All Fixed Up (15 page)

Mr. Brooks frowned slightly at my word selection, but I didn't care. “Pee” and “poop” were easier to spell, and I didn't want to wait for Eddie to write “Y-E-R-I-N” and “F-E-E-S-E-E-S.” The sooner the two of them were out of Smith's reach, the happier I'd be.

“My dad said you have to use a hose.”

“For”—I glanced at Mr. Brooks, and decided to be more careful with my words—“um, number one, yes—a hose with a funnel on the end of it. For number two it's more like a regular toilet,” I said, keeping my voice as matter-of-fact as I could.

Eddie looked thoughtful. “I'll bet the hose thing is a lot easier for the guys than the girls, huh?”

Kid, you have no idea. But you may have just given me one …

“Hey, I know,” I said. “Would you like to see a space toilet close up?”

“Heck, yeah!” Eddie said, eyes alight with curiosity. Even Mr. Brooks looked intrigued.

The Russian, however, didn't seem to care for the idea.

“Come on, Mr. Smith,” I said brightly. “You can document it for us. I'm certain whoever watches this interview will be as fascinated with space plumbing as Eddie here is.”

His eyes narrowed on me. “Sure,” he said, patting Eddie on the head, allowing his hand to slide down to the back of the boy's skinny neck. He gripped it lightly, in a way I was sure Mr. Brooks and my handler found friendly, but I found nauseatingly threatening. “And then maybe you can come with me to take some random footage around the grounds outside. For additional viewer interest.”

I nodded, my mouth too dry to speak.

He let go of Eddie. “Lead the way, kid. I'll be
right
behind you.”

Message received.

*   *   *

I set Dr. Phil's normally brisk pace to match Eddie's shorter stride, knowing it was what she would do. It also gave me slightly longer to fine-tune my plan, which so far consisted of “find a way to get Eddie and Mr. Brooks away from Smith.” Admittedly, it could use some fleshing out.

Smith shouldn't be armed. Security was tighter than ever for the building—Mark had seen to that after the incident with Loughlin—but I had no idea what kind of hand-to-hand skills he had. He might be as well trained as Mark, for all I knew, and Mark could probably take down anyone who wasn't holding a bazooka on him. So I had to be extra careful. Isolating him somehow would be my best option.

When we got to the restroom door, Eddie was ready to barge right in, but I held him back with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait a second. I have a better idea,” I said, the details of a plan materializing in my head as I spoke. “Let's let Mr. Smith go in first, so he can capture the look on your face when you get your first up-close and personal view of the space potty.”

Smith gave me a suspicious look. “Good idea,” he said with a tight smile. “Why don't you come in with me and show me how you want the shot set up?” He hooked a long-fingered hand above my elbow and pulled me after him.

Okay, so that hadn't been part of my plan. “Um … sure. Happy to. Let me just tell Eddie and Mr. Brooks what to do when I call them in.”

Turning my back on Smith, who waited just inside the open door, his grip still firm on my arm, I focused on my Ferengi-Elvis look-alike handler and mouthed the words “Call security” as distinctly as I could, praying he could read lips. He looked confused.

Smith's grip tightened.

“Um, so when I holler ‘go,' Eddie, you just open the door and walk right in. And, you know, pretend you're impressed or something,” I said, the whole while staring at Elvis and rolling my eyes wildly in an effort to make him realize something was very, very wrong.

Eddie shifted from foot to foot, impatient to play his role. “Gotcha! Just like when I open a present from Aunt Doris. Only I bet this is going to be way cooler than the stuff she gets me!”

Elvis cocked his head at me. “Are you quite all right, Dr. Carson?”

“Yes. I, um, got something in my eye.” I tried mouthing the words again, exaggerating the movement of my lips even more.

Mr. Brooks said, “Here, let me take a look.”

“Uh … okay. It's the left one.”

When he was close enough, I whispered frantically, barely moving my lips, “As soon as the door closes, get Eddie the hell out of here.
Fast
.”

Surely the man hadn't survived this long in the teaching field without being quick on the uptake. He cleared his throat, still looking at my eye, and gave one quick nod. “There. I think I got it.”

God, I hoped so.

Elvis tucked his clipboard under his arm. “Wait just a moment, please. I didn't catch what you were trying to tell me, Dr. Carson.” He tugged on one of his earlobes. “I'm afraid this new hearing aid might be malfunctioning. It seems to be fading in and out.”

Oh, for fuck's sake.
“I
said
call security!” I shouted, and spun around, breaking Smith's grip on my arm. I shoved him into the room and stumbled in after him, kicking the door shut behind me.

He dropped his camera and came at me with a roar. If he got me pinned, I'd never get away from him. Not alive, anyway.

I lowered my head and charged him like a bull, aiming to hit him in the solar plexus and knock the wind out of him. It might have worked, too, if he hadn't had abs of titanium. A grunt was all I got out of him, followed by a dirty laugh.

He grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face down a few inches, into his crotch. “You want to go down on me, little imposter? That can be arranged. But later. First we are getting out of here.”

Fortunately, Dr. Phil's stylishly short coif kept Smith from achieving a strong grip. I twisted my head and pulled away, hard, leaving him with a palm covered in auburn hairs and me with a burning scalp. Before he could grab my head again, I jerked my knee up, aiming for his balls. I figured they must be a big target, considering how he strode into the Space Center intending to snatch me right out from under everyone's noses.

Unfortunately, whatever protect-your-junk-at-all-costs instinct men come equipped with kicked in before I could make a solid connection. I must have winged him, though, because he was pissed off. Big time.

He dragged me—by my ears this time—to the training toilet and attempted to push my head, face-first, into the bowl. Good God, was he trying to drown me? Didn't he know space toilets use suction, not water?

When he saw my head wasn't going to fit—because, of course, the hole was too small—he pulled me back by one ear, and lifted the seat, obviously thinking to attempt it again with a larger opening. Instinctively, I braced my hands against the base of the toilet, trying to push myself away. My fingers brushed up against a knob.

Aha!
The suction switch. I twisted it to the highest setting. While he was still occupied with the seat, I grabbed the urine-disposal tube and, with as much force as possible, jammed it right between his legs.

Smith doubled over, his own head landing in the place he'd been trying to put mine. He let go of me by reflex, and tried to push himself up from the toilet, but apparently he'd wheezed the strength right out of his arms. I held firm, pushing the hose as hard as I could against the most tender part of his anatomy. With my other hand, I reached up and slammed the toilet seat down on his head. Repeatedly.

He sure as hell wasn't laughing now.

“How do
you
like it, you motherfucking douche bag?” I know. My language deteriorates when I'm under stress. It's a quirk.

I gave the hose another upward shove, twisting. I must have connected a little more solidly to the anatomy beneath his pants, because this time it stuck. Ha! “Sucks, doesn't it, asshole?” I said, and dropped the toilet seat on his head one final time.

*   *   *

John Smith was still clutching his man-bits when three security guards burst into the room. He'd slid to the floor in front of the space potty, and was balled up in a fetal position, pale and sweaty and glassy eyed. I'd removed the hose. Let him explain his busted balls any way he chose.

I played dumb with security, claiming I had no earthly idea who the man could be or what he wanted. Mark could decide what to tell NASA. As far as they were concerned, I was Dr. Carson, and I wasn't about to tell them otherwise. When they wanted to escort me to see a flight doc, I pleaded the need for a few moments in the ladies' room first, and called Mark, quickly relating the bare bones of what had happened. It's possible the groin-punishing interlude in the bathroom got condensed to “I incapacitated him,” which somehow struck me as more professional.

“Are you injured?” he asked tensely.

“Nope. Right as rain,” I said, keeping Dr. Phil's voice bright and steady.

“Hang tight. I'm sending someone to pick up Smith. And you.” His voice had become more controlled, but I detected an underlying grimness.

“Take Smith, and good riddance, but I'm on a job here and plan to finish it.”

“Howdy”—the phones were encrypted, so he wasn't giving anything away to any would-be eavesdroppers—“if there was one guy, there could be more. It's not safe.”

“Look, if it makes you feel better, have someone follow me”—I knew he would anyway, so I figured I might as well make it sound like a concession on my part—“but I'm driving myself home in that sweet ride, same as always. Oh, and tell whoever follows me not to freak out when I stop for a burger. I'm starving.”

 

Chapter 12

I dropped my double cheeseburger and fries on the kitchen counter, along with another bag, and went to the fridge for a bottle of designer water. Nobody had recognized Dr. Phil at the busy burger joint, but I hadn't wanted to stay long enough to press it. Greasy burgers weren't really her thing, and I didn't like to appear in public out of character. But desperate times call for desperate measures—I
needed
a cheeseburger to fortify me.

After my visit to the flight doc I'd been freed for the day. Naturally, I'd projected Dr. Phil in peak physical condition, not a bruise or blemish on her. It was likely another story beneath her aura, but nothing that need ever show to anyone but me. Luckily, Dr. Phil's mission wasn't set to launch until January, so she wasn't scheduled for the mandatory weeklong pre-mission quarantine until after the new year. Thank God I wouldn't be filling in for her then.

Mr. Brooks and Eddie were given a police escort back to their school, something that thrilled Eddie to no end. From the shine in his elderly eyes, I suspected Mr. Brooks was enjoying the excitement, too. The next edition of the school newspaper was sure to be a doozy.

Mark had spoken with the big boss of NASA security and convinced him Dr. Carson would be adequately watched over, so nobody in that department gave me any shit when I went to leave.

The drive back to Dr. Phil's house in her cool TR6 was exactly what I needed after my bathroom brawl with Smith—fresh air and open sky. I kept the top down in spite of the cooler-than-average December weather. (This works pretty well if you put the heater on high. Warm legs offset the chilly ears and nose.)

Misha was with Phil, so I had the house to myself. He went out of town a lot for his job with Spaceward Ho, so the neighbors wouldn't think it was strange he wasn't here. His coworkers thought he was taking leave to spend more time with his wife before her mission. Which was true enough.

Tonight was the night I was going to do it. I was going to pee on the stick.

The first night, I'd come straight here after work, sure the job would keep my mind occupied and I'd be able to stop thinking about my own dilemma for a while. Yeah, not so much. I'd stayed up most of the night, unable to stop generating scenarios of me with one baby, with two babies, with Billy, with Mark …

I'd even stood in front of Dr. Phil's full-length bathroom mirror and projected myself with a big belly. It was a scary sight.

I didn't intend to spend another night wondering. Hell, I'd just faced down a big Russian intent on harming me, and thoroughly kicked his ass. That took guts, right? Surely I could be brave enough to face the truth in my personal life. So before I'd hit the burger joint, I'd visited a pharmacy far from Dr. Phil's neighborhood and purchased a test kit, which was in the other bag, next to my dinner. I was determined to use it.

Right after I ate my pickle-laden burger while refusing to think what my sudden craving for extra dill pickles might mean. (I mean, come on. My subconscious couldn't be that clichéd, could it?)

“Mmm. Smells good. I don't suppose you have enough for two?”

Crap.

I spun around to see Billy lounging against the frame of the door leading to the living room. Clad in dark slacks and a midnight-blue fitted dress shirt (with no tie, loosened collar, and cuffs rolled up to display his ridiculously sexy forearms), he looked even more delicious than my burger smelled. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

“Gee, I love you, too,” he said, dimpling enough to show me he hadn't taken offense. He was used to me blurting out the first thing to cross my mind when I was surprised.

I crossed to him, my heart beating faster, either out of love, or out of terror that I might wind up blurting something I definitely didn't want him to know at this point. Not before
I
knew, and could figure out the right way to handle it. Either way, immediate physical contact was called for, so I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him tightly to me, reveling in the comfort of his familiar arms until another thought occurred to me.

“Wait a second,” I said, pulling back slightly. “Did Mark send you here to babysit me? Damn it, I knew he gave in too easily after…” I trailed off when I saw confusion being replaced by suspicion in Billy's eyes.