Double Play (8 page)

Jack had the hostages sit back-to-back while Evelyn and I watched him. Then he jogged off, presumably to get bindings. And, yes, he did return with those, but he secured the men as fast as possible and then opened the first aid kit he’d brought back.

He didn’t ask me to remove my jacket and shirt. Didn’t tell me to either. That was implicit. I did, and he cleaned my wound and dug out the shotgun pellets. Evelyn grumbled that I was obviously in no danger of bleeding out and we really needed to move before more thugs arrived. It was a half-hearted complaint, stopped by a single look from Jack.

I added my protest, more fervently. My injuries, far from life-threatening, should not take precedence over a speedy escape. But, well, having someone care enough to make sure I was okay before we went another step? It meant something. I’d spent a lot of years being that person for others—strangers even, at the lodge—while feeling as if I didn’t deserve the same in return. So I appreciated it . . . though I still did hurry the process along, well aware that I didn’t want us facing
more
danger because I enjoyed being fussed over.

The bullet wound was tissue damage, nothing serious, as gunshots went. Jack had Evelyn take a look to confirm his diagnosis. Then he bound it and tried to check my head, but I insisted that was fine and we got our hostages up and moving. That’s when his phone vibrated. He cursed and waved for us to watch the hostages while he took a phone from his pocket. Someone else’s phone.

“No,” he said when he answered. “I don’t fucking have him, all right? I told you I couldn’t do it in two hours. I left a message through his answering service, and I’m expecting a call back any minute now. If you give me a number—”

Pause.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking paranoid bastards. Fine. Have it your way. Call me back in an hour.”

Pause.

“Two hours then. Fine by me.”

Pause.

“Yeah, yeah. If I don’t have him, you’ll kill me and my dog. Too bad I don’t have a dog. I’ll have him by then, okay? He might be busy, but he’s not going to ignore my message.”

I didn’t look to Evelyn for an explanation. Jack was using full sentences and had dialed his faint Irish accent up to eleven, which meant he was impersonating someone. Likely connected to the job he’d been doing overseas. He’d explain later.

We relocated Haskell and his partner about a kilometer deeper into the forest. They’d be safe there—any thugs wouldn’t hunt that far past the bodies. When they glowered over their gags, I reminded them that we’d tried to play fair and they blew it. They would suffer some discomfort for a few hours. They’d survive. Probably.

We got my overnight bag from my rental and wiped down the steering wheel and doors, though it’s not as if that’s a serious issue with a rental car. If it was, I’d have worn gloves. Then we left the car where it was. Wouldn’t be the first time, which is why we use credit cards that aren’t linked to our aliases.

Next we headed to Jack’s rental. He said he had a motel room closer to Washington but declared that too far and unsafe.

“Got our stuff,” he said. “No reason to go back.”

Evelyn argued—it wasn’t that much further and as long as the room was paid for . . . Jack said nothing, which was his usual way of winning a fight with Evelyn. He just didn’t acknowledge the dispute.

I cleaned up in the car as he drove to the first gas station and bought me two bottles of root beer and a bag of Skittles.

“I’m hungry too, Jack,” Evelyn said.

“You didn’t pass out from blood loss.”

“I think it was more the blow to the head,” I said as he climbed into the car.

“Combination. Eat. Drink.”

I smiled. “Be merry?”

“Sure.” A half-smile my way. Then he glanced at Evelyn. “Can ask her to share. Be nice, though.”

She flashed him the finger.

Jack drove us to a hotel off the highway and checked in while we waited in the lobby. Then he walked over and handed Evelyn the key.

“Getting food,” he said. “Dee’s hungry.”

“I don’t believe that’s possible,” Evelyn said. “Given the sheer quantity of sugar she just consumed.”

“She is.”

“Which she communicated to you telepathically?”

He turned to me. “When’d you last eat? Proper meal?”

“You know, Jack,” Evelyn said. “Women don’t really like it when you make presumptions about what they do and don’t want.”

I shook my head. “He knows that if I’m
not
hungry, I’ll say so. We’ll go eat. I’d offer to bring you back something, but McDonald’s isn’t really your style.”

She looked around the chain hotel, nose wrinkling. “Nor is any room service this place provides. Why don’t we drive—?”

“You can,” Jack said, and he steered me away before she could continue. We’d gone about halfway across the lobby when he said, “How hungry are you?”

“I could do with that”—I nodded at the vending machines—“and a quiet corner to talk.”

He pulled a key card from his pocket. “Got a second room. Talk there? Or . . . whatever.”

Jack didn’t even give a suggestive brow raise at the “whatever.” He only accompanied it with a laconic shrug, as if he meant I could nap or take a shower. I knew better, though.

“I’ll take
whatever
,” I said.

His “Good” hardly rang with enthusiasm, but I grinned, as if he’d accompanied it with the smuttiest suggestion imaginable. We walked to the vending machines. He took his time making selections and feeding in the money. One root beer. One Coke. Two packets of Skittles, one of Starburst chews and a bag of licorice. He handed me all of it.

“What are
you
eating?” I said.

“Whatever you don’t finish.”

I shook my head and fed in a five, getting peanuts and a Snickers bar for him. I handed them over. “Energy,” I said. “You’ll need it.”

Without the barest hint of a reaction, he put the snacks in his pocket, and we headed for the elevator. Silence as we waited for it to arrive. More silence as we got on. He hit the floor and then the Close Door button and only then did he glance my way, just for a split second.

“Hold the elevator!” someone called.

Jack reached out and jabbed the Close Door button again. A middle-aged businessman rushed over as I feigned checking my phone and prayed for the doors to shut faster. He managed to grab the door, and Jack’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. He glanced at me and then back, and shifted his weight, as clear a sign of annoyance as if he’d cursed.

I stood on the right side of the elevator car. Jack was at the left, near the front. When the guy walked on, he was looking at me, and he hit his floor without noticing Jack, too busy checking me out. And I was busy checking out my arm, making sure there wasn’t blood showing, presuming that was what caught his attention.

“Here on business?” he asked.

I was wearing jeans—muddied at the knees—a denim jacket, a T-shirt and my sneakers were even more mud-caked than my jeans.

“Uhhh . . . ” I said.

“We are,” Jack said, and the guy jumped about a foot.

Jack didn’t do anything except say those two words and turn a completely expressionless stare on the guy. But there’s an edge Jack can flip, like a switch, and I have no idea even what it entails—stance, expression, eye contact or just a combination of all of the above. But the guy took one look at Jack and decided standing at the back of the elevator seemed a whole lot more comfortable. The far back, in the corner, putting the maximum distance between me and him.

I quirked a half-smile at Jack. He gave just the faintest roll of his eyes. The elevator stopped. He waited for me to get out first and then walked beside me down the hall. We reached the room. He put in the card, still taking his time.

He opened the door. Held it for me. Followed me in and fastened the locks. Keycard placed on the entry table. Then he glanced at me. It was a careful glance, a cautious check, because, you know, despite my signals, I might really have just wanted to come up here and talk and eat candy.

I shrugged off my jacket and laid it aside. My shoes followed. He just stood there watching, the kernel of doubt and, yes, disappointment shadowing his eyes, blinked back quickly because he was going to be a gentleman about this. I’d had a hellish day—chased, shot, hit my head . . .

Even when I walked over, coming within an inch of him and looking up, he held himself very still. I put my arms around his neck and said, “Missed you,” and then I smiled and that was what he’d been waiting for—that smile.

His arms went around me, pulling me to him so fast I gasped, that gasp cut short as his mouth met mine in a kiss that knocked every other thought from my brain, knocked every worry from my brain. There was always that moment, when he came home, when he didn’t immediately drag me off to bed, when he acted like it was the last thing on his mind, that moment when I wondered if the separation had given him time to reconsider, time to think this wasn’t what he really wanted. I knew better. I knew him, and I knew this was just him, that perfect control waiting, teasing even, drawing out that reunion. Still, I worry every damn time that this time might be different. And then he kisses me.

He kissed me and it really was no exaggeration to say I forgot everything else, from the events of the day to the pain my arm. Hell, I wasn’t even sure what was going on at that moment, just that kiss, that deep and hungry kiss and the next thing I knew, I was falling back onto the bed, without even realizing we’d moved from the front door. I was on the bed, and his shirt was off and then mine was, and I did notice that, kinda hard not to, with his hands on me, his touch making me gasp again.

Then jeans off and me pushed back on the bed, up to the pillows, and he was over me, still kissing me, hands everywhere they needed to be, and I wrapped my fingers in his hair and pulled back enough to say, “I really, really missed you,” and he said, “Yes,” and I could laugh at that. I would, later. Shake my head and laugh. But I knew what he meant, and I knew that was all he could give, maybe all he could ever give, and I was fine with it. Even if he could never tell me how he felt, he showed me, and that was what counted, and when he said, “Yes,” he kissed me again and pushed into me and showed me, as best he could.

We lay in bed afterward. Jack was on his back, his arm around me, eyes closed. Not asleep. For Jack there are about ten levels of relaxation. This was the stage right before sleep, though, when he was chill enough to close his eyes, his muscles not quite slack. Chill enough, too, that I could prop up and watch him and not make him feel as if an enemy loomed. I could even brush sweat-soaked hair from his forehead and he didn’t tense, his eyes didn’t open.

I looked at him. The angular face that wasn’t quite handsome. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. The shallow lines around his mouth. Gray cautiously invading his black hair. He grumbles about his age, but most of that discomfort can be chalked up to his career, which isn’t that different from a star athlete, where retirement comes so much sooner than it does for everyone else. He’s still nowhere near ready to be put out to pasture. He knows it; he just likes to grumble. Professional concerns aside, he looks damned fine for fifty, and I’ll admit how much I enjoy this part, just watching him, running my fingers over his biceps, his stomach, his chest.

There’s a surgically erased tattoo on his biceps. That’s from those early days in Ireland, when he signed up to fight for what others believed in, because his brothers did and because, at sixteen, sometimes you’re desperate enough for change and adventure and validation that you don’t give a damn about the rest.

He’d spent his first big paycheck post-Ireland getting that tattoo removed. He’d eaten canned food and slept in parks because the check barely covered the surgery and he wasn’t living with that tattoo a moment longer. I can still see the ghost of it. I once told him it can be more thoroughly removed now, but he only shrugged and said it was fine. Which meant he didn’t want that ghost taken away. Didn’t want the memory erased completely.

There were other marks. Scars and old cigarette burns. When I asked him about the burns, he just shrugged and said, “Part of the job.” Just work. It happens. No big deal. Not to him, anyway, not beyond the fact that they too would signify mistakes he’d made. He’d survived. Survived and learned and improved and that, he’d say, was all that mattered.

He opened one eye and said, “I’m sorry. What happened. Targeting you. I’m really, really—”

I put my finger to his lips. He made a face and said, “Just wanted you to know—”

“Do you honestly think I don’t? I understood the risks before we got together. How many times have people tried to hire us for the same thing? If you need to make a statement to a man, go after his wife, girlfriend, lover. We’ve discussed this. And discussed it . . . and discussed it . . . and discussed it, which mostly consists of you telling me and me saying, ‘I get it.’”

He made that face again, the one that said he’d like to say it again. Apologize again. Deeply and profusely apologize because he wasn’t sure how else to deal with it. But it’s not as if it’ll make him feel better. Self-recrimination only drags you down into the tar pit of self-blame. I know that as well as anyone. So does he, which was why, after a moment, he nodded and reached for his Snickers bar. He couldn’t quite reach it on my side of the bed, so I opened it, and then gave him the Coke.

“Recharging my batteries?” he said.

I smiled. “I don’t think we’ll have time for that.”

“Make time.”

He took a bite of the bar, chewed and then settled in.

“You want to know?” he said. “Details? What happened over there?”

“I always
want
to know, Jack. It’s a question of whether you’re okay with telling me and if not, I understand. Since you’re offering, though, I’m guessing you are. So, yes, tell me what happened.”

He did. Until now, I’d only known that he had gone to do a job as repayment for a debt owed to someone who’d helped him get his start. It was no coincidence that Jack had been in Ireland when this all went down. His old colleague had double-crossed him.