Curse of the Jade Lily (25 page)

“I have to go in every once in a while to check on things—we can have dinner at the club anytime you want,” she said. “Jenness and Monica, I spoke to them, and they’re more than happy to run things while I take time off so, hey, I can stay with you until you heal.”

My first thought was that I could probably arrange it so that I never recovered, keeping her with me more or less forever. Instead of saying that, I looked deep into her silver-blue eyes, brushed her soft cheek with my fingertips, and said, “Nina, you should go home.”

“What?”

“You should go home, now.”

Nina had picked me up at the hospital and had taken me home in my Jeep Cherokee. That hadn’t been the plan. I was going to drive. Unfortunately, opening the driver’s door and then pulling it closed, putting the key in the ignition, firing up the SUV, and attempting to back out of the hospital parking lot had been more than enough to tell me this just wasn’t going to work out. For the first time in my life I knew how it must feel to get old, my body refusing to behave according to my instructions. Driving the Audi would have been even worse—the S5 had a six-speed manual transmission.

“Who’s going to take care of you?” Nina asked.

It was a good question. Getting out of bed that morning—I had slept sitting up—was the start of a long, painful ordeal that turned the simple act of brushing my teeth, shaving, and showering into an exercise in self-torture. By the time I had on underwear, socks, jeans, and shirt, my body was wet with perspiration and shaking. It took ten painful minutes to work myself into the immobilizer—tying my shoes had damn near killed me. I had attempted to put the Kevlar vest on; however, its weight pulled so heavily on my fracture that I almost passed out. It hurt even as I stood there in front of Nina. My right arm was inside the sleeve of my jacket, the back of the jacket draped over my shoulders, my left arm immobilized against my side. I kept pulling in the left side of the jacket to keep it from falling open.

“I talked to Chopper,” I said. “It’s all been arranged.”

“Chopper?” Nina took a step backward and then spoke the name again as if she wanted to make sure she got it right. “Chopper?”

“Yeah.”

“Something’s going to happen.”

“Yeah.”

“What? Don’t tell me. You’re going after them, aren’t you—the men who put the bomb in the motel room?”

“The doctor said I should get mild exercise followed by rest.”

“Dammit, McKenzie. You have a broken collarbone, you have a concussion—I saw the way you rubbed your temples when we were driving home. You were feeling dizzy, weren’t you? Because of the concussion. McKenzie, c’mon. You’re in no condition—what if they try to kill you again?”

“That’s the thing, Nina. They didn’t try to kill me. They called me on the phone. They warned me to get out of the room before the bomb went off.”

“You said—I thought you couldn’t remember.”

“Nina my love, my beating heart—you of all people should know what a terrible liar I am.”

Nina stared at me for a few beats and then looked around the room. It would have been more dramatic if there had been a chair or sofa to take possession of, but since there wasn’t, Nina sat on top of her suitcase, folded her arms across her chest, and announced, “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

So I did …

*   *   *

Ten seconds is a long time. You can win a gold medal in the Olympics in ten seconds. You can go from first to third on a bloop single in ten seconds. You can tie both shoes in ten seconds. If you don’t believe me, set a timer and close your eyes while it counts down. Ten seconds can seem like an eternity.

“There is a bomb in the room. It will go off in ten seconds. Good luck.”

The moment the caller finished speaking, I heard a soft
mmm
that reminded me of the sound a TV makes when you first switch it on with a remote control. Knowing what I know now, it couldn’t have been the bomb. The bomb was stuck to the ceiling directly below me. Yet I heard the sound just the same. Perhaps it was an internal clock counting down the seconds I had to live.

The phone was sitting on a nightstand on the far side of the bed, which meant the bed was between the door and me. I did not hang up the phone. Instead, I simply dropped the receiver and dove across the bed, dragging the two pillows that had been propped against the headboard with me. It’s funny how the mind works. I remembered instantly what India Cooper had told me about jade—that it was one tough sonuvabitch—so I wasn’t gentle at all when I slid the heavy artifact off the table and dropped it on top of one of the pillows. I covered it with the second pillow—a jade sandwich—lifted it off the bed, and pressed it against my left side with one arm. I unlocked the door and pulled it open with my free hand, crossed the landing, grabbed the top of the railing, and leaped over it.

The landing was ten feet above the parking lot surface, which doesn’t seem like much unless you try to jump it. Still, I probably would have been fine except that while I was in midair, the bomb went off—in hindsight, I think the artnappers actually gave me an extra second or two. In any case, the force of the blast pushed me sideways, not to mention the glass and other debris that raked my face and torso. Instead of landing on both feet, I hit the ground with the outside of my left foot. My ankle rolled under me. I probably still would have been fine; however, my instincts told me to protect the Lily, so I wrapped my right arm around the pillows as well as my left and twisted my body so that I smacked against the asphalt, shoulder first. I knew my collarbone was broken, knew it even before I felt the pain. I had fractured it once before while playing basketball. It’s a feeling you don’t forget. I didn’t actually feel the pain until I rolled to my knees, still clutching the jade sandwich to my body. Stuff was raining against my back—I have no idea what stuff. I only knew that it was hot and sharp and it hurt despite the Kevlar. I pushed myself up with my right hand. That’s how I sliced open my palm. (I held it up for Nina to see.) I must have cut it on broken glass.

I walked to the car; my body hunched over like Igor in the old Frankenstein movies. My Audi was parked in front of the room directly beneath the room that had exploded. I had managed to leap clear of it, although bomb fragments and whatnot had showered it like hail. There were plenty of dents and dings, and I was pretty sure my rear window had been cracked. I dug my key chain out of my jacket pocket and used the remote to pop the trunk. I stuffed the Lily and the pillows and my keys inside and slammed the lid shut.

You need to understand something—I did not think any of this through, did not justify my actions for a moment. I just did it. The thinking part, that came later in the ER.

Afterward, I limped across the parking lot. I have no idea what I was doing. Maybe I just wanted to get a look at what was left of room 222. The romantic in me believed I wanted to see if there was anyone who needed help. In the distance I could hear sirens—cops and ambulances. I stepped on something with my left foot. My sprained ankle gave out and I started to fall. This time I twisted my body to protect my damaged shoulder. I hit my head. (I touched the bruise on my forehead.) That’s how I was knocked unconscious; that’s how I got the concussion. The next thing I remember, the paramedics were putting a collar around my neck and sliding me onto a backboard before loading me into an ambulance. I remember everything from that moment on quite vividly.

*   *   *

“I don’t understand,” Nina said. “You’re saying—the Lily was not destroyed in the explosion? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“You have it?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“It should still be locked in the trunk of my car. By the way, I need your copy of my house key. My keys are in the trunk.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Rask told me it was towed to the City of Minneapolis impound lot. Believe me, I had a car towed there a few years ago during a snow emergency—the place is like fricking Fort Knox.”

“But, but…”

“But what?”

“They wanted you to—they asked you to retrieve the Jade Lily. They asked you to trade the insurance money for it, and you did that. I mean, I know the motel room blowing up wasn’t part of the deal, but you did what they asked, you have the Lily. Why not give it to the insurance company like you promised and forget the whole thing? The job is over, isn’t it?”

“People have been killed for the Jade Lily. I can’t let that go.”

“Why not?”

“Because I killed one of them.”

“Heavenly’s friend Tommy?”

“Yes.”

“That’s on her.”

“It’s on me, too.”

“What are you going to do? Are you going to hide the Lily from the insurance company, from the police?”

“For now.”

“Why?”

“There are a few things I need to sort out.”

“Such as?”

“Such as who the Lily actually belongs to.”

She paused for a few moments and said, “You could get into big trouble over this.”

I started to laugh. “Yes,” I said and laughed some more. “Yes, I could.” I have no idea why I laughed. Mark it down to nervous energy.

“You think this is funny?” Nina asked.

I shook my head yet continued to laugh.

“Dammit, but you make me so mad sometimes,” Nina said.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re right, it isn’t funny. You have to admit, though—it’s the damnedest thing.”

“You can be so terribly immature sometimes, do you know that?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You also have a secret passion for justice.”

“How immature is that?”

“Justice in this case would be for … who?”

“I’m still working that out.”

“What can I do to help?” she asked, the implication being that I needed all the help I could get.

“I don’t want you to get into trouble,” I said. “Who would bail me out if I get arrested?”

Nina came off her suitcase and crossed the few steps between us. She grabbed both ends of my leather jacket and pulled it close.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going back to the beginning.”

“The beginning?”

“The artnappers requested that I act as go-between without knowing who I was. Someone gave them my name. When I find out who that person was, I’ll find out who they are.”

“As easy as that, huh?”

“Well, the premise is simple. We’ll find out how easy it is.”

“Do you know what really frightens me?” Nina said. “The idea that the Jade Lily really is cursed; that something terrible happens to everyone who holds it, because right now you’re the one who’s holding it.”

“The history of the Lily—all that proves is that bad things happen to greedy people.”

“That’s my point, McKenzie. You’re the greediest person I know. You might not want fame or fortune, but you do love the game.”

*   *   *

Not long after Nina departed, Herzog arrived. I was glad she didn’t see him. He might have frightened her. The way he filled my doorway, dressed in black boots, black jeans, black turtleneck, and black leather jacket, his hands crossed just above his silver belt buckle, and said, “I’m not happy t’ be ’ere,” Herzog scared the hell out of me, and I was carrying a gun.

As soon as I let him into the house, he made a grasping motion with the fingers of his right hand. I gave him an envelope. The envelope contained $5,000. I took the money from a safe in my basement floor—I had learned long ago to keep a sizable sum of “mad money” on hand for just such an occurrence as this. Fishing the cash out of the safe had been painful, what with all the bending and leaning I had to do. Almost as painful as dropping the envelope in Herzog’s hand.

“Half now, half later,” I said.

“What if you get killed?”

“I guess you’ll just have to sue my estate.”

Herzog nodded as if it seemed perfectly reasonable to him. He turned the envelope over in his hand yet did not open it, did not count the money. It wasn’t a matter of trust. Only an idiot would short-change the man.

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ gonna get me sent back t’ Stillwater.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I mean it, McKenzie.”

“All I need you to do is drive and maybe run an errand or two. And, oh yeah, keep me from getting shot.”

Herzog slipped the envelope into an inside pocket.

“I’m only doin’ this cuz Chopper said,” he told me.

“I know.”

I had called Chopper from the hospital. He asked many questions about my condition that suggested a working knowledge of both emergency medicine and clinical procedures—the man never ceased to amaze. At the same time, he was very apologetic about not wanting to come and visit.

“You know me and hospitals,” he said.

I knew. If you had been rolled perfectly healthy into a hospital—well, except for two bullets in your back—and then came out in a wheelchair, you might want to avoid them, too.

I asked Chopper for a couple of favors. The first was to arrange another meeting with El Cid. The second was Herzog.

“I don’ like helpin’ no cops,” the big man informed me yet again.

“I appreciate that. Are you heavy?”

He sniffed like it was the dumbest question he had ever heard. Or maybe it was the way I asked it.

“Are you?” he repeated.

I pulled a Walther PPK out of my jacket pocket and held it up. The butt was firm against the bandage covering the cut in my hand, and it hurt. ’Course, so did my head, my ankle, my shoulder, and my back where the debris from the explosion had rained down on it.

“What th’ hell is ’at?” he asked. “A fuckin’ toy?”

“Hey, man, it’s the same gun that James Bond carries.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

I didn’t blame him for being skeptical. I was no more impressed by the Walther’s stopping power than Herzog. I chose it because of its size—the automatic fit comfortably inside my jacket pocket—and because of its weight. Twenty-two ounces was easier to wave around with one hand and, God help me, if I had to shoot, it would be with one hand. Hell, the only reason I even bought the .32 was that, well, it
was
the gun James Bond used in the movies. Still, I felt the need to defend myself.