The car careened down the hill, jolting his shoulder. He swallowed but managed not to make any sound.
“Next left,” Lucy told the driver. “Three blocks down on the left corner.” The car screeched to a halt. Lucy fumbled in her bag and came up with some dirty and wrinkled green paper she handed over the seat to the driver. “Keep the change.”
Had she paid the driver only with this tattered paper? But he seemed to accept it willingly. “Thanks, lady, you’re a peach,” he said. Thanks. Was that related to the Saxon “thonc to thu”? It was tantalizing. He could recognize some words, no matter how wrong the rhythm was, and yet the language was not Englisc.
She opened her door and slid out, beckoning to him. He fumbled with the cursed belt with his good hand, but it didn’t have a proper buckle.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, and leaned in. The buckle released itself at her touch. He pushed himself out, ignoring the sear of pain in his thigh and shoulder. The night air slapped him after the warmth of the cart. Now he could smell the sea, along with bread baking somewhere and that greasy, oily smell again. The air did not smell clean. The woman ran to the glass doors and he staggered after her. His limbs felt like they weighed a hundredweight. This house was big, taking up what must be the length of four or so halls, but had only five levels. Not like the place where he had been tortured. Still it was taller than any building he knew. Windows poked out in bays over the street. Lucy punched some buttons labeled with Arabic numbers outside some glass, and a buzz sounded. She opened a door in the glass and dashed in.
It was warmer in here. She went to stand near two sets of doors he now recognized. He gritted his teeth and stepped into the claustrophobic box. As it rose, he noticed that the Arabic numbers lighted. They stopped at 5 and the door opened. He followed the girl down a dim hall. She took out a ring with strange keys on it and used it on a door at the end.
The girl turned the key this way and that, but the door did not open.
Suddenly she stepped back, struck by something.
“This might not be my apartment anymore,” she whispered to herself in her own language. She looked up at Galen, and her green eyes were a little frightened. Then she straightened her back. “I’ll have to wake Jake.”
He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Who is this Jake?”
“A friend.”
How many “friends” did she have? Women did not have male friends. Was she a prostitute, to have so many “friends”? She strode down the hall and banged on a door at the other end.
When no one answered, she called softly, “Jake, it’s Lucy. I know you’re awake. Open up.” She stepped back, in clear view of a tiny peephole in the center of the door, and just waited. Galen leaned against the wall for support.
“He is not there.”
“Oh, he’s here.” She folded her arms under her breasts. They swelled into her neckline. She must be a prostitute to dress so.
She was right. There was a clanking behind the door and then the knob turned. The door opened only a crack. A chain crossed the opening. A gnarled face appeared. “Lucy!” The door shut with a snap but opened wide a moment later. “Lucy, girl. Where have you been?” The man limped out and threw his arms around Lucy. Galen didn’t understand the words, but the sentiment was unmistakable. The man was big but wizened, with a full gray beard and bright, hard eyes. He had been a warrior in his time. Galen knew that immediately. “I’ve been so worried about you.” He glared at Galen. “Who’s this?”
“Long story, Jake. Can we come in and tell it?”
Jake peered down the hall in either direction, then motioned them in. Galen limped after the girl. His vision had begun to blur around the edges. He steadied himself against the wall just inside the door. Lucy turned around, saw him, and said, in Latin, “Galen, come. Sit down here.” She guided him to a soft, long bench with a back, and he sank into it, easing his shoulder against the cushion. His wounds throbbed. The house was very strange. Many books on shelves. Was this man so rich? Strange objects hung on the walls. It had thick rugs but no tapestries. The whole place was warm, though he could see no fire pit.
“Got some water, Jake?” Even he recognized the word for waether. That must be universal. The old man scurried away. Lucy sat beside Galen. “Jake will help us. I have known him for a long time. Be calm and rest.” She squeezed his hand. He liked when she did that. He leaned his head back against the cushion. This bench was as soft as any bed he had ever slept on. How long since he had slept in a real bed? When the old man returned with water, Lucy produced several small white tablets of various shapes, offered them to him with the water.
“What are these?”
She replied to his Latin, “For your pain.”
“It will make me sleep,” he accused. A drug. Like the woman in the white room had given him. It was not safe to lose himself to drugged sleep in such a place of peril.
“It is just Vicodin.” Whatever that was. “You will not sleep.” When he started to protest, she held up a hand. “Just take it.” She was exasperated.
She had been only kind up to this point. Except for taking him away from a glorious death on the battlefield and delivering him to the man with the needles. Still, someone had sewn his wounds and bandaged him. That might be the only reason he was alive. He gritted his teeth and took the tablet and the water. “Odin’s eye and Thor’s hammer. You are a trial, woman.”
Chapter 4
Jake had been her landlord ever since she moved out of her father’s house eleven years ago. He wore an old serape along with huaraches and jeans that had seen better days. His ponytail was as grizzled as his beard. Jake limped from ’Nam. She wasn’t quite sure how he’d been injured, but he’d had multiple surgeries since. Jake never said exactly what he did during the war. Now he was pretty well set. He owned this building, though he employed a service to make the toilets run and fix the garbage disposals so he didn’t have to bother with the tenants. After his hip replacement a few years ago, she’d practically had to force her way in with casseroles so he wouldn’t starve, but she could be stubborn. After a while, she didn’t have to force her way in. They’d become friends. Jake was a fascinating character, interested in everything, a real jazz buff with hints of a dark past. What was not to like? He didn’t seem to have other people he trusted. A bookshelf held a picture of a daughter, but Jake would say only that she’d died.
“You speak Latin to him?” Jake asked from where he leaned against the archway to the kitchen. The sweet smell of cannabis hung in the air.
Lucy glanced over as Galen took the pills, looking disgusted with himself. “He speaks Danish. Latin is the only way we can communicate.” How much was she going to tell Jake?
“Looks like he got in one helluva fight.” Jake’s old eyes were flat, revealing nothing. He was waiting for an explanation as he studied Galen.
She didn’t want to tell Jake the truth. Problem was, Jake was a difficult guy to lie to. “Can I use your phone to call Brad? If you’ll just let us wait for him here . . .”
“Brad?” Jake’s eyes searched her face. “I wouldn’t think you’d want to call Brad.”
“Why not?” Lucy frowned.
“Well, Brad and that Casey guy, who is a spook if I ever saw one, came round here and cleaned out your apartment and questioned everybody in the building like you were on the Ten Most Wanted list. They confiscated everything you owned. Went to the trouble of getting the Quantico dirtbags involved.”
“The store . . . ?”
“Closed. Your whole inventory boxed up and removed. They ‘questioned’ Amy until she practically had a nervous breakdown. Couldn’t stop crying.”
Amy was the girl who helped her on weekends. “My God, why . . . Why would they do that?” She was asking herself more than Jake.