Part 14 (1/2)

Eighteen.

The medical technician p.r.o.nounced me fit to leave. I had escaped the examination without a tracheotomy. And I still had my pants on. Remarkably, I had a contusion on my forehead but no concussion. He told me that I would probably have some neck pain and asked if I wanted a neck brace, but I declined. Although my status as queen of the nerds was never really in question, wearing a neck brace would certainly cement my reign. While I was being examined, Wyatt had arrived on the scene and taken copious notes on the incident, based on what Crawford and I told him. He was much nicer to me than normal. Maybe it had finally dawned on him that I had nothing to do with the murder. Or maybe he had just played basketball with an orphan and was feeling magnanimous.

He and Crawford conferred outside while I stayed inside the ambulance. When they were done, Wyatt poked his head inside the ambulance, his hands supporting him on either side of the opening. His gla.s.ses were covered with a thin sheen of rain, and he took them off and wiped them on his s.h.i.+rt. ”I may need to talk with you again,” he said.

I nodded that I understood. ”Can I go home?”

”Detective Crawford will take you home,” he said. ”Get some rest, Professor,” he said, respectfully and without any condescension.

I stood and went to the back of the ambulance. Crawford offered me a hand, and I took it as I went down the slick metal steps. The Navigator was on the flatbed portion of the tow truck; it was remarkably intact. The shattered winds.h.i.+eld, splattered with blood, and the inflated air bags were the only evidence of what had happened. I thanked G.o.d that if Vince was going to try to kill all of us, he did so in an SUV the size of a tank and not a Hyundai.

Crawford's Pa.s.sat wagon was parked north of the scene, facing in the right direction. We went to the car and he opened the pa.s.senger-side door for me, helping me in. He got in on his side, and satisfied that I was strapped in, he started the car, took the first exit, and got us onto the northbound side in moments. We went through the toll plaza. The southbound tolls were closed; the damaged one was already being repaired. We went across the Hudson River, through Riverdale, and merged onto the Saw Mill, in silence.

We pa.s.sed the Cross County Parkway merge and went under the underpa.s.s. ”Don't say anything about Ray,” I said, thinking back to the phone call.

”I wasn't going to,” he said, shaking his head. ”You were almost killed, but the only thing you're worried about is that I'll say something about Ray.” He turned and looked at me. ”Sometimes, you're priceless,” he said, with a bit of wonder in his voice. He pulled up at the red light at Executive Boulevard.

”He's an a.s.shole . . .”

”. . . but he's harmless. So I've heard.”

Actually, I was going to stop at ”he's an a.s.shole.” I was no longer sure about the rest. I swallowed and looked out the window. Although I would have been justified in falling apart, I didn't want to do it in front of him. Again.

We continued in silence. We arrived at the house in fifteen minutes, and he pulled up the driveway, parking as close to the front door as possible. All of the lights were still on, but he had closed and locked the front door. As we approached the door on the slick bluestone pavers, he reached into his jeans pocket and produced my house keys. ”You're good,” I said. ”Not only did you remember to lock the front door, but you remembered to bring the keys.”

We went in and he closed the door. I started up the stairs to the bedroom, but he remained rooted to the floor in the hallway. I turned, halfway up the stairs. ”Come with me.”

He hesitated for a short moment and then started up behind me. Once in the bedroom, we stood looking at each other. He stared down at me. ”What now?” he asked.

I looked back at him. ”Surveillance.” I kicked off my clogs and found a pair of pajama pants and a tank top in one of my drawers. I went into the bathroom and changed. I looked at my head and whistled to myself. The bruise on my head was large, blue, and veiny-looking. No clever hairstyle was going to cover that up unless I got bangs. I washed my hands and face and brushed my teeth; the taste of vomit was a lingering reminder of the evening's events. I rinsed and held on to the sink, letting a few tears fall into the porcelain basin. I ran the hand towel that was hanging on a hook next to the sink over my face, careful of the lump on my head.

When I emerged, he was coming back up the stairs, having washed up in the powder room downstairs. He waited until I climbed into the king-size bed and sat down on the edge next to me, taking off his Tevas. He reached under his pant leg and pulled off the small gun, placing it on my nightstand. ”Are you sure?”

”We've been through a lot tonight. Just stay and don't make it hard.” I turned crimson from head to toe. ”No pun intended.” I pulled the comforter up and let him in. He sat up and stripped off his s.h.i.+rt, leaving his pants on. I nearly lost consciousness again as I took in nice pecs, a sprinkling of chest hair, and a flat, hard stomach. I reached over him and turned off the light next to the bed.

”What's six times eight?” he whispered in the dark, thinking I had another concussion.

”Twelve,” I said.

”Good. Seven times four?” he whispered again.

”Six,” I said, and giggled. ”Shut up.”

We moved closer. His hand rested lightly on my hip. ”Who was the first president?”

”George Clooney.”

”Excellent. Who's our current president?”

I thought for a moment. ”Leopold Bloom.”

”Who?” he asked, his hand reaching around and slipping under the back of my tank top.

”Never mind,” I said, and leaned in to find his face in the dark. A steady rain fell outside the window as we lay in the pitch-black, our lips touching. His hands became entwined in my hair, and he pulled me closer.

I stretched out along the length of his body and buried my head into his neck. He wrapped his arms around me, and whispered, ”I'm so glad you're alive.”

”In what sense? Like 'I'm glad you were born,' or 'I'm glad you survived tonight'?” I asked, always literal.

He laughed in the darkness, the deep chortle with the snort. ”Do you ever shut up?” he asked, and kissed me again. His hands traveled up my back and then back down. They found their way to the waistband of my pajamas. I wasn't sure if it was the head injury or just being with him, but I felt like I was leaving my body. I felt flushed and overly hot. Those old familiar feelings-longing, desire, a tingling deep in my gut-were replaced by something else: fear. Understandable? Maybe. Well timed? Probably not. I pulled away.

”I need a minute,” I said, and lay on my back. He took my hand and laced his fingers into mine.

He leaned over and kissed me lightly on the forehead. ”You need more than a minute.”

I put my back to him and nestled in close, his arms around me. In minutes, we were both asleep.

I don't know how long I slept, but a nightmare in which I was cras.h.i.+ng into the wall again and again made me wake with a start. I looked around the room, my heart racing, not exactly sure of where I was. I put my hand to my chest and felt my heart thumping erratically inside. I put my other hand down on the bed next to me, and while it was warm, it was also empty. I went back to sleep.

Nineteen.

I woke up at ten, bruised, sore, and alone in bed. The smell of frying bacon hit my nose, and I sat up, a little woozy, still tired, and starving. I gingerly put my legs over the side of the bed and my feet on the floor, sitting for a minute while the cobwebs cleared. I stood up and tested my legs; everything seemed to work.

I pulled on a St. Thomas sweats.h.i.+rt that had a few paint stains on it but was fairly clean. I didn't think the sight of my naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s behind the thin material of the tank top was any way to greet Crawford first thing in the morning. I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, trying not to look at myself in the mirror. There was too much damage and not enough time to fix it before I greeted him. I left on my flannel pajama pants and padded down the stairs, barefoot, to the kitchen.

I pa.s.sed the living room and looked in; I could tell that Crawford had spent the night on the couch. The indentation from his body was evident in the soft cus.h.i.+ons, and a pillow and blanket from the guest bedroom had been neatly folded and placed at the end of the couch.

He was standing at the stove, frying a pound of bacon and reading the directions on the back of a m.u.f.fin box intently. He held the box far enough away for me to tell that he needed gla.s.ses. He was wearing the big T-s.h.i.+rt from the Fred Wyatt collection and on his thin frame it was huge. He had the phone in the crook of his neck and was listening as the person on the other end spoke.

”Will she do the ID?” he asked. He waited a second. ”Thanks for handling this, Fred.” He hung up.

”You need bifocals,” I said. I stood in the doorway, a vision in an old sweats.h.i.+rt, pajama pants, and with hair that made Albert Einstein look well-groomed.

He turned around, surprised. ”Good morning!” he said. ”You had a pound of bacon in the freezer, and I found this m.u.f.fin mix. I hope it's all right that I started cooking.”

”You cook?” I asked.

”Well, I can cook bacon and follow directions.”

He had made coffee. He poured a cup and handed it to me. ”How do you feel?”

”I'm sore.”

He looked at me with the sad face. ”Anything else?”