Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) (7 page)

“Better safe than sorry.”

“You’ve got that right,” she said, laughing. At ease finally.

Her visitor closed the door behind him, reset the deadbolt, and turned back to her.

Nevada’s gaze trailed to his hands, his full-length rain coat. “Gloves? Long coat? Did I miss the weather report? We’re about to have a cold spell?” she asked, still smiling. “You’re looking very James Bond.”

He flexed his fingers in the leather gloves, shrugged.

Nevada left it at that and made no mention of his black loafers, iron-creased black pants, and dark shirt. The Kangol hat tilted at an angle on his head. The dark sunglasses.

“Place is the worst,” she said, moving into the room with her back to him. “Pipes were screaming as I took my shower. I wasn’t sure if the walls were going to cave in. And still, the water refused to get near hot.”

Her visitor moved over to the bathroom, looked in. Nevada’s laptop was on the sink, plugged into the hairdryer socket. The laptop was all she’d brought. No clothes, no toiletries, no undergarments. There was no tension in her visitor’s posture. Relaxed, calm.

“The guy in the office makes my skin crawl,” Nevada said. “He’s a real pervert. He was reading a dirty magazine when I walked in. He didn’t even try to hide it. If it weren’t for rented porn and his job, this guy’d never hear a human voice. I swear to you. Such has been my day.”

Her visitor rolled his neck several times, stretched his arms, then his fingers again.

“Listen at me going on and on. I should ask if
you’re
okay,” Nevada said. “You’re awfully quiet. I’m sorry I dragged you out at this time in the morning. I hope you don’t mind too much.”

“No. I’m glad you called,” he said. “We knew this day was coming.”

“Sure?” she pressed.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Nevada.”

“I’m counting on your help,” she said. “Between the two of us we should be able to figure out how to deal with this…situation. I need you to be your usual sharp self. Okay?”

He didn’t answer. He was still lingering by the bathroom, his back to her.

She moved over, rested her hand on his shoulder. “Hey!”

He made a sound she couldn’t decipher.

“Hey,” she repeated.

“You’ve gotten yourself into some shit,” he said. “Shell should be dealing with this. But as usual, you call me to get you out of it.”

“What’s that?”

“Drop your towel. Get naked.”

She laughed. “Right. Wouldn’t you just love it if I…”

He turned, and the smile froze on her face. She realized her mistake immediately, misplaced trust, and fought the desire to drop her head. She nodded at his hands instead. “What is that?” she said.

“This.” He smiled, chatty suddenly. “A .380 Bersa. Weighs 23 ounces. Matte blue, satin nickel accents. Rowel-type hammer, seven shot magazine, adjustable sights.” He hefted it in his hands. “I think I’ve sufficiently covered my ass. I acid-burned the serial, just in case the gun and I do part. I made a suppressor with a Maglite, but I won’t need that here. You did good selecting this place. The malaise here is thick as soup. Nobody cares enough to even pause at the sound of a couple innocent gun shots.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Money. I was hoping we could tango before I take you to them, but you’ve wasted too much time. So get dressed. Post-haste.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You will.” He glanced at her in a way she’d never seen before.

Nevada’s lip trembled; her eyes watered. “I hope you go to—”

“Let’s not get dramatic, Nevada. Dressed,
now
.”

“No.”

“No?”

“There an echo in here?” she asked.

He grabbed her roughly by the hair, dragged her toward the bed. She broke free, ran nowhere, her visitor back on her heels in a matter of seconds. A fallen chair lay on its side on the battlefield of the brief struggle. He pressed the handgun behind her left ear, moved her toward the bed, pushed her down on the counterpane. “That’s right, Nevada. Loosen up, baby. We’ll be late, but they’ll have to understand. Relax and enjoy this. Pretend I’m Shell if you have to.”

She rested both hands on the bed as he fumbled with his belt. Her body was wracked by sobs, by heavy breathing. She said something through gritted teeth once his pants dropped down to his ankles.

“What was that?” he asked.

“You’re soft,” she mocked. “Somebody needs Viagra.”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Nevada.”

“Screw you.”

“No,” he said. “Screw you. And screw Shell. He’ll get his, without Vaseline, in due time. Now hold still.”

She fought his effort to enter her from the rear.

He rewarded her with a hard slap from the gun to the back of her head.

A wet, sticky copper smell invaded her nostrils. Her blood, she realized.

“I didn’t want to do that,” he said. “But you’ve involved yourself in some serious mess, Nevada. You had to know something like this was possible. Or did you think you could just go on tempting fate and walk away shaking your ass?”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”

“Shut up, Nevada.”

“For thou art with me,” she went on.

“Nevada, dammit. Shut. Your. Mouth.”

“Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…”

“I’ve had it with—”

A knock at the door halted her whispered prayer. Halted her visitor, too. He shot around, growled. “Shit! Shut up, Nevada.”

“Help me,” she screamed.

And received another slap with the gun for her effort. Another and she would surely suffer a blackout.

“Quiet, now,” he said.

His weight pressed down on her, constricted her lungs. A sandpaper hand covered her mouth. She attempted to bite it but failed. He laughed at the attempt.

Another knock at the door.

After several minutes she assumed the same thing he assumed.

“Whoever it was, they’re gone,” he said, releasing his hand from her mouth.

She gasped, took several breaths and asked, “Why? Why are you doing this?”

He looked at his wrist. “Need to get out of here.”

“You will not get away with this.”

He stood, carelessly let his gun arm drift down to his side. “Care to bet on that?”

She jumped up suddenly and rushed for the bathroom, sliding on the tile with her bare feet, struggling to close the door behind her.

His foot holding the door open.

She rammed rammed rammed the door to no avail.

“I need you to release the door,” he said calmly.

“Leave me alone.”

“You know I can’t do that, Nevada.”

“Please.”

“Release the door or I start shooting randomly.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Twenty seconds.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Fifteen.”

“I won’t tell anyone about this. Please leave me alone.”

“Ten.”

“Leave,” she screamed.

“Five.”

Weakened, she gave up, backed away. The door eased open.

“Was that so hard?” her visitor asked.

“Please just leave,” Nevada said.

He shook his head. “Sorry; that won’t do. They need bait for Shell. Unfortunately, you’re the worm.” Then he walked toward her, right hand raised. Flashes appeared to spit from his fingers as though he were a comic book villain.

Three barks.

FIVE

THREE DAYS AFTER SIOBHAN’S phone call, I’d yet to thaw. I’d expected another call, from some unseen enemy, dangling Nevada’s life over my head. Shades of Veronica and Ericka all over again. But my phone had remained silent, which placed me in a worse condition than if it had rang. It felt as though I was still down on my ass in the beach sand outside my hotel. It had taken me every inch of the seventy-two hours since the call to reconcile some things in my mind, to decide what to do next. And finally, I knew what had to be done. I hustled the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo up early on that third morning. Before 5 A.M. I hadn’t taken my ice cube shower. I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t run. I hadn’t done my push-ups, pull-ups, or my crunches. There was a briny, metallic taste in my mouth that I couldn’t chase away with mouthwash. As if there were a pouch of old copper pennies chipmunking my cheek like chewing tobacco. I swallowed my nausea, woke the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo and told her to pack whatever belongings she had. She yawned and wiped sleep from her tired eyes, tried to process what I was saying to her. We were moving roots, I told her. Everything I’d brought with me was in a black shoulder bag. The shoulder bag was already on the backseat of my rental car. She didn’t complain about me stirring her so early in the A.M. She didn’t ask any questions, either. Good thing. I wasn’t in the mood to supply her with any answers. I had too many questions of my own. And the details in the newspapers and from Siobhan did little in answering them. Blood traces were discovered in the motel room, on a pillowcase and in the bathroom. Nevada’s. But no body. Also, a rectangular impression consistent with the size and shape of a laptop was found in the moisture on the bathroom sink counter. Two wet towels lay in a pile on the carpet. No clothes, toiletries, or other personal items were unearthed. What did it mean that she’d traveled so light? Her SUV maintained its spot in the lot. Neither the night clerk nor anyone else had seen her leave. They hadn’t seen her mysterious visitor arrive, either. Gunshot holes were found in the plaster, but no one recalled hearing any shots. The desk clerk admitted walking to the back of the courtyard and knocking on Nevada’s door once, an excuse barely formulated in his mind even as he did so, but the knock wasn’t answered and he didn’t notice anything peculiar. Questions and more questions abounded. And my vivid reenactment, as creative as it was, was just that, a creation. All of the unanswered questions left me feeling restless. So, only one thing to do. Move.

We rode in silence, the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo and myself, me at the wheel of the Yukon I’d rented when we first arrived in Miami, destined for an address on Ocean Drive. Not only was she silent beside me, she barely moved, sitting rigidly while watching the road out of her side window, every now and then spiderwalking her fingers up the glass. A venomous black widow, I thought. That little bit of movement seemed to be a labor for her. If I were a better man I would’ve spoken to her, told her of the shadows that covered me and all of my thoughts. But I didn’t, and less than thirty minutes into the drive I brought the Yukon to an idle at the foot of an opulent mansion. It had been built in 1930, existed as a private property the majority of its lifetime. But now it was a ten-room, luxury hotel, perhaps the finest in all of Miami. And not just any mansion, either. A jewel in the Versace family’s crown.

“Casa Casuarina,” the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo said.

She wasn’t naked at the moment, but still had the tattoo. She’d have that forever. It was hard for me to believe that anything could ever really last forever.

I exhaled, said, “I booked the La Mer suite for seven nights.”

One king-sized bed, six hundred and ten square feet of top-shelf living space, a balcony with a pool and garden view, fully stocked minibar, bidet, marble bathroom, mosaic-tiled floors and stained glass windows. Close to seven hundred dollars per night. And worth every cent.

“It’s gorgeous, Shell.”

“It is,” I said.

I helped her with her luggage. Two rich leather pieces, both very heavy. One I hefted and carried on my shoulder like a basket of folded laundry. The other I underarmed with a similarly easy effort. Adrenaline fueled my every move. Our valet offered to get us assistance. I declined. I could’ve put the Yukon on my back and climbed the stairs at that point.

In the room, the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo walked around touching all of the accoutrements. Trailing her slender fingertips over all the surfaces. The one king-sized bed. The walls. Chairs. Tables. Touching everything with the tender care of a long time lover. Touching everything with an appreciation that looked as though it would never fade.

I stood by silently, watching her, admiring her.

She was without question a beautiful woman.

After some time, she turned to me, a brave smile on her face.

“Rough-hewn,” she said, gazing at me, crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

“What?”

“Rough-hewn,” she repeated.

“Not in the mood for riddles,” I said.

She nodded, swallowed hard. Then she surveyed the room again. Some strength came to her shoulders; she adjusted her posture, held her head high, as though peering at skyscrapers in one of the world’s great cities. Paris. New York. It took a moment, but eventually her gaze found its way back to me. I noticed a slight tremble in her lip. It was subtle but real. Emotions painted her entire face. She said, “Rough-hewn,” for the third time.

I stood silent.

She hugged herself, shuddered. “That’s how everyone that knows of you describes you,” she said. “I’ve balked at accepting it. Done my best to believe otherwise.”

“Accept it,” I said. “Believe it.”

“You have a wonderful side,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard me, “And a not so wonderful side, too. I’ve been warned about you. More than once. I’ve been foolish. I should have listened.”

“You shouldn’t talk about us to anyone.”

“Some of us are unable to live in a cocoon where we can hide from those we’ve hurt and worse.”

That wasn’t just a throwaway statement. It was a well-aimed dart.

My nostrils flared. I said, “If you were a man talking like that I’d smack you down.”

“Can’t handle the truth? As much as you like to pretend your Network is truly shut down, we both know it’s just hibernating until the moment you—”

I took steps toward her, repeating, “Smack you down.”

A couple of steps and her insanity vanished. Her shoulders went slack. I stopped moving again.

She said, softly, “You scare me at times, Shell.”

I nodded.

“I hate how you talk to me when you’re upset,” she went on.

“I can imagine,” I said.

“You’re leaving?”