All Fixed Up (22 page)

I'd called Mark as soon as I'd been given access to a phone. Not only was he the only one I could think of who could possibly help me in a situation like this, he was also the only one who might understand what I'd done.

Once upon a time, I would have called Billy before anyone, trusting him to get me out of any mess I'd landed in. But obviously it wasn't true anymore. So … Mark.

My God, I killed a man. I really killed a man.

The burner phone I'd been carrying was confiscated, along with my gun. I hadn't been carrying my own phone—or any identification—because it wouldn't match the Japanese aura I was wearing. The gun, coupled with my lack of ID and my unwillingness to talk for fear of digging myself deeper into the hole I was in, was why the police were holding me. All I'd said to Mark on the station phone was, “Howdy. I need your help.” Then I'd handed the phone to the officer and let him explain where I was, trusting my hint was enough for him to figure out who I was regardless of my different voice.

I killed a man … I killed a man … I killed …

Mark came into the small, dimly lit room where I'd been placed for questioning after showering and changing into a set of tan scrubs they must have kept handy for occasions like this one. They were too big, but at least it wasn't an orange jumpsuit, and infinitely preferable to my bloodstained clothing, which had been bagged as evidence. Strangely, it was the thought of never wearing the ugly sweater again that almost unleashed a flood of tears. But I'd held them back.

I killed a man … killed … killed …

“Who are you?” Mark asked as soon as we were alone. I wasn't sure how he'd swung it, unless he'd shown them his super-secret spy credentials, or maybe told them he was my lawyer.

I assumed he was referring to my aura. “I don't know,” I said. Mom hadn't given me a name to go with it, never dreaming it would prove necessary, I supposed.

“Howdy,” he said, adding only a hint of a question to it.

I nodded once.

“Show me,” he said, ever cautious.

I flashed my own eyes at him briefly, throwing in a few freckles for good measure.

His face hardened, lips set in a grim line. “Hang tight. I'm getting you out of here right now.”

“Wait,” I said as he turned. “Is Carl okay?” I hadn't asked the police, because I was unsure how much Mark wanted them to know.

He hesitated. “We'll talk later.”

I swallowed a reflexive breath, nodding because I was unable to find words.

I killed a man … maybe two …

*   *   *

Mark's SUV (basic black, about as nondescript as you could get) had tinted windows, so I pulled up the hood of the coat I'd been provided with (a lost-and-found special smelling strongly of cheap perfume and pot, but at least it was warm) and dropped the Japanese aura. I hoped like hell I could shed some of the guilt I was feeling along with it, but no such luck.

Mark nodded his after-the-fact permission and pulled out of the parking space.

I killed a man
 …

The words bounced around my cranium like pachinko balls. I wanted to hit my head against the window until they stopped, but that would no doubt worry Mark more than he already was. Besides, I suspected it wouldn't work.

Like an automaton, I reported everything I remembered from the rink. Mark took in all in, processing it without comment, allowing me to let the facts slip out while holding my emotion in check.

“Carl. Tell me,” I finally said.

“He's alive.”

“But?”

“He's in critical condition. Stunned and stabbed, left for dead in a wooded area of the park. It … doesn't look good.”

“Jesus. It's my fault. If I hadn't—”

“No,” Mark said, taking his eyes off the road for a second to bore into mine. “This is
not
your fault. He's a trained agent. Sometimes shit happens. It's part of the job, and he knows it.”

“But if I hadn't insisted on ice skating, even after he told me he'd never done it before—”

“Yeah, and the same thing could have happened if you were out for a walk. You were being watched more closely than any of us realized. If anything, this is my fault. I should have kept you with me when you offered.”

“You couldn't know!” I said.

He hazarded another look at me, raising an eyebrow.

“Point taken. Not my fault either,” I conceded. “But, damn it, Loughlin
knew
it was me. How the hell can he do that?” I said.

“I don't know. But we
will
catch him, and I will find out. One way or another. At least now we know for sure he's connected to the New York murders.” The stony set of Mark's face didn't bode well for Loughlin's future. “I've requisitioned more agents. Even brought in the FBI—he's at the top of their Most Wanted list as of now.”

“I thought you said the FBI were a bunch of idiots.”

He quirked his mouth into an almost-smile. “Even idiots have their uses. They're good at finding people.”

I recognized the neighborhood we were headed toward and sat up straight. “No! Mark, I can't go home now. I
can't.
” There was no way I could face my family yet. If I had to explain what had happened, I'd lose it for sure, and I wasn't at all certain I'd ever find it again. “
Please
,” I said, panic creeping into my voice, trying though I was to keep it out.

“I've put more people on the house. Nobody can get at you there, I promise. I need you someplace safe.”

“Please,” I said again. “Anywhere else. I can't … I can't see them right now. I can't tell them what I did. Not yet.”

“Ciel, it's not your fault—”

“Please.”

He nodded. “Billy's place okay? Is he back in town? I can put more men there, too.”

I stiffened, willing myself to keep my face from crumbling, but I couldn't keep my eyes from pooling. “Not a good idea.”

Another sharp look from Mark. He made an illegal U-turn at the next intersection and sped toward a section of town I hadn't seen since a visit I'd made with Thomas back when I was in high school.

 

Chapter 18

Mark's off-the-grid apartment was in a sketchy part of town, a tiny jewel hidden behind a façade that would embarrass a slumlord. Once we were up the six flights of scuffed wooden stairs and through a door with hospital-green paint peeling off it, it was a high-tech wonderland of minimalist luxury.

But yikes, those
stairs.
I fought to keep the wheeze out of my breathing. No wonder Mark was in such great shape.

“Would it have killed you to find a building with an elevator?” I said.

“Builds character,” he said with a teasing smile.

I'd called my dad from the car and told him I was with Mark. That was all I'd squeezed out before I'd handed Mark's phone back to him. He told Dad that I was helping him on a lead, and wouldn't be in any danger. Didn't mention anything about what happened, for which I was grateful. I knew my parents were of the opinion there was no better protection in the world than Mark, so they wouldn't worry.

I started to smile back at him, but it froze on my face, guilt stabbing me again. I was starting to think the ice pick would have been less painful.

“I killed him, Mark. I killed a man.”

He took the coat I was clutching (I'd removed it after the second flight of stairs), tossed it onto a chair along with his, and pulled me into an embrace, cradling my head against his chest with one large hand. “I know, Howdy. I know. It sucks. It sickens you, it terrifies you, destroys a part of you, and I'm sorry you had to do it. But listen to me. You had no choice.”

“Maybe if I'd—”

“Stop. Don't ‘if' it, Ciel. It was what it was. He had an ice pick”—the police must have told Mark that—“and he was going to kill you. You stopped him. That is
all
that matters.”

I nodded into one of his pecs, and tried to believe him. “How do the police know he was trying to kill me? I didn't tell them—I was afraid to say anything before you got there.”

“The ice pick was still in the guy's hand, and he had a rap sheet longer than his arm. Wasn't tough to put it together.”

“Don't they wonder who the Japanese girl is? Won't they want to question me more?” I shuddered at the thought.

“As far as they're concerned, she's a foreign national under the protection of Uncle Sam. They know better than to ask anything more.”

He led me to the sofa—small, modern, upholstered in soft gray Ultrasuede. I sat, relieved I wouldn't have to face the police again anyway, while he went to the bar area of the peninsula that separated the living area from the kitchen. He poured hefty slugs of some fancy bourbon into short glasses, and brought one to me.

“I'm not as good at making Manhattans as your dad is, but this will take the chill off your stomach,” he said, sipping his.

I hesitated, my mind slamming up against a wall I didn't want to face right now. I gripped the glass until I was afraid it might shatter.

Screw it.
Sorry, kid, I need this
, I thought, and knocked it back. But a great big ol' lump of guilt blocked my throat before I could swallow.

Shit, Ciel, haven't you done enough damage for one day?

I ran to the kitchen sink and spat it out, but not before swishing it around in my mouth a few times. What a waste of good whiskey. But at least it had helped rid my mouth of the taste of blood I hadn't thus far been able to squelch.

I felt Mark's hand on my back. “That bad?”

I coughed, and pretended he was talking about the bourbon. “No. It tasted great. Really. It's … um, maybe some tea would be better.”

“Sorry. I'm not much of a tea drinker. But I have coffee.”

“Decaf?” I asked.

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“You know, in case I have trouble sleeping…”

“Ciel, if you have trouble sleeping, I'll stay up with you. If you want to talk—about anything—we'll talk. If you want to be quiet, we'll be quiet. Whatever you need, I'm here.”

God, the dove-gray eyes, soft and tender. In my current emotional state, if I wasn't careful, they were going to undo me.

I looked down at my ugly scrubs, noticing a few suspect stains. “Do you have an old shirt or something I can borrow? I feel like a reject from
Grey's Anatomy
,” I said, forcing a light tone.

“Sure thing.” He disappeared behind the door of a compact closet and returned with a dark green thermal and a pair of wool socks. “I'd give you some pants, but I'm afraid they'd fall right off you.”

Normally the inherent innuendo in a statement like that would have me stifling giggles. It appeared my juvenile sense of humor was another casualty of the day's events.

“Thanks. This will be fine,” I said.

I changed in a small bathroom so artfully laid out it seemed downright spacious. But first I took another shower, because even after scrubbing myself nearly raw at the police station, I didn't feel clean. Maybe Mark's soap would work better. At least it was a comforting smell, light and fresh, not at all overpowering like the industrial deodorant stuff they'd had at the station.

The thermal came almost to my knees, and I had to roll up the sleeves multiple times, but the color worked for me. The socks added a warm and goofy touch that might have amused me under different circumstances. I peeked in the medicine cabinet, found a new toothbrush, and proceeded to make use of it for at least double my normal brushing time. When I joined Mark in the main room I felt slightly more human.

“What do you think?” I said, striking a silly pose. “New fashion trend?”

Mark pretended to study me critically. “The socks make the outfit.”

I held a foot up, toes extended. The heel of the brown sock was above my ankle, the top almost to my knee. Alluring they were not, but they were warm. I opened my mouth, willing a witty sock comment to come to my lips. Came up empty. I dropped my leg, sucked in some air, and started to shake.

“I can't do this. God damn it, it's not fair, not when I'm—” I swallowed the words in time. “I want a do-over! I don't know how to be a killer,” I said, giving up my futile attempt at normalcy.

Mark led me back to the sofa. He sat next to me, holding my hands steady in both of his, looking straight into my eyes. “You don't know how to be a killer because you're
not
a killer. You defended yourself, and someone died—a huge distinction.”

“Even if … if…” I didn't want to say it, didn't even want to think it.

He squeezed my hands lightly, rubbing his thumbs across my knuckles. “If what, Howdy? Tell me. Let me help.”

“When I saw the blood pouring out of him … when I saw the life fade out of his eyes … I was glad. No, I was
ecstatic.
I took a
life
, and got the same kind of rush as when I hit a home run, or win at bowling. What kind of sicko am I?”

“Ciel, that's a human reaction. You were flooded with adrenaline, fighting for your life, and you
did
win. You won a life-or-death contest. Of course your instinct is to feel satisfaction. It's normal.”

“But the blood … I think, if I'd been able to stand … I think I would have kicked his dead body. Stomped him to ribbons with my skates. God knows I
wanted
to.”

“Adrenaline,” he repeated. “Nature's motivator when it comes to survival. Look, Ciel, your body was in fight-or-flight mode. You couldn't flee, so you fought. And I am damn glad you did.”

He was starting to get through to me. It made sense. “Was it … was it like that for you … the first time?” I asked hesitantly. I knew he'd had to kill people—in his line of work it was inevitable—but he never talked about it.