Shelter in Place (Page 42)

Wincing at the pain, she shouldered the bag and started downstairs.

“Patti? Patti? Is that you? Grandpa’s done something to the TV again. Can you fix it?”

“Sure. Sure, I can fix it,” she said when her grandmother thumped out with her walker.

She pulled out a nine millimeter, shot her grandmother, center of the forehead. She went down with a soft whoosh of air.

“All fixed!” she said brightly, then walked into their bedroom, where the overheated air smelled of old people. Her grandfather sat in his recliner, smacking a hand on the remote while the TV screen buzzed with static.

“Something’s wrong with this thing. Did you hear that noise, Patti?”

“I did. Bye-bye.”

He looked up, squinted behind his bifocals.

She shot him in the head, too, let out a happy little laugh. “Finally!”

She was in and out of the house inside ten minutes—she’d practiced, after all—leaving two bodies behind her.

Keeping to the speed limit, she drove to the airport, left her car in long-term parking, jacked a nondescript sedan, and was on her way.

CHAPTER TWELVE

He saw lights speeding over his head and wondered if he was dead. Maybe there’d be some sexy angels to guide him through those lights to whatever.

He heard voices, a lot of rapid-fire voices talking doctor talk. He didn’t think dead sexy angels worried about GSWs or dropping BPs.

Plus dead couldn’t possibly hurt so goddamn much.

Through the pain, the cold—why was he so cold?—the confusion, and the oddly detached wondering about his own death, he heard Essie’s voice.

“You’re going to be fine. Reed. Reed. You hang on. You’re going to be fine.”

Well, he thought, okay then.

The next thing he knew was more pain. His body, his mind, his everything seemed to float through it, around it, inside it. Pain was the name of the freaking game.

Since he didn’t want to play, he let go.

That pain refused to sit on the bench when he surfaced again, and it pissed him off. Something, someone poked at him, and that pissed him off.

He said, “Fuck off.”

Even to his dim ears it sounded like fukov, but he meant it.

“Almost done, Detective.”

He opened his eyes. Everything was too white, too bright, so he nearly closed them again. Then he saw the pretty face, big brown eyes, golden-brown skin.

“Sexy angel.” Sessy ajel.

Those full, soft lips curved. And he went away again.

He went up and down, up and down, not like a roller coaster, but like a raft on a gently undulating river.

The River Styx. That would be bad.

He heard his mother’s voice.

What the hell kind of a name is Yossarian? It’s Yossarian’s name, sir.

Catch-22. Huh.

He drifted away again, had a long dream conversation about death and sexy angels with the bombardier who had a secret.

When the pain slapped him back again, he decided—once and for all—this dead business sucked.

“It sure would, but you’re not.”

He blinked his heavy eyes clear, stared at Essie. “Not?”

“Definitely not. Are you going to stick around awhile this time? I just talked your parents into going down for some food. I can get them back.”

“What the hell?”

As she lowered the bed guard to sit on the side of the bed, taking his hand, he took stock. Machines and monitors, the annoying discomfort of the IV needle in the back of his hand, the raging headache, the sour, metallic taste in his throat, and a score of other irritations under the full-body pain.

“She shot me. Patricia Hobart—driving a white Honda Civic, Maine—”

“You gave us all of it already.”

His brain wanted to shut down again, but he pushed through it. “You get her? You get her?”

“We will. Are you up to telling me what happened?”

“Cloudy. How long?”

“This is day three, heading to four.”

“Shit. Shit. How bad?”

She shifted. They’d had pieces of this conversation before, but he seemed more lucid this time. Or maybe she just wanted him to be.

“Good news first. You’re not going to die.”

“Really good news.”

“You took two hits. The one in the shoulder tore some things up, but the docs say you’ll regain full mobility and range of motion with PT. You can’t screw around with the PT, no matter how much it hurts, or how boring. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“The second, torso, right side, fractured a couple ribs, nicked your liver on the way down. You had internal injuries, and you lost a lot of blood, but they patched you up. You’re going to feel like shit for a while, but if you’re not an asshole about it, you’ll make a full recovery.”

“She didn’t hit the, you know, fun factory, did she? Because it doesn’t feel right down there.”

“That’s the catheter. It’ll come out when you can move around.”

“So I’ve been mostly dead for going on four days, but not dead yet.”

“Leave it to you to do a mash-up of two movie classics. How’d she get the drop on you?”

He shut his eyes, made himself bring it back. “Blond wig, blue contacts, an appliance—sexy little overbite. Said Renee had … Renee.” His eyes opened, and he saw it. He saw it before Essie told him.

“I’m sorry, Reed. We found her in her house. Two shots to the head. TOD’s estimated at roughly two hours before she shot you. From what we’ve pieced together, Hobart—as a redhead going by the name of Faith Appleby—connected with Renee a few months ago. She claimed she was house hunting, and it looks like she followed your footsteps on properties. She got friendly with Renee, so she must have known about the appointment, saw that as her opportunity to take you out.”

“She said Renee was delayed, and asked her to show me through the house. I didn’t make her straight off, but her voice … I watched some interviews, and I recognized her voice. Took too long to put it together.”

“Partner, if you hadn’t put it together, you’d be really most sincerely dead.”

“And yet another movie classic. She got the drop on me, Essie, and let me just add: Getting shot hurts like a motherfucker. She came around the bar, the kitchen island deal, to finish me off. I couldn’t use my right arm, but I got my weapon out with the left. I think I got three rounds off. I know I hit her. I fucking know I hit her.”

“You did. Blood trail led out the front door.”

“Good.”

“We just missed her, Reed. She had to have an escape plan worked out. She killed her grandparents before she walked out the door.”

“Come on.”

“The bitch dropped her grandmother off her walker, took her grandfather out in his goddamn Barcalounger. We froze their accounts—they all had her name on them—but she’d been systematically clearing them out for what looks like years, and must have millions.”

She rubbed his hand between hers. “I owe you a big, giant apology.”

“She’s the one. She’s been killing people her brother and his buddies missed.”

“We found her war room, her kill lists, photos, data she’s accumulated. Weapons she left behind, more wigs and disguises, maps. No computer. We have to figure she worked on a laptop and took it with her. The car she drove to the house was stolen that morning, and she left it at her grandparents’. We’ve got an APB out on the car registered to her, and since she’s now the prime suspect on unsolved cases across state lines, that’s national.”