Now You See Him(7)

Like where had their huge black savior come from? Like why Michael Dowd, instead of being terrified by their near brush with death, had merely been exhilarated by the experience. Like why the brakes had failed on a vehicle that had just been checked.

But for now all she had to concentrate on was holding together long enough to get her frail companion settled for the night. Then a good strong dose of Scotch and she might be able to sleep herself. After she gave in to the strong case of shakes she was busy fighting.



Cecil was damned good; Michael had to grant him that. He'd objected to having him around at first, saying he could handle things better without backup. The more people who were involved in a situation, the more likelihood that things would get cocked up. But right now Cecil's buddies would be stripping the Jeep, and if they didn't come up with a severed brake line, then he'd been in the wrong business for the past fifteen years.

Of course, that might be the case anyway, even supposing he was right. A job where you routinely got shot at, threatened, beaten up, a job where you lied, cheated and sometimes even killed, wasn't the sort of job to lead to mental health. Maybe he was reaching his limit. Hell, there was no maybe about it.

But he wasn't ready to quit. Not until he tied up a few loose ends, including Frances Neeley's little chums. He'd learned there was a problem with loose ends, though. No matter how many you tied up, more appeared, ready to strangle you. Sooner or later he was going to have to simply walk away from it. Or the next time the doctors wouldn't be able to pull him back from the edge of death.

Cecil dropped them off at the front veranda of the villa with a flash of teeth and a subservient bob of his head. Michael frowned, wondering whether Cecil might not be carrying things a bit too far, but he pressed something that looked like a high-denomination bill into his meaty hand. Frances would assume it was a tip, not a carefully coded request for information. Unless she was even brighter than she looked.

And she looked pretty damned bright, Michael thought as he limped up the wide front steps. He'd had nothing to do during those last long weeks in hospital but research Ms. Frances Neeley and Daniel Travers's villa on St. Anne. He'd come to a great many conclusions, some snap judgments, some carefully thought through. As usual, he was going to have to alter most of them.

She didn't rush to help him. She'd noticed his reluctance to accept assistance, and she was waiting for some imperceptible sign. She'd chosen wisely both times she'd taken his arm before, and she chose wisely now in letting him navigate the steps on his own. She had a certain intuitive caring that wasn't going to make this task any easier.

"I think you need a drink," she said, when he reached the front door, pale and sweating from exertion. "I've got lemonade and iced tea up in the fridge. And then I think you need a bed. Or would you like it the other way around?"

"A drink first. And something a little stronger, if you've got it."

Francey smiled. It didn't reach her eyes, but there was still a compelling warmth in it. "I'm planning on Scotch myself. Will that do?"

Might as well start now, Michael thought. "You don't have any Irish whiskey, do you?"

He didn't feel guilty at the way her face blanched, the stricken look that wiped the smile off her lips. Not when it was partly her fault he was in this damnably weakened state in the first place. "I don't know," she said. "Daniel probably has some stashed away. I'll go look…"

"Don't bother. Scotch'll do fine." He almost made the mistake of heading for the living room, and he caught himself, cursing beneath his breath. Maybe Cardiff was right. Maybe he wasn't ready for the field, if he was going to make mistakes like that.

"Are you all right?" Francey's voice was anxious, her own earlier pain dismissed.

"Fine," he said tightly. "If you'll just steer me in the direction of the living room…?"

She glanced at him curiously. "The way you were heading. Unless you'd rather go to bed first. I could bring you the whiskey…?"

"Not yet," he said. "Let's have our drink first. It's not everyone who gets so intimately acquainted in the first hour. I think we need time to unwind."

The smile was back, and it was beginning to warm her eyes. Nice eyes, she had. Brown, soft, vulnerable. Not the kind of eyes to be involved in something as nasty as this. "That sounds nice," she said, then disappeared in the direction of the butler's pantry.

Of course, he wasn't supposed to know that was where she was going, he thought as he limped into the living room, turning on lights as he went. He would have to be very careful not to make the sort of mistake he'd almost made earlier. He knew the layout of this place down to the last electrical outlet. He knew where he was going to sleep, and he knew where he needed Frances Neeley. The question was, how to get her there without arousing her suspicions.