"This part's thicker," I said, "so it'll take longer. Don't move."
He arched away from the shears, baring his pulsing carotid artery to me. My hand hovered near his neck, shaking, as my anger and my morality battled for control of the shears. One jab and he'd be so caught off guard I could slap away his gun.
"Hey," he snapped. "If you're gonna kill me, kill me. Feel like I'm dying already."
I swallowed. "Stop being such a baby and hold still."
My hand pumped the shears and the blades gnawed through the material, as my conscience gnawed at me for such murderous thoughts, scorned my ingratitude after a lifetime of second chances. Even this two-bedroom apartment—my temporary haven when my parents fought and my childish peacekeeper skills failed, then my permanent home after their burial—I'd inherited undeservedly. My aunt's undying tolerance I'd tried for years to break with my drug use and late-night parties and weekend disappearing acts. Maybe Sam was my karma.
When the sweater dropped to the floor, we both sighed. A small victory. Next, the sweatshirt. I snipped the cuff as Sam's thumb dug into my side.
"Ow." I swatted his head like it was a mosquito, and he half-laughed, half-grinned at my response.
"Not this one," he said.
"Then what, pull it over your head till you scream bloody murder and pass out? My neighbors aren't that deaf. And I'm not that patient, remember." I held the shears in the air and waited; Sam was giving up that precious sweatshirt if I had to burn it off him.
"Christ." He looked to Max for sympathy. "She always this mean, Max?" Without looking back to me, or the sweatshirt, Sam nodded his consent.
"And I think I can manage without the hand." I glanced at his fingers lacing around my waistline. Smiling, he released me and stretched open his arms, martyr-style. "Relax, tough guy. It's just cotton."
By now we had the routine down; Sam didn't flinch when the blades grew close, and I worked the shears fast and sure. Soon the sweatshirt fell from his body, along with whatever sentimental value it contained, but underneath was another story. The ceramic-filled Kevlar made his chest look Herculean, impenetrable. Yet near his heart a hole sprayed white and yellow threads. The bullet had ripped through the undersheath, leaving a glimmer of metal embedded. That explained the absence of blood.
I dug my finger into the hole and found the metal warm to the touch, likely due to Sam's run for his life. "You're one lucky bastard. That bullet's just waiting to bite you."
"Lucky Bastard, that's me," he said, sarcasm lacing his words. Sam stared at me for a beat, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you helping me?"
My mouth went dry, and I averted my gaze as I piled his clothing out of the way. Traveling in dangerous lands, watching warring nations slaughter each other, people fighting for no better reason than a drug score—such experiences teach you to treasure life, to welcome your blessings in all forms. But I was no Joan of Arc either. I owed. An eye for an eye.
My shoulder scrunched up. "Saving my dog, I guess."
"If you say so." He rolled his eyes.
I examined the cummerbund and Velcro straps holding the vest in place. A simpler setup than the one I'd worn. Once I removed the straps and cummerbund, I could lift the biblike vest over his head without moving his arms. But initially I'd have to wrench the straps free, jerking his body. And I remembered what that sounded like all too well.
"Finish it." Sam took up my gaze, lifted my wrist till my hand met his chest. "I'm breathing through a straw here."
I bit my lip and nodded. "On three." I grasped the first strap and bobbed my head with each silent number.
One, two
, then ripped.
"Fuck!" His head fell back and his chest froze. And this was his good side.
Color eventually returned to his face as he resumed respiration. I blew out a heavy sigh. We had to end this fast.
Fisting the other strap, I yanked without counting, endured his yelps without responding. I whipped the cummerbund over his head, and then grabbed his shoulders to keep him upright as he recovered from the shock.
The unhappily familiar Kevlar weighed heavily in my hands and on my conscience. I'd worn a vest on assignment in Darfur before donating my gear to the fool who took my place witnessing humans shred each other. Not enough money in the world for that job. What was this guy's price, I wondered, tossing the vest onto the pile of clothes.
"Five hundred bucks for that." Sam scratched his side where a sweat-stained T-shirt had wrinkled under the vest. Without the layers of clothes and Kevlar, he'd lost twenty pounds, though he was still as muscular as a baseball player. "Only to have it smother me. Gotta pay for your own gear, you know."
What did he expect, a student loan for thug school?
I leaned forward. "I'm going to unfasten your pants now, so your diaphragm can expand and you can breathe easier."
He swatted away my hands. He'd loosen his own damn trousers, by golly. Proud, I registered in his list of weaknesses. Sam unhitched the top button.
"Let's see the damage." Without asking or prompting, I snipped his T-shirt, took two fistfuls of cloth, and ripped the shirt belly to neck, revealing red and black blotches, as well as sallow patches of skin covering his left flank, hip to pit. New and old bruising. He'd endured more than one beating, and not all today. "I need to feel for breaks," I added over his cursing me for the sudden onslaught.
A bullet hitting a vest could snap a rib, or four, depending on the bullet caliber and the ratio of gunpowder. And then there were the other bruises...
"Go for it." He closed his eyes.
My hand hovered over his swollen ribcage, feeling the blood-heat over the bruises. As soon as his abdomen clenched, I curled my fingers to my chest.
Shit.
Seeing people in pain had shattered my nerves one too many times, and with Sam's Glock nearby, I didn't dare test his reflexes again.
"I can't," I said, glancing to the weapon. "Don't ask why, just go look in the bathroom mirror and check for yourself. You could use a shower while you're in there."
"That bad, eh?"
"You ripened days ago."
He swiped a hand over his bushy mouth. "I meant the bruising."
"That too." I grimaced at his torso.
A starburst of indigo radiated across his pectoral, its cosmic swirls reminding me of the Rorschach ink blots you had to say looked like fuzzy zoo animals if you wanted the psychiatrist to think you were sane.
"Looks like chocolate cherry ice cream." I tilted my head. "Or a giant eyeball."
"You don't seem too worked up about seeing wounds. Just can't touch them."
I shrugged and stared at his sculpted torso, dampening the stories of marines and children I'd seen after they'd stepped on landmines, visions that would horrify even the toughest gangster. He reminded me of men I'd served with. Maybe this guy was no commando, but he could hold his own bumping chests with a marine. Like the Marine Corps major I'd met in Kabul, who had abs like Sam's. And a battle-ready body that moved gracefully under a pelting of automatic gunfire, sprinting over ground that rumbled with distant explosions. The memory of the major brought back the acrid smells of spent diesel fuel and gunpowder and body sweat. A man's form was meant to look beautiful, tempting, sensual. Not lethal. Yet even a quick roll in a military cot hadn't decoupled my association between the major's body and a war machine, between form and function, though the breach of rules had gotten me booted out of combat tour.
"So, not a doctor, and not a nurse," said Sam.
I shook my head, embarrassed he'd caught me staring.
"Sure could use some alcohol, whoever you are."
"Won't help the bruising."
"I meant for drinking." He smirked, like I was an idiot. "More rotgut, the better. Couldn't even find an aspirin in here."
How long exactly had he been digging around my apartment?
I stood, rising over him a mere foot, but happy to have the upper hand, or at least the feeling of one. "I'm not a fan of medicine. Or alcohol. Or people snooping through my things."
"Great, a health nut." He tugged at his T-shirt for me to finish cutting it off.
"And I'm not a nut," I said, leveling the shears and clamping onto the shirt collar. "I just don't like drugs. They make you feel... other."
"Lady, I'd love to feel 'other' right now." He peeled away the shirt and tossed the sweaty cotton onto the clothing pile.
"I can go to the store," I said in my nun's voice, "and buy some liquor, if you like."
He aimed an eye on me, his hand hovering near the gun. That would be a 'no.'
My attention ran to the microwave clock. I always called in dinner early to ensure timely delivery, a dinner, it seemed, I'd be ordering for two today, if at all. Next to the microwave, the corkboard was stick-pinned with take-out menus, each column representing a country: Italy, Japan, Mexico, India, Russia, Thailand, and...Greece was missing.
Scanning the room, I found the flyer tucked between Sam's leg and the banquette.
He followed my sightline. "So I like Greek food." He shrugged. "Besides, dog food's the only thing I found in here. Never seen such bare cupboards on a woman."
I crossed my arms over my chest.
"Hey, I wasn't implying—you're no rake. Quite the opposite." His hand started to mold curves into the air, then he stopped himself.
"Enough." My arms wound tighter around my body. Now we both needed a drink. Then I remembered the safe in my office and shot for the hall.
Sam jolted upright, as did Max. "Stop." But Sam's voice came out hoarse for lack of air.
Inside the safe—beside my passport, a stack of cash, the spare keys with a nameplate matching mine but placed face down so I didn't have to remember him—stood a lone bottle of rum.
When I returned to the kitchen, Sam stood. Just. One hand clutched the back of a chair, the other hung with the Glock tapping his thigh. "We don't like surprises. Do we, Max."
CHAPTER 5
I raised the bottle and swished the rum back and forth. About half-full.
"Then again," said Sam, sinking onto the banquette, "we like those surprises."
Max whipped his tail against Sam's leg, like we were all playing a game. Sam's eyeball chest stared at me and I nearly laughed but remembered his pride. From the fridge I pulled a carton of orange juice and smelled inside it. Good enough. A narrow vase from some past Valentine's Day served as a highball glass. I set the glass in front of him, splashed juice, then poured rum. A lot of rum.
"That'll do," he said. "Kinda girlie. But the swelling's killing me."
Sam took the highball glass with a greedy hand and raised it toward me. I poured a teetotaler version for myself and joined him.
"On three." He tapped his glass on the table three times, then slammed back the drink. Then panted. Gulped, then panted. Repeat. He drank like he'd not tasted water for days, but his body felt the worse for chugging the alcohol, judging by his fits of coughing and seizing in pain.
As he struggled for even the shallowest of breaths, I fixed him another drink, wondering if I could get him drunk enough to pass out so I could call the police. How exactly would I explain to Stone the part about undressing a fugitive and then toasting with him? Worse, Sam fascinated me. I'd made a career of interviewing bad guys outside the eyes of authority. Another hour couldn't hurt.
Sam drank so fast he dribbled his drink between his pecs, causing the rum to trail toward his navel and darken the waistband of the gray boxer briefs that peeked from his open pants. He touched his belly, then licked the sticky residue from his finger. I averted my gaze, aware, and ashamed, of the heat hitting my cheeks.
"Come here." He waved me to his side. I refused at first. A crimp in his forehead came and went. "Give me a break, lady."
Still I waited, wiping my hands with the towel.
"Okay, okay. Please."
I relented, getting under his good arm and hoisting his sandbag body with my cardboard frame. Routine work by now, but still a struggle.
"That's good, that's good," he said, breathier than ever. "Just let me—"
I pushed him forward before he collapsed and broke more bones. Nobody was dying on my watch, not this time. With some velocity, we punched into my sky-blue living room, which I'd converted into a master bedroom after Luke's death. Cream curtains framed floor-to-ceiling windows that exposed a modest third-floor view of polished neighboring townhomes, while the afternoon light washed my oak floors in sepia and highlighted the picture molding and glass doorknobs. I'd kept the room sparsely furnished—sleigh bed, short tan sofa, mule dresser, and double oak bookshelves—so nothing stood in our path as Sam and I careened toward the corner bathroom.
Pivoting, I turned him to face the mirror set in the bathroom's oak door. He whistled at the sight, but it was all air.
"We need to reduce the swelling," I said. "I've only got ice, but I can go to the store."
"Nope. Throw a wet towel in the freezer. That'll do." He inclined toward the bathroom sink, but I held back his progress.
"You should lie down now."
"Can't stink up the place. Once I go down, I go down. Alcohol's kicking in." He nodded to the toilet. "There."
We arrived between the toilet and sink in two long strides. The bathroom stood as it had nearly a century ago: hexagonal black-and-white tiles on the floor; white subway tiles above a six-foot porcelain tub that doubled as a shower; and a white pedestal sink facing a large cabinet. A modern toilet, new pipes, and up-to-code wiring befell the room as years passed. Otherwise, it was a step back to the twenties. Sam could be a prohibition mobster hiding out in his moll's flat.
When I raised the toilet lid, he grumbled his dissatisfaction. "Then what do you want?" I said.
He sneered. "Wasn't gonna take a crap in front of you, if that's what you thought."
"Goddamnit." I slapped down the toilet lid.
"Okay, okay." Sam's hand hovered in the air as he lowered onto the makeshift seat. "Let's all just get along."