The Tin Man (25 page)

When a moan rose above the beat, he cranked up the volume. The professor was still alive, but wouldn’t be for much longer. An hour ago, he’d been moved to a cell equipped with a gas valve. Now that the journalists had located the recording of the old man’s interview with Malcolm Connolly, there was no reason to keep him alive. Unfortunately, he now had a new problem: what to do about those goddamned reporters?

He tried to warn
Zahhak that Connolly, being an “empath,” might well prove a security risk. And now look. Empaths were the so-called “normal” people. They understood the difference between right and wrong, generally lived by a moral code, and experienced emotions like compassion and empathy. They might do bad things now and again—lie, cheat, steal, or even murder—but, afterwards, they typically experienced some feelings of guilt or remorse.

Unlike
him, Osbourne, and the rest of the cartel.

When his cell phone—a 4-G
ThunderBolt—began to ring, he set down the book and lowered the music. He answered it gruffly.

“We have lost the scent,” Mr. Kidd
informed him immediately.

“Then we must find a way to
smoke them out,” Zeus replied.

“How
are we supposed to do that?”

“
It’s very simple, Mr. Kidd,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If you want smoke, you must first light a fire.”

* * * *

Thea, unable to reach Glenda at either the home or office, had left a message, but her editor had yet to return the call. It was now after nine and they were pulling up outside the motor lodge in a taxi, having dumped the Honda at the airport. Buchanan paid the driver in cash and got out. He got a bad feeling as soon as he entered the lobby—partly because it reeked of stale cigarettes, piss, and jizz, and partly because the front desk was behind a glass barricade. Bulletproof, he presumed. There were a handful of women hanging around. Hookers, he guessed, from the look of them.

He threw a wary look at
Thea, who appeared to be taking it in stride. With some trepidation, he approached the clerk, a skinny Black woman with a gold cap on one of her front teeth.

“I’d like a smoking room,” he told her, “
preferably with two beds.”

Behind him, he heard
Thea clear her throat, but he couldn’t say to what she was reacting: that he’d asked for one room or that he’d requested two beds. He didn’t feel like explaining, but the second bed was insurance—in case things didn’t happen for one reason or another. As much as he wanted her, he was dead tired. And he had no condoms and no blue pills. The condom problem could probably be remedied. He’d be willing to wager there would be a vending machine offering a colorful range of prophylactics in the lobby men’s room. But what if he couldn’t get it up or keep it up, as often happened? Helene always got very pissy about it. Would Thea, too? If she kicked him out of bed over it, he did not want to end up on the floor. The sheets in this place were probably bad enough. The carpets, he would rather not think about.

“All we got left is a king,”
the clerk said with a shrug. “Take it or leave it.”

“That’ll do,” he s
aid, seeing no other choice.

Besides, he was ready
, wasn’t he?

Against his better judgment, he paid with a credit card
. He was running low on cash and there hadn’t been time to stop at an ATM. (Or, for that matter, time to stop to buy new underwear. Ergo, he’d been “going commando” for the past couple of days.) But then, come to think of it, if the guys who were after them had the resources to trace his credit card, they’d also have the resources to track his withdrawals, wouldn’t they? So what did it matter?

H
e took the key, spun around, and made a beeline for the lounge, which was dimly lit and thick with smoke. One glance told him it was the kind of place Charles Bukowski might have frequented. The bar ran the length of one wall. Behind it was a burly bartender—a Colm Meany type with small eyes, a square jaw, and kinky hair. There was a flat-screen mounted on the wall behind, which Meany was watching as he dried a glass, his back to the room. Con News was on. Buchanan shook his head. Knowing what he knew, the network’s name was more apt than ever.

On one of the stools, hunched over a
drink, was the only other patron in the place. The wiry man’s posture told Buchanan it wasn’t his first beverage of the evening. He turned as they came in. Something about the look in the man’s eyes made him think of his da. He walked up beside him, fighting the urge to punch him in the nose, and set his elbows on the bar. He waited, but the bartender didn’t turn. Glancing over his shoulder at Thea, he asked what she wanted.

“Whatever you’re having,
I guess,” she replied with a shrug.

“I’m having
Glenfiddich,” he told her. “Assuming they’ve got it.” He scanned the shelves behind the bar for the familiar black and gold label. Finding it, he added, “That all right with you?”

As she nodded, his
gaze scanned the room like a minesweeper. There was a jukebox on the back wall near a small parquet dance floor. If he got juiced enough, he just might muster the nerve. It had been years, but he liked to dance, even used to be pretty good at it, before the bum leg.

M
oving on, he spotted a row of tall tables under the covered windows. Nodding toward them, he suggested she go grab one while he got the drinks. He watched her walk away. Her shapely bum was ringing like a bell in that tight skirt of hers. He imagined bending her over the bar, pushing aside her panties, and fucking her right in front of these two wankers. The thought was making his cock swell. Flushing, he turned back to the bartender, now waiting.

“What’ll it be?”

“Two Glenfiddichs. Neat.”

W
hile Meany poured, he turned to the drunk, who was checking out Thea. He felt a pang of possessiveness, which surprised him. Turning, he looked at her himself. When their eyes met, the fire in his groin flared hotter. Despite the wear and tear of the past few days, she still looked remarkably alluring. The image of her laying on the bed in her black underthings slipped into his mind.

What are you waiting for, tiger?

The engorgement in his trousers—not to mention, the entrapment—was becoming uncomfortable.
It hit him like a pie in the face: he fancied her. And not just for a fuck. He swallowed hard. Bloody hell. Was he actually falling in love? He hadn’t believed it possible. Pulse quickening, he paid for the drinks and limped over to her, grateful for the dim lighting. Ducking behind the table to hide his condition, he set down the glasses with a clunk and took a breath.

“
There’s something I need to tell you.”

He felt the
scorch of a blush when their gazes met.

“About the story?”

“No,” he replied,
sitting awkwardly across from her. “About us.”

Stare
burning into his soul, she smiled.

“Oh?” She sipped her drink and licked her lips. “Well then. Do tell.”

He shifted in his seat, adjusting.
His cock hadn’t shown this much interest in ages. Maybe he wouldn’t end up on the floor after all.

“I
spoke with Helene,” he began. “While you were in the vault. At the bank.”

She looked confused.
Had he failed to mention the name? He couldn’t recall.

“
The woman I’m, erm,” he began, feeling as nervous as a schoolboy, “well, you know. My landlady.”

“A
h,” she said, still holding his gaze. “And?”

“I told her about
, well,
us
.”

She
looked pleased, but didn’t comment. He felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of desire. Face heating, he leaned in to kiss her. Their lips met softly, but with an undertone of urgency.

“Shall we go up?” he asked when it was over.

“In a minute,” she replied. “First, I need to tinkle.”

He watched her, lusting
hard, until she disappeared through the door of the loo. While he waited, he lit a cigarette and nursed his drink. A few minutes later, she reappeared, meeting his gaze across the room with an alluring smile. His groin hummed with anticipation. He got up, snuffed out his cigarette, and glanced toward the bar, balking when he saw that both men were gaping at him unflinchingly. Puzzled, he looked about for an explanation, choking when he caught what was on the telly. His reaction must have told Thea, who was now less than a yard away, something was wrong, because she spun around to have a look for herself.

“Oh dear God,” she gasped. “It’s us.”

All the desire he felt fizzled as he moved closer to the set, straining to hear what the anchorwoman was saying: “Investigators are asking for your help tonight in locating the two people you see on your screen. They are wanted for questioning in the disappearance two days ago of Riley Witherspoon, a longtime employee of the National Parks Service. According to eyewitnesses, the suspects were seen talking to Mr. Witherspoon outside his office building shortly before he disappeared. Investigators have reason to believe he may have been abducted. The suspects have been identified as Alexander Buchanan and Dorothea Hamilton, last seen driving a stolen Honda Accord. A light blue two-door with Pennsylvania plates.” She read off the number. “We are asking that anyone who sees the suspects call our crime buster hotline at the number on your screen. Do not attempt to approach or apprehend these individuals, as they are considered armed and extremely dangerous….”

“
Fuck me,” said Buchanan, paling as he turned to her.

She looked as peaky as he felt.
“What should we do?”

The drunk was gawking at them.
The barkeep already had the phone in his hand and was punching in numbers. Not knowing what else to do, Buchanan grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward the door.

They made it outside just as a car was pulling up. There were two men inside.
Frat boys, from the look of them, looking for some action. A memory surfaced. He and Kenny as teens back in Edinburgh, daring each other to go into the local brothel, where they’d both scored their White Pins by and by—in a threesome with an Asian whore called Lily.

The passenger got out and pushed past them
while the driver remained behind the wheel with the engine running. Letting Thea go, he drew his Glock, but kept it out of sight as he approached. Stepping up to the driver’s window, he smiled congenially as he opened the door.

“Get out,
arsehole,” Buchanan barked, sticking the gun in the young man’s face. “And so help me God, if you try to be a hero, I’ll blow your fucking brains all over the pavement.”

“What now?” Thea asked as they sped away from the motel, keeping a watchful eye out the back window. As luck would have it, he’d managed to heist a generic vehicle—a late-model Toyota Camry in a muted shade of gold.

“Try not to get caught, I suppose.”

“That’s it? That’s your big getaway plan?”

He shot her a slicing
glance. “If you’ve got a better one, feel free to share it.”

“
Maybe we should pull off someplace we won’t be seen and try to get some sleep,” she suggested. “You look tired.”

“If you see someplace that fits the bill, let me know,” he said
.

With rising desperation, she looked out at the
road, which was dark and winding. Trees surrounded them like a tribunal of demons. The highway was mostly deserted. One or two cars passed going the other way, blinding her with their headlights. There was a spooky, sinister feeling to it all.

She shot a glance at
Buchanan, whose eyelids were drooping. Poor guy, he must be exhausted. So was she, though still pumped. And not just about the news broadcast and the carjacking. He’d said
us
, hadn’t he? Alex Buchanan—the man she had believed for so long might be "the one that got away"—had said
us
. It was like inner gold. A precious nugget that made her heart feel full and warm for a change. She wanted to talk about it, to get more out of him, but was afraid to push. Afraid he might take it back, take away her nugget, and leave her feeling empty again.

I told her about us.    
  

“What did she say?”

“Sorry?”

“When you told
Helene about
us
. What did she say?”

He grimaced.
“You don’t want to know.”

Actually, she did.
In agonizing detail.

“Was she jealous of me?” she prodded,
wanting the triumph, small and useless as it was.

“She wants me to move out
,” he said glumly.

S
quelching the impulse to invite him to stay with her, she asked, as innocently as she could, “Where will you go?”