First Responder on Call

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Sure. Unless you know too much.” Celia cinched up the drawstring on the pants and exhaled. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  Remo turned, his mouth quirking up. “Is finding out a bit more about Teller going to fall into the ‘too much’ category?”

  Celia made a face. “No. Let’s see the wallet.”

  He reached into his pocket, but before he even had the palm-sized item all the way out, she knew it wasn’t exactly what he’d thought it was. It was a wallet, all right. But the kind meant for holding a police badge.

  * * *

  As the front of the wallet flapped open, Remo was a bit startled to see the shiny, gold-tinted piece of metal come into view. After the briefest moment of staring down at it, though, he realized it made sense. It lined up with Celia’s adamant need to not contact the police. Teller’s comments about making things “official.” His lackeys’ comments about dirty money.

  “‘Detective Quentin Teller, Vancouver Police Department,’” Remo read aloud, then looked up at Celia. “I guess this means you’re off the hook for being involved in some kind of criminal activity.”

  She smiled weakly. “Unless I’m a dirty cop, too.”

  “Or the mastermind behind a whole ring of dirty cops.”

  “Or the ex-wife of one.”

  Remo met her eyes. “It could be true. Does that description feel right?”

  She cast a quick glance down toward her left hand, then brought her gaze back up and shook her head. “No. But none of this feels right. And it doesn’t make sense, either. If Xavier’s father is so dangerous—and if he’s a policeman, or even had strong police ties and resources—then why would I be anywhere near him? Why wouldn’t I stay as far away as humanly possible?”

  “I can’t answer that any better than you can, but I do know that if coming to the city where he lives was a choice, then I’m damned sure you must have a reason. You wouldn’t put Xavier in harm’s way if you could avoid it.”

  She let out a frustrated sigh. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  He pulled her in for a quick, reassuring embrace, then said, “We’ll figure it out, Celia.”

  She pulled back and looked up at him. “But I guess we can’t do it very well from in here.”

  “Not so much.”

  He slid his fingers to hers, noting that it already felt like second nature to hold her hand at any given moment, then moved toward the door. He inched it open and took a peek out into the hall.

  “Clear,” he said softly.

  “Ready when you are,” she replied.

  Together, they stepped out of the small room, and Remo guided her through the hospital, careful to once again maintain a purposeful stride while also not looking too rushed. Slow, steady, and unobtrusive was the name of the game.

  “Tell me what else you remember,” Remo suggested after a few silent moments.

  “About anything in particular?” Celia asked. “How much I like Chinese food, maybe?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, that works. It’ll help me narrow down the choices when I ask you out for dinner.”

  “Are you going to do that?”

  “Provided I don’t get shot first.”

  She stopped so abruptly that he almost slingshot forward.

  “Not funny, Remo,” she said.

  “You’re right. Not funny.” He released her hand, stepped closer, then tipped up her chin and planted a kiss on her lips. “Forgive me.”

  “Forgiven,” she said immediately. “But just in case...you’d better ask me out now.”

  He smiled and kissed her again. “I thought it wasn’t funny.”

  “It’s not. It’s very serious.”

  “Then I guess I’d better do it.”

  “And fast.”

  Remo started to ask lightly—to make a joke about dating under pressure—but he found himself quickly becoming earnest instead. “Miss Celia Poller, when we’re done with this very unusual, very dangerous situation, I would really love it if you’d let me take you out for Chinese food. Or for any food, really, so long as it’s you and me and that kid of yours.”

  She stared up at him, her gray eyes full of so much intensity that they pinned him to the spot. “Thank you.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Of course it is.”

  He bent to kiss her once more, but stopped when he realized that a fresh tear was making its way down one of her cheeks. He ran a thumb over the damp path it left behind.

  “Hey, now...why you crying?” he said. “That wasn’t part of my plan, dammit.”

  Her hand came up to cup his. “It’s not on purpose. And it’s not in a bad way. But I just asked you to ask me out, and you invited my son to join us.”

  Remo frowned. “Was that wrong? I just assumed—”

  “No,” she said vehemently. “It wasn’t wrong. It was perfect.”

  “Oh, great. Now the bar is going to be way too high.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I am? Aren’t you going to argue with me? Tell me I don’t have to worry about messing up the first date? Maybe point out that it can only go up from here?”

  She shook her head. “No way.”

  “Dammit. Always setting myself up for failure,” Remo joked, then took her hand so they could resume their walk.

  They made it smoothly to the other side of the hospital, and then without incident to a heavy door that was blocked off with caution tape. Remo took a quick glance around, and when he found no one in view, he reached through the tape to push down the handle.

  “It’s blocked off for the construction site,” he told Celia. “Fortunately, the tape’s enough of a deterrent for most people, and locking it would be a fire hazard.”

  He stepped back, and Celia crouched down to climb effortlessly under the strips of yellow.

  “I’m guessing you’d win if we went head-to-head in a limbo contest,” he said dryly as he followed behind her with far less grace, taking out two pieces of tape in the process.

  She smiled. “Maybe we can put that on our to-do list. Right after Chinese food.”

  “Request noted. But if karaoke comes into play, prepare to be bested.” Remo smiled back, then pointed to the stairs. “One floor up, and we’ll be almost home free.”

  “Do you think he’s worried?” Celia asked as they started their climb.

  “Your son?” Remo replied.

  “Yes. We’ve been gone way longer than we said we’d be. And he already worries more than a five-year-old should.”

  “I’m sure he’s anxious to see you. But probably not as anxious as you are to see him. Which I’m pretty sure is a mom thing.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said, then groaned and added, “But it means I should actually be asking if you think your mom is worried.”

  “My mom? Worried?” Remo scoffed good-naturedly. “She’s probably having the time of her life. She’s had toys and games stashed away since I was a kid, and she’s been silently dying for someone to come and use them. I think she asks me every second week when she can expect some grandchildren.”

  “That’s a mom thing, too,” Celia told him.

  “Oh, I see. You regularly ask Xavier when he’s going to meet a nice girl and settle down?” he teased.

  She snorted. “No. But I can’t say I don’t think about what it’ll be like when he grows up.”

  They paused on the landing then, and Remo pulled the door open for her. She stepped out, then stopped, her eyes on the mess of construction material. She swallowed audibly, and Remo followed her gaze. The wall across from where they stood had been ripped away and temporarily replaced with heavy plastic sheeting. Through the slightly opaque material, the walkway itself was visible. It spanned from the second floor on the hospital side down to a winding ramp on the long-term care facility side. When it was done, it
was going to be a contained bridge—glass sides and metal ceiling—and it was already wide enough to wheel at least two hospital beds past one another. But right now, it was just a precarious-looking piece of floor with a rail and some scaffolding on each side. It was enough of a barrier that no one would be able to see them as they crossed, but to say it would offer a feeling of security would be a gross exaggeration.

  “Didn’t you say it was almost done?” Celia asked in a small voice.

  “I guess it’s not quite as far along as I thought,” Remo replied.

  “I think I might’ve forgotten to mention my fear of heights.”

  “I won’t let you fall.”

  “That’s all well and good, but what if you fall?”

  “Then I’ll make sure I land in a way to break your fall.”

  “You just said you wouldn’t let me fall.”

  “I won’t.”

  “But it can’t be both ways,” she pointed out.

  Remo put his hand in the small of her back. “You can do this.”

  “I think you’re going to have to distract me.”

  “Okay. What should we talk about?”

  She inched forward. “Tell me why you don’t have kids.”

  Remo almost stumbled, but caught himself before she could notice. “Not pulling any punches, huh?”

  She took a full step. “You’re the one who brought it up a second ago. And I figure if I’m going to plummet to my death, I might as well know the gory details.”

  “No one is plummeting.”

  “Says you.”

  They reached the walkway and stepped onto it, and even though it was utterly solid beneath their feet, Remo felt Celia start to shake.

  “Maybe I never met the right woman,” he announced quickly.

  Her body relaxed marginally. “That’s a cop-out.”

  He nudged her forward, and her feet kept going. Slowly, but moving nonetheless.

  “Why is it a cop-out?” he replied.

  “Because it’s the thing guys say to make a girl feel ‘special.’ And I don’t think you’re that kind of guy.”

  “No? Hmm. Then maybe no self-respecting woman would put up with me long enough to figure out what an awesome husband I’d be.”

  “I have a hard time believing that,” she said.

  Another glib reply slipped to the front of his mind—yes, a cop-out, he acknowledged—but when he opened his mouth, something else came out instead. “When I told you that my mom asked about grandkids every second week...that was a bit of a lie.”

  “What?” Celia sounded surprised and a little confused, but she didn’t stop walking. “Why would you lie about that?”

  “Because—if every other thirtyish, childless single man is to be believed—that’s what mothers do. You even said yourself that it was a mom thing.”

  “So you were doing what? Caving to peer pressure? Trying to fit in with all the other thirtyish dudes hanging around here?”

  She swept her hand out over the empty walkway—they were smack-dab in the middle—then drew in a sharp breath and stopped walking abruptly as her gaze followed her hand. There was a gap in the scaffolding, and a cordoned off area—full of power tools and bits of wood and steel bars—loomed threateningly below.

  “Have I mentioned that I really don’t like being up here?” said Celia, her voice weak.

  “We’re halfway,” Remo told her. “All downhill from here.”

  “Poor choice of words.”

  He slid his hand from her back to her hip, then pulled her a little closer and started walking again, gently forcing her to move, too.

  “There’s a reason my mom doesn’t ask me about having kids,” he said, trying to distract her again. “And it’s probably the same reason I don’t have any. You remember I was telling you about Indigo?”

  “Yes. Your wild and crazy sister.”

  “After that stuff with the car, she calmed down a lot. And for three years, things were pretty normal. We lived at my mom’s apartment. I got a job as a building maintenance worker, Indigo decided to finish her high school diploma online...she told me she wanted to help me get back to school.” Remo paused, his throat tightening a little at the hard memories, and he had to clear it before he went on. “But a little while after her seventeenth birthday, she came to me with another problem. She was pregnant. Four months along already. The father was a twenty-year-old drug dealer who she said had no interest in sticking around.”

  They’d made their way fully across the walkway now, and were starting their descent to the care facility. Remo’s heart was squeezing in his chest, nervous about what he was sharing. But Celia’s hand held his tightly, and he knew that in spite of her silence, she was listening intently. It was enough reassurance—the exact right thing, actually—to make him keep going.

  “It turned out to be a lie,” he said, his words full of rough emotion. “The drug dealer was very interested in sticking around. Not for the baby. For Indigo. She owed him money. Quite a bit of it, I guess. Enough that he spent two months tracking her down. He broke into the house. And when she wouldn’t pay—or couldn’t—he attacked and left her to die. And she did die. She and the baby both did.”

  He finished just as they got to the bottom of the ramp, and Celia turned to him, her face full of sympathy and heartbreak.

  “I’m so sorry, Remo,” she said.

  He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and told her the final piece. “They caught him. The scumbag told the police that he was so high that he thought Indigo’s pregnancy was a hallucination. He said he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known. He must’ve known that didn’t make it any better, because he committed suicide while he was awaiting trial.”

  Celia stared up at him for another moment, then threw her arms over his shoulders and tugged him into a hard embrace. And even though he probably had eighty pounds and a good foot on her, strength flowed from her body into his. It dulled the powerful hold the bad memories had on him, and he drew in a deep breath—like he could suck in more of the feeling.

  “Celia,” he said, her name a strangely reverent plea.

  He didn’t know what he was asking for, but when she inched back and lifted her face to meet his eyes, he saw a matching desire in her gaze. He opened his mouth to say something else, but her attention was abruptly stolen by something over his shoulder.

  “Remo,” she said. “We have to run. Right now.”

  Chapter 13

  Without asking for an explanation, Remo took Celia’s hand and sprinted. She didn’t take time to note the blind trust that she was right. She didn’t have time. From across the courtyard, she’d spotted Teller.

  Not Teller. Detective Teller.

  The silent, self-directed correction might’ve rubbed her the wrong way—or made her fear worse—but she didn’t have time for that, either. Because Teller had seen her, too. His eyes had locked with hers, and she’d stared back for just long enough to see the surprise on his face morph into determination. He’d be coming after them. Alone, or with an entourage of police. She didn’t want to find out which. She pushed to keep pace with Remo.

  Along the temporary fence, then past it.

  Around the exterior of the long-term care home.

  Through a group of startled, wheelchair-bound seniors who’d sneaked out for a few cigarettes.

  Into a tranquil garden of flowers.

  It all blurred by in a haze. And to top it off, the wound on Celia’s leg hurt more than it had since she’d got it. The painkillers were probably wearing off, and they couldn’t have picked a worse time for it.

  Each time her foot on the injured side hit the ground, a stabbing pain emanated out from the stitched area. Each time she lifted the same foot, her quad burned. But she refused to let on that it was bothering her, and she didn’t dare slow down.


  Not now.

  She turned the two-word command into a mantra, chanting silently in time with the slap of her shoes on the pavement, and used it to keep going.

  Not now, not now, not now.

  Into an open-air parking lot.

  Not now.

  Weaving between minivans and coupes and compact trucks.

  Not now.

  Nearly knocking over a young couple pushing a stroller.

  Not now.

  Past the bold, red Emergency sign and onto the sidewalk.

  Not-now, not-now.

  At last, they reached a footpath that cut between an outbuilding and the first house in the adjoining residential area. There, they paused, breaths coming in matching, heaving time. Celia’s lungs burned almost as badly as her thigh. Her arms and legs were like jelly. Blood rushed through her head so hard that she could hear it thumping against her skull, and if Remo’s hand hadn’t been anchoring her to the spot, she might’ve collapsed. Maybe she’d collapse in spite of his strong grip. But then—like he could sense her imminent demise—the big man pulled her to his side. Celia closed her eyes and leaned gratefully against his reassuringly solid body.

  “Guess I can cross ‘running a half marathon’ off my list of goals for the year,” he joked.

  “Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “It was Teller. He saw us, Remo.”

  “Figured you had a damned good reason,” he replied.

  She pulled away as a new worry hit her, and she didn’t bother to disguise the desperate note in her voice. “Xavier. What if Teller tracks you to your mom, and finds your mom’s house, and—”

  Remo cut her off, his tone as firm as it was reassuring. “She’s not that easy to find. Even for the police. Trust me. She’s very good at keeping a low public profile. Unlisted address. Doesn’t keep a home phone. Old habits, I guess. I promise you that we’re fine to rest here for a minute or two. I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.”

  Celia nodded and sank back into him, waiting for her breaths and heart rate to even out. But she no sooner settled comfortably than she remembered the conversation they’d been having immediately before the start of their frantic escape. Her heart dropped down to her knees as she thought of it. She had no siblings of her own, but she’d lost her mom at a young age, and there was still an ache in her heart every time she thought of her. She couldn’t imagine what it must’ve felt like for Remo’s mother. What it must still feel like. And she understood why the woman wouldn’t be in the habit of asking when her son would give her grandchildren.