The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (19 page)

I turned to run and, out of the corner of my eye, caught sight of a pair of swift approaching headlights. High beams swept over the courtyard, exposing the flattened door and Ladas, still coming after me, eyes shining with a crazy glitter.

That glitter was actually the glare of the headlights blinding him for a crucial couple of seconds.

My BMW screeched to a stop and there was a thud as Ladas did not do the same. I had never heard a sweeter sound in my life. I skidded to a standstill, turning in time to see him mid-bounce off the side of the car. He disappeared from view.

The driver’s door flew open and J.X. jumped out.

“Kit!” He was a white form in the dusk, but even from this distance I could see the dangerous line of his body: pugnacious jaw, broad shoulders squared, hands in fists. Ready for action. Where the normal person would have been in retreat, he was preparing to charge.

I raced back to him. “Be careful,” I gasped. “He’s crazy. He’s insane. Don’t go near him.”

J.X.’s hands closed on my arms. “You’re okay? He didn’t hurt you?”

I nodded, then shook my head, still trying to catch my breath.

J.X. tried to move me aside, putting me out of harm’s way. Or trying to. I was hanging onto him for fear he’d go after Ladas. He had no idea what he was dealing with. From the far side of the BMW, Ladas stood up, shaking his head like one of those overenthusiastic bulls in a bullfight after it hits the arena wall.

He eyed us warily. I say
us
, but the wariness was all for J.X. who was playing a demented game of slaps with me as I tried to hang onto him and he tried to get free without resorting to punching me.

“Kit, stop!” Then J.X. ordered Ladas, “Stay right where you are.”

Which must be code for “run like hell,” because that was exactly what Ladas did. He turned and ran. Past the closed gas station, through the broken fence and into the desert.

“Call the cops,” J.X. called to the skinny, elderly man in Batman boxer shorts and a half-buttoned plaid shirt who had hurried out of the reception area.

The man put his hands up as though already anticipating a frisking. “Cops! You’re crazy. We don’t want the cops out here!”

“For Christ’s sake. The cops don’t give a damn about you smoking pot—”

“No. No cops.” The innkeeper was backing up into the reception area. He pulled the door closed behind him and lowered the shade. The lights went off.

“
I’m
crazy?” J.X. turned to me. “What. The. Fuck.”

“We’re going,” I said. “We’re going now.”

“We can’t just—”

“We can. Oh yes, we can. Because that crazy freak is going to follow us and Izzie can capture him at our house. Or shoot him. I don’t care.” I gestured wildly at the now dark motel. “For God’s sake. Look around you. We’re in Zombieville. Any minute the doors will open and they’ll pour out of the building. Stop threatening to call the cops. Let’s go now while we can.”

“Kit.”

I yelled,
“I can’t take anymore!”
That was the truth, though I’d have preferred not to spell it out at the top of my lungs.

Into the reverberating hush that followed my words, the head cracked off the Virgin Mary and fell into the dry bowl of the fountain.

Wordless, J.X. stared at me, though I can’t imagine I was more than a vibrating blur in the gloom. He said quietly, “All right. Get in the car. Where are your shoes?”

I said, trying hard for control though I couldn’t stop my voice shaking, “I don’t care about my fucking shoes. I
just
want to go home. Please.”

“We’re going home. Get in the car.”

I crawled into the car. There was a white paper sack with a selection of pain relievers. In a few minutes the adrenaline was going to wear off and I was going to be in a huge amount of pain. I mixed and matched and then dry-swallowed. There were several other goodies: a tube of Biofreeze, a Salonpas pain patch, a jar of Capsaicin cream, and a small packet of Hershey’s kisses. My throat closed. I had to press the heels of my hands to my eyes and do more deep breathing exercises.

Someone tried my door handle and I nearly hit the ceiling of the car.

“It’s me, Kit,” J.X. said unnecessarily. Except—clearly—it wasn’t unnecessary.

I fumbled with the door lock and J.X. handed me my shoes and my glasses.

“Are you buckled in?” He ran his hand down the shoulder strap of my seatbelt, feeling for the latch plate, and I grabbed the belt and jammed it in the lock.

“Yes. Roger. All systems go. So can we? Go?”

He shut my door, went around to his side, and to my abject relief started the engine.

I could have wept with relief as the car roared into healthy life. J.X. performed a neat arc around the fountain and we bumped out of the driveway and back onto the pothole-riddled highway. In a couple of minutes we were back on the freeway. As the car picked up speed, it felt like we were flying through enemy lines making our way to safety and sanity and home.

J.X. had his cell phone out and was talking to Izzie. I heard the words, but the meaning barely registered. I kept reliving those moments when the motel room door burst open. Incredible to think that very morning we had been fooling around in that comfortable four-poster bed at the Langham Huntington. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“He’s okay. Just shaken up,” J.X. said.

My stomach bubbled unhappily as the cocktail of pain relievers began to dissolve into the existing churning mess of anxiety and stress. I really hoped I wasn’t going to throw up. I hated to put that in-sickness-and-in-health thing to the test so soon.

J.X. said, “Yeah. Thanks. Talk to you tomorrow.”

He clicked off, dropped his phone into the empty cup holder. For a time there was only the slap of the tires and the crinkling of the paper bag of pain relievers I clutched like a talisman.

Now that there was a comfortable span of miles between us and Our Lady of the Severed Head, the silence began to prey on me. I knew what J.X. had to be thinking and I didn’t blame him.

I said in a tone I wanted to sound light but came out brittle, “It’s okay. I was only kidding about our return policy. I fully understand if you want a refund on your ticket.”

He didn’t glance away from the road. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’m not brave, I’m not tough, I’m not like you. I’m scared out of my wits. I don’t know why that maniac is chasing me. I don’t know what’s happening. And I’m aware—and ashamed, believe me—that I’m not dealing with it well.”

J.X. made an impatient sound. What he said was, “How’s your back?”

I stared at him in disbelief. “My
back
?”

“There’s a rest stop in about ten minutes. Can you hold out that long?”

“Did you even hear me?”

“Kit.” One word, but there seemed to be a volume of meaning in that single syllable. And what the hell was that tone? Patient, certainly—which was sort of annoying—but affectionate too. Understanding. That was it. And was there anything more aggravating than someone being understanding while you were having a nervous breakdown? And yet, somehow it wasn’t aggravating. It was…okay. Maybe more than okay.

I said huffily, “Am I to understand you don’t want your money back?”

J.X. laughed. “Really? With everything going on you’re trying to break up with me
now
?”

“I’m not trying to break up with you. It’s just that I understand if you want out.”

“What did Ladas say to you?”

“Huh?”

“He must have said something when he burst in. What did he say?”

“Fee-fi-fo-fum. He didn’t say anything. No, wrong. He called me a rabbit. A fucking rabbit. Those were his exact words.”

“He didn’t say anything else?”

“Not that I noticed.”

J.X. went back to thinking whatever it was that made his profile so steely.

“I keep trying to make sense of this, but I just don’t understand what’s happening.” It was beginning to be my theme song.

J.X. said, “I think we have to assume that neither does he.”

“What?”

“Ladas. I think he’s latched onto you because you’re the only bit of real information he has. His brother ended up dead in our house, so you’re his starting point.”

“Great.” I thought it over. “Then he’d have to be someone who doesn’t read and has subpar comprehension skills.”

“Yes. I’d say so. No disrespect to Miss Butterwith, but there are very few true criminal masterminds out there. And this guy seems dumber than most.”

I said testily, “There are no criminal masterminds in the Butterwith books. For your information.”

“Sorry.”

“In fact, the serial killer in this last book of yours comes a lot closer to evil mastermind than anything I ever wrote.”

“Ouch. You’re probably right. Anyway, what you said at the hotel makes perfect sense. Ladas is fixated on you. So it makes sense to let him come after you where we—the police, I mean—can control the scenario.”

“I don’t think I quite put it like that,” I objected. “I don’t have any intention of being bait for a psycho.”

J.X. said with genuine amusement, “Like I would ever allow that.”

I raised my brows at the unconscious arrogance of
allow that
, but it was sort of reassuring too.

There was a catering van at the rest stop and J.X. bought an armload of ice cold water bottles. By then my back pain was like a third presence in the car, but J.X. grew so alarmed by my attempt to take more tablets, that I resolved to tough it out.

Until such time as he left me alone in the car again.

“Believe me, if I was seriously trying to kill myself, you’d know it,” I groused as he smoothed a gob of Capsaicin cream over my back and then set about massaging it in. My door was open and I was seated sideways, leaning out, head in my hands, elbows on my knees, glaring at anyone who happened to wander past our car. Not that many people were wandering past at this time of night.

J.X.’s strong, capable hands finally came to a stop. He lightly squeezed my shoulders. “How’s that?”

“Fine. Now if you would just tape that pain patch between my shoulder blades…”

Once again I had tapped into the wellspring of his disapproval. “You can’t combine all these different things!”

“Of course I can.”

“No, you sure as hell can’t. Kit, do you have any idea how many people kill themselves self-medicating OTC? Do you even bother to read the labels on these medications you’re popping like candy?”

“I’d have to put my glasses on.” I sighed and tugged my T-shirt back into place. “I told you I have a high tolerance.”

“Tell that to your liver.”

“You tell it to my liver,” I returned shortly, pulling my door shut. I scooted my seat backwards and gingerly leaned back. I did actually feel a little better. Or maybe I was just too tired to care anymore.

“The best thing would be for you to sleep.” J.X. started the engine.

I snorted. “Believe me, I appreciate your feelings. And I’m going to do my best to accommodate. For both our sakes.”

I closed my eyes.

The next time I opened them we had miraculously arrived at our home port and J.X. was trying to coax me back to consciousness.

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” I said, waving him off.

He drew back. “That’s a relief. I was beginning to think you ODed.”

“Funny.” I sat up and began the painful process of crawling out of the car. “It’s better if you don’t try and help,” I told him as he hovered.

“I don’t see how that can be true,” he muttered.

“That’s your LEO background talking.” I got to my feet and I can’t deny it was ridiculously comforting when he put his arms around me and let me lean into him. He kissed my hairline and my ear and then said in a different sort of voice, “Did you leave a light on?”

I nodded. “It’s on a timer.”

He relaxed and kissed me again.

But even with the preventative measures I’d taken, I was prepared for anything as J.X. unlocked the front door and we stepped inside the cheerfully lit foyer.

The chandelier sparkled overhead, lighting the polished staircase and gleaming floors. The square mirror over the half-moon table against the wall offered a glimpse of our wary faces.

But no need for wariness. The house on Chestnut Lane was just as I had left it Sunday afternoon.

“I can’t believe this,” J.X. said, letting go of me and walking into the front parlor.
“Kit.”

“I know. But I had to start somewhere and I figured we can change anything you don’t like.”

His voice floated from the next room. “No. God, no. It looks great in here. I only mean you didn’t have to take all this on yourself.” He reappeared in the tall doorway. “I never expected this.” He looked peculiarly moved. Who knew unpacking all those boxes of books would be viewed as a declaration of devotion?

“I didn’t hang any pictures. I figured we needed to do that together. Except upstairs. There’s kind of a sort of present for you.”

His eyes lit and I said hastily, “No, not that kind of present. Actually, it’s really nothing.”

But of course he went pounding up the staircase, and I had to follow, clinging to the railing and trying to get him to downsize his expectations.

“Anyway, if you don’t like it, we can hang something else there.” I reached the door of our bedroom to find J.X. standing in front of the fireplace, gazing at the Allan P. Friedlander painting of
A Good Year.

He turned to smile at me and my heart jumped at the suspicious shininess in his eyes.

I said severely, “You’re a very sentimental guy, you know that?”

“Me?”
J.X. was still smiling as he came to meet me.

I spent most of Wednesday in bed with a heating pad and my laptop. “I’m taking a Mental Health day,” I informed J.X. “For the next twenty-four hours I get to stay in bed and drive everyone else crazy.”

“Are these a regular occurrence?” J.X. inquired.

“They didn’t use to be. I can’t speak for the future.”

“I see. Do you need anything? Should I stock up on tonic water? Frozen pizzas?”

“And if you’re going to be sarcastic about my medical condition you can stay the hell out of my bedroom.”