As night fell, Marie-Terese gripped the handle of the nonstick pan and slid a spatula around the edges of a perfectly round pancake. The thing was just ripe for the flipping, a pattern of little bubbles forming on its creamy surface.
"You ready?" she said.
Her son smiled from his supervisory stool on the other side of the countertop. "We're going to count, right?"
"Yup."
Their voices joined together in the three, two...one. Then with a flick of the wrist, she sent the pancake flying and caught it dead in the center.
"You did it!" Robbie said as the sizzle rose up.
Marie-Terese smiled through a stinging sadness. Seven-year-olds were spectacular with approval, capable of making you feel like you were a miracle worker over the simplest of victories. If only she deserved the praise on the big stuff. "Would you get the syrup, please," she said.
Robbie slid off the stool and padded over to the fridge in his slippers. He was wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and a Spider-Man hoodie. His bed had Spider-Man sheets and a Spider-Man duvet, and the lamp he read his Spider-Man comics by had a Spider-Man shade on it. His previous obsession had been SpongeBob, but back in October, as he'd prepared to leave six years old in the dust, he'd declared that he was a grown-up and that henceforth gifts should be of the webbed-crusader variety.
Right. Got it.
Robbie pulled open the fridge door and grabbed the squeeze bottle. "Do we always gots to do as much grammar as we did today?"
"That would be 'have to' and yes, clearly it's needed."
"Can't we do more math?"
"Nope."
"At least I gots pancakes for dinner." As Marie-Terese glanced over at him, he smiled. "Have pancakes."
"Thank you."
Robbie hopped back on the stool and changed the channel on the little TV next to the toaster. The mini-Sony was allowed to be on during breaks from schooling, and the biggie Sony, which was in the living room, could be on Saturday and Sunday afternoons and nights after dinner until bedtime.
Sliding the pancake onto a plate, she fired up another one, pouring the Bisquick in with a ladle. The kitchen was too small for a table, so they used the overhang off the counter as one, tucking stools beneath it and sitting at the stretch of Formica for every meal.
"Ready to flip number two?"
"Yup!"
She and Robbie counted it down together, and she executed another Flying Wallenda with the pancake...and her beautiful angel of a son smiled up at her like she was the sun in his world again.
Marie-Terese delivered his plate to him and then took a seat in front of the salad she'd made herself earlier. As they ate, she glanced over at the stack of mail on the counter and knew without opening it what the bills would add up to. Two of them were big boys: She'd had to put both the private investigator she'd used to find Robbie and the law firm she'd hired to get a divorce on a payment plan, because $127,000 wasn't the kind of thing she could write a check for. Naturally, payment plans involved interest, and unlike credit cards, default wasn't an option: She was taking no chances that P.I. or those lawyers would try to find her. As long as she paid on time, there was no reason for her current location to come to light.
And she always sent money orders that were mailed from Manhattan.
After eighteen months, she was about three-quarters through what she owed, but at least Robbie was safe and with her, and that was all that mattered. "You are better than her."
Marie-Terese refocused. "Excuse me?"
"That waitress just dropped all the food on her tray." Robbie pointed to the little TV screen. "You would never do that."
Marie-Terese looked over at an ad featuring a harried woman having a bad day working at a diner. Her hair was a frizz bomb, her uniform spackled with ketchup, her name tag off-kilter. "You're a better waitress, Mom. And cook."
Abruptly, the scene changed so that Harried Waitress was now in a pink bathrobe on a white sofa, submerging her aching feet in a vibrating pool. The expression on her face was pure bliss, the product obviously relieving her aching soles.
"Thanks, baby," Marie-Terese said roughly.
The commercial flipped into order-now mode, an eight-hundred number appearing under the price of $49.99 as an announcer said, "But wait! If you call now, it will cost you only $29.99!" While a red arrow started to flash next to the price, he demanded, "Isn't this a steal?" and the happy, relaxed waitress came back on and said, "Yes, it is!"
"Come on," Marie-Terese cut in. "Time for a bath."
Robbie slid off the stool and took his plate to the dishwasher. "I don't need help anymore, you know. I can take my own bath."
"I know." God, he was growing up fast. "Just make sure you - "
" - do behind the ears. You tell me alia time."
As Robbie hit the stairs, Marie-Terese turned the TV off and went to clean the pan and bowl. Thinking back on that ad, she wished like hell she were just a waitress...and that all it would take to make her stress go away was a tub you plugged into the wall.
That would be absolute heaven.
Three tries were a charm.
Finally, Jim woke up in a hospital bed: He was stretched out on white sheets, with a thin white blanket pulled up to his chest and little handrails jacked up on either side of him. And the room fit the bill, too, with bland walls, a bathroom in the corner and a TV mounted on the ceiling that was on, but muted.
Of course, the IV in his arm was the real giveaway.
He'd only been dreaming. That shit about those four dainty wing nuts and the castle and everything had just been a weird dream. Thank. God.
Jim lifted his hand to rub his eyes - and froze. There was a grass stain on his palm. And his face hurt like he'd been punched.
Abruptly, Nigel's aristocratic voice sounded in his head so clearly, it was more than a memory: Seven deadly sins. Seven souls swayed by these sins. Seven people at a crossroads with a choice that must be made. You enter their lives and affect their path. If they choose righteousness over sin, we prevail.
Jim took a deep breath and looked toward the window that had a gauze curtain pulled across it. Dark out. Perfect for nightmares. But as much as he wanted to go with the whole it's-only-a-dream thing, the shit was so vivid, so fresh...and men might get hairy palms if they were pumping themselves off, but grassy?
Besides it wasn't like he'd been master of his domain with any great frequency. Especially not the night before, thanks to that brunette. Hello.
Trouble was, if this was the new reality, if he'd been to a parallel universe where everyone was a cross between Simon Cowell and Tim Gunn, if he'd accepted some kind of mission...how the hell did he proceed -
"You're awake."
Jim glanced over. Stepping up to the foot of the bed was none other than Vin diPietro, the general contractor from Hell...who was evidently the boyfriend of the woman Jim had...yeah. "How you feeling?"
The guy was still wearing the black suit that he'd had on when he and the woman had shown up, and also the same bloodred tie. With his dark hair combed back and just a dusting of beard across his hard face, he presented himself to be exactly who he was: rich and in charge.
Surely it wasn't possible that Vin diPietro was the first assignment.
"Hello?" DiPietro waved. "You in there?"
Nah, Jim thought. Can't be. That would be above and beyond any call of duty. Over the guy's shoulder, the commercial that was on the TV suddenly showed a price of $49.99 - no, $29.99, with a little red arrow that...considering where Vin was standing, pointed right at his head.
"Shit, no," Jim muttered. This was the guy?
On the TV screen, some woman in a pink bathrobe smiled up at the camera and mouthed, Yes, it is!
DiPietro frowned and leaned over the bed. "You need a nurse?"
No, he needed a beer. Or six. "I'm cool." Jim rubbed his eyes again, smelled fresh grass, and wanted to curse until he ran out of breath.
"Listen," diPietro said, "I'm assuming you don't have health insurance, so I'll cover all your bills. And if you need to take a couple of days off, I won't dock your wages. Sound good?"
Jim let his hands flop down on the bed and was grateful to see that the grass stains had magically disappeared. DiPietro, on the other hand, was evidently going nowhere. At least not until he had a sense of what Jim might sue him for. It was so frickin' obvious that the guy was not bedside offering up his no doubt limitless credit card because he gave two shits about how Jim was feeling. He didn't want a workers -comp action against his corporation.
Whatever. The accident was not even on Jim's radar; all he could think of was what had happened the night before in his truck. DiPietro was exactly the kind of man who'd have a Blue Dress on his arm, but the coldness in that stare meant he was also the type who could find imperfection in a perfectly beautiful woman. God knew the SOB saw faults in everything that happened at the site, from the way the cement settled in the basement foundation to the tree clearing to the grading of the acres to the position of the nail heads on the framing boards.
No wonder she'd sought out someone else.
And if Jim had to handicap which of the seven sins diPietro was guilty of, there wasn't much of a contest: Avarice was stamped all over not only the guy's designer wardrobe but his car, his woman, and his taste in real estate. He liked his money, this one.
"Listen, I'm going to get a nurse - "
"No." Jim pushed himself up on the pillows. "I don't like nurses."
Or doctors. Or dogs. Or angels...saints...whatever those four lads were.
"Well, then," diPietro said smoothly, "what can I do for you?"
"Nothing." Thanks to the way destiny had reached up and nailed Jim in the balls, the question was what he could do for his "boss."
What was it going to take to turn this guy's life around? Did Jim just berate him into a massive donation to a soup kitchen? Would that be enough? Or, shit, was he going to have to get this silk-suited, M6-driving, misogynistic motherfucker to renounce everything material and turn his ass into a monk?
Wait...crossroads. DiPietro was supposed to be at some kind of crossroads. But how the hell was Jim supposed to know what that was?
He winced and massaged his temples.
"You sure you don't want a nurse?"
Just as frustration put him on the verge of an aneurysm, the images on the TV switched and two chefs appeared on screen. And what do you know. The one who had dark hair looked like Colin and the blond guy next to him sported the exact same bossy expression Nigel had. The pair were leaning into the camera with a covered silver tray, and when the lid was popped off, a dinner plate with some kind of itty-bitty fancy food on it was revealed.
Goddamn it, Jim thought as he glared at the TV. Don't make me do that. By all that's holy -
DiPietro put his face in Jim's field of vision. "What can I do for you?"
As if on cue, the chefs on TV grinned, all ta-da!
"I think I., want to have dinner with you."
"Dinner?" DiPietro's eyebrows rose. "As in...dinner."
Jim resisted the urge to flip off the chefs. "Yeah...but not like dinner, dinner. Just food. Dinner."
"That's it."
"Yeah." Jim shifted his legs around so they hung off the edge of the bed. "That's it."
Reaching over to the IV in his arm, he peeled the tape off the insertion and popped the needle free of his vein. As saline or whatever was in the bag by the bed started to leak onto the floor, he went under the sheets and grunted as he pulled the catheter out of his cock. The electrical pads on his chest were next, and then he leaned to the side and quieted the monitoring equipment.
"Dinner," he said gruffly. "That's all I want."
Well, that and a clue about what he should be doing with the guy. But hopefully a side order of here's-an-idea would come with the meal.
As he stood up, the world spun and he had to use the wall for balance. After a couple of deep breaths, he lurched for the bathroom - and knew when the hospital johnny broke open because diPietro said fuck under his breath.
Clearly the guy was getting a look-see of what was all over Jim's back.
Pausing at the door, Jim looked over his shoulder. "Is 'fuuuuuuck' the way rich people say yes?"
As their eyes met, diPietro's suspicious stare narrowed even further. "Why the hell do you want to have dinner with me?"
"Because we have to start somewhere. Tonight's good for me. Eight o'clock."
When all that came back at him was tense silence, Jim smiled a little. "Just to help you along, it's either dinner or I file a workers'-comp action against you that will make your checkbook bleed. Your choice and I'm good with either outcome."
Vin diPietro had dealt with a lot of SOBs in his lifetime, but this Jim Heron guy was high on the list. It wasn't the outright threat, necessarily. Or the two hundred pounds on that big frame. Or even all that attitude.
The real trouble was the guy's eyes: Anytime a stranger looked at you like he knew you better than family, you had to wonder what the angle was. Had he done his research? Did he know where your bodies were buried?
What kind of threat was he to you?
And dinner? The bastard could have squeezed him for cash, but all he wanted was meat and two veg?
Unless the real ask was going to come outside of the hospital. "Dinner at eight," Vin said.
"And because I'm a fair guy, I'll let you pick the place."
Well, hell, that was easy. If there was going to be trouble, a public peanut gallery was not the kind of condiment Vin was after. "My duplex at the Commodore. You know the building?" Heron's eyes went to the window over the bed and then returned.
"What floor?"
"Twenty-eighth. I'll tell the doorman to let you up."
"See you tonight then."
Heron turned away, flashing that back of his again.
Vin swallowed another curse as he got a second gander at the black tattoo that covered every inch of skin Heron was showing. Against the vista of a graveyard, the Grim Reaper stared out of that muscled back, a hood shielding its face, its eyes glowing through the shadow created by the robe. One bony hand was locked on its scythe, and the body was leaning forward, its free palm reaching out as if in a moment it was going to snatch your soul. Equally as creepy, there seemed to be a tally at the bottom: Underneath the fringe of the Reaper's robes, there were two rows of little line marks grouped in fives.
You added that shit up and you got to a hundred pretty damn easy. The bathroom door shut just as a nurse came rushing in, her crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the floor. "What...where is he?"
"He unplugged himself. I think he's taking a piss and then leaving."
"He can't do that."
"Good luck changing his mind."
Vin headed out and walked down to the waiting room. Leaning inside, he got the attention of the two workmen who had insisted on hanging around until Heron woke up. The one on the left had piercings on his face and the hard-ass, kinked-out air of someone who enjoyed pain. The other was huge with a long, dark braid over the shoulder of his leather jacket.
"He's ready to go home."
Pierced got to his feet. "The doctors are releasing him already?"
"Got nothing to do with the docs. He made the decision himself." Vin nodded down the hall. "He's in room six sixty-six. And he's going to need a ride home."
"We're on it," Pierced said, his silver eyes serious. "We'll get him where he needs to go."
Vin good-bye'd the pair and went over to catch an elevator down to the first floor. As he stepped inside the car, he took out his BlackBerry and called Devina to let her know they were having a guest for dinner. When he got voice mail, he kept it short and sweet and tried not to wonder what the hell she was doing while he was leaving his message.
Or who, as was the case.
Halfway down, the elevator bumped to a halt and the doors opened to let a pair of men in. As the trip downward resumed, the two traded affirming noises, like they'd just concluded a conversation satisfactorily and were reinforcing the fact. They were both dressed in slacks and sweaters, and the one on the left was balding at the crown, his brown hair pulling away like it was afraid being on top of the mountain...
Vin blinked. And then blinked again.
A shadow bloomed all around the balding man, the glimmering, shifting aura the color of pencil lead and the consistency of heat waves on pavement.
It couldn't be...oh, God, no...after all these years of quiet, it couldn't be back.
Curling his hands into fists, Vin closed his eyes and willed away the vision, kicking it out of his brain, denying it access to his neurons. He did not just see that. And if he had, it was a misread of the overhead lighting.
The shit was not back. He'd gotten rid of it. It was not back.
He cracked a lid, looked over at the guy...and felt like he'd been punched in the gut: The translucent shadow was as obvious as the clothes the man was wearing and as tangible as the person standing next to him.
Vin saw dead people, all right. Before they died.
The double doors opened at the lobby, and after the pair filed out, Vin dropped his head and walked as fast as he could for the exit. He was making good time, running from the side of himself he'd never understood and didn't want anything to do with, when he slammed into a white coat who was carrying an armful of files. As paperwork and manila folders took flight like startled birds, Vin helped steady the woman and then dropped down to help her clean the mess up.
The balding man who'd stood ahead of him in the elevator did the same.
Vin's eyes locked on the guy and refused to budge. The smoke was emanating from the left side of the man's chest...boiling up into the air from a specific spot.
"Go see a doctor," Vin heard himself say. "Go see one right away. It's in your lungs."
Before anyone could ask him what the hell he was talking about, Vin scrambled to his feet and tore out of the building, heart in his throat, breath coming in short blasts.
His hands were shaking by the time he got to his car, so it was a good thing BMWs let you get inside and start the engine without plugging the key into anything.
Gripping his steering wheel, he shook his head back and forth.
He'd thought he'd left all that freaky bullshit behind. He thought that second-sight crap was solidly in his past. He'd done what he'd been told to do, and even though he hadn't believed in the actions he'd taken, they had appeared to work for almost twenty years.
Ah, shit...he couldn't go back to the way it had been before.
Just couldn't.
"You ready?" she said.
Her son smiled from his supervisory stool on the other side of the countertop. "We're going to count, right?"
"Yup."
Their voices joined together in the three, two...one. Then with a flick of the wrist, she sent the pancake flying and caught it dead in the center.
"You did it!" Robbie said as the sizzle rose up.
Marie-Terese smiled through a stinging sadness. Seven-year-olds were spectacular with approval, capable of making you feel like you were a miracle worker over the simplest of victories. If only she deserved the praise on the big stuff. "Would you get the syrup, please," she said.
Robbie slid off the stool and padded over to the fridge in his slippers. He was wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and a Spider-Man hoodie. His bed had Spider-Man sheets and a Spider-Man duvet, and the lamp he read his Spider-Man comics by had a Spider-Man shade on it. His previous obsession had been SpongeBob, but back in October, as he'd prepared to leave six years old in the dust, he'd declared that he was a grown-up and that henceforth gifts should be of the webbed-crusader variety.
Right. Got it.
Robbie pulled open the fridge door and grabbed the squeeze bottle. "Do we always gots to do as much grammar as we did today?"
"That would be 'have to' and yes, clearly it's needed."
"Can't we do more math?"
"Nope."
"At least I gots pancakes for dinner." As Marie-Terese glanced over at him, he smiled. "Have pancakes."
"Thank you."
Robbie hopped back on the stool and changed the channel on the little TV next to the toaster. The mini-Sony was allowed to be on during breaks from schooling, and the biggie Sony, which was in the living room, could be on Saturday and Sunday afternoons and nights after dinner until bedtime.
Sliding the pancake onto a plate, she fired up another one, pouring the Bisquick in with a ladle. The kitchen was too small for a table, so they used the overhang off the counter as one, tucking stools beneath it and sitting at the stretch of Formica for every meal.
"Ready to flip number two?"
"Yup!"
She and Robbie counted it down together, and she executed another Flying Wallenda with the pancake...and her beautiful angel of a son smiled up at her like she was the sun in his world again.
Marie-Terese delivered his plate to him and then took a seat in front of the salad she'd made herself earlier. As they ate, she glanced over at the stack of mail on the counter and knew without opening it what the bills would add up to. Two of them were big boys: She'd had to put both the private investigator she'd used to find Robbie and the law firm she'd hired to get a divorce on a payment plan, because $127,000 wasn't the kind of thing she could write a check for. Naturally, payment plans involved interest, and unlike credit cards, default wasn't an option: She was taking no chances that P.I. or those lawyers would try to find her. As long as she paid on time, there was no reason for her current location to come to light.
And she always sent money orders that were mailed from Manhattan.
After eighteen months, she was about three-quarters through what she owed, but at least Robbie was safe and with her, and that was all that mattered. "You are better than her."
Marie-Terese refocused. "Excuse me?"
"That waitress just dropped all the food on her tray." Robbie pointed to the little TV screen. "You would never do that."
Marie-Terese looked over at an ad featuring a harried woman having a bad day working at a diner. Her hair was a frizz bomb, her uniform spackled with ketchup, her name tag off-kilter. "You're a better waitress, Mom. And cook."
Abruptly, the scene changed so that Harried Waitress was now in a pink bathrobe on a white sofa, submerging her aching feet in a vibrating pool. The expression on her face was pure bliss, the product obviously relieving her aching soles.
"Thanks, baby," Marie-Terese said roughly.
The commercial flipped into order-now mode, an eight-hundred number appearing under the price of $49.99 as an announcer said, "But wait! If you call now, it will cost you only $29.99!" While a red arrow started to flash next to the price, he demanded, "Isn't this a steal?" and the happy, relaxed waitress came back on and said, "Yes, it is!"
"Come on," Marie-Terese cut in. "Time for a bath."
Robbie slid off the stool and took his plate to the dishwasher. "I don't need help anymore, you know. I can take my own bath."
"I know." God, he was growing up fast. "Just make sure you - "
" - do behind the ears. You tell me alia time."
As Robbie hit the stairs, Marie-Terese turned the TV off and went to clean the pan and bowl. Thinking back on that ad, she wished like hell she were just a waitress...and that all it would take to make her stress go away was a tub you plugged into the wall.
That would be absolute heaven.
Three tries were a charm.
Finally, Jim woke up in a hospital bed: He was stretched out on white sheets, with a thin white blanket pulled up to his chest and little handrails jacked up on either side of him. And the room fit the bill, too, with bland walls, a bathroom in the corner and a TV mounted on the ceiling that was on, but muted.
Of course, the IV in his arm was the real giveaway.
He'd only been dreaming. That shit about those four dainty wing nuts and the castle and everything had just been a weird dream. Thank. God.
Jim lifted his hand to rub his eyes - and froze. There was a grass stain on his palm. And his face hurt like he'd been punched.
Abruptly, Nigel's aristocratic voice sounded in his head so clearly, it was more than a memory: Seven deadly sins. Seven souls swayed by these sins. Seven people at a crossroads with a choice that must be made. You enter their lives and affect their path. If they choose righteousness over sin, we prevail.
Jim took a deep breath and looked toward the window that had a gauze curtain pulled across it. Dark out. Perfect for nightmares. But as much as he wanted to go with the whole it's-only-a-dream thing, the shit was so vivid, so fresh...and men might get hairy palms if they were pumping themselves off, but grassy?
Besides it wasn't like he'd been master of his domain with any great frequency. Especially not the night before, thanks to that brunette. Hello.
Trouble was, if this was the new reality, if he'd been to a parallel universe where everyone was a cross between Simon Cowell and Tim Gunn, if he'd accepted some kind of mission...how the hell did he proceed -
"You're awake."
Jim glanced over. Stepping up to the foot of the bed was none other than Vin diPietro, the general contractor from Hell...who was evidently the boyfriend of the woman Jim had...yeah. "How you feeling?"
The guy was still wearing the black suit that he'd had on when he and the woman had shown up, and also the same bloodred tie. With his dark hair combed back and just a dusting of beard across his hard face, he presented himself to be exactly who he was: rich and in charge.
Surely it wasn't possible that Vin diPietro was the first assignment.
"Hello?" DiPietro waved. "You in there?"
Nah, Jim thought. Can't be. That would be above and beyond any call of duty. Over the guy's shoulder, the commercial that was on the TV suddenly showed a price of $49.99 - no, $29.99, with a little red arrow that...considering where Vin was standing, pointed right at his head.
"Shit, no," Jim muttered. This was the guy?
On the TV screen, some woman in a pink bathrobe smiled up at the camera and mouthed, Yes, it is!
DiPietro frowned and leaned over the bed. "You need a nurse?"
No, he needed a beer. Or six. "I'm cool." Jim rubbed his eyes again, smelled fresh grass, and wanted to curse until he ran out of breath.
"Listen," diPietro said, "I'm assuming you don't have health insurance, so I'll cover all your bills. And if you need to take a couple of days off, I won't dock your wages. Sound good?"
Jim let his hands flop down on the bed and was grateful to see that the grass stains had magically disappeared. DiPietro, on the other hand, was evidently going nowhere. At least not until he had a sense of what Jim might sue him for. It was so frickin' obvious that the guy was not bedside offering up his no doubt limitless credit card because he gave two shits about how Jim was feeling. He didn't want a workers -comp action against his corporation.
Whatever. The accident was not even on Jim's radar; all he could think of was what had happened the night before in his truck. DiPietro was exactly the kind of man who'd have a Blue Dress on his arm, but the coldness in that stare meant he was also the type who could find imperfection in a perfectly beautiful woman. God knew the SOB saw faults in everything that happened at the site, from the way the cement settled in the basement foundation to the tree clearing to the grading of the acres to the position of the nail heads on the framing boards.
No wonder she'd sought out someone else.
And if Jim had to handicap which of the seven sins diPietro was guilty of, there wasn't much of a contest: Avarice was stamped all over not only the guy's designer wardrobe but his car, his woman, and his taste in real estate. He liked his money, this one.
"Listen, I'm going to get a nurse - "
"No." Jim pushed himself up on the pillows. "I don't like nurses."
Or doctors. Or dogs. Or angels...saints...whatever those four lads were.
"Well, then," diPietro said smoothly, "what can I do for you?"
"Nothing." Thanks to the way destiny had reached up and nailed Jim in the balls, the question was what he could do for his "boss."
What was it going to take to turn this guy's life around? Did Jim just berate him into a massive donation to a soup kitchen? Would that be enough? Or, shit, was he going to have to get this silk-suited, M6-driving, misogynistic motherfucker to renounce everything material and turn his ass into a monk?
Wait...crossroads. DiPietro was supposed to be at some kind of crossroads. But how the hell was Jim supposed to know what that was?
He winced and massaged his temples.
"You sure you don't want a nurse?"
Just as frustration put him on the verge of an aneurysm, the images on the TV switched and two chefs appeared on screen. And what do you know. The one who had dark hair looked like Colin and the blond guy next to him sported the exact same bossy expression Nigel had. The pair were leaning into the camera with a covered silver tray, and when the lid was popped off, a dinner plate with some kind of itty-bitty fancy food on it was revealed.
Goddamn it, Jim thought as he glared at the TV. Don't make me do that. By all that's holy -
DiPietro put his face in Jim's field of vision. "What can I do for you?"
As if on cue, the chefs on TV grinned, all ta-da!
"I think I., want to have dinner with you."
"Dinner?" DiPietro's eyebrows rose. "As in...dinner."
Jim resisted the urge to flip off the chefs. "Yeah...but not like dinner, dinner. Just food. Dinner."
"That's it."
"Yeah." Jim shifted his legs around so they hung off the edge of the bed. "That's it."
Reaching over to the IV in his arm, he peeled the tape off the insertion and popped the needle free of his vein. As saline or whatever was in the bag by the bed started to leak onto the floor, he went under the sheets and grunted as he pulled the catheter out of his cock. The electrical pads on his chest were next, and then he leaned to the side and quieted the monitoring equipment.
"Dinner," he said gruffly. "That's all I want."
Well, that and a clue about what he should be doing with the guy. But hopefully a side order of here's-an-idea would come with the meal.
As he stood up, the world spun and he had to use the wall for balance. After a couple of deep breaths, he lurched for the bathroom - and knew when the hospital johnny broke open because diPietro said fuck under his breath.
Clearly the guy was getting a look-see of what was all over Jim's back.
Pausing at the door, Jim looked over his shoulder. "Is 'fuuuuuuck' the way rich people say yes?"
As their eyes met, diPietro's suspicious stare narrowed even further. "Why the hell do you want to have dinner with me?"
"Because we have to start somewhere. Tonight's good for me. Eight o'clock."
When all that came back at him was tense silence, Jim smiled a little. "Just to help you along, it's either dinner or I file a workers'-comp action against you that will make your checkbook bleed. Your choice and I'm good with either outcome."
Vin diPietro had dealt with a lot of SOBs in his lifetime, but this Jim Heron guy was high on the list. It wasn't the outright threat, necessarily. Or the two hundred pounds on that big frame. Or even all that attitude.
The real trouble was the guy's eyes: Anytime a stranger looked at you like he knew you better than family, you had to wonder what the angle was. Had he done his research? Did he know where your bodies were buried?
What kind of threat was he to you?
And dinner? The bastard could have squeezed him for cash, but all he wanted was meat and two veg?
Unless the real ask was going to come outside of the hospital. "Dinner at eight," Vin said.
"And because I'm a fair guy, I'll let you pick the place."
Well, hell, that was easy. If there was going to be trouble, a public peanut gallery was not the kind of condiment Vin was after. "My duplex at the Commodore. You know the building?" Heron's eyes went to the window over the bed and then returned.
"What floor?"
"Twenty-eighth. I'll tell the doorman to let you up."
"See you tonight then."
Heron turned away, flashing that back of his again.
Vin swallowed another curse as he got a second gander at the black tattoo that covered every inch of skin Heron was showing. Against the vista of a graveyard, the Grim Reaper stared out of that muscled back, a hood shielding its face, its eyes glowing through the shadow created by the robe. One bony hand was locked on its scythe, and the body was leaning forward, its free palm reaching out as if in a moment it was going to snatch your soul. Equally as creepy, there seemed to be a tally at the bottom: Underneath the fringe of the Reaper's robes, there were two rows of little line marks grouped in fives.
You added that shit up and you got to a hundred pretty damn easy. The bathroom door shut just as a nurse came rushing in, her crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the floor. "What...where is he?"
"He unplugged himself. I think he's taking a piss and then leaving."
"He can't do that."
"Good luck changing his mind."
Vin headed out and walked down to the waiting room. Leaning inside, he got the attention of the two workmen who had insisted on hanging around until Heron woke up. The one on the left had piercings on his face and the hard-ass, kinked-out air of someone who enjoyed pain. The other was huge with a long, dark braid over the shoulder of his leather jacket.
"He's ready to go home."
Pierced got to his feet. "The doctors are releasing him already?"
"Got nothing to do with the docs. He made the decision himself." Vin nodded down the hall. "He's in room six sixty-six. And he's going to need a ride home."
"We're on it," Pierced said, his silver eyes serious. "We'll get him where he needs to go."
Vin good-bye'd the pair and went over to catch an elevator down to the first floor. As he stepped inside the car, he took out his BlackBerry and called Devina to let her know they were having a guest for dinner. When he got voice mail, he kept it short and sweet and tried not to wonder what the hell she was doing while he was leaving his message.
Or who, as was the case.
Halfway down, the elevator bumped to a halt and the doors opened to let a pair of men in. As the trip downward resumed, the two traded affirming noises, like they'd just concluded a conversation satisfactorily and were reinforcing the fact. They were both dressed in slacks and sweaters, and the one on the left was balding at the crown, his brown hair pulling away like it was afraid being on top of the mountain...
Vin blinked. And then blinked again.
A shadow bloomed all around the balding man, the glimmering, shifting aura the color of pencil lead and the consistency of heat waves on pavement.
It couldn't be...oh, God, no...after all these years of quiet, it couldn't be back.
Curling his hands into fists, Vin closed his eyes and willed away the vision, kicking it out of his brain, denying it access to his neurons. He did not just see that. And if he had, it was a misread of the overhead lighting.
The shit was not back. He'd gotten rid of it. It was not back.
He cracked a lid, looked over at the guy...and felt like he'd been punched in the gut: The translucent shadow was as obvious as the clothes the man was wearing and as tangible as the person standing next to him.
Vin saw dead people, all right. Before they died.
The double doors opened at the lobby, and after the pair filed out, Vin dropped his head and walked as fast as he could for the exit. He was making good time, running from the side of himself he'd never understood and didn't want anything to do with, when he slammed into a white coat who was carrying an armful of files. As paperwork and manila folders took flight like startled birds, Vin helped steady the woman and then dropped down to help her clean the mess up.
The balding man who'd stood ahead of him in the elevator did the same.
Vin's eyes locked on the guy and refused to budge. The smoke was emanating from the left side of the man's chest...boiling up into the air from a specific spot.
"Go see a doctor," Vin heard himself say. "Go see one right away. It's in your lungs."
Before anyone could ask him what the hell he was talking about, Vin scrambled to his feet and tore out of the building, heart in his throat, breath coming in short blasts.
His hands were shaking by the time he got to his car, so it was a good thing BMWs let you get inside and start the engine without plugging the key into anything.
Gripping his steering wheel, he shook his head back and forth.
He'd thought he'd left all that freaky bullshit behind. He thought that second-sight crap was solidly in his past. He'd done what he'd been told to do, and even though he hadn't believed in the actions he'd taken, they had appeared to work for almost twenty years.
Ah, shit...he couldn't go back to the way it had been before.
Just couldn't.
