The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [112]
I deliberately pushed it out of my mind, and reached for one of the tubes of paint, juggling with it for a moment before laying it back on the table. I put the knife down beside it, and returned to my captive. His eyes held mixed fury and contempt, which was fine. What I needed to see there was fear.
I grabbed the lapels of his coat. He smirked, expecting me to tug and struggle against his weight, but the secretions of the adrenal gland can be turned to strength as well as fear, and I hauled him in two great backwards strides to the corner of the worn carpet, and let his head thump down against the bare boards.
“Hey! What the hell is going on here, sister?”
I went around the room, methodically piling up the furniture until the carpet was free of encumbrance.
Then I rolled him up in it.
He was cursing now, an astonishingly vicious torrent, ever more breathless. Still silent, I walked back to the table for the knife, then knelt on the floorboards beside his head. I held up the stained blade for him to study. He looked at it—he couldn't stop himself, a thin, shiny blade edged with scarlet—but he did not believe I would use it.
I didn't. Instead, my eyes watching his face, I put it to my mouth, and slowly, appreciatively, licked it clean.
It was not blood, of course, it was bright red paint from one of Damian's tubes, but it was far more effective than mere blood. I took out a handkerchief and patted my lips delicately, then slid the blade away into its scabbard.
The unexpected can be frightening. His eyes no longer held contempt.
“You shouldn't have cursed,” I told him.
I could see him wrestling with the unlikeliness of that opening statement. “What?”
“If you'd held a deep breath instead, you'd have more room now. As it is, your lungs are constricted. You'll probably pass out after a while.”
“Lady, you're in deep trouble.”
“When is he coming back for you?”
“Any minute.” I had been watching his face, and saw the lie.
“I don't think so.”
“He's coming up the drive now.”
“I don't think he's coming at all. Certainly not in time to save you.”
“You're not going to use that knife on me.”
“Of course not. I don't have to. Tell me, how's your breathing? Getting any easier? You think you'll manage until your boss comes back for you?”
The first shadow of uneasiness passed through his eyes, telling me what I needed to know.
“I don't think he's coming. And next Wednesday, when those nice people come for their meeting. Do you think they'll persist until they get into the house, or will they just knock politely and, when no-one answers, go away?”
His breathing quickly grew more laboured.
“You see? I don't need a knife. I don't need to do anything, just walk away and lock the front door behind me.”
“What do you want?” He said it with more obscenity, but I overlooked the words and spoke to the question.
“Where can I find the man who just drove off and left you here?”
He told me what I could do with my question.
I sighed, and stood up. At the motion, the uneasiness returned.
“Oy,” he said. “Honest, I don't know. I know what he says his name is and I know generally where he lives, but he never told me what he was doing, and he never had me go to his house.”
“You've worked for him since last autumn.”
“Yeah, but it's just that, working for him. I drive him around, I do things for him. He never asks me what I think or tells me anything more than what I need to know.”
I moved away, and he cried out, “Wait, don't”—I was only fetching a cushion from the chair. He eyed it warily, and looked relieved when I dropped it on the boards and settled onto it.
“Tell me what you do know about him.”
“And if I do?”
“I'll see to it that you don't die here. If you don't talk, I'll go away and you can take your chances that someone will hear you shouting. Oh, and I'll strap a belt around your legs first. You won't be able to roll out of the carpet.”
He didn't believe that I would use the knife, but he did believe this. He talked.
His name was indeed Marcus Gunderson, and he called his boss The Reverend, a name that was half