by Jen Blood
I drew a timeline, tracing the most significant events referenced in the list of numbers—from Jonestown to Charles Manson to Columbine to Kentucky, and everything in between. Over the roar of the air conditioning, I could hear laughter and music outside. Nice to know someone out there was still having a good time. I shut out the noise and kept working. By the time Sol woke at nine that night, I’d created a color-coded timeline using post-its I’d begged from hotel management, stuck to the bedroom wall.
“What are you doing?” she asked, rubbing her eyes as she sat up. I saw the flash of pain on her face at the move, though she didn’t acknowledge it.
“Nothing—just killing time.”
“By writing down every bad thing that’s ever happened in the past… fifty years?” she asked, studying the dates. The pain meds were slowing her down, but she caught on after a minute. “These are all from the memory card? J-932 was behind all these?”
“I think so.”
“This is nuts. I mean—you know that, right? How do we even begin to prove something like this?”
I squelched a smile at the knowledge that, despite everything, Solomon was still thinking like a reporter, too. “We’re not supposed to be proving anything,” I pointed out. “We’re supposed to be saving Kat. And running away.”
“Right,” she said dryly. “How could I forget?”
Her hair was tangled, her complexion still a shade paler than usual. The bandage at her side made her look oddly lopsided.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“I got shot. So, you know… Not awesome.” Still, she managed to get out of bed with some effort. “I need to change the bandage. I’m just gonna…” She nodded toward the bathroom.
“Sure,” I agreed. “Let’s do it.”
“You? No, thanks. In my state, it would be way too hard to catch you when you pass out.”
“Seriously,” I said, losing the smile in a vain attempt to convey my gravity. “You can’t change that thing alone. I’m all right—I don’t mind.”
“I’m fine, Diggs. I’ve got this.”
As is usually the case with Solomon, I decided pushing the issue was pointless. Eventually, she’d realize she couldn’t change her own fucking bandage, and I would help. Would it save time and agony if she’d just listen to me to begin with? Undoubtedly. But then that wouldn’t really be Solomon, would it?
Five minutes later, I was immersed in my list again when, sure enough, there was a crash and a string of fairly inspired curses from the bathroom.
“Sol?” I called through the door. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she spit out. “I just… Leave me alone, I’ve got it.”
Seriously, the woman is just... maddening. I tried the door. It was locked. “Let me in, damn it. I promise to stay upright if you promise not to bleed to death.”
Ten seconds passed before she opened up. She’d tamed her hair, and ditched her clothes in favor of one of my shirts. Half a dozen hotel-sized shampoo bottles had been hurled against the wall in her frustration. One of them had exploded, leaving a streak of yellow glop that ran all the way to the floor.
“That’ll teach ‘em to cross you,” I said mildly. “Relax. You can talk me through this. Here—come on up.” I patted the marble vanity.
I helped her up carefully, then eyed her shirt. It had slipped sideways during our maneuvers, now showing creamy thigh and the swell of her breast. I shifted my focus.
“So... How do we do this?” I asked.
I’d never seen her more uncomfortable. “It’s just... I can do it myself, Diggs. It’s not exactly pretty.”
“Because gunshot wounds are usually so attractive. Give me a break. How about if we start by losing the shirt.”
“Fine.” Her lips pressed in a thin line and her cheeks flaming, she avoided my eye as she unbuttoned her shirt and pushed it aside. That left her in cotton panties and matching bra, a flush burning from her chest up to her cheeks. At her left side, gauze was taped from her hip to her ribs.
“Now what?” I asked.
“I just need to change the bandage, clean it, and check that everything’s draining okay. I couldn’t get hold of the bandage, though.”
“Which is why you have me,” I said. “I’m not as delicate as I look, sweetheart.”
Tough talk for a man dangerously close to swooning. Nevertheless, I peeled back the bandage carefully and tried to keep my face impassive at sight of the viscous yellow fluid seeping from an ugly black hole at her side. Despite Solomon’s insistence that she could take care of this herself, Sally had already briefed me on what I could expect, and the steps I’d need to take to help ensure she healed all right. There were no stitches, since Sally said closing the wound sites increased the chance of infection. I felt like stitches would be easier to handle, somehow.
With shaking fingers and churning stomach, I cleaned the wound and the area around it.
“So, how much does this hurt right now?” I asked, trying to be casual. One look at her face told me she was in agony, but she shook her head.
“Not much,” she said. It came out strangled and small.
I found myself thinking again of her lying bleeding and unconscious on the way to Sally’s—and what easily could have happened, if Willett had been even a slightly better shot.
“I’m okay, Diggs,” she said.
“Sure you are. You’re great.”
I handed her a compact mirror so she could check both entry and exit wounds for signs of infection. That bought me a few seconds to get my nausea and shaking hands back under control. When she was satisfied with whatever she’d been looking for, she handed the mirror back to me and nodded to a fresh pack of bandages Sally had provided. I set to work. Solomon got down to business.
“So,” she began. “If we were going to try and stop these people… Or at least prove what they’re doing—hypothetically, I mean… Where would we start?”
“Well—we know some of the people involved,” I said, putting the first layer of bandages over the wound. “But I’m guessing Cameron isn’t willing to do a one-on-one interview.”
“My father probably wouldn’t be up for it, either,” she said.
“Probably not,” I agreed. “Has Juarez told you anything about what he’s remembering?”
“He says just flashes—Ow, what the hell are you doing?” She twisted around to survey my handiwork, now that I’d almost finished dressing the wound.
“You’re so dramatic. Would you hold still?”
“Sorry—I’ve been shot, so that ‘ow’ was actually justified.” She returned to her starting position and waited for me to continue. “Where was I?”
“Just flashes.”
“Right. He said he just has flashes of events from his past, but I have a feeling those flashes have left him pretty shaken.”
“Do you know when his wife was killed?”
“A few years ago, but I’m not sure of the exact date. Why?”
I taped the last side of the bandage and stepped back. “You said she was killed in Nicaragua? One of the entries has those coordinates.”
“When?”
October, 2008.”
“That has to be it, then,” she said. She twisted her head and checked out the bandage. “That’s actually not bad.”
“Oh, ye of little faith. I told you I could handle this. Now… If you’re up for it, Juarez and company should be here soon. You okay with hosting here?”
Her eyes widened. “Wait—what? I thought we were meeting them in Coba.”
“Nope. I called while you were asleep during the drive, let them know where we’d be. We need to have some time together to figure out what the hell we’re doing here. How we plan to run things when we’re making the switch for Kat.”
“It isn’t safe—”
“None of this is safe,” I interrupted. “You almost got killed. We’re going to meet a psychopath in the middle of Mexico, to give her a super-secret code of atrocities her employer
is responsible for committing.”
“If we’re seeing Juarez, you know he’s going to ask about the memory card again,” she said. “Do we tell him that his wife’s murder was definitely part of the project?”
I shook my head without a second thought. “We can’t risk him going off the rails right now. All we want is to get out of here alive. Then, we can tell him what we’ve found.”
She thought about that for a moment before she nodded with a frown. “I wish my father would show up. I feel like he’d know what to do.”
“Right,” I said, the word wrought with tension.
“You have something you want to say about my father?”
I knew this was one of those times when it was best to shut up. I’ve been married three times, after all: I know when a topic is worth fighting over and when it’s an IED just waiting to explode in your hands. And yet, I kept right on talking.
“I think you might be deluding yourself about just what a spectacular human being he is, that’s all. He was gone when Willett got to the cabin—you said it yourself. Which means he took off on both of us, without a word. If someone had come in for him before that, Einstein would have barked his head off—that’s the only way we knew Willett was coming in the first place. Let’s face facts here: Your father left you. Again.”
“Well—yeah, I know he left.” She grabbed my shirt from the vanity beside her again and managed to get both arms sleeved while she was sitting there, every move stiff and painful. “We don’t know what was going on with him, though. Maybe he was trying to protect me.”
“By running away, leaving us exposed when Willett and his posse came for us? Jesus, Sol… I don’t know what this guy needs to do before you realize that your father isn’t the man you’ve convinced yourself he is. You’ve got a blind spot the size of a black hole where he’s concerned. You almost died yesterday. Where the hell was he?”
“Taking care of something else,” she said, her voice rising. Her efforts to get the damned shirt on were driving me nuts; finally, I moved in to button it myself. She pushed my hands away and continued fumbling the job on her own. “I told you,” she continued. “We can’t possibly know what’s going on inside his head... What he’s been through.”
“So how about we stop thinking about what he’s been through, and start thinking about what he’s put the rest of his family through. His sister; his parents; his wife… you. Things go wrong, and he checks out—he started doing it the day he ran away and left his little sister to die alone in the woods, and it’s just been more of the same ever since.”
She hopped off the vanity, stifling a cry of pain when her feet hit the ground. She stood there in her underwear and my shirt, buttoned halfway with most of the buttons misaligned.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she bit out. “Everything he’s done has been to protect Kat and me.”
“Well, he’s done a hell of a job, hasn’t he?” She glared at me, her eyes brimming with anger and, worse, hurt. Nice, Diggins: Kick the shit out of the woman with the bullet holes in her side. “Look, I don’t want to fight about this,” I said, willing myself to tone it down. “Whatever goes on between you and your father is your business, not mine.”
“Damned right it is,” she said. When I moved to touch her cheek, she tried to step away. I didn’t let her. “You seriously want to do that right now?”
“You’re sexy when you’re angry.”
“I’m homicidal when I’m angry, you jackass.”
I ran my hands along her arms, then lifted her carefully back onto the vanity. When she was safely up there, eying me with clear distrust, I set to work unbuttoning her shirt again.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“You buttoned it wrong. I’m helping.”
She tried batting me away, but I caught her hands.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” I said quietly, serious now. “Let me do this.”
She sat in silence as I buttoned her back up and then took a pair of folded yoga pants from the counter beside her.
“I can do that myself,” she said. “My arms still work. My legs still work. I’m not crippled, Diggs.”
“I know,” I said. When she tried to push me away again, I stopped. Leveled a look at her, forcing her eyes to mine. “You almost died, Sol. You have a hole in your belly. You have a hole in your back.” I leaned in and kissed her, my lips lingering on hers. “Let me take care of you. Please.”
When I pulled back this time, there was something raw, naked, in the way she looked at me. She shifted her gaze. Crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine,” she said roughly. “I’ve never had a guy give me so much grief about getting my fucking pants on.”
Solomon was back in the bedroom ten minutes later,when there was a knock at the door: three raps in quick succession, two more five seconds later. I don’t care what anyone says: Secret knocks aren’t just for ten-year-old boys.
When I opened the door, Jamie and Juarez stood in the hallway. Juarez still looked like hell, but I assumed based on the spring in her step that Jamie must have gotten some rest during their trek. She wore shorts and a tank top, her long hair pulled back. Juarez eyed the hotel room uneasily when he walked through the door, as though checking for exits and rogue points of entry.
“Erin’s in the other room,” I said when they came in. “She’ll be out shortly.”
They nodded.
“How did it go back in Kentucky?” I asked Juarez. “Were you able to get anything from Willett?”
“Other than the promise that my career was over?” he said. “No—not much. He was furious, though; said finding you two is his number one priority right now.”
I glanced back at the bedroom door, still closed, and lowered my voice. “Did he mention anything about Erin’s father?”
“Not a word. But when I asked, he said they had that under control.”
I frowned, not sure what that meant. Was Adam in their sights, or was he actually working with them? Either seemed plausible, though I didn’t understand why he would have led us on a wild goose chase instead of just handing us over at the Harrisburg rest stop when Willett first showed up.
Rather than dwelling on it, I offered drinks and nodded to the sitting area. “We should get started. If we can make this an early night, that’s probably for the best. Everyone should try and get a little shut eye tonight.”
Juarez produced a map of the ruins of Coba and spread it on the coffee table. Solomon joined us a few minutes later. She was barefoot, her hair up and my shirt hanging to her knees. For someone teetering on the brink of death two days ago, she looked surprisingly good.
Between the four of us, we spent the evening going over entry points surrounding the ruins, searching for the best areas for cover and the best for ambush; where Jenny’s people would most likely be positioned, and how we would handle things if they weren’t.
By the time ten o’clock rolled around, Solomon’s eyes were drifting shut every few minutes and the conversation had gone from stilted to nonexistent.
“We should wrap this up,” Jamie finally said, mercifully. “Like you said: a good night’s sleep is in everyone’s best interest.”
“That’s probably not a bad idea,” I agreed. Solomon sat beside me on the sofa, her eyes glassy as she stared at the map. Despite the warm night, she’d been shivering until I offered my jacket about an hour before. Now, she wore that over her shoulders like a cape, her mind clearly not on our guests.
Jamie stood, but Juarez hesitated. I already knew the question he wanted to ask. The same question I’d be asking in his place: Did we know who killed his wife?
“Why don’t I meet you downstairs,” Jamie said smoothly, sensing there was something he was holding back. Her hand lingered on his arm as he nodded. I tried to decide whether they were actually sleeping together yet. I didn’t think so, but Juarez kept those kinds of things pretty close to the vest.
“Thanks,” Juarez said. “I won’t be l
ong.”
I was sure he would have preferred to have this conversation alone with Solomon, but I had no intention of leaving. She looked too shaky sitting there, side bandaged and eyes glazed. If she was about to get the third degree, I planned to stick around to take the worst of the heat.
“Diggs…” Juarez began, looking meaningfully at the door. To my relief, Solomon shook her head.
“He can stay. You can trust him with whatever you have to say.”
He hesitated, clearly unhappy with the arrangement. After a turn or two pacing around the room, he finally stopped and turned to look at Solomon again. “Do you have the memory card here?”
She hesitated.
“We do,” I said. “We’re still trying to crack the encryption, though.”
“I’d like to give it a shot, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ve had a little training in this area…”
“I don’t know if that’s such a great idea right now,” I said. “When it’s over…”
He looked at Solomon, a vulnerability in his eyes that I’d never seen before. Sol looked away.
“I’m sorry, Jack—” she said.
“You know, don’t you?” he said. He took a step toward her, ignoring me. “I could tell as soon as I walked in the room tonight. You have the proof I’ve been looking for on that card—whether you’ll admit to it or not. They murdered my wife.”
“We don’t know,” Solomon insisted. She stood with some difficulty and started for the front door. She’d never been less believable. “We’re all tired right now, Jack. Go back to your room... Get some sleep.”
Juarez’s jaw tightened. In the space of a single cold second, before I had anticipated what he was about to do, he strode toward her.
“Stop lying to me, damn it! I need to know—did they kill Lucia?” He grabbed her arm before I could get to her, and she gasped at the pain. I was across the room in a blur half a second later, Juarez with his back against the wall and my elbow at his throat.
“She’s right, Jack. Go back to your room. Get some sleep,” I ground out.
Juarez didn’t struggle—which was good, since I was sure he had enough hand-to-hand training to wipe the floor with me.
