The Bliss Factor

by Penny McCall

  Conn did a lot of listening, said a couple of “uh-huhs,” and handed the phone to Detective Hershowitz. “Mike says to keep my head down and work on getting my memory back until he can send someone.”

  “Did he tell you what’s going on?”

  Conn shook his head. “He said he isn’t telling me anything, not even who he is, until I remember how to keep my mouth shut.”

  Rae bit back her frustration. She wanted answers, dammit, but every time she thought she might get some fate conspired to leave her clueless and stranded with a man who was nothing but trouble. On every imaginable level.

  “You can go,” Hershowitz said. “Just don’t steal any more cars.”

  “Any chance you’ll tell me what that Mike guy said to you?”

  “He said I could arrest you if you made a nuisance of yourself.”

  Rae didn’t need to be told twice. She gathered her things together, retrieved her phone from the detective, and herded Conn out of the detective’s office.

  “Well,” she said when they were in the lobby, “you must be a good guy.”

  “You doubted me? I’m wounded.”

  “Right, you’re destroyed. Sorry. So what does ‘good guy’ mean? You were with my parents’ group doing undercover work? Which means there’s some sort of criminal activity going on there?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Let’s go ask my mom and dad.”

  Conn caught her by the upper arm. “Harry and his friends will be watching the faire.”

  “But my parents—”

  “Are fine. If they were a target they would have had trouble already. If we go back there, we will only bring it to them.”

  Rae dug deep and managed to calm herself, mostly because what Conn said made sense. They’d sent Conn away for his safety, but she knew that if they were in danger, they’d have pulled up stakes and taken off, too. Still . . . “Maybe we should send the police.”

  “And tell them what? There are outlaws at the Renaissance faire?”

  Rae huffed out a breath, crossing her arms. “They’ll think we’re pulling a prank.”

  “If you mean jesting, aye, you’re right.”

  “And what about Harry and Joe? They broke into the dealership to get my name and address, but they botched it. Otherwise they’d have been on their way to my house. All they have to do is pose as reporters, or bribe someone at the dealership. Jim looked bribable. Heck, Jim will probably give them my address for free after the trouble we caused.”

  “Then we leave.”

  “What will that solve?”

  “We’ll be safe—”

  “That’s just geography. You have to get your memory back. That’s the only solution.”

  “How do you suggest I do that?” Conn said, every bit as angry and frustrated as she was, for all he kept his voice completely flat.

  “Stop fighting it. Stop being all Zen and go-with-the-flow and laid-back. Pretend you’re in danger—which you are, by the way—and get a clue.” She was yelling at him by the time she finished that sentence, and all the police were staring at her. So she used it to her advantage. “Can someone call us a cab?”

  CONN WAS STILL ANGRY, STEWING THE ENTIRE CAB ride back to her house. “We’re just going to pack some things and then we’ll go away for a few days,” she said once she’d paid the cab and it was gone.

  He didn’t answer, or look at her. And he didn’t shrug. She missed the shrug.

  “I’m sorry I went to the police.”

  “You broke a promise,” he said.

  “They were going to catch us anyway. I just made it so we could talk to them on our terms.”

  Conn rolled his shoulders. “Do you think it wise for us to be here?”

  Progress, she thought, even if he still wasn’t looking at her. “Even if the Stooges know the police let us go, which they can’t possibly, and even if they know where I live, they’re probably lying low until the heat dies down . . . they’re staying home until they think the authorities have stopped looking for them.”

  She moved into her bedroom while she talked to throw some clothes in an overnight bag, then to the bathroom, and then to Conn’s room. She didn’t figure he was worried about clothes since she could hear him banging around in the kitchen, probably trying to bring every crumb of food in the place.

  “There’s just one problem,” she called out, dropping the bags in the living room on the way to the kitchen. “We don’t have a car—oh.”

  Harry stood by the kitchen door, flanked by Joe and the chubby, balding man who seemed to be their designated driver. Harry had a gun pointed at Conn.

  “Good plan,” Conn said to her.

  “I’m an accountant,” she snapped. “You’re the . . . whatever you are.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know what I am. Why else would I let a woman tell me what to do?”

  “A woman! Who do you think gave birth to you, genius? No, don’t answer that. I’m sure she was a paragon, despite the way you turned out.”

  Conn opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His eyes said it all.

  Rae almost backed off. She would have backed off, but he said, “It wouldn’t have hurt you to turn out a bit more like your mother wanted: relaxed, accepting, accommodating—”

  “Accommodating! Who’s been taking care of you the last couple of days? And I don’t recall you saying thank you, either. Accommodating, hah,” and she started to storm off.

  “Hey!”

  Rae rounded on Harry, and got a face full of gun. “Yeah, that’s right, I’m in charge.”

  “I bet your mother would be proud,” Rae said.

  Harry’s gun faltered, just for a second. Out of the corner of her eye Rae saw Conn’s muscles bunch, and she realized he hadn’t taken his eyes off Harry, not even when they were arguing—well, not entirely. And then Harry got over the crack about his mother, the gun stopped shaking, and Conn went back to waiting for an opening because, Rae finally understood, that’s what he was doing.

  And she was going to help him.

  “I apologize for bringing your mother into this,” she said to Harry, “but it was a long weekend. Really long. And I only spent half of it with him.”

  “We’ve been dealing with him for a lot longer. And thanks to you we had to chase him all over the metro area, so if anyone has the right to be mad, it’s us.”

  “Yeah,” the third man chimed in. “We had to spend hours on the floor of that stupid Honda this morning.”

  Rae snorted out a laugh. “Don’t blame that on me. It’s your own fault for being such incompetent criminals.”

  “Our fault,” Harry sputtered.

  It probably wasn’t the best strategy to tick off the guy holding the gun, but she got the distinct impression she was supposed to be distracting the bad guys. It had something to do with the way Conn was easing to one side, putting himself in position to take Harry out. Or maybe he was just getting out of the line of fire.

  “You botched the robbery at the dealership and got stuck there,” she said, deciding to trust Conn. He might be laid-back, but he wasn’t a coward. “You guys are like the Three Stooges: Harry, Joe and . . .” She looked at the heavy guy.

  “Kemp,” he supplied, a goofy grin curving his mouth. “Hey, she’s right, we do sound like the Three Stooges. Harry, Joe, and Kemp.”

  “I thought the third Stooge was Curly.”

  “Shemp was a late replacement for Curly,” Kemp said. “Larry, Moe, and Shemp.”

  “Shut up,” Harry said. “We have a job to do, let’s get on with it.”

  “Do you really think you can do this without messing it up?”

  “You’re the reason everything is screwed up.”

  “It’s not my fault you parked outside the mall and got stuck by the fire truck.”

  “We found you, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah, how did you find us?” Rae asked, and not just for distraction value. She was seriously interested.

  “It was just dumb
luck,” Kemp said. “We had to pick up some money to get the glass fixed—” Harry gave him a shot to the arm. “Ouch! Hey!”

  Rae couldn’t help laughing. “If that wasn’t a Three Stooges move, I don’t know what is. Maybe botching the robbery at the dealership and getting stuck there, but hey, at least you got my address—”

  Harry’s gaze flicked away from hers, just a split second but enough to tell her she was on to something.

  “You didn’t get my address, did you?”

  “Nah,” Kemp said, rubbing his arm and shooting Harry a mutinous look. “We went back and bribed the service manager.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Why, Harry? They ain’t gonna be talking to anyone.”

  Rae’s blood ran cold, the more so because Kemp wasn’t saying that as a scare tactic, he was just a goofball who knew the score and couldn’t help blurting it out. She resisted the urge to look in Conn’s direction, though, moving to the stool at her kitchen island, which just happened to be in the opposite direction from him.

  “Jim figured out who you was because you left the Hummer there,” Kemp was saying.

  “Yeah,” Harry put in, “he didn’t take much convincing, either. He was pretty pissed that you stole the van right out from under his nose.”

  “Now who’s a Stooge?”

  “I don’t know,” Rae said. “I wasn’t stupid enough to drive a Honda onto UAW property.”

  That was the last straw for Harry. His eyes went crazy and stayed that way. He lifted the gun, just as Conn struck, chopping down on his wrist. Conn caught the gun as Harry dropped it, flipping it to Rae and facing off against Harry, Joe, and Kemp, hand-to-hand.

  It wasn’t a very long fight. Rae didn’t even have to wrestle with the possibility of using the gun because it was over in seconds. Conn punched Harry in the face, backhanding Joe at the same time. Both men went down as Kemp waded in and punched Conn on the side of the head. Conn staggered a little, looking woozy like he had during the sword fight. Then he shook his head and turned to Kemp. Rae had to give Kemp credit, he lifted his fists and stepped in. He might even have been threatening, if he hadn’t been wincing already.

  Conn slapped a hand on Kemp’s chest and shoved him onto his ass. “Get out,” he said, “and take your friends with you.”

  Kemp nodded, never taking his eyes off Conn, as he scooped a hand into Joe’s armpit.

  Harry stumbled to his feet, working his jaw side to side. He sent Conn a look he knew he couldn’t back up without the gun. “This isn’t over,” he said. Hooking Joe’s other arm, he and Kemp assisted their semi-conscious partner toward the kitchen door.

  “Took you long enough,” Rae said to Conn once they were gone.

  “I wanted to see how long you could talk before Harry shot you just to shut you up.”

  “I wouldn’t be so cocky. He’ll probably shoot you on sight the next time.”

  “Then I will just have to make certain there isn’t a next time.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  Conn grinned. “How is your part of the operation.”

  “You’re putting your fate into the hands of a woman?”

  “No, I’m putting my fate into the hands of my partner.”

  “Partner?”

  “As in team. We make a pretty good one. I mean, you knew exactly what I was thinking. Before. Why I was insulting you.”

  “Partner,” Rae said, sinking down on one of the stools at her kitchen island. “I’m speechless.”

  Conn grinned. “Now I can die a happy man.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Rae stood, gathering up the overnight bag with their things when a thought occurred to her. “Now, all we need is some wheels.”

  chapter 13

  “I NEED TO BORROW A CAR, MR. PENNWORTHY. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “After the way he talked to me?” Mr. Pennworthy hooked a thumb in Conn’s direction.

  Conn could have cared less. He was busy taking in his surroundings. Not that Rae could blame him. Her house was a step up from a typical subdivision home. Mr. Pennworthy lived in the closest thing to a castle America could boast. It sat behind her house and four of her neighbors—three stories of Tudor-style construction dating back to a time when men like Ford and Dodge were tapping into the American Dream to build fortunes.

  Conn hadn’t spoken since Mr. Pennworthy had opened the door and invited them in, but his face said it all. The foyer was pretty impressive, Rae had to admit, from the marble beneath their feet to the ornate, coffered ceiling two floors above their heads, a Waterford chandelier suspended within the sweep of the double staircase.

  “Where do you keep the Armory?” Conn finally said, turning to Rae. “We should borrow some weapons, as well.”

  “Armory? Weapons?” Mr. Pennworthy goggled at Conn. “I don’t have any weapons here.”

  “Is that not a suit of armor?” Conn brushed past him, headed for a room that had probably been a ballroom ninety years before. Now it was a formal dining room, and Conn was right, there was a suit of armor at the far side, just visible from the foyer.

  “This is very poorly made,” Conn said, stopping in front of the arm and bending to study the right gauntlet. “Not authentic. See here?” He straightened, pointing to the large chest plate.

  “I don’t see anything,” Rae said.

  “Me either,” Mr. Pennworthy chimed in, more interested in the appraisal than the intrusion.

  “You see nothing because there is nothing to see. It simply does not match. Nor does this gorget—that’s the neck guard. It is not in the same style as the breastplate and the greaves.” He pointed at the lower leg pieces.

  “Then it’s a reproduction. A fake. Not an actual suit of armor.”

  Mr. Pennworthy looked like he was going to pop a vein, probably the one throbbing on his forehead. “I have papers authenticating this armor,” he said.

  “He has papers,” Rae repeated. She sidled up close to Conn. “And we need a car.”

  “I don’t know about papers,” Conn said.

  Rae lifted her eyes heavenward. God ignored her, too.

  “Anyone can write anything,” Conn continued. “That doesn’t make it the truth. But it’s not entirely a loss. See here?” He pulled Mr. Pennworthy forward and made sure he was following. “This breastplate has been repaired.”

  “I knew about that,” Mr. Pennworthy said.

  “It’s a real repair, made by a real armorer, probably the same one who made the breastplate.”

  “But . . . I thought you said . . .”

  “I said it isn’t a complete fraud. The breastplate, helm, greaves, all the large pieces are authentic. The gauntlets are not. The smaller, more intricate pieces are more easily lost and degraded by time and weather if not properly cared for. The gorget is from another suit entirely.”

  “So the suit was cobbled together.”

  “Aye.”

  “I’d sue,” Mr. Pennworthy grumbled, “if I knew where to find the criminal who sold it to me.”

  “So you didn’t get it from a reputable dealer.”

  Mr. Pennworthy didn’t dignify Rae’s observation with a comment.

  “This is good armor,” Conn said. “The flaws only make it more interesting.”

  Mr. Pennworthy took another look at the armor, seeing it through Conn’s eyes. “You’re right,” he finally said.

  “This has all been really fascinating,” Rae said, “but we still need a car. Please, Mr. Pennworthy, it’s really important.”

  He smiled, an impossibly sweet smile from such an old grouch. “I know that,” he said, patting her cheek. “You wouldn’t have asked otherwise. And I wouldn’t say yes if you weren’t the least objectionable neighbor I’ve ever had, and since I’ve lived here forty years, that’s saying something.”

  “Thank you,” Rae said, completely floored.

  Mr. Pennworthy led them through the house, plucking a key ring from one of at least a dozen
hooks by a doorway in the kitchen. He opened the door, which led onto a garage bigger than her house, filled with everything from sports cars to trucks.

  He dropped the key ring, with no keys on it, into Rae’s hand and said, “Take the Cadillac. I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s no reason you can’t be comfortable while you’re at it. And if you need anything, just push the little red button.”

  THE CADILLAC TURNED OUT TO BE A BRAND-NEW STS-V, which Rae decided had something to do with the engine being a V-8. There was throaty roar and a slight vibration when she stepped on the gas pedal, both muted by the leather and wood interior.

  She navigated them onto I-75, heading north, the Caddy eating up the miles. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sunroof was open, and surround sound filled the interior with the soft strains of classical music.

  “Enjoying the ride?” she said to Conn, then regretted it since he’d been half asleep. “I’m sorry. You should rest while you have the chance. I know you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “I only had an early wake-up call. I got the impression it was a long night for you.”

  He shrugged that off.

  Rae went with it. “So how do you know so much about armor?”

  “I’m an armorer.”

  “We both know that’s not really the case.”

  “Do we?” Conn said, sounding bleak.

  Rae exhaled heavily, tired more in spirit than mind. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but we can’t keep running away.”

  Conn crossed his arms, settling back into his seat.

  “Those guys are going to catch up to us again.”

  “And I will best them again.”

  “Not if they shoot you first, which they’re likely to do, now that you’ve humiliated them twice.” She took his smile as an acknowledgment, and his silence as an invitation. “You must work for some sort of law enforcement agency,” she said, “likely federal since you crossed numerous state lines with my parents’ traveling group. FBI, DEA, NSA, or some other acronym I’ve never heard of.” All of which were laughable, knowing the kind of people her parents were, and the kind of people they surrounded themselves with. But whoever Conn was, he also knew a hell of a lot about medieval armor. More than background information for an undercover operative.