Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [155]
She bowed deeply to Max, spreading her hands as wide as they could go to show him the depth of her gratitude. Then she reached to her waist and pulled the bloody black jersey over her head. Standing naked from the waist up, she threw the jersey at the Cobra’s body, then took Max’s robe from her altar and handed it back to him. Max held his hands up, palms out—he spun his hands in a circle, refusing the return of his robes, telling her to put them on. Flood bowed again and wrapped herself in the robes. She searched through her duffel bag, found her own rose-colored silks, bowed to Max, held them open. Max took the robes with one hand, touched his heart with the other. They didn’t need words—he would no more wear her robes to dispose of the Cobra’s body than she would wear his to fight him.
Flood looked around the temple once more—taking it all in, memorizing it for life. Max clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against them. It was time for Flood to rest. She nodded and flowed into the lotus position on the temple floor, Max’s robes draped around her shoulders, pulling everything inside her.
Max and I left her there while we went to throw out the garbage.
57
I MADE A bed for Flood in the trunk of the Plymouth—she couldn’t go to a hospital, and I didn’t want some inquisitive cop noticing her anywhere near the scene where the Cobra vanished. It didn’t look like a problem . . . he’d been carrying all kinds of weapons but he hadn’t been wired.
When I opened the trunk again inside my garage Flood was curled up like a baby, one arm cradling the other. It probably was broken but she never made a sound. I got her upstairs, let Pansy out to the roof, and went in the back for my medical kit. When I came back into the office she was sitting on the desk in the lotus position, looking at the door.
“Flood, get up and take off your clothes.”
“Not now—I’ve got a headache.” She smiled, pointing to her battered face. But the smile was weak and the crack fell flat.
I threw the cushions off the couch, pulled a flat piece of plywood out from behind it, and laid it against the springs, then folded over some blankets to make a cover and put a clean sheet over the top. Flood hadn’t moved.
“Flood,” I told her as gently as I could, “you have to work with me now, okay? Put your legs over the side of the desk. Come on.”
She slowly unwrapped from the lotus position and did like I asked. I eased the robes from her shoulders and took the bad arm in my hand. The skin was bruised but not broken. “Can you move it?” She rolled her arm from side to side. Her face stayed composed but some pain flashed in her eyes when she brought her hand toward her shoulder, flexing the bicep. At least it was a clean break, if it was broken.
I motioned to her to climb off the desk and untied the white sash as she stood in front of me. The silk pants came next, falling to the floor in slow motion. She stepped out of the pants and kicked them away, then stood there in the morning light as I went over her body as carefully as I could. The flesh over one elbow was gone, a lumpy discolored knot was on the outside of one thigh, and the two smallest toes of one foot were already dark with clotted blood. She let me move the toes without protest—they weren’t broken, just bleeding under the skin. Like a patient child, she opened her mouth and allowed me to probe around—all her teeth were intact, the damage was on the outside. Her pupils looked okay, and she wasn’t talking like someone who