Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (9 page)

No mistaking that sickly, antiseptic smell. I was in a hospital. Why?

What had happened to me?

The doctors or nurses or ambulance attendants—who
were
all these people?—continued to propel the gurney along, yelling tiring, silly questions.

“I’m allergic to cantaloupe.” It seemed important that they understand this. “Maybe honeydew.”

Perhaps they
were
gardeners because someone pinched me. Hard. I objected forcibly, and then, suddenly, it didn’t matter. I was gliding along and everything was pleasantly quiet once more.

I closed my eyes.

I didn’t think I lost consciousness—I would have sworn I didn’t—but all at once it was very bright and very noisy. I was so
tired
and it seemed to me that quite a long time had passed, yet there was only a blur where my recent memories should be. That worried me because there was something I should be remembering, something I urgently needed to tell someone.

What?

I said, “The pumpkin soup was very good.”

A voice murmured in reply.

No, it couldn’t be that because we were all agreed on that. And then I remembered the important thing I’d been waiting to tell someone.

“I want to talk to J.X.”

The voice sounded like it was hushing me.

I persisted anyway. It had been on my mind and my sense of being wronged was strong.

“It wasn’t fair. He didn’t give me a chance to explain.”

I couldn’t tell if the voice responded or not, but I was relieved to have that off my chest.

Now I could sleep.

I closed my eyes.

“Christopher, darling, I’m so goddamned sorry,” Anna said when she came to see me Saturday morning.

By then I was back in my right mind—if you could call it that—though still stuck in the hospital with a broken collarbone, a mild concussion and a wildly colorful assortment of bruises and contusions. None of which was making nearly the impression on me they should have thanks to a blessedly generous dose of painkillers.

I made another try for the cup of water next to my bed, and this time I managed to snag it.

I said around the straw, “The accident wasn’t your fault.”

I wasn’t even sure it was Poppy’s fault, terrible driver though she was. Anyone could have hit a patch of black ice—which was apparently what had happened to us. Admittedly, my recollection of the accident itself was vague. According to what I’d been told, we’d hit the ice, spun out and gone over the side of the embankment. The car had turned over twice before coming to a stop a few yards from the reservoir.

Anna took the chair by the hospital bed. She was using crutches—using them expertly, as a matter of fact. But she was obviously in pain.

As no doubt would I be once I came down from the chemical cocktail I’d been served with my cold breakfast. I was being kept over one more night because of the surgery on my clavicle. Apparently when the paramedics had reached us, the bone had been sticking through the skin—which I was delighted to have missed seeing. The surgery was relatively minor, but when it’s your body being operated on, it always feels like a big deal.

“I can’t help feeling…” Anna stopped. I managed to replace my cup on the bed cabinet—

my spatial perception seemed off—and regarded her more closely. She looked dreadful. The only color in her face was her red-rimmed eyes and her red nose. For the first time in all the years I’d known her, she looked old.

“What can’t you help feeling?”

Her mouth trembled.

Cold apprehension coiled through my gut. “How
are
the others, Anna? No one around here will tell me anything.”

Her face worked. She sucked in a long, wavering breath. “I shouldn’t— You should be resting, Christopher.”

“I
am
resting. I’m lying right here resting.” I gestured impatiently to my blanketed legs and feet. My mouth was dry again, but it wasn’t the medications this time. “What is it you aren’t telling me?”

It took her a moment. “Like you, Victoria was wearing her seat belt. She got off with some cuts and scratches. Poppy has a broken nose, a broken leg, fractured ribs, some cuts and lacerations. Nothing that won’t heal. Nothing that bitch doesn’t deserve.”

That shocked even me. “Anna.”

Color flooded her bone-white face. “She’s a goddamned catastrophe on the road, and we all knew it. How many times did we all laugh about her fucking fender-benders and near misses?

I should have warned you not to get in a car with her. I should have warned you
both
—”

The coil of nerves and worry in my gut twisted into something more like the Gordian knot. “How’s Nella?” I made myself ask.

Anna tried to speak and had to stop as she struggled with tears.

“Oh God,” someone said faintly. I realized it was me.

Anna managed at last, “Nella wasn’t wearing her seat belt. She was thrown forward and…and broke her neck.”

“Wait a minute. You mean she’s
dead
?”

Sometimes people survived breaking their necks, right? It didn’t have to mean…but Anna’s face told me it did.

“She died instantly.”

I didn’t know what to say. I kept thinking there had to be some kind of mistake.

Something we could do over. The idea that the kid was
dead
…

Just like that? From alive to not in a matter of seconds? All that enthusiasm and energy and excitement. All those hopes and dreams and aspirations. All the stories she would never have the chance to tell.

“I can’t believe it.” People always said that, didn’t they? And yet if there was one certainty in this life, it was that we would all die. But when it happened to someone so young…when there was no warning. Humans were so fragile. So easily broken.

Watching Anna, indomitable Anna, struggle not to cry, I said, “I’m sorry. I know you cared about her.”

“I’m an old fool,” Anna said, wiping her eyes. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this.

Especially with you. Christ knows you’ve been through enough.”

I waved that away. My hand hit the bed railings. Yes, my perspective was definitely off.

“I’ve never thought of myself as the sentimental type. I never wanted children. But to see such promise…lost. Such a bright light extinguished.”

“I’m sorry, Anna.” It seemed to be all I could come up with. I was still having trouble taking it in.

She wiped at the tears with the heels of her hands and cursed quietly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone had paused on their way into this private room. This private room that Anna was insisting on paying for. I glanced over, expecting to see another nurse bearing more chemical relief or the ever-efficient Sara waiting to take charge of her mistress.

J.X. stood framed in the doorway.

J.X.

Not a dream. Not a mirage. J.X. Tall, spare and, um, supple in boots, jeans, and a Nordic blue Eddie Bauer parka. His dark hair was a little longer than I remembered it and matched with the perfectly groomed Van Dyke mustache and beard, it made him look like one of those dashing young explorers of days gone by.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said awkwardly, taking in the bedside tableau.

Blame it on the pharmaceutical companies, but I heard myself make a choked noise. I sat bolt upright, ignoring the pain flashing through arm, shoulder, ribs, back and butt as I stretched my arms out to him like the final frame in a cheesy medical drama.

But it wasn’t cheesy. It was just…Jesus, I was happy to see him. I can’t remember ever being so happy, so grateful to see someone. Someone I’d been afraid I was never going to see again.

J.X. reached the bed in three steps, but then he sort of hovered as though not sure how to hug me without doing damage. I wasn’t having any of that. I wrapped my arms around him and as much as it hurt—and it did hurt plenty—it was nothing to the pleasure of being in his arms once more.

“Jesus, Kit.” His husky voice, warm against my ear, sounded shaken, unfamiliar. “What the hell have you done to yourself?”

I could feel him trying to be careful of the various bandages and IVs, but then his mouth found mine and I think he forgot all about my weakened condition. I responded to that fierce gentleness to the best of my bruised and battered ability. I’d have had to be comatose not to respond to J.X.’s kisses.

Spots were dancing before my vision when he finally raised his head. His long-lashed dark eyes regarded me with emotion. “You look like a goddamned train wreck.” He sounded winded and angry.

“You should see the other train.” Then I remembered how really not funny the situation was. My glance fell on Anna who had got to her feet with the speed of a much-younger woman.

She was leaning on her crutches, studying J.X. with open surprise.

“J.X., this is Anna. Anna, J.X. Moriarity.”

“We met at Left Coast Crime about two years ago,” J.X. said. Even distracted he had very nice manners. When he chose.

“I remember.” Anna shifted her crutches. “I didn’t realize—”

“Neither did I.” I dropped back against the pillow, reluctant to let go of J.X. for even the length of time it would take him to shake Anna’s. Jeez. What was wrong with me? I’d never been one of these sloppy, sentimental types. It was just…I was so happy to see him. So touched that he’d done this—flown clear across country to yell at me in my hour of need.

He was gazing down at me again with that flattering mixture of worry and aggravation.

There were lines of weariness in his face and shadows beneath his eyes as though he hadn’t slept in a while. “Is there a part of you that isn’t black and blue?”

“My eyelids?”

“No. You’ve got a black eye.”

“My mouth?”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Anna interrupted when it looked like J.X.’s inspection might turn interesting. “Christopher, darling, the police will want to question you about the accident when you’re feeling stronger.”

I nodded. “I don’t remember much of anything after we got in the car.”

“I’ll ring you this evening. Lovely to meet you again, J.X.” Her smile was a brave effort.

J.X. made some distracted reply, and before I could think of what to say to her, Anna crutched her way out of the room. I’m ashamed to say I’d forgotten her before she was through the doorway. All my focus was on J.X.

He leaned over the bed railing again. He smelled pretty much like you’d expect from a guy who’d been traveling all night, but on him it was wonderful. Mixed with it was a hint of the John Varvatos fragrance I now associated with him: leather, tamarind leaves and auramber. His hands were cold as he brushed his knuckles against my cheekbone, a touch as light as a feather.

Even so, I winced.

He said softly, admiringly, “That is one hell of a shiner.”

“Color coordinated to match my hallucinations. Are you sure you’re really here?”

“I’m sure.” He leaned down. I closed my eyes as his lips delicately nuzzled my eyelids.

Eyes closed, I murmured, “Are you kissing it better?”

“Am I?”

“I think so. My lips hurt too.”

He was smiling as he kissed me again, still restrained and tender, but with a hint of better things to come.

Abruptly he drew back. When I dragged open my eyes, it was to find his black with emotion.

“What is it?”

“Kit…” His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed.

“What’s wrong?” Startled, I realized what was wrong. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” I watched in fascination as J.X.’s chiseled nostrils flared. He clenched his strong jaw. Yep, he was pretty worked up in his manly way and I was probably a dork to feel so pleased about it, but there’s no denying that there’s a certain appeal in knowing it would really ruin that special someone’s day if you checked out early.

“When I got that call—”

In the middle of my smile, I yawned. For all the sleeping I’d already done, all at once I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open.

“I’m glad they called you.”

“I’m glad you told them to call,” he replied with quiet intensity.

Had I? If I had, it had been post op when I was out of my skull on painkillers. I nearly volunteered that unneeded info but had the wits to shut up in time. What did it matter how he’d got here? I
had
wanted him, and the only thing that mattered now was he was here.

Instead, I asked, “Did they tell you what happened?”

He nodded, looking somber. Yeah. Of course they had. Poor Nella. Poor kid. Another wave of lassitude swept over me, and this time it seemed to knock the legs right out from under me. Poor Anna. So far I hadn’t been much help to her.

My fatigue must have showed. J.X. lightly touched my face again. “You look beat, honey.

Why don’t you sleep,” he said softly.

Honey
. That was nice. He’d never called me that before. Not that I’d ever encouraged the use of pet names. But for now…it was nice. I gave him a spacey smile, let my eyelashes fall shut and mumbled, “I hope you’re not a dream.”

He was not a dream. J.X. was sitting beside the bed the next time I opened my eyes. He was reading the latest Miss Butterwith,
The Moving Finger Writes for Miss Butterwith
, and frowning disapprovingly.

I sighed inwardly. Not that I wasn’t glad to see that one of us was feeling better. He looked disgustingly refreshed for someone who had traveled cross country, and if he was back to criticizing my work, things were rapidly returning to normal.

At the rustle of sheets, his head jerked my way. He tossed the book aside—a bit too forcefully in my opinion—and rose to lean over the bed again.

“Hi. How are you feeling?”

“Like someone threw me over a cliff. What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch. “A couple of minutes after one.”

“In the
afternoon
?”

He nodded.

“Jeez. You shouldn’t have let me sleep.” I sat up incautiously, gulped, and lay back, breathing hard.

“You have big plans, do you?” J.X.’s voice inquired from somewhere overhead.

I opened my eyes and scowled at him. “That fucking hurt.”

“I bet.” He casually brushed the hair out of my eyes. “Do you remember the accident at all?”

It was sort of ridiculous how good even that casual touch felt. Like my hair had nerve endings; I could feel him to my roots. That hyper-receptivity was probably due to the years of sensory deprivation that had passed for my marriage.