• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

He walked across the living room to the bedroom, noticing as he passed through it to the bathroom that it was not messy, and that a white comforter covered her bed.

Intimate feminine apparel was hanging from the shower curtain rod. When she came into the bathroom, she snatched it off and threw it behind the shower curtain.

She took bandages, swabs, Mercurochrome, and bottles of hydrogen peroxide and alcohol from a cabinet and then turned to him and started cleaning his face.

"That's pretty nasty," she said. "You sure you don't want to go to the emergency room?"

"I'm sure," he said.

Three minutes later, his scraped face had been cleaned with both hydrogen peroxide and alcohol. He had manfully tried, and failed, not to wince when the alcohol stung painfully.

"Let's look at the leg," she said.

"What's wrong with the leg?"

"The fence got that, too, I guess. In the car, I saw it. It's all bloody."

Three minutes after that, his leg had been treated with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide and painted with Mercurochrome, but not bandaged.

"Your trousers are ruined," Olivia said.

"I noticed."

"And let me see what you did to your hand."

"I guess I scratched it the same place I tore my pants, going over the fence."

She took his left hand in both of hers.

"That's a puncture wound," she said.

He didn't reply.

"You just can't leave it like that," she said.

He didn't reply.

She looked up at him. Their eyes met.

"What?" she asked.

"You know goddamn well what, Mother."

"I'm not your goddamn Mother."

"I know," he said, softly. "Your move."

She had not taken her eyes from his. She took her left hand from his and raised it to his unmarked cheek.

"Oh, God!" she said.

Ninety seconds later, atop the white comforter on her bed, while still partially clothed, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne came to know each other, in the biblical sense of the term.

And in the next half hour, now completely devoid of clothing, and between the sheets, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne twice came to know each other even better.

TWELVE

[ONE]

Matt Payne awoke at five minutes to six. For a moment, he wondered why so damned early--he had two alarm clocks to make sure he was awakened at seven--and then he remembered some of what had happened the night before, and thought that might have something to do with it.

"Jesus Christ!" he said in wonderment, then went to his bathroom, which his father had described as being somewhat smaller than those found on old Pullman railroad cars.

He examined himself in the mirror over the toilet.

What the hell happened to my face?

He remembered.

Sliding along the concrete driveway in hot pursuit of the critter in the hot car who'd run the red light and slammed into the Caravan.

"Nevertheless, sir, minor facial blemishes aside, you look like the well-laid man of fame and legend!" he said aloud.

He smiled at the memories of other of the previous evening's activities.

However, a moment later, when in an habitual act he reached inside the shower stall to open the faucet that would long moments later bring hot water all the way from the basement to the garret apartment, his hand really hurt him.

Shit! The goddamn--what did she say?--"puncture wound."

When he came out of the shower, the damned thing still hurt, and it looked angry.

"Shit!"

He had two thoughts, one after the other.

Maybe Olivia would know what to do with it. Do I put a bandage on it? Soak it in hot water? What?

Maybe, if I called, she might say, "I'll come by on my way to work and have a look at it."

That's a very interesting prospect.

He went naked and dripping into his bedroom--which his father also compared unfavorably to a sleeping compartment on an old Pullman car--and picked up his cellular from the bedside table, where it lay beside his Colt Officer's Model .45.

Twenty seconds later, a sleepy female voice said, "Lassiter."

"Good morning."

"Oh, God!"

"I was calling to inquire whether your schedule is free for breakfast."

"Oh, God! What time is it?"