Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [11]
Hardie held up his hands. Tried to, anyway. His left arm was still numb. At least the right one still worked.
“Hey!”
His voice sounded strange to him. Hardie couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken out loud.
The girl was wearing only panties and a T-shirt, and her ankle was bandaged. Her legs were lean and muscled. Her whole body trembled.
“Get the fuck away from me or I’ll cut you, I swear to God I’ll jam this straight up your ass!”
Hardie looked at the this in her hands. He couldn’t place it. Long, silver, metal. A tube of some kind. About two feet long, with the circumference of a nickel. Uncapped on the end. Then he looked behind her, into the music studio, and saw others just like it.
A microphone stand.
She had been beating the shit out of him with a mic stand.
Hardie said, in a slow and steady and reasonable voice:
“Give me that.”
“I said, stay the fuck away! You people are making a big mistake.”
“You people? Only one of me here, honey.”
There was something vaguely familiar about the girl’s face, like he should know her from somewhere. Had Lowenbruck sent Virgil anything about her, maybe attached a photo to an e-mail? No, Hardie would have remembered that. Nobody was supposed to be here in the house. No girlfriends, no relatives, no friends—nobody. Hardie wouldn’t have taken the job otherwise. That was the whole point. Avoiding people.
Hardie steadied himself, took a step closer. The girl responded by swinging at the air with the mic stand, then inching her way back into the studio.
“Come on, now. Enough’s enough.”
“Stay the fuck away from me!”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
The girl’s hands fell to her sides. Her head hung low. Her entire body went limp, and she started breathing strangely. It took Hardie a second or two to realize she was launching into a full-on crying jag. He took a step toward her, said:
“Look, why don’t we start with—”
Without warning she lunged. Another hard, mean swing. Hardie was ready this time. He snatched the pole in his hand and refused to let go. She tugged. He held firm. She tugged again. He held on tighter. Uh-uh. Bitch was not getting her mic stand back. Bitch was definitely not hitting him with the mic stand again.
Then she did something Hardie did not anticipate. She lunged forward, pushing the mic stand toward Hardie. His grip was not prepared for this. The mic stand slid through his fist and went into his chest.
Both Hardie and the girl looked down at the pole for a moment before Hardie took a confused step backward. What had just happened?
“Ugh,” he said.
“Oh God,” she said.
Hardie forced himself to look down. Yep. He’d been impaled. Under his gray T-shirt he could feel blood trickling down across his right nipple, along his belly, past the waistband of his jeans. None of this seemed real. He took a breath, wondering if one of his lungs was going to collapse. Maybe pass out. Any second now.
But nothing yet. Somehow, he was still standing.
“Oh God,” the girl repeated, and immediately yanked the mic stand out.
“No, don’t do—”
Too late. The metal slid out of his flesh with a soft, wet shucking sound—like the meat of an oyster being pried from its shell. Hardie took an involuntary step backward, as if he could remove himself from the damage. The girl, too, edged backward, looked alternatively angry, shocked, and confused.
“I told you… I told you I’d hurt you!”
And make no mistake. The wound in his chest really fucking hurt, pain ramping up with every breath, it seemed. But somehow he was still standing, fully conscious. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe it had missed everything vital—the heart, the aorta, the lungs, the liver. Then again, maybe she’d nailed his heart right smack-dab in the fucking center and he was going to bleed out in a matter of seconds.
Hardie looked into the bathroom doorway for a towel, something to press against his chest. Maybe wrap around the wound. He took a step forward. Which freaked out the