Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [86]
“Years ago. They were finished with me when they found the feather boa in the back of my closet while I was overseas for the last time. But I try to look in on them once in a while. I want to make sure they’re all right, or …” If he had anything left to say on the subject, he kept it to himself. “Come to think of it, I really do have to go check on them.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Forget it,” I told him, even though dawn was only a few hours off and once the sun came up, there was precious little I could do to stop him. “It’s too dangerous. Worst-case scenario, they’re getting interrogated right now, and there’s nothing you could do except go barging in and get caught.”
“They could be in danger. I should check—”
“Not right now you shouldn’t.” I put a hand on his arm—a risky prospect, but he didn’t lash out or even do that thing guys do where they flex up the moment you touch them, lest you think they weren’t total hard-bodies 100 percent of the time. He just sagged, drooping on the bar stool that serves as dining furniture in just about any home of mine.
“I’ll wait until tomorrow night.” It was a compromise between what he wanted and what he knew was most likely best for everyone involved. “It won’t do any good for me to show up now. If they’re being interviewed, I’ll only make them look like liars who know more than they’ve said.”
“Attaboy.” I patted his arm and this time he flexed, but he might have only been pulling himself upright from his sad-man droop.
My phone chose that moment to ring, and ring loudly enough that we both jumped and damn near punched each other from the pure surprise of it.
I scrambled for it and didn’t immediately recognize the number it displayed, which told me it was probably one of those telemarketers who isn’t supposed to have anybody’s cell phone number, but somehow always does. But then I remembered that I’d called Cal, and I pressed the button to answer the call before I completely missed it.
“Hello,” I said. Noncommittal. Blasé.
“Ms. Pendle?”
It was all I could do not to melt into a little puddle of relief, right there on the floor. For a moment I considered it; after all, isn’t that what linoleum is for—easy cleanup? But I restrained myself and said, “Ian, thank God. I had no idea if you’d get my message or not.”
Whoops. I’d let his name slip.
Adrian noticed, damn him right to hell. He raised an eyebrow in a perfect arch, like a child’s drawing of a bird’s wing.
I gave him a hand-flap that told him to stay quiet, and turned away from him, strolling into the living room. Ian was already talking.
“Yes, I got your message. And I was glad to hear from you. Considering the terms on which we parted—”
“I know, I know. And again, I’m sorry I buggered off like that, but I think the fact we’re both free and able to chat implies it was the right thing to do.”
“Have things gotten … hairier? Where you are?”
His use of the word hairier was more hilarious than it should’ve been, but my laugh was louder than it should’ve been, too. It was a relief laugh, and those things get boisterous. “Hell yes, they’ve gotten hairier, but I’ve also got a rather significant lead or two for my trouble.” I eyeballed Adrian, who was no longer sitting on the stool, but standing in the archway that separated the kitchen from the living area, still wearing nothing but the spangly silver secret-agent underpants and my robe.
He eyeballed me back.
I returned my attention to the phone. Ian was saying, “Leads?”
“Yes, good ones. I think I might have a pretty fair idea of how to go about getting your paperwork. Don’t I?” I asked the man in the archway.
Adrian crossed his arms, bracing for a defense … then he changed his mind. He shrugged and nodded.
“That’s wonderful news!” quoth Ian.
“But let me ask, while I’ve got you: Is everything still all right where you are? Did you go where I told you? Have you remained there unmolested?”
“Yes on all three counts. Your excessive precaution has proved quite helpful.