Dangerous Games

31

I’m propped up on pillows on a battered brown leather sofa that looks as if it were reclaimed from the dump. There’s a small living area set up next to the kitchen, with a bed, nightstand, bookcase, and the dumpy sofa. A scarred wooden coffee table holds a silver cigar ashtray and a biography of the seventies movie star Steve McQueen.

It’s in French, just to be doubly annoying. That bastard Killian probably speaks a bunch of foreign languages. All with a perfect accent, no doubt.

I toss the newspaper with the article of my demise onto the coffee table. At least the Germans were good for one thing. Hopefully, wherever he is, Dimitri sees it. “How long has Killian been gone?”

“Fifteen minutes longer than the last time you asked me.”

“Why doesn’t he call? It’s been more than twenty-four hours!”

“Because he doesn’t have anything yet. When he has something, he’ll call.”

I stare with intense loathing at the IV catheter stuck into the vein on the back of my hand. “When can you take this off?”

“For the fourth time, when the bag of antibiotics is empty.”

“There’s something wrong with the drip. It’s taking forever.”

Doc ambles over to the bed, flops down on it, threads his hands behind his head on the pillow, and crosses his feet. “There’s nothing wrong with the drip, man. Chill.”

Chill. As if I f*****g could.

My mind is a horror movie fest, playing every slasher flick nightmare ever conceived. Eva being chased by a hockey-mask-wearing Dimitri, who’s holding a chain saw. A sobbing Eva chained to a wall, getting lashed. Eva naked and screaming on a bed while Dimitri—

“f**k. f**k!”

I blow out a breath and jerk upright, setting my feet on the floor. Doc looks at me.

“For what it’s worth, I feel you. Love’s the best thing in the world, but also the worst.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

He gazes at me for a beat, then turns his head and stares at the ceiling. “I was married once.”

The way he says it, the absolute rawness of his voice, makes me think his marriage didn’t end in divorce. I say quietly, “Me too.” When he glances at me again, I add, “Breast cancer.”

He turns away, squeezing shut his eyes as if against a bad memory. After a moment he says, “Hit-and-run.”

“Oh f**k. I’m sorry.”

He swallows, then clears his throat. “Yeah. Date night. We got into a fight at dinner. Stupid s**t, how I never helped around the house. Worked too much, whatever. She was right, but I was tired. Being an asshole. She got up from our table at the restaurant and ran out. I saw the whole thing, you know. We had a table by the window.”

He stops abruptly. Then, more roughly: “Last thing I ever said to her was ‘Stop being such a bitch.’ Never got to apologize. She was gone by the time I got to her. Eyes wide open. Everything smashed. They never found the driver. Ten years ago, and I still dream about her all the time. Her face when I called her a bitch.”

He stops again. This time he doesn’t go on.

I sigh heavily, scrubbing my hands over my face. I know there’s nothing I can say to help him, know that right now he’s lost in his own personal hell of memory and regret.

If death teaches us anything, it’s humility. And not to waste a single moment on the stupid s**t because all of life is a ticking clock that will stop when you least expect it.

Over on the stainless-steel counter where he left it, Doc’s cell phone rings.

I leap to my feet, heart pounding. Doc’s on his feet, too, striding over to pick up the phone. Dragging the rolling metal IV stand I’m hooked up to along with me, I hurry over to him as he answers.

“Hello?” He listens for a moment, concentrating. “Hey, K.” He glances at me. “Yeah. He’s standing right here.”

I shout, “What’s he saying? Did he find Eva? What’s going on?”

He crossly waves a hand for me to shut up. More listening, then he looks me up and down. “I gave him a pair of your trousers—no, jeans—and a sweatshirt—a plain black one, man—and a pair of your shoes. No, not the Ferragamos. Boots.”

I say loudly, “They’re too small.”

Doc listens again, then makes a face. “No, I’m not gonna measure his feet!”

I roar, “Does he have Eva?”

Whatever Killian says makes Doc grimace. “Cheese and whiskers, you two are like a couple of chest-beating gorillas. Sorry, but I can’t be the meat in your macho sandwich.” He holds the cell out to me, shaking his head.

I snatch the cell and stick it against my ear. “Please f*****g tell me you have her.”

“I don’t have her.”

I drop the phone against my side, tilt my head back, and let rip a yell of frustration at the ceiling. Putting the phone back against my ear, I demand, “Tell me what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is that I found one very dead man by the name of Vladimir Mikhailov at the bottom of a cellar on an abandoned estate in the countryside outside Warsaw—”

“You’re in Poland? Gimme your exact location!”

His tsk of disappointment is infuriating. “The things you focus on. Now’s not the time to get into your trust issues, mate.”

I stay silent, seething, until he relents.

“All right, you bloody wanker. Get a pen.”