by Tinnean
Since I still had at least half an hour before my lover would reach our meeting point, I took ten minutes to familiarize myself with the rig.
Finally, satisfied that I wouldn’t draw undue attention to us, I drove to the coordinates Mark had programmed into my PDA and then settled in to wait.
The whine of tires and the revving of the engine signaled the approach of a car, and from the sound of it, if the driver didn’t slow down, he was going to need a real EMT.
The car, a black Bentley sedan, went into the curve too fast. Oddly enough, the driver didn’t seem to be making any attempt to either slow down or bring it under control. My lover was good, but had he finally come across someone who was just a bit better? I held my breath and watched in horror as the Bentley flipped onto its roof and skidded half a dozen yards, finally coming to a sluggish halt, rocking gently.
I threw open the door of the ambulance and sprinted toward the overturned car. “Mark!”
There was no movement. I felt as if I were encased in ice. My heart began pounding in a slow, painful rhythm, and I couldn’t breathe.
And then the window opened, and Mark undulated his way out and stood. “Hey, Chuck. Did you see—”
“You… you….” I punched him in the jaw, and he rocked back.
“What the fuck?”
So that was why he wanted me well away from the curve. “You could have warned me you were going to do something so asinine!” I threw another punch at him, but this time he caught my fist in his hand.
“Quinn! Jesus! Get a grip!”
“Get a grip? Get a grip? You—”
“You’re repeating yourself, baby.”
“Fuck you, Vincent.” I yanked my hand free, turned on my heel, and stalked back to the ambulance.
“Now, listen, Mann! If you think you can do something like that and walk away—”
“Just shut the fuck up!” I opened the door on the passenger side of the rig, pulled out the plastic bag with the EMT uniform in it, and threw it at my lover. “Get changed. And where’s Wexler?”
“He’s out cold in the backseat. Quinn—”
I held up my hand. “We’ll discuss this later. Do you want me to do anything for Wexler while you’re changing?”
“No. He’s not going anywhere. Listen, I had to flip the car. He’s supposed to have had a stroke, remember?” Mark climbed into the back of the ambulance. He stripped off his driver’s gloves, stuffed them into the pocket of his overcoat, then removed his coat and tossed it aside. “You know you have to break an egg in order to—”
“I’m aware of how to make an omelet, Mark.” I gritted my teeth to prevent them from chattering, and held myself stiffly to conceal my shivering. I was a professional, and the last thing I wanted was for my lover to see me behaving in such an unprofessional manner. After all, it had been the Ice Man who’d first intrigued him, hadn’t it?
He sat on the stretcher and began unlacing his shoes. “I told you he’d taken up smoking again, right?”
“What? Yes.”
“McGinley offered him a cigarette.”
“You mean you did. And he took it from you?”
“From McGinley. Yeah.” He grinned, hard and deadly, and finished stripping off his suit. He stood there in his shorts and undershirt, goose bumps raising the hair on his arms and legs. The shape of his cock and the dark thicket of pubic hair were just visible, and my mouth went dry. He didn’t notice my reaction. “It’s not a healthy habit.”
“What did you…. Did you doctor it?”
“Yeah. And as I said, he’s out cold. Probably just as well. The accident could have killed him otherwise. Put my suit in the bag, okay?” Mark pulled the blue trousers on over his long legs and shrugged into the shirt before stepping back into his shoes. Once he’d tied them, he took out his contacts, dropped them into a pocket, and took out a pair of wireframe glasses. Finally, he tugged off the wig, eyebrows, and moustache and stuffed them into the bag that held his suit and shirt, and put on his jacket. “Gloves?”
I offered him another pair of latex gloves, almost out of breath from the frenzy of activity. All of this had been accomplished in a matter of minutes.
He unhooked the radio receiver and began speaking into it. “Dispatch, this is Rescue 812. We’ve come upon the scene of a one car MVA. There appears to be a single person in it. We’ll update as we can.”
I was startled by the voice. That wasn’t Mark. That was…. Where had I heard it before?
He thumbed it off and looked at me. “Rescue 812 is on record as being on a dinner break. Let’s get hopping.”
We got the stretcher out of the back of the ambulance and rolled it to the sedan. “Are we going to be able to get him out?”
“Piece of cake.” He kicked in the rear window, unfastened the senator’s seat belt, and caught him as he fell. “Help me get him on the stretcher.”
The moon was almost full, and by its light I could see how pale Wexler looked. His breathing was shallow but steady. He was a dead weight, and we had to wrestle him onto the stretcher.
Once that was done and we had him strapped down, we had no trouble getting him into the back of the ambulance.
Mark hoisted himself in and looked down at me. “Close the doors and get the ambulance started.”
I did, but not before I saw him turn and bend over Wexler’s supine form.
The night was very quiet. I walked to the front of the ambulance, climbed in, and reached for the key.
Just as I was about to turn it in the ignition, I heard Mark whisper, “Ah, you’re with us once more, Senator. Good. Listen to me. I’m going to let you live, but you’re going to wish I hadn’t. I’m going to leave you paralyzed. You won’t be able to move a muscle, not even your vocal cords. You’re going to be tied to a ventilator and at the mercy of whoever comes into your room. You’ll spend your days wondering if the next ham-handed, fumble-fingered asshole is the one who’ll step on your breathing tube or who’ll kink it when they’re raising your bed to give you a fucking bath.”
This was the Mark Vincent who had ruthlessly destroyed those who had destroyed his partner, who would, with no qualms, go after those who threatened what he believed in, whether that be the organization he worked for or actual people. I remembered how he had almost decapitated Etienne Chambert when he’d come to my rescue in Paris.
“You never should have set your sights on Portia Mann,” he growled. “She’s way out of your league.”
It became quiet in the back. Time seemed to stretch out endlessly. I adjusted the rearview mirror and watched as Mark removed his hands from around Wexler’s neck and straightened.
Mark’s eyes met mine. His lips tightened. “It’s going to look like he had an ischemic stroke followed by a hemorrhagic conversion.” He didn’t give me a chance to respond to that, instead reaching for the radio. “Dispatch, Rescue 812, requesting Med Patch to Phelps General.”
The radio crackled and responded, “Rescue 812, Med Patch on 2.”
“Thanks, Dispatch.” There was a moment of silence while Mark turned to that channel and then, “Rescue 812 to Phelps General on Med 2.”
“Acknowledged, Rescue 812. What is your status?”
“We’re en route with a seventy-year-old male who was involved in a single vehicle MVA. His speech was slurred and there was vomitus in evidence. He is unconscious at this time. Vital signs are as follows: BP 210 over 130, pulse 150, respirations rapid and shallow at 7:27.”
“Okay, 812. Start an IV with lactated ringers and—”
“Fuck it, he’s stopped breathing!”
“Intubate and bag him, start that IV, and get him here ASAP!”
“Will do, Phelps.” He thumbed off the radio and competently inserted a breathing tube. “Get back here, Chuck, and start squeezing the bag.”
I was beside him immediately. Wexler’s eyes were blinking frantically. “Relax, Senator. We’re not going to let you die.”
I’d taken CPR courses, and I put my hands
around the bag and began counting respirations under my breath. Just as competently, Mark hooked up the IV line. Once that was done, he looked up at me, and I was stunned by what I saw in his eyes. Of course I expected the grimness—taking a man’s ability to communicate wasn’t something to dance jigs over—but the bleakness? Was Mark regretting what I’d asked him to do?
He turned away. “You heard the man, Senator. I guess today isn’t your day to die.” Once again he was the remorseless Mark Vincent. “Let’s get going, Chuck.” He took over bagging from me. “And hit the siren and lights. This is a Code 3.”
I left him in the back of the rig, rhythmically squeezing the bag, and slid behind the wheel to twist the key in the ignition. The motor hummed to life, but I didn’t put it in gear just yet. “You realize impersonating an EMT on the radio with a hospital is illegal?”
“Yeah? What’s your point?”
“No point. As long as you’re aware. You’ve already said that if we get caught, the WBIS wouldn’t bail us out.”
“No, they wouldn’t.” And he couldn’t care less. “You worried about that?”
“No.” Although I could take care of myself, I knew he wouldn’t leave me dangling in the wind. He’d make sure we didn’t get caught. However, I couldn’t resist informing him, “A trusted friend of Grandfather’s was the senior Lawson in Lawson, Lawson, Bauer, Wells, and Hennessey.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty high-powered law firm.”
“Yes, one of the best in DC.”
“It’s good to have connections like that.”
“Exactly. If we get caught, they’ll provide seventy-two unimpeachable witnesses, any of whom will swear we were with them, together or separately, this entire weekend.”
“Quinn….”
“But I have no doubt we won’t get caught.” I smiled at him, then turned in the seat, switched on the lights and siren, and sped out onto the road, my PDA quietly murmuring directions to the hospital.
It was done.
XXXI
THE aftermath was anticlimactic.
“Oh my God!” they exclaimed at the hospital. “It’s Senator Wexler!”
And “Thank God you were on the scene! Your prompt actions will aid greatly in his chances of survival!”
“Just lucky we were coming back off dinner,” Mark said modestly. He began giving the report while I gathered the equipment needed to replace what we’d used, a new Ambu bag, IV tubing, another bag of IV fluid.
And then we were gone.
I drove the ambulance to the spot where I’d left the car. I assumed the ambulance would eventually be picked up by whoever had left it there for us to begin with.
And although we’d both worn latex gloves the entire time we’d been in the rig, Mark still insisted we wipe it down.
It was almost eleven when we pulled around to the rear of the motel. A few cars were in the parking lot, probably enjoying the facilities for an hour or so. Mark, being Mark, went to each of the cabin’s windows, using a small, high-intensity LED flashlight to make sure the threads of gum hadn’t been broken.
Knowing all was as secure as when we’d left it, we entered the cabin.
“God, I feel like I could sleep for twenty years.” The adrenaline that had flooded my system from the moment I’d seen the Bentley round the curve and flip over was slowly fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake. I went to the fireplace and laid a match to the kindling I’d prepared before we’d left, then removed my jacket and hung it over a chair.
“Yeah, Rip Van Winkle? Well, don’t yet. I want to get that latex off you.” He dropped the plastic bag that held his suit. “We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow. I want to be out of here by two.”
“All right.” I sat down and tugged off the wig, vigorously rubbing my scalp. “It’s going to be so good not to have to wear that again.”
He grunted and carefully peeled off the appliances. “I want you to take the sheets and towels to the Laundromat.”
“You told me. Isn’t it going to look suspicious to have them clean and folded?”
“Who said anything about folding them? Stuff ’em into a pillowcase. We’ll put ’em back on the bed, muss them up, beat hell out of the pillows, and make sure the towels are damp, but there won’t be any DNA on them.”
“There isn’t any DNA on them now. We were very, very careful.”
“Yeah, but we can’t be too careful.” He started peeling off his own appliances.
“Oh, hell. I’ve bruised you.” The spot on his jaw was starting to discolor.
He touched it tentatively, then pressed harder. “It’s no big deal.”
“But—”
“If it looks bad in the morning, I’ve got something that will cover it up.”
“I’m sorry….”
“Shut up. Go take a shower.”
“Would you care to join me?” I tried to give him my best come-hither smile, but I wasn’t sure it worked. I was serious when I’d told him I was exhausted. “You could make sure I don’t fall asleep in there.”
“Not tonight. Give me your clothes. Chuck and Joe have to disappear.”
I stifled a yawn and leaned over to unlace my shoes.
“Don’t fall over. The last place we want to be now is that hospital, and if you hit your head, that’s exactly where we’ll be.”
“I’m all right.”
He muttered something that sounded like, “I wish I could believe that.”
“Excuse me?”
“What?”
“You said—”
“Nothing. Get undressed.”
I got to my feet and shed my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. “How do you get used to it?” I didn’t wait for a response, just made my way into the bathroom and into the shower.
I was too tired to be more than vaguely disappointed that Mark didn’t join me.
XXXII
WHEN I came out of the bathroom, the bed had been turned down and the EMT uniforms and jackets had been packed away. “Sorry, Mark,” I said, yawning widely. “I’m not much good for anything tonight.”
“Don’t worry about it. Get in bed. I’ll shower and take care of the fire. Like I said, tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”
“All right. Good night.” I fell into bed and pulled a sheet up over my shoulders.
As soon as my head hit the pillow, and in spite of how tired I was, I found myself wide awake. I couldn’t get the sight of that sedan flipping over and skidding down the road out of my mind. I groaned and buried my head under the pillow. I had no doubt that even if I did fall asleep, I’d be haunted by that image all night long.
XXXIII
I KNEW I was dreaming—this had the same quality as the nightmares I’d suffered after Paris—but that didn’t help. I stood watching helplessly as the car took the curve too fast and overturned, but this time, instead of coming to a relatively harmless halt, the gas tank ignited with a roar and the car burst into flames.
I could hear Wexler’s screams from the car, and Mark crying out as well.
“Quinn, help me! God in heaven, please! Help me!”
But as hard as I struggled to take a step forward, it was as if my feet were encased in cement, and I couldn’t get them to move.
“No. No!”
“Quinn.” My name was a soft breath in my ear. “Quinn. It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
“Mark?” His name came out as a croak. “It’s not okay!”
“No, I guess it isn’t. Here, I’ve got some water. Drink it.” He helped me to sit up and then held the bottle to my lips.
“Thanks.” I drank from it, a few long gulps before pushing it away. “Dammit. I thought I was done with nightmares.”
“You want a sleeping pill?”
“God, no! All I need is to have another nightmare and not be able to wake up out of it!” I couldn’t help shuddering.
“I’ve… uh… I’ve got another idea.”
“Yes?”
He put the bo
ttle on the nightstand and reached for a condom and lube. “You up for it?”
I didn’t want him to know I wasn’t, that my cock had barely stirred. I needed it. He needed it. I stripped off my shorts and rolled onto my stomach.
I’d almost fallen back to sleep before I realized Mark hadn’t made any effort to touch me.
“Mark?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you change your mind?” Suddenly I was wide awake. Nothing before had kept him from making love to me. Now that he knew what was beneath the Ice Man’s exterior, was he no longer interested?
A cool, slick finger stroked across my hole, and I almost whimpered in relief. He hoisted me up onto my knees, spread my ass cheeks, and slid easily into me.
“Home,” I whispered into the pillow.
And as it turned out, I was up for it after all.
XXXIV
BY THE time Mark came out of the bathroom the next morning, the bruise was almost impossible to see.
“How is it?”
“What?”
I blew out an impatient breath. “Your jaw, Mark.”
He waggled it. “Fine.” And I knew that was the end of it. “Are you ready? There’s an IHOP in the next town. Let’s go.”
“You are expanding my horizons,” I muttered. We went out to the car and drove there. It was early enough that we missed the after-church crowd. A Sunday newspaper was on the counter, and the fact that the University of Missouri beat Kansas State the day before was completely overshadowed; the banner headline screamed, “Senator Wexler Hospitalized After Car Accident!” Beneath it was a picture of the overturned Bentley, and beneath that the caption, “Long-time Senator Richard Wexler is in guarded condition after apparently suffering a stroke and losing control of his car. Story on Page Two.”
Our waitress led us to a booth and placed the menus on either side of the table. “That’s something about the senator, isn’t it?” Apparently this was going to be the talk of the day.
