She might not know who she was; she might not understand the urgency behind her need to find Naia. But she had a purpose again, and she found that it filled an anxious, empty spot within her.
“You should have asked,” he said, charmingly stubborn even in a vaguely hazy way. He pressed fingers to the side of his head and inspected them as if he could even see them in the darkness.
“Yes, there’s blood,” Mickey told him. “What did you think you were doing, going macho on that scrub? If I had more time I’d poke around your ribs, make sure nothing was broken.”
“And how would you know?” He cast her an irritable glance, which she took as a good sign.
“By how loudly you yelled,” she told him with cheerful satisfaction. She’d dumped the shirt full of goods onto the ground, and stripped the sweats she’d tied around her hips. She’d been a totally shapeless lump in the darkness, but now that it was cooling off, she put them on the normal way, stepping out of the flip-flops.
“I wouldn’t yell at all,” Steve told her, with enough dignity to assure Mickey that he was getting his balance back. “It wouldn’t be macho.”
“Uh-huh.” She sorted the weapons aside—those would go to the cops, too. A nice neat bundle in a chic plastic shopping bag, deposited on their doorstep.
Steve felt at his own ribs. “Ow, dammit. I’m never going to live this down at the gym. And what the—what were you doing out there? With a …” he frowned, barely visible in the darkness, and shook his head. “I do remember it. With a tank top on your head?”
“Hey, it had eye holes.” Mickey crouched, held up a nice wad of cash. “What do you think I was doing? I need underwear.”
* * * * *
She should have had pity on him. She should have explained it with short words and concise sentences. But she thought he should have respected her decision to leave, and she didn’t feel like making life easy for him.
At least, not as long as she knew he hadn’t taken too much damage from his encounter with the punk.
“Hey,” he said, having pondered the situation in silence while she finished her sorting and jammed the cash into the front pocket of the flannel shirt. She’d count it later, when she had light, and put aside as much as she could for Big Box combat shopping. “Hey,” he said again, more to himself than to her. “I know this place.”
“You should,” she told him, finally straightening out of her crouch to shake some feeling back into her feet. “They sure know you. They knew your brother, too.” But her mouth was mainly on automatic; her thoughts had gone on to plan the next twenty-four hours. Dump the weapons and wallets at the nearest precinct. A night in a hotel, even a fleabag hotel. Shopping the next morning. And then on to find the building where she’d been drugged and imprisoned, hunting clues. Hunting Naia.
“Listen,” he said, and seemed to realize she was ready to move; he got to his feet. Slowly. “If I asked you again, what’s going on … would you answer this time?”
“No,” she said, without thinking. And then, “Maybe.” And then, “It depends.”
He stood there with his mouth halfway around a word, no apparent idea how to respond to that.
“Come with me,” she said abruptly, slipping the shopping bag handles over her wrist so she could use that hand to grab his.
He might not understand, but he didn’t resist. She took him along the underpass, then cut uphill once the slope gentled out. He had trouble with it, not quite as pulled back together as he made out, but he was still with her when they stopped beneath the first available street lamp. She could have wished for a park bench, but she’d settle for the light traffic and the lack of interest from the rest of the world. “If we’re going to talk about this,” she told him, setting down the shopping bag full of weapons and wallets, “I want to be able to see your face. Besides, I’ve got places to be. So ask me again.”
“You’ve changed,” he said.
“Decided to trust myself,” she said shortly, and waited.
“Tell me, then,” he said, repeating the words he’d first used in his office—the ones she’d first refused. Except this time he was the vulnerable one, pale beneath that Mediterranean complexion, blood down the side of his neck and staining his shirt and black in the lamp light.
And for someone who still had no true idea of what or who she was, Mickey wasn’t nearly as frightened as she should be. “You still think I’m off meds? That I need to be popped back into a psych ward and reconnected to reality?”
He shook his head, looking weary. “You don’t act like any psych ward drop-out I’ve ever dealt with. Then again, you don’t act like anyone I’ve ever dealt with.”
She grinned, amusement at his honesty and something darker at the truth behind it. She put a hand on the lamp post, did a slow circle around it, and stopped when she reached him again, letting him wait for her own truth. He wasn’t taking any chances; he leaned against the post to block her way, wincing at the stretch of what surely must be wickedly bad bruises. She said, “What’s going on is that I don’t remember. I woke up one morning handcuffed to a bed, and I don’t know why. I was drugged, the doctor said—there was a doctor. I broke his nose and I took his scrubs. Remember them?”
“The blood …”
“His. And he deserved it. He used some kind of knock-out drug on me, something experimental, and it blew away my memory. He said he didn’t know if it would come back.”
“Knock-out drug,” he repeated, and then sent her a narrow-eyed gaze. “Mickey Finn.”
“Yeah. I’d claim I was being terribly clever except when I first woke up and heard them talking, I really did think my name was Mickey.”
“So you woke up with no memory, escaped from the people who drugged you, and made it into my gym before fainting.”
She frowned. “I think I stole an apple on the way. Maybe. And I know they asked me a lot of questions about a young woman. I think she’s in trouble … I need to find her. But yeah, that’s the short version.”
He just stared at her. For a long moment, and then another. Then he shook his head and said, “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me—?”
She snorted. “You can answer that, if you think about it. A partial answer, anyway.”
He could, too. He looked away, absurdly thick dark lashes obscuring his eyes. “You figured I’d really think you were crazy.”
“Bingo. Not to mention I really wanted to keep you out of this. But once I saw those guys cruising past—”
“You saw them, too?” That fast, his gaze flashed back to hers, interest overriding the guilt.
“Out back, when I was putting out the garbage. Figured they were after me. And me … I’ve got things to do. Your gym just seemed too small—and everyone there has their own problems. They don’t need letter openers flying around.”
“Tajo shouldn’t have—”
“No,” she interrupted. “He shouldn’t have. But enough was enough, don’t you think? Besides, you don’t need to be involved in this. I might not be your brother’s kind of crazy, but there’s nothing sane about what’s going on with me.”
He scowled at her. Deeply. It shifted to a slow and dawning comprehension. “Damn,” he said. “So this is what it feels like.”
“How’s that?” She eyed the shopping bag, unsettled … ready to move on. This had been a good spot for a conversation … not a good spot to hang indefinitely.
“Being told what’s good for me. Someone making decisions for me.”
“Oh,” she said. “That. Yes, that’s what it feels like. But if you think pointing it out will change anything—”
“Let’s just go back to the gym,” he told her. “Talk about this in the morning.”
“Nothing will be different in the morning. Besides, I have other plans.”
“Not more Tank Top Woman.”
“No. And not just because that’s a terrible name for a su
per hero.” She considered the thought for a moment. “Though I reserve the right to a return engagement, if I get the urge. It’s a multi-purpose charity funding activity. Keeps me on my toes, takes from those who deserve to lose … discourages them from doing their thing in the first place.”
He frowned, his eyes going distant. “How did you—what did you use?”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose in chagrin. “Something of yours, actually.” She decided against pulling out the slingshot to show him—she didn’t want to argue over it if he wanted it back. So she barged on with a little misdirection. “Look, I’m heading toward the nearest cop station. You know where it is? Because I’ll walk you there, and I’m sure they’ll get you home.”
“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with them.”
“Well, I don’t. I mean, who the heck knows who I am, right? I could be on the most wanted list for all I know, and considering what I’ve learned of me it seems all too likely. But you’re the one who needs to get home.”
It didn’t take a blinking neon sign to see the stubborn crop up in his face again. It showed in his chin, in the hardened line of his jaw. He knew better than to argue, but he thought he’d change her mind between here and the station house.
Well, let him. Mickey had gotten reacquainted enough with her own mind to know he didn’t stand a chance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 8
“Hey,” Steve said, and put a hand to the stitch in his side until he realized he’d hit a bruise and made it all worse. The local Community Policing Center—precinct lite, Zander had liked to call them—was just down the block. Perfect for a weapons drop-off. “How about a breather? There’s no real hurry here, is there?”
She eyed him, no longer the blobby amorphous super hero but back to slender curves that would fill out with a few more pounds, her hair still mussed by the tank top but starting to fall back into the lines of its society cut. She still had that new look on her face, the one he was beginning to recognize as confidence. When she’d arrived at the gym, she’d needed him—she’d needed help. Now he wasn’t sure she needed anyone.
She said, “Only hurry is to get you there before you fall over.”
“Excuse me,” he said, unable to stop that defensive ruffling. “But I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “I know. Self-defense instructor.” She poked his side and he grunted, doubling until he caught himself. “You shouldn’t have come after me.”
Finally. Someone who didn’t want his help. Not any longer, anyway.
He thought it should be easy to turn around and walk away.
It should be easy.
And yet he didn’t.
Maybe he’d figure it out later. For now, he straightened himself up and tried to ignore the flicker of … something that made it easier than expected. Hope?
Not likely. Belatedly, he said, “No poking. Let’s go.”
She lifted her hands to look down at herself, a distinct hey, I’m ready to go gesture. And they went, an inconspicuous pairing of a homeless amnesiac with no discernible panty line and a buff Greek gym rat who’d had the stuffing beaten out of him.
When they reached the cop mini-shop—hardly more than a red tape outlet in a storefront—Steve straightened his shoulders enough to remove the last vestiges of fetal hunch and put a little casual saunter into his step. Mickey said, “I’ll catch up with you when this is all over, tell you whatever I find out. I owe you that much. Plus a pizza.”
He felt her puzzlement when he didn’t respond, and was impressed with how she somehow faded out of sight as he took the bag of weapons and walked them up to the storefront. Flyers filled the glass-fronted case beside the door, official-looking notices of classes and community resources, and he would have ignored it all and casually deposited the bag if he hadn’t been caught by the small patch of flyers off to the side, shadowed but still legible. Lost pets, lost people …
Lost Mickey.
Jane A. Dreidler, and a photo of amazingly bad quality with Mickey—Jane?—looking dazed. No real details, just a phone number and a plea that the missing woman had been ill.
In that moment, his hope plummeted.
But he couldn’t quite lose it all. Not that suddenly. And if he hung around here any longer, he was going to grab the attention of the uniformed woman behind the high counter. For the moment she was bent over paperwork, but it wouldn’t last.
He set the bag against the door and took himself back out to the sidewalk.
She was gone.
“I know you’re here somewhere,” he said through his teeth. “And I’m going to march back in there and tell them about Tank Top Woman if you don’t—”
Somehow, she was behind him. “You were supposed to go in.” She glanced over her shoulder at the center and took him by the arm, walking him away from the well-lit plate-glass storefront and the cop within. “You were supposed to get help.”
“Jane A. Dreidler,” he said.
Her expression didn’t change, but her fingers tightened on his arm. “Where did you hear that name?’
“I read it. Where are we going?”
“To someplace with a bed. Read it where?”
He gestured back at the center. “Right there. They’re looking for you.”
“Already knew that much,” she said, tugging him off the sidewalk to jaywalk over to the next block. “As it happens, now I’m looking for them. Don’t tell me they put up one of those posters?”
“Milk carton could be next.” He took a bad step on at the curb and would have fallen had she not kept her hold on his arm. “They said you’re sick.”
“You should have gone in.” The turn of her head hid her face, but couldn’t hide the sound of her scowl.
“I thought you’d want to know.” He caught his balance and his breath and added, “Jane.”
She snorted. “That’s what they called me, and it’s a name I know, but … it’s not me.”
“You sound pretty sure.” He suddenly realized they were heading for the local roach motel, and put the brakes on. Or tried to. She wasn’t having any of it, and she seemed to know how to shift his weight just so until he found himself moving right along. The ease with which she did it made him realize all over again that there was more to her than it seemed … and that he’d really taken a hit this evening. Lucky to still be on his feet.
Foolish to have gotten into that kind of trouble in the first place.
It was how his brother had died.
“I am sure,” she said, undiverted by his hesitations. “Memories, I don’t have. But reactions … those are there.”
He pulled back again as they reached the Star Motel—rates by the week, by the hour—and this time she let him go. Of course he staggered; of course she righted him. And she said, “This is it. You lost your chance for your own nice soft bed when you walked away from the mini cop-shop. Now I’m not giving you the choice—you’re not staying out here all night, and don’t even try to convince me you’ll make it back to the cop shop.” She opened the dingy door and gave him what was probably a gentle shove; he made it inside just in time to grab himself upright at the nearby stair railing, and then gave up and sat on the stairs.
Mickey made quick negotiations for a room, paid in mugger cash, and returned to Steve with a key flashing in her hand. “Here we go,” she said.
Right. Here we go. Steve had no idea just where they were headed … but he was beginning to think that if anyone could get there, it would be Mickey.
With or without anyone’s help.
* * * * *
Mickey rinsed out the dingy washcloth and squeezed it until runnels of pink water made their way down the sink. “Ought to be in the ER,” she said to him through the open bathroom door. In truth, open was the only way it came, as the warped door refused to move from its permanently ajar position. “Or an all-night clinic.”
“You knew this place was here?” he asked.
“I seem to have.” She
returned to sit at the side of the bed—a twin bed, not at all happy to hold the weight of two. He sat propped against the headboard, one arm protecting his ribs and a hand exploring the side of his head. She gently slapped it away, separating the wet waves behind his ear to get another look at the cut there. “It’s hard to tell what I know. Sometimes I don’t realize it until afterward. And sometimes I get these …” she trailed off, no longer seeing his hair or his blood, but the now-familiar image of Naia, accompanied by that now-familiar wave of urgency. Do you have something I want? Are you someone I want? Am I using you? Do I care about you?
A little of both, she thought. There was more to that urgency than calculated goal. There was caring … there was familiarity and responsibility.
And as memories went, it was the clearest thing she had. The only thing she had. If she couldn’t find Naia, she’d find the people who had drugged her—who had put her in this state, fumbling around San Jose in confusion, not sure if she was the hunted or the hunter.
Steve’s voice grabbed her out of that potentially endless reverie. “You okay?”
She refocused on him. He was close—closer than she’d expected. He’d leaned forward, she realized—but he was sore and tired and it showed in his eyes, and he didn’t stay there long. Not once he saw he had her attention.
Poor guy. He’d only wanted to help. It was what he did, obviously enough. Helped those who struggled against what fate had dealt them …helped those like his brother who didn’t have any true hope. So of course he’d gathered her up when she’d come staggering into his gym. Of course he’d found it no surprise that she’d fainted at his feet. She sighed, and dabbed the dried blood on his neck. Stubborn thing, dried blood. It found every crack and crevice of skin.
Dried blood, a dead woman on the floor and partially covered with a lemon yellow raincoat. Expensive London Fog raincoat, not hers … because it wasn’t big enough to hide the blood, or the shoulder-length grey hair fanning across the plushly carpeted floor.
Hidden Steel Page 8
