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Although if it was a white coat with a tray of needles and bright ideas, he was going to regret—
Shouting. Someone was shouting.
Out in the hall.
Even though it was the last thing he needed to do, he put the zip tie aside and gingerly got off the mattress. When his legs supported his weight on his numb feet, he picked up his sweatshirt and yanked it on. Then he took out his snub-nosed nine millimeter from a drawer in the bedside table and slipped the small gun into the front pocket of the jeans where the zip tie had been and headed for the door.
Old training and too much relevant experiencehad him back-flatting by the exit. Holding his breath, he listened for a heartbeat or two, and then slipped out into the hallway.
In his bare feet, he made no noise at all as he walked slowly toward the sounds.
No more shouting now. Just muffled mumbling, as if he were in a game of reverse Marco Polo, with the closer he got, the quieter the target became.
It was a woman.
Phalen?
Where are the guards?he thought as he zeroed in on the woman’s study. Surely they’d heard it, too?
Unless this was another dream…
The door to her inner sanctum was closed, and he put his ear to the cool panel. When there was only silence, he knocked.
“C.P.?”Knock-knock.“Hello?”
After a moment, a dim response: “I’m all right.”
Daniel frowned and spoke to the door. “You don’t sound all right. Was that you yelling?”
When there was no response, he put his ear flat to the panels again. Then he knocked once more. “What’s up, Phalen.”
No response.
Stepping back, he ran his palm over the new-growth on his skull and reminded himself that though he was a guest in her fortified house, her life was none of his business, and if she wasn’t answering him? See the previous operant statement—
Tap, tap, tap—
Daniel wheeled around, and as he lost his balance, he grabbed on to the molding at the jamb. “What. What do you want?”
Yes, he was talking into the air, but something was absolutely standing beside him, and this was clearly another dream, and—
Was that lavender? Why was he smelling lavender…?
The weeping was so soft that at first he figured it was his own wheezy respiration, but when he held his breath and the quiet sorrow persisted, he knew the rhythmic, heartbreaking stuff wasn’t him.
“Fuck it.” He grabbed the handle and announced loudly, “I’m coming in.”
Pushing things wide, he looked to the glossy desk to the left. No one was in the chair that had been turned away to the side. Checking out the seating arrangement on the right—
In the open doorway to the half bath, C.P. Phalen appeared, her face white, one arm around her chest, the other extended down her body.
So that she could attempt to cover the enormous bloodstain between her legs with her hand.
“I think I’m losing the baby,” she choked out.
NINE
STOP! DON’T HURThim!”
