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“To the hospital, of course.” Kristi tucked her legal pad and tablet into a black leather briefcase. “I know it’s hard for you, but do try to keep up with the conversation.”
I gritted my teeth. “Why do you want me to go?”
“For your scintillating wit?”
A furious retort bubbled up, but I held it back. She wanted me to lose my temper. I wasn’t going to play her game. “Be fucking straight with me or find another lackey.”
She lifted her chin. “I need an assistant who’s able to interact closely with the shambler patients, and I would rather not jeopardize a human, considering your kind aren’t at risk of infection. Jacques has important work to do here.” She gestured toward Brian and Kyle. “And these two, well, they don’t fit the other requisite. My assistant for this also needs to have a smattering of medical experience, which I’m assuming your time in the morgue has given you.”
It wasn’t an insult or even a backhanded compliment—though she’d seriously underestimated Kyle. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I shot a quick look at Brian, but he simply lifted one shoulder a fraction of an inch in a “might as well” gesture. Or maybe it was “you’re going to die.” Hard to tell.
“Um. Okay,” I told Kristi.
“Dr. Charish,” Brian said. “Mr. Griffin will be accompanying you.” Kyle stepped forward.
Her smile turned icy. “I have my own bodyguards.”
“Yes, ma’am, you do.” Brian’s expression grew fiercely polite. “It’s not your body I’m concerned about.”
Kristi hesitated, as if weighing whether this was a battle worth fighting, then closed the briefcase and slung the strap over her shoulder. “Let’s go then.”
• • •
To my surprise, a limo was waiting for us out front. Though not a stretch big enough to fit ten high school seniors on the way to prom, it still screamed elegance and money and “I’m important enough to have someone drive me around while I think about important things.”
I really needed to get rich.
Reno pulled up behind in a sleek black Mercedes sedan. Overkill much with the bodyguards? Maybe Kristi thought I’d attack her the instant we were alone. As much as I hated her, I wasn’t even tempted. She was so nasty her brain would probably taste rancid.
Fritz climbed into Reno’s car while Billy ushered Kristi and me into the back of the limo. Kyle took the limo’s front passenger seat, and Billy settled behind the wheel. Kyle’s presence was a relief, for that little pinch of fear that Kristi was up to something horrible with her need for an assistant—me, of all people.
I braced myself for snark, veiled insults, or other nastiness from her, but she ignored me and worked on her notes and tablet. Relaxing, I watched her out of the corner of my eye, quietly envying her ability to look so effortlessly stylish yet professional. Then again, money could buy an elegant smart watch, perfectly tailored clothing, and bras that actually fit and made your boobs properly perky. Hair cut and colored by someone other than “Kutz 4 Y’all,” and stockings that weren’t sold at the grocery store. And shoes . . . she had on elegant little tan pumps with a sensible yet attractive three-inch heel.
“Are your shoes made of alligator skin?”
Kristi flipped a page on a legal pad. “I certainly hope so. They’re the Manolo Blahnik Blixa alligator pump.”
I pulled out my phone and Googled the name. “Four thousand dollars?!” That was more than my car had cost.
Kristi made a notation in the margin. “Four thousand six hundred. Before tax.”
She returned to ignoring me and didn’t speak again until we pulled up at the hospital, and then it was to say, “Oh, here already? Let’s go, Angel.”
Billy leaped out to open Kristi’s door and give her a hand
out. Then he sprinted around to my side, looking crushed when he saw I’d dared open my own door. He thrust his hand at me, and though I was perfectly capable of getting out of a vehicle on my lonesome, I took it. Didn’t want to hurt the poor guy’s feelings.
Kyle let himself out and followed us into the hospital, a silent, comforting shadow. Not so comforting was Fritz taking up the rear. At the information desk, Kristi offered the white-haired lady there a dazzling smile. “I’m Dr. Kristi Charish. I believe Dr. Ingram is expecting me.”
Before the words were completely out of her mouth, a brown-skinned man with a receding hairline and impressive mustache burst through a set of double doors and rushed up to Kristi.
“Dr. Charish!” He seized her hand and pumped it. “When your secretary called to say you were on your way here to offer a consultation pro bono, well, you have no idea how thrilled I was. Having a doctor with your credentials and experience help us with this medical mystery . . . it’s a blessing from above.”
Huh. Some of the tapping on her tablet must’ve been to her secretary to orchestrate a grand entrance. I would have probably done the same. Cut through the bureaucratic bullshit with a few well-placed phone calls. But the way he referred to her as “doctor” sure made it sound like she was an MD kind of doctor. Never would have thought that. What kind of bedside manner did she have? Lethal?
Kristi extricated her hand, smile never wavering. “I’m given to understand a patient exhibiting LZ-1 symptoms came in with a gunshot wound. Is he still alive?”
LZ-1? What a boring name for the Eugene-caused illness. Thanks a lot, CDC.
