Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [114]
The phone rang, startling me.
Lopez heard it. His head turned and he gave a faint grunt of irritation. His face creased momentarily with a slight frown. I watched him tensely, hoping he’d wake up.
“Lopez?” I prodded.
Still nothing. He just lay there.
I sighed in disappointment and picked up the phone on the next ring. It was Jeff calling to say that Frank wasn’t at the arranged meeting place. Jeff had just phoned him to find out why. It turned out that, while waiting for Jeff and Max, Frank had panicked, believing he was being watched or followed, and he had fled into the night.
“Was he always this high strung?” I asked.
“I don’t really know him that well,” said Jeff. “But cut him a little slack, Esther. Someone just tried to kill him.”
“That’s no reason to go all to pieces,” I said critically.
“Anyhow, new plan,” Jeff said. “I don’t want to spend all night chasing Frank around Manhattan. And Max is worried about his dog—I guess she wasn’t feeling so good today—and wants to check on her. So I gave Max’s address to Frank. We’re going to go there and wait for him.”
“Do you think he’ll show up?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. But he’s scared out of his wits, and we’re offering to help him. So I think so.” Then he asked, “How’s the sleeping detective?”
My gaze slid back to the body on the bed. “Oh, he’s still . . .” I gasped when I realized his eyes were open and looking at me. “He’s awake! I’ll talk to you later.”
I ended the call and lowered the phone. My heart pounding and my gaze fixed on Lopez, I was scarcely even aware of the phone hitting the floor as it slid out of my slack grasp.
“Lopez?” I said anxiously.
Lying absolutely still, his black lashes fluttered as he looked around for a moment, taking in what he could see from his current position. His voice sounded normal, though puzzled, when he said, “This is your place.”
“Lopez!” I said with relief, realizing he was back. I leaped out of my chair and moved to sit beside him on the bed. I seized one of his hands and held it between both of mine. “How do you feel?”
He turned his head a little on the pillow to meet my eyes as his hand returned my eager grasp. He looked sleepy and confused. “How did I get here? I was . . . in the basement of the foundation, and we were . . .” He closed his eyes, obviously trying to gather his thoughts. “You wanted to leave . . .”
“How do you feel?” I repeated.
“Fine.” He opened his eyes to meet my gaze again. “Um, a little tired, I guess. What happened? How did I get here?”
“We brought you here.”
“We?”
“Max and Jeff helped me.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Because I couldn’t get you here on my own. You were unconscious.”
His frown deepened. I could see him trying to remember what had happened tonight. “I’ve been unconscious?”
“You’ve been dead to the world for . . .” I glanced at the bedside clock. “Almost two hours.”
“What the hell happened?” He started to sit up, then winced and put a hand on his head. “Ow.”
“Do you feel hungover?” I asked, thinking about all the rum he had downed at the ceremony.
“What? No, of course not.” He made a gesture indicating he wanted help sitting up. Once in an upright position, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and took a few deep, steadying breaths. “Oh, no wonder you asked that. Jesus, I smell like a barrel of rum, don’t I?” Then he put his hand on his head again. “Agh.”
“You’re sure you’re not hungover?” I asked again, doubtfully.
“I’m sure. Someone hit me on the head.” He took my hand and put it against his scalp. I felt the slight lump there.
“Oh!” I realized guiltily how he’d gotten it. “Sorry.”
He looked even more confused. “You hit me?”
“Not exactly.”
I was surprised to realize that he seemed completely sober. Even with Max’s assurances that he wouldn’t have alcohol poisoning, I