolled the cigarette on autopilot, eyes trained on the town house, and wondered idly who had called. Only three people had the number: his friend Seth, and his two brothers, Sean and Davy. Seth for sure had better things to do on a Saturday afternoon than call him. The guy was neck-deep in honeymoon bliss with Raine. Probably writhing in bed right now, engaged in sex acts that were still against the law somewhere in the southern states. Lucky bastard.
Connor's mouth twisted in self-disgust. Seth had suffered, too, from all the shit that had come down in the past few months. He was a good guy, and a true friend, if a difficult one. He deserved the happiness he'd found with Raine. It was unworthy of Connor to be envious, but Jesus. Watching those two, glowing like neon, joined at the hip, sucking on each other's faces, well… it didn't help.
Connor wrenched his mind away from that dead-end track and stared at the cell phone. Couldn't be Seth. He checked his watch. His younger brother Sean was at the dojo at this hour, teaching an afternoon kickboxing class. That left his older brother, Davy.
Boredom tricked him into picking up the cell phone to check the number, and as if the goddamn thing had been lying in wait for him, it buzzed right in his hand, making him jump and curse. Telepathic bastard. Davy's instincts and timing were legendary.
He gave in and pushed the talk button with a grunt of disgust. "What?"
"Nick called." Davy's deep voice was brusque and businesslike.
"So?"
"What do you mean, so? The guy's your friend. You need your friends, Con. You worked with him for years, and he—"
"I'm not working with him," Connor said flatly. "I'm not working with any of them now."
Davy made an inarticulate, frustrated sound. "I know I promised not to give out this number, but it was a mistake. Call him, or I'll—"
"Don't do it," Connor warned.
"Don't make me," Davy said.
"So I'll throw the phone into the nearest Dumpster," Connor said, his voice casual. "I don't give a flying fuck."
He could almost hear his older brother's teeth grinding. "You know, your attitude sucks," Davy said.
"Stop trying to shove me around, and it won't bother you so much," Connor suggested.
Davy treated him to a long pause, calculated to make Connor feel guilty and flustered. It didn't work. He just waited right back.
"He wants to talk to you," Davy finally said. His voice was carefully neutral. "Says it's important."
The light in the town house bedroom went off. Connor lifted the camera to the ready. "Don't even want to know," he said.
Davy grunted in disgust. "Got Tiff's latest adventure on film yet?"
"Any minute now. She's just finishing up."
"Got plans after?"
Connor hesitated. "Uh…"
"I've got steaks in the fridge," Davy wheedled. "And a case of Anchor Steam."
"I'm not really hungry."
"I know. You haven't been hungry for the past year and a half. That's why you've lost twenty-five goddamn pounds. Get the pictures, and then get your ass over here. You need to eat."
Connor sighed. His brother knew how useless his blustering orders were, but he refused to get a clue. His stubborn skull was harder than concrete. "Hey, Davy. It's not that I don't like your cooking—"
"Nick's got some news that might interest you about Novak."
Connor shot bolt upright in his seat, the heavy camera bouncing painfully off his scarred leg. "Novak? What about Novak?"