Alicia let herself out of the car and stood dumbstruck, turning all the way around as she attempted to take it all in-the half basketball court, the guitars and audio stuff, the computers against the opposite wall. “Where are we?” she finally asked.
“My boss lives here. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Unbelievable.”
It may have been unbelievable, but it was also very cold on this side of the warehouse, and in another minute they were inside the living area, where the temperature was close to seventy degrees. Alicia found herself a seat in a leather- and-chrome reading chair in the den and Mickey went to help himself to a couple of beers from Hunt’s refrigerator. He brought back the Pilsner Urquells and a corkscrew that doubled as a bottle opener. “I could open these,” he said, “but I bet you could do it easier.”
“I bet I could too.” She opened both bottles, passed one to Mickey, who gingerly sat on Hunt’s tan leather couch. “So did I miss something?” she asked. “Does your boss know we were coming here?”
Mickey tipped up his bottle. “I don’t see how he could have, since I didn’t know it myself until about a half hour ago.”
“But-”
“Yeah, I know. It could be a problem, but I don’t think so. Wyatt’s a good guy and he’s on the right side. Besides that, and more important, Juhle wouldn’t ever believe that he’d be keeping you here. Not without telling him. And at least until there’s a warrant out for you, there’s no legal issue. You can stay anywhere you want.”
“So we’re staying here?”
“That’s my plan.” Mickey sipped more beer. “For a few days anyway. It’s the safest place I can think of. Plus your car’s off the street. Presto, you’re disappeared.”
“That’s scary.”
“Maybe. But a lot safer for you. And not just because of Juhle.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean whoever killed Dominic and Neshek. If they know you’re a suspect and you, say, show up dead, looking like a suicide, well, now, wouldn’t that be convenient?”
“Now you are scaring me.”
“Well, that’s one of the reasons I thought of coming here. You’re safe here. From everybody.”
Alicia digested that for a long moment. “So when is Mr. Hunt getting home?”
“I don’t know. Sometime.”
“You don’t want to call him and leave a message we’re here?”
“I don’t think so,” Mickey said. He didn’t want to give Hunt the option of ordering them out-not an impossibility-before he’d had a chance to argue for his position. “It might be better as a surprise.”
“Nobody ever cooks for me,” Mickey said, “except in restaurants.”
“Well, I do now.”
At ten-fourteen on this Wednesday night, Alicia was standing over a bowl of half a dozen broken eggs in Hunt’s kitchen by his four-burner Viking stove. Mickey had stolen one of Hunt’s short-sleeved sweatshirts and he and Alicia had maneuvered it down over his cast and now he sat-nearly reclined, actually-at the kitchen table. She’d already set out a couple of plates and utensils and had bread going in the toaster. He held his just-opened third beer in his right hand.
Pouring the eggs into the skillet, she pinched some salt and pepper over them, then opened the spice cabinet over the kitchen counter and took down a small bottle of yellowish liquid. “Truffle oil? Normal people have truffle oil?”
“Don’t leave home without it,” Mickey said. “Sure.”
“Should I put some in?”
“Every chance you get.”
In a small stream, she added some of the magical stuff, gathered the eggs with a spatula, then turned off the heat as the toast popped up. After buttering it, she put a slice on each plate, ladled the eggs onto each, covering both pieces of toast completely, then topping the mass with another pat of butter.
Mickey picked up his fork and took a bite. “These are perfect,” he said.
After they’d finished their eggs and Alicia had washed up, they were back in the den. Mickey had perked up when they’d first arrived, and that burst of energy had carried him through their meal. But now he sat slumped down in the reading chair, feet up on an ottoman, head on a pillow, covered with a blanket that Alicia had found next to the pillow on the top shelf of Hunt’s bedroom closet. “The couch opens up.” His voice sounded thick and groggy. “You can sleep there.”
“What about you?”
“I’m good here. I’m almost asleep already.”
“Sorry, Mick. You’re mangled and battered. You get the bed. Period.”
“Are we going to have a fight about this?”
She was already pulling the cushions off the couch. “No. You’re going to get in the bed as soon as I get it made.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ve got my trusty sleeping bag and pad in the back of my car out there.” She pulled out the couch mattress, which was already made up for guests with a sheet and a blanket. Then, pulling down a corner of the blanket, she turned to face him. “Do you need help getting up?”
“No.” But even as he said it, he winced at the attempt.
“Stop.” She stepped over and took off his shoes, then held his feet up while she moved the ottoman out from under them. Next she removed the blanket and draped it over the bed.
With his feet flat on the floor, he took her hand with his good arm and lifted himself into a sitting position while she went to one knee in front of him.
“Okay,” she said. “Good arm around my neck. Easy, easy.”
Suppressing the urge to moan, he was up, still leaning on her.
She guided him over a few steps, then helped him down so that he was sitting on the bed. Finally, she put his pillow down where his head would be, lifted his feet, and turned him so that he could recline fully. She pulled the oversheet and both blankets over him and tucked them in. Then she lowered herself and sat on the edge of the bed. “How’s that?”
Clearly, the movement had cost him. Any boost he’d felt when they’d first gotten here had dissipated with the adrenaline and the beer. Now a light sweat had broken on his forehead and he was breathing through the pain in his ribs, slowly and deeply through parsed lips. “Good.”
“Would you tell me if it was bad?”
“Maybe.” He broke a tired smile. “Probably not.”
“You macho guys.” She gently wiped his forehead with a corner of the oversheet, then tucked it back around him. After a minute her shoulders settled and she let out a long sigh. “I’m so sorry, Mickey.”
“For what?”
“Getting you into this.”
“You didn’t get me into this. I got me into this.”
She brooded on that for a long beat. “Not really. If I…” She exhaled heavily again. “Anyway, I don’t know how I can thank you. I don’t know what I’d be doing right now if it wasn’t for you.”
“You’d be fine.”
“No. I’d be running, I think. Though I see now how dumb that would be.”
He shook his head ever so slightly. “There’s no need to run. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
“But I wouldn’t have known that if not for you. I’d have just screwed up more.”
Mickey put his hand softly on her thigh. “You haven’t screwed up. You didn’t do anything wrong. Look at me. Alicia, look at me. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
She turned to face him, but couldn’t hold his gaze. Rather, her mouth trembled and she closed her eyes. She put her hand over his as though grasping it for support. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Mickey studied her face, on the verge of tears. And then heavy drops formed and fell at the same time from both of her eyes.
“Hey.” Mickey squeezed her leg. “Hey, now, it’s going to be all right.”
But she was shaking her head from side to side. “No. I have screwed up. I did do something wrong.”