Yours, Mine, and Ours (18 page)

“Not without the codes and I wouldn’t I wouldn’t I wouldn’t give HOAP those codes.”

I froze. George froze. Emma Jan just looked amazed. “Uh, I was kind of kidding about the SKYNET thing,” he said after a shocked moment, “but are you telling me it’s an actual possibility?”

I was shaking my head and rummaging through my purse for gum, or Oreos, when I felt a paper cut and yanked my hand away with a startled hiss. I reached back in, carefully, and took out a Post-it note I had never seen before.

C-

I will need to discuss his nephew’s murder with Dr. Gallo.

-S

Hmmm. Well, we were in a bit of a holding pattern just now, waiting for data. I suppose there was no time

chapter forty-two

like the present.

I zipped Cadence’s purse shut and stood. Lounging around like iguanas sunning themselves on rocks was not productive. Speaking with Dr. Gallo, however, could be quite productive. I wondered how he would look at this time of the day. If he shaved daily or endured stubble. He was so darkly striking, he could pull off either look if he—

Darkly striking?

I need a nap. Possibly several.

Or perhaps, I merely need to have sex.
Hmm. It
had
been a while. Unfortunately, this was no time to address the problem, so I resolved to put up with the inappropriate hormonal surges. Surges, I realized with no small relief, that had nothing to do with Max Gallo and everything to do with the fact that I hadn’t had sex in … what year was it?

I left, ignoring George’s and Agent Thyme’s questions. Although George shrieking, “You don’t fool me! That stick-in-the-ass stride is pure Shiro! You aren’t Cadence!” almost made me smile.

*   *   *

I marched into the torture chamber staffed by Red Cross employees, looking for Dr. Gallo. A male nurse I did not know accosted me at the entrance.

“Adrienne, you bad girl, you know you can’t donate again for a few more days. So, what? Slumming?”

I eyed the hirsute nurse, wondering if all that body hair kept him warm in winter. “I am not.” No, I was not Adrienne, though I knew why I could not say so. And no. I was not … slumming. Still, it was galling to be called by the name of another. And no, I was not here for another depletion of my precious bodily fluids. How difficult could it be to synthesize blood? We could synthesize almost everything else. “Away from me, fiend. But first, tell me where Dr. Gallo is.”

“You again.” I turned and saw my desired prey. He had just popped out of his office and was shrugging into a beat-up motorcycle jacket and carrying an equally beat-up black motorcycle helmet in one hand. The jacket looked as though Gallo had worn it to a war. Possibly more than one. “Back to product-test the latest batch of oatmeal cookies?”

I shuddered. “Not even if you stuck a gun in my ear.” I did not say that lightly. I had actually had a gun stuck in my ear. Ah, sweet Pampered Chef party memories … “If you attempt to foist a cookie on me I cannot guarantee your safety.”

He threw back his head and laughed. He had a wonderful laugh, deep and contagious. I had to struggle not to giggle along with him like a ninny.

“I am here on official business, if I may have some of your time.”

He studied me for a few seconds. “About my nephew.”

I noticed it had not been a question. In fact, Dr. Gallo had not yet bothered me with a single unnecessary query. It was a rare and wonderful trait in a human being. I could see why Cadence liked him. Though that ninny was already convincing herself that finding someone besides Patrick attractive was the same as cheating. I have never known anyone to be so crippled by their conscience. She punished herself when she
didn’t
commit any wrongdoing.

It must be exhausting.

“Yes,” I replied. “Your nephew. May I speak with you?” Protocol required “please,” “thank you,” “sir,” “ma’am.” But once I had exhausted protocol, I was fine with gutter language and menacing him with a … er … I looked around. I suppose I could smother him in all those blankets.

“Sure.”

Eh? Oh. He had answered me.
Why
was I so distracted? And how could Cadence live like this?

“C’mon, let’s take a walk. I was bugging out to grab lunch anyway. Back in a while, gang,” he said and tossed a wave in their general direction. They called farewells and waved, too, which I felt was a bit disrespectful given that he was their superior. Gallo did not appear to mind, which I felt was a bad precedent. However, it was not my place to say so, and thus, I did not.

He jerked his head toward the closest exit, and we fell into step together as he headed for what I assumed was the parking lot. His tattered leather went perfectly with his soon-to-be-tattered scrubs. And he needed a haircut; his dark bangs kept flopping into his eyes and he kept them at bay by jerking his head to the side.
Patrick would never let his hair become so unmanageable
, I thought, and then experienced some Cadence-esque panic. Why was I drawing comparisons? And why was I so pleased to be here, alone, with Dr. Gallo? I would not lie to myself and pretend it was for the JBJ case.

“I don’t suppose there are any leads.”

Relieved we were back to business, I replied, “We are running everything we can. We
will
get this amoral bastard, Dr. Gallo. Of that, you may be certain.”

“Hmmm, your eyes went all narrow and squinty when you said that. I’d hate to meet you in a dark alley.”

“Yes,” I replied. “You would.”

He chuckled and held the door for me. At first I thought it was a trick. Then I thought it was chauvinism. By the time I realized it was simple courtesy he had sighed and gone through himself. “I’m making a mental note,” he called as I hurried behind him. “No more door holding for you!”

“Would you believe I was deep in thought?”

“Nope.” He snickered, fished out a set of jangly keys, and pointed them to the left. I heard a muted beep and we both turned in that direction. “Listen, I’ve gotta get out of here, and not for a McFlab Deluxe, either. Let’s go for a ride.”

“A ride?” We had stopped near a sizable black motorcycle that had likely rolled brand-new off the show floor the year I was born. It was immaculately maintained, and seemed to brood while heeled over on its kickstand. It looked like a compact storm cloud on wheels. “Ah…”

Hmm. This was not like me. I normally did not eschew new and possibly dangerous situations. Was it that I did not wish to seem less than brave and honorable to Dr. Gallo? A man whom I did not truly know?

Ye gods! I was getting as stupidly maudlin as Cadence! Definitely time to consider a change in medication. “We shall ride
now
,” I said, refraining myself from flinging myself onto the seat.

“I’m with you, Adrienne, so calm down.” He had bent, and was rummaging, and when he stood he was holding a spare black helmet in my direction. I snatched it away from him and plunked it on my head.

“Very well. We ride now.”

“Calm down, Valentino Rossi.”

“Who?”

“Your helmet’s crooked,” he said, like that explained a single thing. He reached up and did something with the straps by my chin. For that long moment we were eye to eye, and why did I feel like it was eye to clitoris? His fingers on the strap, brushing my skin, his dark gaze inches from mine … I would think about that endless moment again and again over the next several weeks.

What is wrong with me?

“—fall off otherwise.”

“What?” At last, at last he had finished fiddling with my helmet and stepped back and was no longer touching me and I was sad and glad and
what was wrong with me?

“Are you all right?”

I ignored the question. “So, what is this?” I gestured at his motorcycle. “A Harley-Davidson? A … a chopper?” It occurred to me I knew nothing about motorcycles. “A, uh, Triumph?”

“Honda.”

“What?”

“It’s a Honda. Best in the world, believe it or not.” He had pulled on dark gloves and patted the motorcycle with what appeared to be affection. “I got her right before I started med school. Beauty, eh?”

“You sound Canadian when you talk like that,” was the only thing I could think of to say. The other thing (“Honda makes motorcycles? How strange.
You
are strange, too, Dr. Gallo, but then, so am I, so you need not fret.”) wasn’t especially tactful. Or sensible.

“Well,” he said, swinging a long leg over the seat, “I
am
Canadian. Here, hop on. Yeah, right behind—whoa, not so fast, you almost sent us crashing to the tarmac. Usually I like to be going at least fifteen mph before I go crashing to the tarmac … There! That’s better.”

I could hardly see—the helmet radically reduced my peripheral vision. At first I gingerly rested my fingertips on his waist, barely grazing, but Dr. Gallo put a stop to that when he grabbed my wrists and pulled forward, showing me how to wrap my arms around his waist and hold onto my own wrists locked over his flat stomach. Then he did something that made a tremendous noise—annoying helmet! I couldn’t see a thing!—and then we

then we

    
we were

chapter forty-three

Flying!

    
O we were we were

O we were flying flying and we skimmed

     
and swooped

and flew

The wheels on the bike

go fly fly fly

fly fly fly

fly fly fly

  
The wheels on the bike

  
They make us fly

  
Dr. Gallo flies!

And it’s swoop!

And whoop!

And swoop whoop swoop whoop and here comes

the bridge!

And we’re little and speedy and we pass everyone

We pass everyone

The geese are jealous!

The geese want their own motorcycles!

    
Dr. Gallo can fly

No one told me

    
Dr. Gallo can fly!

    
The wheels on the Honda

    
Help us fly

    
Help us fly

    
Help us fly

    
Dr. Max takes us flying

    
All across the bridge.

Dr. Max!

    
Dr. Max can fly!

    
Dr. Max helps US fly!

    
Fly fly fly

Don’t worry!

We’ll find the

(goose)

JBK

JBK

JBK

We will find the JBK

And kill him just for youuuuu!

chapter forty-four

“Want to head
back?”

I realized we were several miles from the hospital. Ah! The real Adrienne had joined us, and just as recently, left. Fortunately for the good doctor, he hadn’t noticed. I had no idea what Adrienne must have thought of the motorcycle ride, but since she had not appeared to deliberately crash us, she must have liked it.

“Adrienne?” He had turned his head to better hear me. “Ready to go back?”

I smacked him on his left shoulder with the flat of my hand, hard.

“Ow! So, no? Y’know, I respond to verbal cues, too,” he grouched. But I knew he was only pretending annoyance. He was pleased that I liked this pastime of his. If only he knew how many of us in here did. Ha! That might be a conversation worth having sometime.

I leaned forward and rested my cheek on his shoulder, and felt the wind whistling past us leaving molecules of good smells, the fresh bread of a Subway shop, the clean snow over a semi-frozen river, a car wash cranking away with soap and wax, The Old Spaghetti Factory, floating all around.