Release, page 6
“I don’t have my own car.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. And it’s none of your business.”
“But she likes you. I’m not exactly sure why, but she does. And there’s no doubt she thinks you’re hot. So why not go for it?”
He looked at her as if she’d flashed him. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am. I mean, really, Seth. Maybe if you got laid…”
“If I what?”
“See? It’s been way too long. You’ve already forgotten what it is.”
“Jesus, you’re amazing,” he said, shaking his head.
“I like to think so, but that still doesn’t answer the question.”
“I’m not going to answer because it’s unbelievably insulting of you to ask.”
“We’re roomies. Roomies get to ask all kinds of things.”
“Stop it, Harper.”
“Fine. Just let me reiterate. The foul mood thing? It’s getting old. And perhaps going home with Karen to play with her pussycat is just what the doctor ordered. If you’ll pardon the pun.”
“Stop the car.”
“We’re three blocks from the house.”
“I don’t care. Just stop the car.”
“Don’t be silly. We’ll be there in one minute and then you can sulk for the rest of the night.”
His hand—the real one—slammed down on the dashboard. “Goddammit, Harper, stop the fucking car.”
She pulled over, shocked at how angry he was. Okay, so she’d been intrusive, but that was nothing new. What button had she pushed? Was it because of his hand? Did he not feel sexy now that it was gone? Was he kidding?
The second the car was at the curb, he was out the door. As he walked away, she saw his new claw. It looked really cool. Not that she’d tell him that.
* * * * * *
He had about twenty bucks in his pocket and no credit card or he would never walk into that house on St. Louis Street. Not ever again. But there wasn’t any choice. He was stuck with her. The only way he was getting out of there was to take down Omicron. But how could he do that if he couldn’t even mop a floor?
He walked, his left arm heavy and awkward, not looking at the cars or the old houses. He kept thinking about Harper’s questions—why hadn’t he accepted Karen’s invitation?
It wasn’t because of his hand. She was a doctor, and it clearly hadn’t put her off. It was more than that. Infinitely worse. Because he was cursed—there was only one woman he wanted, and they couldn’t get through a drive home without her making him so mad he wanted to strangle her.
He’d tried to think of other women. God knows he’d met some beauties in his life. Incredible women from all parts of the world, and every one of them made more sense than Harper.
He needed to get out of that house. He had to get it together and become a soldier again, even a broken one. Since he had to be at the clinic anyway, he’d use that as his training ground.
He looked up as he reached her house. He hoped she wasn’t in his way, because, dammit, he was ready to fight.
* * * * * *
Eli Lieberman sat in his apartment, looking at the stack of notes he’d taken from Baker’s house. He still couldn’t believe that Corky Baker was dead. That this group, this Omicron, had killed him.
He’d never known anyone who’d been murdered. In fact, he’d only been to one funeral in his life, and that was when he was seven.
It was all hard to grasp. Not that he was completely naive about the government. He’d been in the news business long enough to get his feet wet. But this? A rogue arm of the CIA making a chemical weapon to sell on the black market?
Of course, there was a precedent for that. Iran/Contra. And that was the only one the public knew about. For all he knew, this was standard operating procedure. One that would deeply embarrass the government should it be leaked.
He opened one of the notebooks and started reading the barely legible scrawl. He forgot that he’d meant to eat dinner, that he needed a shower. That he had to get back to Vince Yarrow to give him his final decision as to whether he’d continue the investigation or not.
By the time he looked up again, he’d read four full notebooks and come to the realization that there was no decision to make. He was in too deep already just by virtue of finding Baker’s body.
Omicron was a monster. A group with money, connections and absolutely no hesitation about keeping their business a secret no matter what.
He was more than likely dead already. The only question left was did he go down fighting or hiding?
Hiding had a lot of good points. He was young, he could disappear without much of a flap. Where? He had no idea. He spoke Spanish, so that was a plus, but…
His gaze hit a notebook, and there on the very edge was a rust-colored stain. The blood of a fellow reporter. Baker had been a bastard, but he’d also been a hell of a journalist. This story would have gotten him a Pulitzer. No question.
One thing for sure—when Eli ran the story, he’d give credit where it was due. He’d make sure that everyone knew exactly how and why Corky Baker had been killed.
He leaned back in his chair, the one his aunt Sophie had given him along with the dining room table and the big, ugly couch. What the hell. Omicron had his name, his address, probably his shoe size. He had no desire to spend the rest of his life in hiding. So it would begin. He would transcribe the notes. He would continue the investigation. And he’d take Vince Yarrow’s advice and get himself a big, honkin’ gun.
Screw it.
Chapter 6
Something woke her. A sound, a bang. It took her a moment to focus on the bedside clock. Two-twelve. After throwing back the covers, she slipped her robe on and went to the hall. She didn’t see any lights on and it was very still in the house, and yet she padded down the hall, her bare feet cold on the hardwood floor. When she got to the kitchen, the streetlight outside illuminated the room in a yellow glow, and there was Seth, sitting at the table, a glass in his hand, a bottle of Chivas Regal squat and open nearby.
She thought of retreating, but she’d had enough of this sparring. Whether he liked it or not, they lived together and worked together, and both of their lives would be infinitely better if they could stop sniping at each other.
He jumped a little when she entered the kitchen, but he didn’t look at her when she sat down across from him.
“It’s late,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
“You should go back to bed.”
“Not yet. How drunk are you?’
“Not very.”
“You think you could talk to me? Not get angry, just talk?”
He sat for a long time, staring at his glass. Finally he nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Hold tight.” She had no idea if this was going to be a lengthy conversation, although she hoped it would. Regardless, she needed some fortification of her own. Hers would be tea. Cinnamon-apple sounded right.
It didn’t take long for the kettle to boil or for her to spoon out the honey. She took her big mug and sat down again. He’d poured himself another two fingers and he was gripping the glass rather tightly, but at least he was still there.
“What did you want to say?” he asked.
“I’m hoping for a truce.”
“We’re not at war.”
“Aren’t we? When’s the last time we had a civil conversation? Shared a meal? Laughed?”
Even in the strained light she could see his lips press together. “I’m not feeling very sociable these days.”
“I know. And while I grant you that this is a difficult time, we’re together a lot. It would be easier if we were friends.”
He looked at her now, his whole posture accusatory. “Friends? I think that ship sailed the night you took my hand.”
She sighed. “Let’s just get through this, okay? I’m a doctor. It’s my job to save lives. The way the bullet shattered your hand didn’t leave me many options. The nerves were in tatters and the bones destroyed. If I hadn’t amputated, you’d never have been able to move even one finger. It was gone, okay? There was no way for me—for any doctor—to have prevented things from going from bad to worse to deadly. I took your hand to save your life. At least this way you have a chance. If I’d listened to you, you’d be dead right now.”
“And how do you know that wouldn’t have been better?”
“Are you seriously telling me you’d rather have died? Never to know if you could have exposed Omicron for the bastards they are? Never to have the chance to fall in love? Have children?”
He drank again, and when he put the glass down he held on tight. “I don’t know.”
“Then I did the right thing.”
“I’m not…”
“What?”
“I’m not me.”
“You are not your left hand, Seth.”
“I’m a soldier. A fighter.”
“Yes, you are. That hasn’t changed.”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“You don’t think we see a lot of vets in the clinic? Men who’ve lost both legs? Arms gone so high up that they can’t fit a prosthesis? It takes time, Seth. Time to heal and adjust. Learn what you can do instead of focusing on what you can’t.”
“If you couldn’t be a doctor anymore…?”
“With one hand, I could be a doctor. I’d have to figure out ways of doing what I always do, but I’d still have my mind, my training. I wouldn’t turn my back on medicine willingly.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Long enough for her to finish half her tea.
“It’s not just the hand,” he said, his voice different, softer. “It’s my folks.”
“I know. That must be tough.”
“It’s their anniversary on Friday. I forget how many years, maybe forty. And they think their only son is a traitor. They think I didn’t care enough to call them, to let them know I was alive.”
“You’ll explain it all to them when this is over. They’ll understand.”
“I don’t understand. How did it all get so messed up? How could our government do this? You know we found a storage facility where they had enough of that gas to kill God knows how many people. Men, women, children.”
“But you stopped them.”
He shook his head. “We stopped that shipment. We didn’t find the manufacturing plant. They could have ten different storage facilities that we haven’t found.”
“What do you want to be doing now?”
“Not mopping floors.”
“I know that. Now answer.”
“Working with Nate. I’m the surveillance guy. I’m the one who knows how to hear, to see.”
“Does everything you do as the surveillance guy require two hands?”
“Not everything. Just most of it.”
“Do you use specialized tools?”
“Not really. I use my hands. It’s delicate work.”
She nodded. “Maybe while you’re mopping floors you could be thinking of ways to modify what you do. There are mechanics who use prosthetics. I know that for sure.”
“But not surgeons.”
“No, you’re right. There may be things you need help with. But first you need to get comfortable with your new claw. Which I like, by the way. Working at the clinic can be the perfect place, if you let it. You’re safe there. You have your physical therapy. It can all work in your favor.”
He looked at her without speaking. She finished her tea and waited. She could be patient when she had to be.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?”
“What are you doing to stop them?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You saw what they did. Maybe more than any of us. You were there, in that village.”
She nodded. “I wish to God I hadn’t, but you’re right, I did.”
“I know you have the trauma room in case we get hurt, but I also know you aren’t happy about it. You don’t ask what’s going on. You don’t ask what you can do to help.”
“I’m keeping you here. I got Noah to help.”
“All of which is great, but it’s not what I’m talking about. You know what I think?”
“What?” she asked, although she didn’t really want to know.
“I think you’d be happy if we all just went away and left you alone. I don’t think you care a damn that you can’t be who you were. I think you like things the way they are.”
She got up from the table, but instead of putting her mug in the sink as she’d intended she got out some more tea and put the kettle back on the stove.
“Don’t quit on me now,” he said.
“I’m not,” she said and she heard the testiness in her tone. She’d asked him to talk about some hard stuff, and it was only fair that she be willing to step up to the plate herself.
When she couldn’t put it off any longer, after preparing her tea and honey, she sat back down. She looked at Seth. She thought he seemed sad. But then, didn’t he always?
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t relish the idea of fighting with Omicron, despite what I know. I’m not a soldier. I never was.”
“Why were you in Kosovo if you didn’t want to be in the fight?”
“They told me the war was over.”
He leaned back in his chair, but he was still close enough that she could see the expression on his face. She, on the other hand, was in shadow. That made her feel a little better. “I don’t have the kind of relationship you have with your family. I wanted to get as far away from mine as I could. Kosovo seemed pretty damned far.”
“Why?”
She almost told him it was none of his business, but she pushed that away. If she ever wanted Seth to trust her, she had to trust him right back. Well, as much as she could. “When I was sixteen, my father went to jail. He was in real estate. We lived in Oregon, in a real nice neighborhood. Our house was one of the biggest in the area, and we had pretty much anything we wanted.”
She took a sip of her tea. “One day when I came home from school, there were policemen at the house. A couple of FBI agents were with my dad in his office. They were carting out boxes of his stuff. All his papers and ledgers and just about everything that wasn’t nailed to the wall. His real estate business was a scam. He’d bilked hundreds of people out of millions of dollars. Most of them were retired folks with fixed incomes. It hit the papers, was on the news for months. Me and my mom, we lost everything. The house, the car. I had to move in with my grandmother, who would barely talk to me.”
“My mother…well, that’s another story. But we were never the same again. My father was sentenced to eighteen years and to make restitution. All the money we’d ever had went to that. Including my college fund, even the money for my junior prom dress. I had to go to work after school and all during the summers.”
“Shit.”
“That’s about right.”
“So he’s still in prison?”
“He gets out in eleven months.”
“You going to see him?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to him since he went in.”
“What about your mother?”
“Nope. Hey, it’s fine. I don’t miss it. I’ve got my work.”
“But that’s all.”
“It’s enough.”
“That still doesn’t tell me why you don’t want to fight Omicron. I’d think you, more than most, would want justice.”
“You’d be wrong. I just want to be left alone. I hope it all works out, because I think you guys are getting a raw deal. And because I don’t want to see any of that gas used ever again.”
“But you don’t personally want to get involved.”
“I’m more involved now than I care to be. Any more questions?”
“Not at the moment. You?”
“Yeah. I still don’t get why you didn’t go home with Karen.”
Seth snorted. “You’ll just have to figure that one out for yourself. I’m going to bed.”
With that, he stood, took his glass to the sink and the whiskey to the cupboard.
She caught sight of the new claw, and while she could see it looked all high-tech and shiny, she didn’t get any details. That could wait till tomorrow.
They’d made progress. She understood a lot more about his frustrations and maybe he understood her point of view. It was a start.
He nodded at her and headed toward the hall.
“Seth?”
“Yeah?” He stopped, turned her way.
“I’m sorry about your parents.”
“Me, too.”
* * * * * *
It was Sunday, and for once, Seth had actually slept late. The morning had been taken up with exercise, followed by an extensive session with the claw. He felt more worn out from that than doing his hundred push-ups.
Finally at four, he’d given it up and taken a long shower, wondering what he was going to do for the rest of the day. Wondering whether Harper was going to stay here or go to the clinic. Hell, he’d been so preoccupied she might have been there and come back.
He couldn’t recall when she’d taken time off. Her excuse was paperwork, but he had the feeling it was more than that. The clinic was where she felt safe.
He turned off the water but was instantly on guard as he heard voices. His first reaction was to go for his gun. He didn’t have one. He hadn’t had one since the night on that lonely highway, trying to save Kate. When the Omicron bastards had shot his hand off. It occurred to him that someone had probably found it. What a gruesome discovery. He hoped it had been a coyote, not a kid.
He dressed quickly, worried about Harper. She hadn’t mentioned inviting company, and since he’d been here no one had just dropped by. Even Nate called first.
Not bothering with his hair, his shoes or his claw, he left the bathroom quietly, intending to get a look before he made himself known.
Halfway to the kitchen he relaxed. It wasn’t a stranger, it was Nate. And if he wasn’t mistaken, that was Kate’s voice. His pace quickened, and it was only when he was gripped by Nate’s rough hug that he remembered his stump.
