Lost Art Assignment (22 page)

Davis put one tray on the bed side table and sat the other at the foot of the bed. He sat in the middle of the spread, ready to eat. Felicity sat at the head end of the bed so she could eat from the table.

The ribs were greasy with a thick, spicy sauce that she thought would stay under her fingernails forever. The fixings turned out to be corn bread, some sort of overcooked greens, corn on the cob, and a can of Coke. Driven by hunger, not her palate, Felicity finished it all. Davis appeared to enjoy the entire meal. He had just dropped the last bone on his plate when a knock came through the door.

Felicity opened up, accepting a brush and a pale blue sun dress. Naomi winked at her, said “Good luck”, and returned to the desk downstairs. Felicity turned around, to find herself face to face with Davis.

“You don't need that right now,” he said, putting his arms around her.

“I just want to see if it fits, Ross,” she said, returning his embrace. In response, Davis kissed her mouth gently, then began trailing kisses down her neck, her chest, over the top of her soft pink breasts.

“Well, maybe it can wait until morning,” she said, clutching Davis' head to her body.

The big window slid up smoothly on hidden counterweights. Felicity threw one leg out, watching Davis all the time. She had to admit he was a marvelous lover, and he proclaimed his love for her often during the last hours, but she had other priorities.

Straddling the windowsill, her shoes held against her back by the sun dress' elastic, she surveyed the area. Two street lights glowed in the predawn gloom, but there was no sign of movement and no sound she could detect. Good. She slipped her other leg out to hang down, her lightweight sun dress flipping in the slight breeze. Reaching up, she pulled the window down as quietly as she had opened it.

Slash might keep a girl on the hotel desk all night, watching for anyone coming in or going out. Luckily, a balcony below ran the length of the building. Not that stone block walls presented much challenge for a cat burglar of Felicity's skill. She was only three flights up in a building she could see was over nine stories high. She assumed the rest were just part of a facade.

A few feet away, a square lighted sign glared “THERESA HOTEL” and in slightly smaller letters “ROOMS with BATH from $2.00.” She slid over the balcony edge onto the wide awning without a sound. From there, she noticed just how empty the model street was. When she went into the hotel, a Crown Victoria and two Mercedes limousines were parked along the curb. The cars
were now gone. Had Slash and company moved out, leaving her with Davis and a few servants?

As close to the wall as possible, Felicity dropped to the sidewalk. Her feet screamed as cuts not quite healed reopened. For a full minute she hugged the shadows next to the wall, listening, probing with all her senses, making certain there was no one to see or hear her. Once satisfied of that, she pulled on her shoes and sprinted hard across the asphalt. At the doorway into Birdland she paused again, casting about for danger. She gripped the doorknob and, to her surprise, found it unlocked.

She swung the door open just enough to slide her body inside, closing it quickly behind her. She didn't think anyone would purposely spend a night here, but she wasn't alone. Her psychic link with Morgan pulled her toward a back room. She moved across the floor, between broken bits of furniture, like a formless wraith in the darkness.

Her ability to sense approaching danger had always been a marvelous gift, but being able to sense Morgan's presence sometimes proved a mixed blessing. Feeling his closeness most often comforted Felicity. Morgan was a strong, reassuring force, perhaps as a seeing eye dog was for its blind owner. Still, she often felt a ghost image of what he felt. Now his hurt reached out to her like the pain an amputee feels in a leg that's no longer there.

With a loud creak, she eased the door open. She pushed her head in, getting her bearings. The stench of dried blood stabbed at her from the darkness, a slaughterhouse smell. She could hear her partner's breathing, harsh and rough. She tasted bile rising from her stomach, knowing Morgan had taken a terrible beating for her.

“Thought you'd never get here,” he said, coughing in the dark. She rushed to the other side of the room where he lay.
On her way she stepped in something sticky, but didn't want to know what it was. A minute later she was helping him to stand.

“Oh, God, Morgan I'm so sorry,” she blurted out.

“Will you relax,” Morgan said, leaning on her. “I figured if I tried to push Davis off, Slash would give you to him. Did that work out, at least?”

“Yes, and it's a good thing. If anybody else was guarding me, I couldn't have gotten away. And right now that's all I want. To get away. These people are dangerous.” Acting as a human crutch she eased her partner through the door.

“Who you telling?” Morgan stopped, and she helped him lean against the bar.

“Got to make a stop,” she said. “I smuggled my little gun in here. Hid it in the bathroom. It's not much, but it might come in handy.”

Felicity went to the little bathroom to retrieve her weapon. When she came out, sunlight was just poking through the big picture window at the front of the bar. She crouched and scanned the room again.

“Relax,” Morgan said. “Davis told me they all sleep in the Theresa. Nobody's around.”

Felicity could now see the shattered tables and chairs her instincts had helped her avoid before. It looked like the aftermath of a Hollywood western brawl.

“Must have been one hell of a war,” she said, then stopped as she came closer to Morgan. He was bare chested, and in the growing sunlight she could see his injuries. Blood smeared his chest, his lips were cracked and swollen, his left eye still almost swollen closed. Purple bruises showed on his stomach, back and arms.

“What in the name of the Lord did they beat you
WITH?”

“Just their hands and feet,” Morgan said, forcing a painful smile. “I've had worse. And as the saying goes, you should see the other guy.”

“That's it,” she said. “Let's get you the hell out of here. We'll get lost in the woods.” She handed him her gun, and turned to go.

“This thing's soaking wet,” Morgan said. “Where'd you hide it?”

“Not many choices in that tiny excuse for a W.C,” she answered. “I dropped it in the tank behind the john. You said it's stainless steel, so I figured it'd be okay.”

“Jesus, Red, where's your brain? The gun's stainless steel, but the bullets ain't. For all I know, this thing might be a worthless piece of junk now. Unless you got spare ammo on you.”

She stared at the gun as Morgan slid it into his boot. “I'm sorry. I just didn't think. Look, yell at me later. We need to get moving, now more than ever.”

“Wait.” Morgan spun around, pointing over the bar. “Get the paintings. I saw it in your face that you spotted them.”

“How can you…”

“That's what we came here for,” Morgan said. “Did I take this beating for nothing?” His tone was both stern and serious.

Only her eyes, not her mouth, said “Damn you”, before she jumped to the bar. She ripped the cheap frames from the wall and more carefully rolled the two paintings into one loose tube. After a quick look around behind the bar, she found a garbage bag big enough to shove them into, with plastic handles she could grip so she didn't squeeze the paintings.

Morgan's injuries slowed him down, but they got outside and headed down the fake 125th Street

“Which way?” Felicity asked.

“There's a road to the north. That way.” Morgan pointed and Felicity followed. She knew he was as reliable as a compass when it came to directions. Then he surprised her with a more philosophical comment.

“You know, Red, it's kind of a romantic setting in its way. I mean, those old fashioned street lights, the awnings, the signs, the building facades, they've got their own charm. I bet Slash must have tinkered with this place like a model railroader, until he got it just right.”

While they watched, the street lamps went out. It was morning, and they were a city block away from The Catskill Mountains' forests. Morgan found he could jog if he kept it light. Seconds later they reached the pavement's end. The dirt road went nearly straight to the north.

“Break to the woods?” Felicity asked.

“No point,” Morgan said. “We can make much better time on this road.”

“In that case…” She stopped to pull off her cheap shoes and hand them to Morgan. “How long until they follow?”

“You tell me.” Morgan stuffed her shoes into his belt. “How late does your con artist sleep?”

“He'll go to seven easy,” she said. “That gives us an hour and twenty-eight minutes. How far to the main road?”

“Just over ten miles,” Morgan said, beginning to move. “More than enough time if I wasn't so sore. As it is, my legs don't like this.”

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “I didn't see a car back there. Maybe they sent the gorillas out for pizza or something. You set the pace and we'll get on home.”

“In the Army, this is called the airborne shuffle,” Morgan said, jogging along.

“I thought the airborne guys were supposed to be tough,” Felicity replied, smiling, actually enjoying the run despite her injured soles. “I could do this all day.”

“That, my girl, is the whole point.”

“Something else I don't get,” she said. “Don't take this the wrong way, but this is too easy by half. Slick's so smart, how come he doesn't have better security here? You know, a fence or alarms or something.”

“Well, sometimes security makes your neighbors get curious,” Morgan said. “He probably counts on secrecy, and the seclusion of this place, to protect him from any enemies. He is pretty far back in the woods, here. In fact, I'd swear it's getting farther back the longer we run.”

One hour and nearly eight miles later, Morgan's back was almost numb. The dirt road was just soft enough for a good running surface. Thin woods flanked it on both sides, the seeds of the pine forest that would rise up a hundred miles north where the rounded Catskills flowed into the more majestic Adirondack Mountains. Morgan loved the scent of evergreen trees, even in the thin mountain atmosphere. The air was still fairly cool this early, the humidity low. Everything made for perfect running conditions except the bruised and torn tissue on his chest,
his face, and especially, his back. Felicity, running somewhat below her usual pace, had kept up a running commentary, probably trying to keep her mind off the pain in her feet.

“I love to hear the birds yelling at each other,” Felicity said. “They must be in love. Think those two robins will make up?”

“Sure.”

“Morgan, where do you think the cars are?” Felicity asked, pulling ahead a bit to see his face.

“Probably in a hidden garage behind one of the buildings we were in.”

“Does it hurt a lot?” Felicity asked, watching how stiffly his arms moved.

“Yeah.”

“I promise I'll give you a good massage when we get home,” she said, shifting the plastic bag on her back, its handles looped over each shoulder. “Where are they, do you think?”

“Probably just getting up,” he said. “For a bunch of gangstas they're way too trusting. Or maybe they've just bought their own hype and really believe they're invincible. Anyway, your pal Ross Davis will stall as long as he can before he admits he lost you. Then they'll search Slash's little Harlem for us pretty good. Finally, they'll face the fact. We're both gone. Now they get out the cars. There's only one drivable way out, and they'll check that first, cause it won't occur to these city kids that we might walk out.”

“Cheerful scenario,” Felicity said, breathing more deeply now. “What do we do if they catch up?”

“Depends on whether they come together or separate. If it's one car at a time we'll lose them in the woods, maybe.
They come together, I'll try to take them out.”

“You're kidding.” Felicity started laughing.

“We've got an edge either way, Red,” he said. “They don't know I've got a gun.”

The narrow road rolled on ahead of them, and Morgan and Felicity continued their steady progress. Only twenty minutes later Morgan ground to a halt, hands on hips, facing the cloudless sky. He took deep ragged breaths and Felicity feared he might have a cracked or dislocated rib.

“Here they come,”

“Yeah, I feel it,”

Then a snarl spun him around in surprise. He had expected the rumble of cars, but not the steady rhythmic drumming of an animal's paws on the road. Slash had apparently dispatched Ripper, his Doberman pinscher, to track them down. It was a good way to be sure they had not gone into the woods. Now the dog was bearing down on them, slavering and snarling.

Morgan had no time to plan. He crouched just enough to pull a knife from his boot. Not the throwing knife in his right boot. He knew he couldn't stop the dog that way. In his left was a boot dagger he had ground and honed himself. It was what he had, so it would have to be enough.

There was just time to swing his right arm around, shoving Felicity off the edge of the road. Then, with a roaring growl, Ripper was airborne. Morgan raised his right arm to guard his throat. The dog's jaws locked around his wrist, the impact of its charge driving Morgan to the ground.

Pain shot up his arm, almost drowning out the agony of his back hitting the road. He screamed to release his fear, and drove his five inch double edged blade up into Ripper's throat, only inches from his own arm. Hot, sticky gore burst
over his hand, onto his chest. The charnel house smell made him gag.

Ripper released him, leaping away, carrying the knife with him. Gasping for breath, Morgan managed to sit up, his injured arm pressed against his stomach. He watched the dog, and the dog watched him until it lay down, rolled over and died.