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3
SEAN KING DROVE WHILE MICHELLE Maxwell rode shotgun.
This was the reverse of what the pair normally did. She usually drove the car, like a rhino on steroids, while he hung on for dear life and mumbled his prayers, but without much confidence they would actually be answered.
There was a good reason for his piloting tonight, and for the last twenty-one nights. Michelle was simply not herself, at least not yet. She was getting there, only more slowly than she wanted.
He looked at her. “How you doing?”
She stared straight ahead. “I am armed. So you ask me that one more time and I will shoot you, Sean.”
“I’m just concerned, okay?”
She turned to him with a ferocious stare. “Oh, that I get. But I’ve been out of rehab for three weeks. I think I’m good to go. And that’s what your concern can do: Go.”
“Your injuries were life-threatening, Michelle. You almost didn’t make it. Trust me, I was there for every second of it. So three weeks out of rehab after something like that is actually not very long.”
Michelle touched her lower back and then her upper thigh. There were scars there. There would always be scars there. The memory of how she had come by these injuries was as vivid as the initial knife thrust into her back. It had been done by someone she thought was an ally, but who instead had just wanted to kill her.
Yet she was alive. And Sean had been with her every step of the way. Only now his hovering was obviously starting to get to her.
“I know. But it was two full months of rehab. And I’m a fast healer. You of all people should understand that by now.”
“It was just close, Michelle. Way too close.”
“How many times have I almost lost you?” she said, shooting him a glance. “It’s part of what we do. It comes with the territory. If we want safe we have to get another line of work.”
“Yeah,” he said absently.
Sean looked out through the windshield as the rain continued bucketing down. The night was gloomy, the clouds fat with more rain and shifty through the sky. They were driving through a particularly lonely area of northern Virginia on their way back from meeting with a former client, Edgar Roy. They had saved him from a death sentence. He had been as suitably appreciative as any high-functioning autistic savant with severely limited social skills could be.
“Edgar looked good,” said Michelle.
“He looked really good, considering how close he was to a lethal injection,” replied Sean, who seemed relieved by the change in topics.
“Think he’ll take us up on our offer to do some work for us?” she asked.
“I think our trying to figure out what Edgar will do is not a productive use of time. Geniuses are not known for being predictable.”
Sean took a turn on the rain-slicked, curvy road too fast and Michelle grabbed her armrest for support.
“Slow it down,” she warned.
He feigned astonishment. “Words I never thought I would hear leave your mouth.”
“I drive fast because I know how to.”
“I’ve got the injuries and therapy bills to prove otherwise,” he shot back.
She gave him a scowl and then looked away. “So what now that we’ve finished all the work on Edgar Roy’s matter?”
“We continue our careers as private investigators and earn some income. Both Peter Bunting and the government were very generous with their payments to us, but we’re socking that away to either retire on or spend on a rainy day.”
Michelle looked to the stormy sky. “Rainy day? Then let’s go buy a yacht. We might need it to get home.”
Sean would have said something back, but he was suddenly preoccupied.
“Damn!”
