His still-living limbs flailed, seeking a secure purchase, on the trapeze or the red velvet swing.
He heard metal clattering, felt the pain of being cut open without anesthetic, twisted away from the treacherous arena, tore the girl from her red velvet perch. They fell struggling into the abyss, sawdust and sequins sparkling like a reverse night sky at the bottom of the circus ring. One ring to rule them all. Three rings, including the Worm Orobouros. Opal. Unlucky. Emerald. Fragile.
“Wake up,” said a voice.
Hands shook his shoulders. Someone shook him hard enough that the back of his skull rapped a hard surface.
God!
Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, dormez-vous? Morning bells are ringing. Ton. Ton. Ton. Morning bells are ringing. Frère Jacques. Brother John. Auprès de ma blonde, je dèsire dormir. Auprès de ma blonde . . .
A tiny flashlight beam was drilling into his left eye.
“Wake up, Mike!”
That “Mike” did it. Woke him up to a lie. A fresh lie he recognized. He instantly knew where he was, who he was supposed to be, and that something bad had happened.
“Revienne?” he asked the dark behind the dentist’s drill of light into his brain.
“Mike.” Her voice, with that ambiguous, charming, accented English.
Are you sleeping, brother John?
“Mon Dieu, Mike! He was trying to kill you. Can you get up?”
He sighed. Not easily.
She hadn’t turned on the room’s general lighting.
“An assassin! Mon Dieu. The only explanation. Here, in such sanctuary. If I hadn’t been thinking about you, hadn’t had an insight on your therapy, I’d have never come by so late. Mike. Say something. Speak.”
“Was it an . . . injection?”
“Oui. Ja. Da. Yes! In your veins. We must find the needle. It fell to the floor when you struggled and he ran. We need it for testing.”
We.
Testing here? Not bloody likely. He felt the floor for a dropped hypo and found nothing. Time to move on. He pushed himself up using the strength of his arms, the ones so invincible in the dream. They were pretty stable. Good. His legs?
“The leg casts,” she said as if reading his mind. “Perhaps you can do without. But not here. Not yet.”
Her breaths came fast and frantic in the silent room, betraying the rapid search and reject of her brain cells. “Murder. Here! That is of all places supposed to be safe! Mon Dieu.”
He thought, irrelevantly, that a fervent “sacré bleu” would be a nice alternative.
“Nothing else to do,” she muttered to him, to herself. “We must leave. Gather forces. How do I move you? Mike! Is your brain clear now? Can you do as I say?”
Yes. Yes. Do I want to?
“An assassin has breached this . . . what is the word? . . . citadel of civilization. I can’t believe it yet. Who are you? Why? Who’d want to kill a helpless man?”
Not quite helpless.
“We must get you out of here.”
We again?
“I must . . . must . . . take you out. It’s the middle of the night. You have a seizure. I’m taking you to the laboratory for treatment.”
Laboratory? Ouch.
“No, not an emergency. Everything is fine. Just an . . . adjustment. I am, of course, authorized. Can you get yourself back up on the bed?”
So he was on the floor. Someone had wrestled him there.
She heaved. His arm muscles took hold and helped.
“Good. God. Good. It’s all right if you look drugged. They’re used to serious conditions here. They’re used to me, moving around. I will take you out. Just . . . let me do it. Say nothing. Do nothing. Mike, do you hear me?”
More than you know, sweetheart.
“Mein Gott! They will kill you if they can.”
He didn’t like hearing that, but he didn’t doubt it. Now. So she spoke fluent German as well as French. And what else? For now, her shock and stress rang true. He could let her lever and scam his hampered body out of here. He agreed. They had to leave.
After that, away from the drugs and control—and, unfortunately, his only contact, Garry Randolph—he would be stronger, his mind clearer. He could decide what to do next, and what to do about her.
For now, it only mattered what she could do about him.
A Fine Kettle
of Fish
It is hard to realize that I am best out of the way for the moment, and that the others are probably better off for it.
Perhaps Mr. Max Kinsella and I face the same quandary.
We are soul mates in several ways. (Now that he is not here to joust me for bedspread room I am finding more and more that we have in common.)
Like a master magician, I set my assistants about their appointed tasks. Some may not even know that I am pulling their strings. Or whiskers, in my case.
It is better I stay upstairs so that Miss Satin and Miss Midnight Louise, who are virtual twins (if not mother and . . . shudder . . . daughter) can roam the downstairs area like mobile bugs. Not the big, many-legged roach kind of bug, I hasten to explain, but as furry listening devices.
They are much larger than the real thing, but also as easily overlooked. If you are perceived to be “mute,” you are also considered “dumb.” This is where the phrase “dumb animal” originated. A big mistake, but your average Homo sapiens are experts at that kind of underestimation.
I also realize that the axiom Out of sight, out of mind pertains here.
While everyone downstairs hustles, tattles, lies, and dodges as my Miss Temple investigates their motives, means, and opportunities, the dead woman lies in a tawdry, disheveled state up here behind a guardian accoutered in Ermenegildo Zegna tailoring and Beretta and Rolex accessories, a high-end combo she had likely never seen in her brief life.
I shiver. They have lowered the air-conditioning to preserve the body. Even my luxuriant hair is not proof against chills.
Mr. Max also lies in a forgotten state in some people’s minds. I know my partner is not letting the mystery of his possible fatal accident lay unexamined, but even she recognizes that we must ride to the rescue of Mr. Matt, who is not mysterious at all and firmly on the suspect list.
A pity his sterling scruples and blind Justice have put him in a perfect frame: too noble to peer at a nearby, possibly sleazy sex scene and therefore an ignorant and useless witness. Too compassionate to forgo saving a possibly dead person, and therefore caught red-handed performing the Kiss of Life on the body. Thus leaving DNA traces all over it.
Such behavior is likely to look suspicious, if not downright psychotic, to the police professionals who will soon descend on our parlor play of the moment.
It strikes me that Miss Temple, who spent most of the past year defending Mr. Max from Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s relentless suspicions, has traded one fiance for another, and for the same outcome. She must now defend Mr. Matt from Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s relentless suspicions.
At least, it occurs to me, Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina likes Mr. Matt Divine, maybe more than she realizes.
Hmm. Sad to say, but it might best serve our cause (Mr. Matt Devine) if said homicide lieutenant got her size nines out here and took over this messy, confusing crime scene straight out of that movie musical, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.
Brother! I am sure glad that we feline dudes do not do matrimony.