Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [76]
Now, though, she felt a little more at ease.
Because after three years, God had finally called her on it.
Her worst sin.
And she was still breathing.
He hadn’t reached down from Heaven to smite her in a flash of blinding white. Maybe he’d tried with the Accident People, but if so, it wasn’t a full-on, full-court-press try, because she was still alive.
Still breathing.
Until she chose not to.
The air conditioner hummed in the corner, and the water beat against the shower tile steadily, incessantly. She wondered if she could fall asleep. Just for a few minutes. Her protector was in the next room. They were hidden away, at random in the middle of nowhere L.A. Maybe she could indulge herself, just a little.
The total blackness and icy numbness came faster than she thought.
But it wasn’t the kind she’d been hoping for.
24
This time it’s personal.
—Tagline from Jaws: The Revenge
HARDIE TURNED the cheap metal handle to the Off position. He used mostly cold water so the steam wouldn’t make him sweat, and the cold was nice and bracing and had the curious effect of calming him down a little. After patting himself dry, he took a stab at taping up his chest wound again. As soon as Deke made it here, he’d go have it checked out. He promised. But in the meantime, one little Vike couldn’t hurt. Hardie rooted through his toiletries bag, trying to feel for the familiar round shape of the bottle. Nothing. He looked. Everything else seemed to be here. Toothbrush, razor. No painkillers, though. Great. He probably left them behind at the last gig.
So instead, Hardie busied himself with brushing his teeth, halfway through when he realized that all his clean clothes were in the suitcase out in the other room. He wasn’t about to wrap a towel around his midsection and go parading around out there. The towels were ideal for preteen girls, not for a guy the size of Hardie. The actress might get the wrong idea. So Hardie put on his smoky, torn, blood-splattered jeans again and looked at himself in the mirror. He was a big mess. But at least it was better than the towel. His mouth still felt metallic, stale, so he squeezed out more toothpaste and started to brush again and had just opened the door when something pinched his neck and he found himself, inexplicably, on his knees.
Someone whispered:
“Shhhh, now.”
Hardie’s arms felt like rubber. The toothbrush started to slip out of his fingers. Tightening his grip didn’t work. His fingers didn’t want to do what they were told. The toothbrush slipped completely out of his fingers.
A gloved hand caught it before it hit the carpet.
More gloved hands picked him up.
The lights were off.
But he could see what they had done to Lane over on the bed.
Factboy had put a standard trace on all calls and e-mails coming to Special Agent Deacon Clark, Philadelphia office, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Home, office, and cell. Again, not hard to do with the magic of the Patriot Act, even when the subject was a federal agent. Hell, Clark’s being a fed made it easier. Still, Factboy couldn’t believe it when a hit popped up almost immediately—a call from a hotel room in Los Feliz, near Hollywood.
Not only was Mann’s new team already assembled, but they were rolling up and down the streets of old Hollywood already. The hotel was two minutes away. They were pulling up within forty-five seconds.
Mann actually thanked Factboy and told him he did good work. Factboy was too stunned to reply and stammered something about the trace being a good one (like what the fuck did that even mean?). The line disconnected and Factboy wondered if he was actually done for the day, if he could go upstairs and rejoin his family. That’s what he really should do. Try to smooth things over with the wife, look at his kids and tickle their bellies and tell them that he loved them. That he did all these awful things because he loved them.
Isn’t that what all fathers did?
Lane was there, on the bed, waiting for him. She’d been stripped naked.