Tasting Fear (34 page)

“Dunc! Hold on! Don’t just—”

He killed the phone and took off running. Glad for whatever instinct had prompted him to put on brown and olive drab. Her signal had been stationary for twenty minutes. Plenty of time to hurt her, if that was their intent.

He felt cold, his emotions flat-lined. A virtual figure in a video game, sent out to earn points, defeat goblins, gargoyles, basilisks, defeat the evil sorcerer. If he scored enough points, and made no wrong moves. But in the vid game, the player’s life wouldn’t be gutted if he fucked up. There would be no “game over” flashing on the screen. No invitation to try his luck again.

One chance. One.

He ran onward, darting from bush to tree, until the building came into view, and then the car. He hoped there were no infrared alarms. He doubted it. This was an improvised, last-minute snatch. This place wasn’t their turf. He hoped.

The building looked like an abandoned, crumbling barn. He spotted the first sentry, and sank down into the bushes. He recognized the tall black guy from Lafayette. Duncan dropped to his belly and slithered around the guy, keeping beneath his line of vision. When he spiraled in closer, the guy was turned, pissing against a tree. Good.

Duncan leaped up behind him. The guy spun around, mouth dangling, dick still in his hand. He sucked in air to yell, and took the heel of Duncan’s boot to the point of his chin.
Crunch.

He toppled, eyes rolled back. Hit the tree, slid to the ground on his ass, slumped. Penis still drooping out of his opened pants.

Voices. He followed them, slithering toward the hushed murmur in the clearing around the barn. It was the blond dickhead from Lafayette, smoking a cigarette and talking to a stocky shorter guy. The blond guy had bruises beneath both eyes. Duncan crept closer, recognizing his reedy, whining tone before he could make out the words. He pulled out a couple of drugged throwing stars.

“…with this kind of shit! It ain’t worth the fuckin’ money to get treated like fuckin’ dogshit,” he bitched. “All I say is, they better let me take my turn with the bitch after John works her over, because I mean to teach that cunt nobody messes with Curtis, man—ay!”

His monologue choked off to a shriek. He pawed at his buttock, and held up the throwing star Duncan had lobbed. “What the fuck?”

The second guy howled. A star protruded from his shoulder.

Curtis spun, and sprayed the woods with bullets from his Uzi. “Who the fuck are you, you fuck?!” he shrieked. “I’ll waste your ass!”

So much for stealth. Curtis was wavering, toppling. The other guy went down even faster. The points of the stars were treated with a high-power, quick-acting sedative. He waited for some reaction from the barn. Sure enough. The door opened. A man poked his head out.

“What the fuck is going on?” he snarled. He saw the unconscious men collapsed on the ground, and his face twisted with disgust. “Fucking jerk-offs,” he muttered, and lifted his automatic pistol.

He pumped a short burst of bullets into them both. The sprawled bodies jittered on the ground and then lay still.

Duncan stared through the foliage. The men were torn apart, lying in pools of blood. The Fiend lifted his gun and sprayed the woods in a wide arc. Bullets sliced through grass and leaves, right above Duncan’s head. Splinters of bark and earth flew, bullets thudded into the ground.

The Fiend laughed, hysterically. “Fuck off and die, shithead!” he howled. “It’s your turn, now! I got her! Go fuck yourself!” Another spray of bullets punched into the forest,
rat-tat-tat-tat.

The guy ducked back inside. In the distance, police sirens started to wail. Duncan flew like a bolt from a crossbow across the carnage in the clearing and flung himself at the door. “Nell!” he bellowed.

“Duncan?” she called back, just as bullets pumped through the door.

One of them grazed Duncan’s hip like a lick of flame. Another caught his pocket above his knee, ripping the fabric. She screamed, a wrenching cry that curdled his blood.

He sprinted around the building.

“They’re coming,” John said to Haupt. “We have to cut loose. Curtis and Turturro are meat. Didn’t see Gerard. Probably dead, too.”

“They’re coming? Who is coming? How did they know where to come? How is it possible?” The man’s voice rose to a shrill, querulous squawk. “You stupid, incompetent—”

“You want to berate me on our way to jail, or save it for later?” John snarled back. “Move it!”

He slashed the ropes that bound Nell’s arms. Her arms fell free, numb and tingling. John yanked a handful of her hair, jerking until she cried out. “Be good, bitch,” he hissed. “Or I’ll gut you like a steer.”

He hoisted her up and flung her over his shoulder, letting her head and arms dangle down over his back.

Something banged against the door. “Nell!”

Duncan. Oh, God. Oh, God. “Duncan?!” she yelled.

“I said, shut up, bitch!” John swung up his gun, riddled the door with bullets. Light shone through the pattern of holes. She screamed again, in horror and despair, but John was running now, and her voice was jolting in her throat, her torso bouncing and thudding against his back.

They burst out of the back of the barn. She could not see where they were going, just green leaves, the ground behind John’s pounding heels, the fact that John’s belt was loose, his T-shirt riding up, showing acne-spotted rolls of flab hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

The sound of his footsteps changed. A hollow thud, on wooden planks. Haupt hurried along beside them, huffing and puffing.

A bridge. She heard hollow footsteps on wood, saw weathered planks below John’s booted feet. Water murmured below. John swung around, started shooting, a deafening barrage of bullets. Her whole body shook and jiggled with the jackhammer explosions.

Her blood-slicked hand tightened around her splinter. She worked it down in her hand until the sharp part protruded a couple of inches, and the blunt part was clutched in her fist. The point was wickedly sharp. She gathered her nerve for the blow. Everything she had to give: her passion for Duncan, her love for her sisters, for Lucia. Even for Elena. Her reverence for beauty, fineness, love. Her respect for effort and honest sweat. For things that could not be bought. Not for any money.

John turned. The gun rose up.
No.
Because he had no right to hurt her, or Duncan, or anyone.

He had…no…
right!

She stabbed down, driving the splinter deep into the meat and fat that covered his kidney. He squealed. His shots went wild.

Bam
, Duncan’s bullet blew John’s gun out of his hand. It flew up, curling and turning in the air. John lunged to catch it one-handed, but it danced off his fingers and down. An eternity later, it splashed into the river.

“Put her down.” It was Duncan’s voice, incredibly cool and even.

John stared back, panting. He laughed. “Sure thing, shitbird.”

He heaved her over the bridge railing.

She flew, fell, down, turning, spinning. Cold green water closed over her head.

Duncan sprinted to the middle of the bridge and pitched himself over the side. The current was strong when he came boiling up for air, the river swollen with the recent rains.

Nell bobbed to the surface, face plastered with hair, gasping for breath. He fought his way over to her, clasped her to him.

When he finally got them over to the shore, he scooped her out into his arms. Her cheek was swollen, her lips split. There was blood crusted in her nostrils. They’d been hitting her. Rage clawed at him, but the fuckers were long gone. No one to catch and punish. Not yet.

Her eyes fluttered open and fastened onto his. Her lips chattered so hard, it took a long time for her to speak.

“Y-y-you c-c-came back for m-me,” she said.

She dropped her face against his chest and shut down. Shock. Her face was so pale. He struggled up the steep creek bank and launched into a heavy, stumbling run through the forest.

Hoping to God that whoever was blowing those police sirens had the presence of mind to bring a goddamn ambulance along.

D
uncan stared at himself in the hospital bathroom mirror. He stank of that foul, bitter antiseptic foam soap in the squeeze bottle over the sink, with which he’d attempted to clean himself up. He supposed it beat out the stench of river mud. But the blend was pretty nasty.

Nancy and Liam had brought him a change of clothes. Liam’s stuff fit well enough, although the shirt was tight around the shoulders. His own clothing lay in a clammy, mud-slimed snarl on the bathroom floor. He shoved the gun back into his jeans, covered it with the shirttail. He was crashing. He felt icy cold inside, and his hands couldn’t stop shaking. His face was a rigid, staring mask.

The doctors and nurses had forced him out of Nell’s room to get her examined, and all the various tubes, needles, and machines hooked up. He’d waited outside the door like a wet, patient hound shivering on the doorstep until they took pity on him and let him in again.

She looked so fragile. So pale. Only her hair had vitality, lying in great curling snarls all over the pillow.

He was so scared, he could hardly breathe. Wondering if he’d earned enough points with this stunt to get another chance with her.

He’d seen the world without her in it. He’d felt that reality to the fullest during that hellacious race against time. Gut-wrenching fear that never eased. The ache of loss. Emptiness, silence. Sick regret.

He couldn’t face it. He’d say any words she wanted to hear. He didn’t give a fuck whether they were true or not, realistic or not. He no longer cared about honesty, dealing straight, any of that meaningless bullshit. She could write out a script for him, if she wanted, and he’d parrot it back to her, get it signed and witnessed and notarized. He wasn’t even ashamed of it. He didn’t have the energy for shame. He knew when he was whipped.

The only reason he’d left her bedside at all was because Liam and Nell’s sisters were there, talking in hushed tones, giving him those worried looks. Vivi had brought him coffee and a sandwich at the lunch stand in the lobby. He hadn’t been able to eat it. His insides felt like they were turned to cold stone.

He kicked his stuff into the corner of the bathroom and walked out, braving the sympathetic glances. Vivi vacated the chair near the head of Nell’s bed. He jerked his chin at it, indicating that she should sit again.

“As fucking if. Sit.” She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him into the chair. “You’re the one who’s been out there being heroic.”

He slumped into the chair, and took up Nell’s hand again. The one that wasn’t torn up, bandaged into a puffy white ball. Her hand was so cold. But so was his. Clammy with fear. He had no heat to give her.

Vivi put her hand on his shoulder, leaned over, and kissed the top of his head. “Hey. Duncan,” she said softly. “You did good. It’s going to be fine. Try to relax, okay? You’re scaring us.”

He jerked his head and hunched lower over Nell’s hand.

Some time later, her fingers twitched inside his. His heart jumped up into his throat. Her eyes were fluttering open. Dazed.

Nancy and Vivi got up and came over to the other side of the bed.

“Hey, sweetie,” Nancy said, her voice thick with tears.

Nell gave them a tiny smile, as if the corners of her lips were too heavy to lift. Her eyes flicked over to Duncan’s. He stared back, mute. A silence took over the room. An electrical charge that grew. And grew.

“Ah, maybe the three of us can just go take a little coffee break,” Vivi suggested, her voice brisk. “Come on, you guys. Let’s, ah go.”

They trooped out the door, leaving the two of them finally alone.

Nell gazed up, so happy he was there. Both of them, still alive. How marvelous and improbable was that?

Her heart was swelling, so soft and full, it felt like a supernova inside her chest. She was exhausted, limp. And so soft. A fuzzy glow of light lying in the bed. Probably it was whatever they’d drugged her with. Nice stuff.

Duncan lifted her hand and leaned forward, elbows on the bed. Rubbing her knuckles against his cheek. His beard stubble was a delicious cat’s-tongue rasp of pleasurable friction against her skin.

He didn’t look good. His eyes were shadowed, and his mouth was grim.

She tried to speak to him, but her muscles wouldn’t respond.

“Don’t talk,” he ordered, frowning. “Rest.”

She finally got words out, letting them ride on the outbreath. “Did I thank you for saving my life?”

A smile softened the grim cast of his face. “Not too recently,” he admitted. “Not in the last thirty-six hours, at least.”

“Ah. Well.” She squeezed his hand. “For the record.”

There was so much to say to him, it was bottlenecked inside her. Then, suddenly her memories coalesced. And with them, a clutch of fear. “Elsie?” she asked. “And Wesley?”

“They’re okay,” he assured her. “Elsie was treated for shock and contusions, your sisters told me, but she’s already getting off on being a local celebrity. She’s in hog heaven, giving interviews to the local paper from her hospital bed. Wesley’s pretty bad, but he’s in stable condition now. Bullet to the shoulder, lost a lot of blood. But he should be okay.”

“Thank God,” she murmured. Her eyes drifted closed again. She felt like a radio, tuning in and out of the frequency of consciousness, but Duncan was always there, like a rock coming in and out of view in the mist. So comforting. Another factoid popped to the top of her mind.

“They’re looking for sketches,” she said.

He frowned. “Huh? Who is looking for what?”

“John and Haupt. The bad guys. Lucia’s treasure. They’re after sketches of some kind. Haupt told me his name and a bunch of other stuff, just for the fun of it. To taunt me. Hah. Funny, isn’t it?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t know if funny’s the word I’d use.”

“The Conte deLuca, Lucia’s father, hid these sketches from the Nazis during the Second World War,” she went on. “And they’re still hidden. Wild stuff. How did you know to come after me?”

“Found a bug in your laptop. Followed the GPS in your cell.”

“No way,” she whispered. “Saved by a cell phone. The irony of it.”

He pressed his face to her hand. “I couldn’t let them hurt you.”

She stroked his jaw. “You’re cold,” she fretted softly. “Why are you cold? You’re usually so hot.”

“I’m scared shitless,” he blurted out.

Her eyes widened, shocked. “Huh? You? Why?”

“I thought I’d lost you.” The words rushed out as if they were under pressure. “Nothing’s worth shit without you, Nell. If they hurt you, that would be it for me. I’d be finished. Dead meat. Worm food.”

She petted his cheek, trying to soothe him. “Duncan. Don’t—”

“I have to have you in my life,” he said. “Have to. I don’t give a shit anymore about all that crap we argued about. You want me to make a formal declaration of love, fine. I’ll do it. You want me to memorize poetry and recite it to you naked and standing on my head, I’ll do it. Any fucking song or dance routine you want—”

“No,” she said softly.

He cut off the stream of words, alarmed. “Uh, no in what sense?”

“No in the sense of no, it’s not necessary. You don’t have to stand on your head or do any routine. You don’t even have to tell me that you love me. Because you already did.”

He blinked. “I did? How do you figure? When?”

“Just now,” she told him, smiling. “And not only that. You get big points for being really poetic and original about it.”

His face cleared, but he still looked perplexed. “Great,” he said doubtfully. “Hold on, here. Points? What’s this I hear about points? I thought points pissed you off.”

She laughed, softly, petting his cheek again. She couldn’t bear to stop. “There’s something about staring death in the face that helps a girl get over her pet peeves.”

“Ah. Well, hell, I didn’t even know I was being poetic,” he said. “Don’t I have to tell you your eyes are like stars and your skin like lily petals? And your ass is like a ripe, juicy peach?”

She shook her head. “Stars, lilies, peaches, pah. Overdone. Having a guy charge in to save you from a horrible death at the hands of psychopathic sadists? Now,
that’s
poetry.”

He lay his head on her chest. His shoulders shook. She petted them and ran her fingers through his hair, again and again. She didn’t want to break their physical contact for a single second. She wanted to cling to him. Just stay eternally fused.

“So we’re getting married?” His muffled voice had a challenging tone. “Soon? Like, now?”

She smiled up at the ceiling, euphoric. She was going to float up there, get stuck on the ceiling. “As soon as you like,” she said.

He raised his head and fixed her with a narrow gaze, as if daring her to contradict him. “And we’re having our honeymoon in Italy.”

“Sounds amazing,” she said.

He hugged her tighter. “You are so beautiful,” he muttered. “And by the way. Your ass really is like a ripe, juicy peach.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “That’s a lovely sentiment.”

“I know I’m stubborn,” he went on. “And resistant to change, and I always order the same thing in restaurants. But the flip side is, I know what I like. Once I make up my mind, I don’t change it. I’m talking about to the end of time, Nell.”

“That’s wonderful,” she whispered. “To the ends of being, and ideal grace. Lovely. I’m melting. Keep going.”

He looked worried. “Keep going? Oh, God. This is the hard part, right? I have to keep being poetic? For the rest of my life? Fuck me!”

She giggled. “So the part that came before was easy, for you, then? The gunfights and the car chases and the mortal combat?”

“Oh, that stuff’s more or less straightforward,” he said gruffly. “You either get killed or you don’t. But love, man. That shit’s complicated. I don’t understand why it works now, but it didn’t before.”

She traced his mouth with a fascinated finger. “Because we met halfway,” she said softly. “You’re so beautiful, Duncan.”

“Uh, thanks,” he said. “So this is the halfway point, then?”

She pulled his face down, kissed him. “Yeah. Nice, isn’t it?”

“I love our halfway point.” He touched his lips to hers, as gently as if she were a newly opened flower. “Let’s live there forever.”

“Sounds great to me,” she replied.