by Josh Lanyon
“Thanks for breaking me out of the nick,” I mumbled.
He shook his head and made a huff of sound. Not quite a laugh, but softer than exasperation.
We lay quietly and our breathing slipped into a natural synchronized rhythm. It felt like our hearts were beating in time. Only with Stephen had I ever experienced this feeling of completion, of oneness. I could have gladly closed my eyes and slept in his arms—was desperate for sleep—but I could feel him thinking, feel his thoughts turning over and over.
I said at last, “It kills me that you don’t believe me.”
“Mark,” he said at once, so I knew I had been right, “if you tell me you don’t know who shot you, then I believe you.”
“Yeah. Except you don’t.”
I could hear him thinking that through, hear the steady deliberate beat of his heart, hear the slow even breaths. He said at last, “It’s hard to believe you wouldn’t have any idea at all.”
“It’s not hard to believe if I’m not involved in intelligence work.”
“But if you’re not involved in espionage, why would someone try to kill you?”
It was a good question. A fair question.
“Maybe I…”
“What?”
I said vaguely. “Dunno. Not everyone appreciates my winning personality the way you do.”
“Who’ve you offended badly enough they might want you dead?”
“No one that I know of.” Not recently at least. I needed to talk to the Old Man. There had been a price on my head for a brief time, but that was ancient history. True, it wouldn’t be advisable for me to return to Afghanistan in the near future, but I hadn’t been shot in Afghanistan. I’d been shot in what amounted to my own back garden.
“Weren’t there any witnesses?”
Stephen’s head moved in negation. “We can’t keep discussing this. Not until you’ve talked to the police.”
I lifted my head from his shoulder. “You what? To hell with that.”
“No. We’re liable to compromise your memory of what did actually happen.”
I said irritably, because graze or not, I don’t enjoy being shot, “I don’t bloody have a memory of what happened.”
“There’s a good chance you’ll get at least some of that back. You’re trained to retrieve information even under the most stressful circumstances.”
He was right about that. I’d been knocked senseless a couple of times and I’d always recollected everything right up to the moment of losing consciousness.
I resettled my head on his chest. “I think it would help me to talk about it.”
He laughed, though it wasn’t a particularly humorous sound. “I let you have your way at the hospital and I’m going to catch hell from the cops for it. This, we’re doing my way.”
When he got that note in his voice there wasn’t any arguing with him. And in any case, the last thing I wanted was to row with him.
I sighed. “All right then. You win.”
He promptly reached up to feel my forehead. I managed a tired laugh.
“I hope at least you believe I wouldn’t knowingly do anything to bring trouble to us.”
“I do.”
Turnabout was fair play though, because I didn’t believe him any more than he had believed me earlier.
“But you reckon I believe I could protect us from any trouble that might result from my activities?”
“Mark, we’re both too tired to hash this out now.” Stephen’s voice dragged with weariness. “We’ll talk when we’ve both had some sleep.”
“All right.”
Another heavier silence settled over us.
Stephen said suddenly, “We should probably cancel the party.”
A few days earlier Stephen had broken the news that every Christmas Eve he hosted a party for his friends and colleagues and the people with whom he served on all those endless charities and committees. Something like eighty people had already RSVPed. Stephen had hired a bartender and caterer so that Lena, our housekeeper, was not subjected to what, in my opinion, promised to be an excruciatingly dull evening.
“Why?”
“Aside from the fact you didn’t want this party before you were shot?”
“I’ll be as good as new by tomorrow. As for not wanting a party, I can dust off my manners for one evening.”
I could feel him thinking that over.
I said, “You know me well enough to know I’m not merely being polite.”
“True.”
This time the quiet felt as though it might stick. I made myself lie still and I felt Stephen relaxing, his breaths going slower and deeper.
My head pounded and my shoulder felt stiff and bruised. But beyond the physical aches and pain was the nagging worry of who wanted me dead? Wanted me out of the way so urgently as to risk attacking me on a college campus? Fair enough, it had been night and the campus was largely deserted now that winter break had begun, but it was a hell of a gamble.
On the whole I was glad the shooter had tried for me safely away from home base. The one thing I couldn’t bear to contemplate was Stephen getting in between me and a bullet. Not that I had any desire to stop a bullet, but I’d gladly stop a dozen bullets to keep Stephen out of the line of the fire.
But bullets shouldn’t be an issue these days. I wasn’t telling Stephen comfortable lies. I genuinely had no clue as to why anyone might view me as a problem that was best solved permanently.
Stephen said quietly, “Can’t sleep?”
“It’s all right. I don’t need anything.”
“Nothing at all?” His voice was deeper, his drawl was a little more pronounced.
That caught my interest. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll show you. Just close your eyes and relax.”
Stephen’s hand closed around my cock, warm and familiar. Hello old friend. How are you?
I arched into it—I’d have to be in a coma not to respond to Stephen’s touch.
“Shhh. I’ll do all the work.”
“Feels so nice...”
“I know.” There was such sweetness in his voice, such tenderness. It made my eyes sting. I kept my lashes tightly shut and focused only on his touch.
His hand slid up and down my cock, slowly, skillfully. The right pressure, the right speed, the right angle. That delicious pull and tug, the friction of palm on penis. Maybe it wasn’t skill so much as knowing by now exactly what I liked. He knew my body as well as he knew his own. The same way I knew and loved his body.
“So good,” I murmured. “Thank you.”
I heard the smile in his voice as he whispered, “The pleasure is all mine.”
That was certainly not true, but I’d learned enough these past months to know that a lot of the pleasure was his, and that it was okay to accept this gift without instantly needing to reciprocate and repay. It was better to give than receive, but receiving had its delights, too.
Even tired and battered as my body was, it responded with quick efficacy to Stephen’s attentions, and before long I was gasping and shoving hard into his fist, all that worry and tension spiking and then pouring out in slick, wet heat.
So good, even as reaction hit. I was shivering as Stephen wrapped me tightly, warmly in his arms, kissed my damp temple, my damp eyes, my unsteady mouth.
“Sleep well, honey. You’re safe now.”
A wet tongue in my ear.
The wrong tongue. My eyes flew open. “Damn it, Buck!”
Buck made that growly sound that was the Chesapeake Bay retriever way of saying hello. His big brown eyes gazed hopefully into mine.
“What?”
Buck wagged his tail. He growled encouragement.
“Sorry, mate. You only get one breakfast when Stephen’s home.”
Through the floorboards I could hear sounds of life and activity. Muted sounds, no doubt in consideration of my delicate condition, but there was nothing wrong with my hearing. I heard the oven door opening and closing in the
kitchen, the stereo in Stephen’s office turned down low but not so low I couldn’t make out Darlene Love singing “Baby Please Come Home,” and the distant drone of a utility vehicle making its way down the snowy lane toward us.
I lifted my head. The clock read nine-thirty.
Stephen had been up since five. I had pretended to sleep through his shower and getting dressed because I knew he’d be fretting if he thought I wasn’t getting enough rest, and in my effort to convincingly feign sleep, I had drifted off again and slept well.
To Buck’s delight, I threw back the covers and proceeded to get myself carefully and cautiously out of bed. On a scale of one to ten, I was scoring a solid five. My head hurt but my vision and balance were back to normal. My arm hurt too, but I could move it fine. I picked at the dressing on my shoulder and took a peek. Red and angry looking as it was, it was just a nick, as Stephen had assured me. There was a lot of bruising, by which I deduced I’d fallen on it.
Buck escorted me to the bathroom, his face falling as much as a dog’s face could fall when I closed the door on him. I wrapped my head in a towel to protect my stitches and got in the shower, washing quickly and mostly managing to avoid getting my injured shoulder wet.
I followed the shower with a shave, brushed my teeth, and found a clean pair of jeans and a gray Henley shirt. I knew I didn’t have a lot of time. I could hear voices downstairs, official sounding voices.
I sat on the edge of the unmade bed and phoned the Old Man but the number I had, the number I’d always had, rang and rang and rang.
“Who were you calling?” Stephen asked from the doorway.
Buck jumped off the bed with alacrity, but there was no reason for me to jump, no reason for me to feel guilty at all.
I did, though.
I replaced the phone in the cradle. “The Old Man. Just making sure no one put a price on my head.” I offered a smile. Stephen didn’t smile back.
The sense of well-being I’d awakened with, well-being at least as far as Stephen and I were concerned, paled.
“The sheriff is downstairs.”
I nodded.
“How are you feeling? How’s the head?”
“Fine. Shoulder, too.”
“I want to check you over, but I think you should talk to him first.”
“Whatever you like.”
I saw him struggle with himself. “What did Holohan say?”
“He never answered.”
Stephen’s brows drew together. “You mean he’s not taking your calls?”
I offered a wry smile. “I mean no one’s answering.”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe they haven’t paid the phone bill.” I rose and went to where he stood in the doorway. I sensed he wanted—started—to kiss me, but he stopped himself, and that dimmed my spirits a little further. “I suppose I’d better get this over with.”
He nodded and turned away.
I’ve interfaced, as we say in the service, with a lot of law enforcement. They run to type as do we all, but I couldn’t immediately pinpoint Deputy Sheriff Donleavy’s type.
He looked to be in his late forties. Medium height, wiry, and sharply handsome. When we walked into the front room, he was examining the framed photos of Stephen and me which sat on the top of the piano in front of the large windows. He turned to greet us without haste and introduced himself.
We settled near the fireplace. I sat on the sofa, back to the ten-foot tall noble fir that dominated the room. Stephen sat across from me. Donleavy took the catacorner loveseat, giving him the best vantage for watching both Stephen and me.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Hardwicke?” He accepted a cup of coffee from the tray Lena had carried in.
“Fine. Thanks.” I smiled at Lena in gratitude for the cup of tea also on the tray.
Her face softened before she turned to leave the room, snapping her fingers for Buck to follow her, which he did reluctantly, with longing looks at the tea tray.
“You had a pretty close call there last night.”
I swallowed a mouthful of tea. “Yes.”
Stephen had neither coffee nor tea. He watched me and Donleavy gravely. I knew he was too smart not to realize he was, for now, a suspect in the attempt on my life. I could only imagine how outrageous and offensive that idea was to him.
Donleavy said, “You want to tell me in your own words what you remember?”
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be a lot of help.”
“I’m afraid of the same thing,” Donleavy said dryly.
“Sorry?”
He took a biscuit from the tray. “Your professional background is not completely unknown to us, Mr. Hardwicke. Simple country cops though we may appear to you.”
“I’ve worked with a lot of different agencies, Deputy. I have the greatest respect for local law enforcement.”
His smile was dazzlingly white. “Sure you do. Since we’ve got the niceties out of the way, suppose you tell me what you’re working on that got someone riled enough to try and put you out of the way?”
“Nothing. I’m telling you straight up. I’m not involved in anything more dangerous than teacher training.” I looked at Stephen. He looked right back at me. “I retired from British Intelligence seven months ago. I have no intention of getting back in the game.”
“Okay.” Donleavy crunched his biscuit thoughtfully. “So who do you think wants you out of the way?”
The fact that Donleavy accepted my statement without argument took me aback more than the question itself.
“I can’t think of anyone. Maybe it was a mistake.”
“A mistake? You mean someone thinks they have a grievance but they don’t?”
“No. Maybe someone thought I was someone else.”
“A case of mistaken identity?”
“I have that kind of face.” I shrugged. “I look like a lot of other people.”
“That’s an interesting theory. Of course you don’t sound like a lot of other people. Not in this neck of the woods, anyway.”
“Was I talking when I was shot?”
Stephen threw me a warning look, but I wasn’t being insolent. I thought it was a valid point.
Donleavy said, “Were you? Did you leave the library with someone?”
“I don’t remember. The last thing I recall is sitting inside the building reading. I remember thinking it was late and I should be starting home.”
“Memory loss isn’t unusual with head trauma,” Stephen interjected. “But Mark is trained in memorization techniques. I think it’s likely he’ll remember most of the events up to the shooting after he’s had a couple of days to recover.”
“That would be useful,” Donleavy said, not sounding particularly wowed at the possibility.
“Were there any witnesses?” I asked.
“To the shooting? No. A couple of students left the library a minute or so after you and found you trying to push yourself up from where you’d fallen. They didn’t see anyone else. You lost consciousness and one boy ran back inside the library for help while the other stayed with you.”
“Was the bullet found?”
“Nothing so far. No bullets. No shell casings. It appears there was one shot at a distance from a rifle, probably a twenty-two.” Donleavy turned to Stephen and said, “Dr. Thorpe, just for the purpose of—”
“I understand,” Stephen said. “I was on duty at Shenandoah Memorial yesterday evening. Any number of people will be able to vouch for me.”
Donleavy nodded. “People never like that question, but I have to ask all the same.”
“I did not shoot Mark.”
“No, sir. I don’t believe you did.”
“If he had, he wouldn’t have missed.” I wasn’t being funny. It was a fact. But both of them looked at me like I’d said something extraordinary.
To me, Donleavy said, “Have you had any altercations lately? Any run-ins with anyone?”
“No.”
“No? You get along with eve
ryone, is that it?” He offered that big smile again. His eyes were arctic blue. “Everybody loves you?”
“No. But I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t love me enough to want me dead.”
Or did I?
Observing me, Donleavy queried, “I guess the light bulb went on?”
“Er…no.”
“Mark,” Stephen said sharply. “If you can think of someone who might want to harm you—”
I don’t think it was malicious on my part. I wanted to distract Stephen from the memory of the last real altercation I’d had, and the best way to do that was to sidetrack him with another option. Donleavy needed a bone. I threw him one.
“I don’t know that he wants to do me harm, but Bryce certainly doesn’t wish me well.”
“Bryce?” Donleavy asked at the same moment Stephen exclaimed, “Seriously, Mark?”
He was furious and not bothering to hide it behind his usual good manners, which indicated how really pissed off he was. Not on Bryce’s behalf necessarily; Stephen was a reserved and private man, not given to sharing intimate details of our life—his life—with strangers, and I had just ripped the door off his safe room and turned on a spotlight. I hadn’t intended to embarrass him; I hadn’t considered that angle at all.
One glimpse of his face warned me I should have. By then it was too late to turn back.
“And who might this Bryce be?” Donleavy inquired.
Stephen stopped trying to raze me to ashes with his eyes long enough to clip out, “A family friend.”
“There seems to be a difference of opinion there.” Donleavy waited for me to clarify.
I tried to minimize the damage. “Bryce and I have never really got along, but I don’t actually think he’s got it in for me. I’m not thinking too clearly this morning.”
“No, you’re not,” Stephen said.
Donleavy was a smart bloke. He didn’t need a diagram drawn. “What’s Bryce’s last name?”
“Boxer,” I replied, now annoyed myself.
Stephen gave me a stony look.
Donleavy asked a few more pertinent questions, but I had given him the lead he needed, and about ten minutes later he left with a promise to keep us apprised of his progress.
