What the hell have I gotten myself into? Andrew thought again as he walked downstairs, because things were sliding progressively from bad to worse to plain old fucked up at entirely too fast a pace for his liking.
He hadn’t decided if he should tell Major Prendick about his encounter with Dr. Moore and his pistol. Given the Major’s reception—which had likewise involved a pistol aimed at his head—Andrew suspected Prendick might not have been too opposed to the idea of Moore popping a cap in his ass. Hell, he might have even instigated the entire confrontation.
At the foot of the stairs, Andrew was struck by a strong smell emanating from the dining hall. Not entirely unpleasant, it wasn’t exactly appetizing, either, and reminded him of the way the corridors in elementary school had smelled in his youth close to lunchtime: the intermingling odors of canned corn and fish sticks.
Ahead of him, he could see a large gathering of uniformed soldiers at the doorway of the dining hall, lined up and ready to fill their trays.
“You don’t want to do that,” he heard Suzette say as he headed in that direction. He glanced to his left, found her crossing the lobby toward him.
“I was just on my way to find you,” she said with a smile. “Invite you to join me for dinner.”
He laughed without much humor, given that the imprint of Dr. Moore’s gun barrel was now outlined in a dim bruise against his temple. “You must really want to see me killed.”
She looked quizzical, the good cheer faltering in her smile, and he told her about what had happened.
“Oh, my God,” she said, seeming appropriately aghast. “I can’t believe he did that. He wouldn’t have shot you. Trust me. He’s all bluff and bluster. He wouldn’t have the balls.”
Despite this reassurance, Andrew didn’t find himself so easily convinced.
“Come on.” Suzette took him by the hand. “Eat with me down the hall, in the rec room. Dr. Moore likes to have dinner alone with Alice in the apartment. It’s their special time together. Or some such bullshit.” She cut her eyes toward the mess hall line, then back to him as she stepped closer. Near enough so that when she raised onto her tiptoes, stage-whispering into his ear, her breath tickled his skin, she said, “Besides the grunts all take turns in the kitchen fixing food. And none of them can cook worth a damn.”
For the first time since he’d opened his door to find Dr. Moore on the other side, Andrew relaxed enough to smile. “But you can?”
Her smile widened, coy and enigmatic. “Dr. Moore didn’t hire me for my medical background,” she replied. Still holding him by the hand, she gave his arm a light tug. “Come on. I’ll prove it.”
“Someone firebombed his house,” Suzette said. They had the rec room to themselves. She’d trundled a Styrofoam cooler down from the upstairs apartment and had everything set up, waiting for them.
“How’d you know I’d say yes?” Andrew had asked.
“I didn’t,” she’d replied. “But either way, I’m not eating that shit.”
“Dr. Moore, I mean,” she continued as she pulled a foil-wrapped package out of the cooler. If the smell from the dining hall could have best been described as banal, then what wafted from that cooler was something akin to heaven. “It happened a couple of months ago. That’s why Alice had to come stay here, why he had to hire me. Her previous caregiver died trying to get out. Of the house, I mean. Not the job.” She snickered. “At least, I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Do they know who did it?” Andrew asked.
Suzette shook her head. “Dr. Moore told me the local police, the FBI, the Massachusetts Fire Marshall’s office, they’re all investigating. He had a nice house in Weston, a ritzy suburb of Boston, but he wasn’t there at the time. There was no one home but Alice and the nurse, what’s-her-name. They think it might have been a group of animal rights zealots. PACA, I think they’re called. People Against Cruelty to Animals.”
She peeled back the foil to allow a puff of steam to trail out. “I hope you like fried chicken. It’s still hot. Probably crispy, too, for the most part.” With a wink and a smile, she added, “It’s my grandmother’s recipe, passed along from generation to generation of women in my family since the Great Depression.”
“Top secret?” he asked. “You’d have to kill me if I learned it?”
This time, she laughed. “Now you’re catching on.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Not good, Andrew thought some time later, flat on his back, naked except for sheets that lay swathed around his hips.
After the meal, Suzette had pulled a fifth of tequila out of the cooler. “How about a shot?”
“How about,” he’d agreed, figuring what the hell. In the past forty-eight hours, he’d nearly died in a car wreck, been arrested on federal felony trespass charges and been shot in the face. Twice. I’ve earned a drink, if nothing else.
Two hours later, Suzette slept on her stomach beside him, her face turned away, her arms and legs spread-eagle, her blonde hair spread about her head in a messy tumble.
Not good, he thought again.
They’d downed tequila until they’d both been slurring and shit-faced. When she’d stood, wobbling off balance and stumbling, he’d leaped to his feet, catching her clumsily against his chest. “I think I’d better go to bed,” she’d told him with a laugh. Then, in a lower, husky voice, she’d added slyly, “Want to tag along?”
Moore had promised to shoot him if he caught him in the apartment. In equally no-uncertain-terms, Prendick had promised to have him arrested and prosecuted for similar trespass. But as Suzette’s hand trailed to the waistband of his jeans, then further south from there, Andrew had found all at once, he hadn’t given a shit.
“Yeah,” he’d told her. “I think I will.”
Not good, he thought again, pinching the bridge of his nose, behind which a dull but steady throbbing had begun to stoke. Slowly, he sat up, wincing as the mattress beneath him creaked. He glanced at Suzette as she murmured in her sleep, but she didn’t stir. Not good. Not good at all.
Not the sex. That part had been good indeed. Very, very good. But the sound that drawn his tequila-sedated mind out of the murky depths of unconsciousness had been the sound of the front doors to the apartment opening, of footsteps fading as they crossed the foyer.
Dr. Moore had returned.
And that’s very, very bad, Andrew thought. He leaned over, hands outstretched, groping in the dark until he found his jeans. Piece by piece, he recovered his discarded clothes, which had been shrugged, kicked and tossed in every which direction.
“What about Alice?” he’d groaned as he and Suzette had stumbled together into her bedroom and she’d kicked the door closed behind them. Already, they’d been tangled, kissing and clutching at each other, yanking at shirts, fumbling with pants.
“She’s sleeping,” she’d replied. “The other side of the apartment, next to her father’s room. They have supper together, then he puts her to bed, goes back to the lab until at least midnight.”
Maybe I can still sneak out of here without getting busted, Andrew thought. Redressing clumsily, wobbling and hopping from one foot to the other as he pulled on his boxers and jeans, he kept a wary eye on the bedroom door, the thin sliver of faint light he could see beneath its bottom edge. Here’s hoping, anyway, since the last time I checked, I wasn’t born bullet-proof.