The Stories: Part 7
Chapters 61 through 70
"You are not gonna believe what I got done today," Dion exclaims as he returns home and throws his briefcase on the couch. "You're gonna be so proud of me," he adds as he approaches Laura, who's just begun cooking hamburgers, and gives her a luscious kiss.Laura smiles. "Hey, baby," she replies, and pokes a burger with her spatula.Dion frowns. "Here, sweetie, let me do that," he insists, and carefully unties the apron from around her waist and transfers it to his own. He eases the spatula from her hand and scoots her away from the stove with the slightest nudge to her hip. He shoots a smile her way as he flips a sizzling burger."God, Dion," Laura remarks. "What's got into you?" She sits down at the table and watches him wonderingly. "And where's Emily?""Actually, that's one of the things I did today. I found this fabulous daycare-preschool-type place not far from work, and they managed to squeeze our little angel into their class list. Ain't it grand?""Yeah, but...shouldn't you have brought her home?"Dion nods. "That's the cool part. I didn't know this until I dropped her off, but they're having a sleepover tonight! She's all set, don't worry," he adds, seeing Laura's worried look. "She has all the stuff she'll need. I can pick her up tomorrow after work, no problem." He grins and flips another burger. "So we have the place to ourselves," he reminds her with a wink.Laura laughs. "Jesus, Dion...let me tell you about myday." She proceeds to fill him in about the silver Swedish coin found under the dead Emilio's tongue, the fact that the hospital files were zapped, and, briefly, David's visiting her at the lab."He was so sweet, and apologetic. I wish you'd stop being so damn nasty to him, Dion." She unfolds her napkin onto her lap. "But you said the daycare thing was just one of the things you took care of," she reminds him. "What else did you do? Exciting, dashing, heroic things?" Laura smiles.Dion grins and serves up the burgers on buns and too-fancy plates, placing Laura's in front of her with a flourish. He pauses as though considering his response. "No," he finally answers, thinking of his sneak job at David's, "actually nothing." He leans down and kisses his wife, then sits in the chair across from her. "Bon appétit, mon angel sweet."Laura laughs, the happiest she's been in years.
David closes his blue eyes slowly, then opens them again as if a weight were attached to each. One could hardly call it a blink. He glances around the room uneasily and tries to do a few deep breaths.He's had too much punch, and while he's not exactly dizzy, the world around him seems to be a half-second late in catching up with each languorous turn of his head. It's all slipping away. This has never happened before, and he's scared.David looks over at Albert, who's discussing a certain messy lab procedure with a nerdy scientifico in owlish glasses. Imagine, David muses, there's two people who even care. "Albert," he says softly. "What?" Albert responds, looking peeved. He turns around with a "now look what I have to deal with" expression, which changes to one of incredulity and concern. "What the hell?" "I, uh, I screwed up. I'm going to, to sit down for a bit and try to...come back," David mumbles."I told you to keep off the punch!" Albert growls. He holds out his mug of Colombian blend. "Drink this."David utters a tiny half-laugh. "No, thanks. I don't think that would help. I'll just...sit down...thanks."He makes his way across the room. Albert calls out after him, but David doesn't hear.
David eases himself onto a couch next to a sexy young woman in a red dress, involved with a skinny line of cocaine. He doesn't notice her, but puts his head in his hands and focuses on his breathing, focuses on deepening it a bit so he doesn't pass out. The girl looks up from her project and sniffs, satisfied. She turns her attention to the sick guy next to her and regards him with interest. "Hey," she blurts out, "are you okay"?Oh, no, David thinks. Please don't. "No," he mutters.Ronette's interest wavers between concern for his well-being and just plain ol' curiosity; the latter is what eventually reigns. "I'm Ronette. What's your name?"Please, please, just leave me alone..."David.""David? David what?""Spencerrr," he replies, lingering on the final consonant. He slides his hands up through his hair and folds them under his chin, closing his eyes."Ooh! Are you related to Laura?"Go away! he shrieks in his mind. "She's my...sister-in-law." "OH! Cool!" Ronette giggles, please to have found him out."Hey...are you with anyone tonight?"Leave me alone leave me alone, he chants to himself. "You know what...Ronette? See that...guy over there talking...to the...geek?"Ronette's eyes follow the tilt of David's head toward Albert. "Oh, the guy in the glasses?"Deep inside, David laughs. "No, no...the other one," he clarifies with a slight smile. "That's Albert. He's...really famous. And rich. He's a doctor.""Ooooh," Ronette breathes."Why don't you go chat him up? I bet he'd love to meet you," David adds.Ronette takes the bait. She springs up and across the room, and sidles up to Albert, pulling him away from his intense scientific conversation in spite of his protesting.David sighs and silently tries to pull himself together.
Rebekka sits alone on a matching sofa across the room from David. Though several women float by on the arms of their escorts and exchange a word or two with her, the conversations don't go beyond five sentences, and each couple eventually moves off into the crowd, leaving Rebekka alone once more.After a particularly stylish couple reenters the throng, Rebekka looks off, unfocused, across the room, thinking of a hundred places she'd rather be. Through the smoky haze, her eyes light on David, looking positively miserable. She scans the room thoroughly to ascertain Anders's position--he has his coat on and is escorting a woman out of the apartment--and once she feels absolutely certain she's safe, she picks up her evening bag and steals across the room to David's side.She whispers, "You look so ill. How can I help you?"David looks up out of his hands. "Ms. Nilsson," he murmurs."Yes, Mr. Spencer...please, what can I get for you?" she asks urgently, keeping one eye on the door."David, please," he mumbles. "The only person who...who calls me 'Mr. Spencer' is your, your brother."And what's wrong with that? Rebekka thinks. "Here, maybe some ginger ale will help?" She folds her almost-full glass into David's hand. "I'm sorry it's diet--the sugar would have done you good. But I think the bubbles could help?"David sips the soda and manages a weak smile. "Thank you so much. I...I think they will." He takes a deep breath and Rebekka relaxes."I thought this was a-a drink, an alcol-alcoholic drink," David says as he studies the cut crystal tumbler."I don't really drink," Rebekka confesses."Me neither." He smiles wryly."So why tonight?"David shrugs. "To escape. I haven't taken a drink in ten years, something like that. But I did it tonight, purposely." He turns more toward Rebekka. "I know you need to escape. How do you do it?"She blushes for a moment, then regains her composure. "Oh, I, I don't want to escape any more than the average person does," she laughs."But how do you?" David persists. "You, uh, you don't drink, you don't do any other drugs--""No," Rebekka interrupts in a hushed tone, stealing a glance at the coke on the table."--so how do you escape?""Who would I be escaping?" she asks, smiling and trying to be cavalier.David hmms. "'Who'?" he echoes, sitting up. "Not 'what'?"She colors as she realizes her mistake. "It's okay, it's okay...I know who," David whispers. "Don't worry."Rebekka clears her throat and says nothing. A moment of awkward silence descends like a bubble around the two. David breaks it: "I, uh, I can't drive home like this, Ms. Nilsson. I wonder if you, if you could--""Yes, yes, certainly. We'll drive you home," she assures him. "Just let us know when you need to leave." She smiles and pats his hand."What about Anders? Can he drive?" David asks.Rebekka smiles uncomfortably. "He probably thinks he could, but I doubt he can. He probably thinks he could fly," she adds, under her breath. "It doesn't much matter; we came in a limo. But he's never been this--"She stops abruptly and looks up with a gasp. Anders stands there, cheeks reddened by the wind outside and a bit of snow on the shoulders of his black wool coat and melting in his hair.He offers a tight little smile. "Enjoying the party, Mr. Spencer?" he asks David, who hasn't looked up."Yes," David murmurs, still not facing him.Anders reaches down and pulls Rebekka up from the couch. "If you ever talk to my sister again," he continues in a conversational tone, "I'll kill you."He turns with Rebekka and begins walking back across the room. Rebekka turns her head back toward David with a desperate look and mouths I'm sorry. David waves as if to say it's okay, then sits back on the couch with a sigh.
"You didn't have to threaten him," Rebekka protests as they stop in the kitchen. "I began the conversation. You told me to mingle," she reminds her brother.Anders extricates himself from his coat and hands it to a valet. "Shut up," he says in reply to his sister. "I'm not in the mood."Rebekka seethes. "We have to take him home tonight.""We'll drop him off at Lydia's hotel. He can spend the night there.""That reminds me," she says, "who was that woman you took out earlier?""Who, who, who," Anders mimics. "You sound like an owl. Don't be foolish." He picks up a glass of red wine and brings it to his lips. After a sip, he answers, "Lydia.""You invited her?""What do you care? No, she just showed up. She's gone back to the hotel. Have some wine," he says, offering her the goblet."I'm not thirsty. What's wrong with you tonight?" Rebekka asks with a worried/angry expression.Anders shrugs. "Nothing. Try this wine." He gently touches the glass to his sister's lips; she backs away."I don't want to drink anything tonight!" she exclaims, taking a step backwards. "I told you!" She pauses. "Can you imagine the chaos if both of us were as smashed as you are?"Anders slams the glass down on the counter hard enough to slosh a bit of wine over the rim. "You are stubborn," he says quietly, then grabs her by the wrist (again; Rebekka winces in pain) and fairly drags her into the area being used as a dance floor.A beautiful slow tune is playing. "Let's dance," he murmurs.Rebekka closes her eyes. "Please, Anders...I'm so sore, everywhere. Please don't hurt me any more."He places a hand around her shapely waist and carefully holds her hand with his other, yet the two do not yet begin to dance. "You're sore?" he asks."Yes, I am. From earlier today," she whispers, cheeks burning.Anders looks concerned. "Where does it hurt, angel mine?"Rebekka is surprised, and quite naturally circumspect of this part of Anders that so very rarely surfaces. "Well...my wrist is sore," she admits."Which one?" he asks, and after she indicates it's the one attached to the hand he's holding, kisses it solemnly.Oh, shit, Rebekka thinks. This is not good."Where else?" Anders persists."You, uh...my ears were boxed, hard," she whispers."Your ears," he repeats, drawing out the sibilance of the final 's'. He takes Rebekka's face in both of his hands, and she closes her eyes in anticipation of a sharp slap. Instead, he turns her head ever so gently and, incredibly, gives each of Rebekka's perfect ears a soft kiss."Anders..." she begins."Shh," he answers, and holds her close. Rebekka does the same, incredulous yet happy that her brother is apparently back to "normal". She feels so close to him right now, right here, and everyone else in the room is nobody, nothing, doesn't exist. No matter how fleeting these moments of tenderness may be, she'll take what she can get. It may be creepy, but now they're the loving brother and sister they should be...right?"I like your cologne," she offers."You smell a little like soap.""I'm sorry, I--""No, I like it. It's so clean," Anders replies, and the two fall silent again.She runs her hands lightly down his back as they embrace on the dance floor, savoring the cool whisper of the fabric under her fingers, when her hands touch on the butt of his Beretta, tucked into his waistband at the small of his back and hidden by his jacket. "Anders," she says urgently. "You brought your--"Rebekka doesn't have a chance to finish--in fine Shakespearean fashion, Anders stops her mouth with a kiss. She flutters her eyelashes in surprise. Once, then again, then she feels his tongue in her mouth and her heart skips a beat.She breaks away and takes a step back, head down. Anders bows his head as well, eyes closed, and pulls in sharp, ragged breaths. They stand like that for a moment, then he steps forward and takes her hands, head still bowed."Anders," Rebekka whispers. Their foreheads almost touch."Shh." They remain in that position for a few breaths, standing in the midst of everyone (Albert and David among the guests surreptitiously staring from the sidelines, Ronette standing by the punchbowl with a broken heart), when Anders finally whispers, "Let's go."He takes her hand. The two are hushed as they help David up from the couch, nod to their guests, don their coats, and head to their limo, waiting outside.
"Okay, Albert, let's have the next one," Laura says as she ties her hair back and adjusts her rubber gloves. The morgue is cold and blue, and she shivers. Albert slides a tiny body onto the table in front of her without a word."Oh, it's a baby," Laura gasps. "How terrible...I don't want to do this," she sighs. Yet she unzips the petite bag from around the body. The chilled and still face of her daughter Emily looks up at her, frozen in terror. Laura turns, horrified, to Albert.In place of her partner in pathology stands BOB, and he holds a scalpel. "WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER," he informs her with obvious glee, then raises the scalpel above Emily like an icepick. Laura screams. He brings the cutting tool down with a whistle through the air, and-- Laura awakens in bed, curled up like a stickybun and drenched in sweat. She sits up, heart pounding as if it wanted to escape, and starts to hyperventilate. She stumbles out of bed, tripping on the bedclothes and waking Dion. "Laura?" he calls, still half-asleep. "I-I-I h-had a-a--" she gasps, grabbing her robe and pulling it around her as she stands up from her awkward fall. She stops for a second, trembling, and melts back to the floor with a heartbreaking sob. Dion's out of bed and at her side in a second. "Laura, darling, it was a dream, just a dream. Hush now," he whispers, rubbing her back as she rocks back and forth on the parquetry. Eventually she calms down enough for Dion to help her back up onto the bed. "Better?" he asks. Laura nods and hiccups. "Can--can I have a cigarette?" she asks. Dion fishes around for her pack and lights one for her. "What time is it?" she asks after a few drags. "Nine.""You're not going to work?" "It's Saturday, and there's nothing there that can't wait. Laura, what was it about?" She shakes her head miserably. "I can't talk about it. You have to go get Emily right now, Dion. I mean it." She starts crying again. "But I don't want to leave you.""I'll, I'll come with you," she says. "Just--I gotta get ready," she adds on the way to the bathroom for a shower.
"Good morning, Agent Spencer," the young woman at Forest Friends says. "Good morning, uh, Stacy," Dion answers, checking her nametag. "We--my wife and I--are here to pick up Emily." Laura swallows and tries to look pleasant. Stacy is puzzled. "I'm afraid Emily's no longer with us," she explains. Laura sobs once. "Laura, that's not what she--excuse me?" Dion asks angrily."Well, your brother picked her up last night," Stacy continues. "He assured me he had your okay." Laura sighs. "He did not have my okay," Dion shouts. "What kind of place are you running here? Do you at least have some record of him picking her up?" "Yes, he signed this release slip," she says, sliding the piece of paper across the desk to Dion. Sure enough, it all checks out. Complete with David's pitiful drugged-out scrawl of a signature. "Do you have a phone?" Dion asks, barely containing his fury. Stacy offers him the use of her desk phone. Dion punches in David's number and waits. And waits. He finally slams the phone down. "Nothing. Nothing! He took our daughter and is nowhere to be found!""Dion, it's okay," Laura manages. "He's probably sleeping." "Goddammit, Laura! Stop making excuses for him! Don't you care that that...screwed-up addict loser has stolen our baby? And that these people just let him?" "But I thought--" Stacy begins. "Oh, I don't want to hear what you thought," Dion interrupts. "You are in deep shit. We are with the FBI, girly. This is far from over," he promises, and, leaving Stacy near tears, stomps out the door with Laura a step behind.
Meg checks her pager. Nothing. She picks up the nearest phone and checks her voice mail. No messages. She calls her answering machine at home, but there's nothing for her there, either. Her secretary has nothing to tell her. No one does.She looks at her watch; it's lunch time on this lovely chill Saturday. David should be awake by now, at least, she figures; why haven't I heard from him in so long? Two days, is it?Grabbing her purse, she starts down the hall, pulling her interning assistant aside for a moment. "Hi there, Beth. I'm going to lunch, and to run a few errands. It seems pretty slow now--knock on wood--but if something should happen that you can't handle, just page me and I'll be here in a flash, okay? Same thing with the patients we already have--they're pretty much taken care of, but just in case...you know.""Sure thing, Doctor Wilson," Beth answers with a smile. "Have a good lunch.""I'll try," Meg replies, and is out the door.
She drives her Camry down to David's, biting her lip nervously. She jabs at the buttons on the radio; frustrated at finding nothing she wants to hear, she turns the radio knob so violently that it pops off in her hand. "Great," she mutters, and tosses it into the passenger's seat.Meg pulls in front of David's place and sees another car there--Dion's car. She braces herself for a confrontation with him--their relationship had been souring lately, after all--locks up the car, and heads up to the porch.Dion and Laura are both there, looking incredibly worn. "Di-Dion," Meg begins. "And Laura. Wh-why are you here?""Oh, Meg," Laura breathes. "It's just--""David stole our baby," Dion sputters. "He actually took her! And he's disappeared!""He's gone?" Meg asks."We've been ringing his doorbell for at least fifteen minutes," a tired Laura explains. "Though I guess it's entirely possibly that he's still sleeping.""At noon?" Dion snorts. "Jesus Christ.""You--you really think he just...took Emily?" Meg asks, perplexed. "I don't think he'd ever--""Look, the last thing he said to me was please not to forbid him from seeing her and that it would kill him to be without her. We tell him he's lost the babysitting job and poof, he and our daughter are nowhere to be found," Dion retorts."He made me promise that we'd still let him see her, Dion," Laura points out. "I just don't think he'd do something this rash.""He's desperate. A desperate man'll do anything," Dion replies. He shuffles his feet a little and shoots a dirty look toward Meg. "Why are you here?""Well, ah, I haven't heard from David in a few days, and I was getting worried about him," Meg says."You haven't heard from him because he's skipped town with our daughter," Dion mutters."Stop it," Laura exclaims. "That's conjecture.""Fine. You want cold, hard facts?" Dion shoots back. "Let's go in." He produces David's house key from his pocket and lets everyone inside.
"David?" Laura calls. "David, wake up...it's us. It's Laura and Meg and...and Dion," she finishes. There's no response except an echo from the cathedral ceiling. Peter, David's cat, peeks around a corner and mewls. Meg walks up to her, squats down, and absentmindedly scratches under her chin. "Good kitty," she murmurs. "Is your daddy here?"Dion looks around the living room and kitchenette. "Nothing. Laura?"Laura returns from the back bedrooms. "Nothing. The bed's not slept in, even. There's a dry-cleaning bag on the bed, but other than that, nothing. He's really gone. I still can't believe it, though.""You remember how you met David? Huh, sweetie? He was holding a goddam gun to your head," Dion reminds Laura.Meg stands up. "But wasn't he working for Mr. Earle then? Because you know full well he'd not do that of his own accord." Peter mewls again and rubs against Meg's ankles.The two agents think about this for a moment. "It could be Earle," Laura admits finally. "But, God, I don't want to think about that. I just...I can't handle it right now." She turns to Dion. "What if Earle has our baby, Dion? Then what?"Dion is still silent. He walks over to the phone and dials. "I'm going to talk to Gordon about this. Something's not right."Laura sighs. "Nothing's right."
"YOUR BLOTTER IS GAUNT? SPENCER, ARE YOU PULLING MY LEG?""My daughter is gone, Gordon!" Dion hollers."YOUR DAUGHTER? THAT'S A SHAME! WHERE'D SHE GO?""We don't know! We think my brother took her!""YOUR LOVER? SPENCER, DOES YOUR WIFE KNOW?"Meg blushes crimson for a moment. Laura does not notice."My brother! We think he's working for Earle!" Dion replies."OH. EARLE, YOU SAY? NASTY PIECE OF WORK!""Yes, yes, we know! Could you please put out an APB on Emily...Clair...Spencer?""AN APB! GOTCHA! DON'T YOU WORRY ABOUT A THING--WE'VE GOT THE BEST MINDS ON THIS ONE, SPENCER. HANG TIGHT AND WE'LL KEEP IN TOUCH!""Right, Gordon! Thanks a lot!" Dion shouts. "Yell at you later," he adds under his breath, and hangs up the receiver."So what now?" Meg asks."Now we go home and wait," Laura answers miserably. "If you find David, Meg, please, please let us know. I'm so worried. I almost hope David has her...I know he won't hurt her."Meg manages a smile. "You're right. He'd never hurt her. Don't worry. I'm sure Emily is fine. You go home and take care of yourselves, okay?" Laura nods."Please, tell us if you hear from him, Margaret," Dion reminds her."I will." Meg takes one last look around the room and heads out to an uneasy lunch.
Closing the door carefully behind her, Rebekka walks out into the front of the apartment and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear as she glances through the newspaper and mail on the kitchen table.Anders stirs on the couch behind her. His arm is over his face, moved there in his sleep, but conveying the absurd impression that he's shielding his eyes from something. Face still nestled in the crook of his arm, he asks in a muffled voice, "Time is it?""You're awake," Rebekka answers. "It's nearly noon.""Noon?" Anders sits up and looks at his sister over the back of the couch. "Noon?" he repeats incredulously. "Man, oh, man," he groans, and sinks back down to the couch. He idly runs his hand across his chest and realizes he's still wearing his pleated tuxedo shirt--and the accompanying pants, it turns out. "Gotta change," he mutters, and lunges across the room, into the hallway, and into the bedroom, his untied silken bowtie fluttering out along the way.Rebekka sits down and picks up an airmail envelope, frowning as she turns it over and over in her hands. Anders shuffles in from the back wearing gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt and flings himself back onto the couch. "God, I feel like shit. Where're you going?" he asks."Work," she replies, and after another quick glance at the envelope, slides it into her purse. "The bookstore. They needed some backup today since it's getting closer to the holidays." Anders grunts in reply. "Do you have any plans for today?" Rebekka asks with only the slightest edge of irony."Dunno. Sleep," Anders mumbles. "Before you go, Bekkers...could you do me a big favor? Please?" He picks himself up and peeks over the back of the couch again. "Can you make me lunch? I'm starving. Please."Rebekka tilts her head. "When's the last time you ate? And I don't mean caviar and crudités, either."Her brother shrugs, arm along the back top of the couch. "Dinner a few days ago?" he hazards.She tsks him. "I wish I could make you a nice big lunch, but I really have to be going. They're really busy, and I--""Then could you give me the phone?" Anders interrupts. "I have to call Lydia."Rebekka nods and hands the phone over. Anders sinks back down onto the couch, and a few bips and boops later has his girlfriend on the phone. Rebekka stands in front of the hall mirror and adjusts her earrings."Lyds...morning, sunshine. Okay, afternoon. No, I just woke up. Feel like shit, too. A ha ha. Cute...why, you think I deserve it?" He rolls onto his side. "Don't be that way...you know I do. I know. I know. I'm sorry. Um, say, how's our boy doing? Still? I envy him. Do take care of him once he wakes up. Yeah, just a little. And the note. I know exactly how he feels, poor thing."He reaches out to the small occasional table nearby to snag his cigarettes, but the pack falls to the floor. He raises his arm above the top of the sofa and snaps his fingers until Rebekka notices and comes over. "Yes?"Anders points to the pack of cigarettes, which she dutifully retrieves for him. He sits up, moves the phone to his other ear, and mouths thank you as he fishes out a cigarette and lights it. His sister nods, walks over to the closet, and begins fishing around for an appropriate coat."So, um...can you come over? No, nothing like that, but I--yeah. No. I need sleep, Lyds. And food. I could eat a horse, seriously. I was wondering...could you, uh..."After taking one pull off of his cigarette, he holds it up for his becloakèd sister, who walks by and takes one as well; he then puts it out in a nearby ashtray. "Heh. No. Now, don't be silly; no. Could you cook for me? Okay! Okay! I'm sorry I asked. Jesus." He lies back down. "Then stop at that Chinese place. Jade Emperor or whatever the hell it's called. I'm freakin' starving here...screw it; I'm not gonna argue...if you feel like coming by, I'll be here. Let yourself in, 'cause I'll be crashing on the couch, okay, luv? Uh-huh."He presses the OFF button on the phone and rolls onto his side. "Bye, Anders," Rebekka calls from the door. "With luck I'll be home for dinner. If not, please eat something, okay?""You bet," Anders replies thickly. "Good luck be careful have fun," he adds, and rolls over to face the back of the couch."I'll see you," Rebekka finishes plainly, and is out the door.
Bed, David thinks. His eyelids flutter; he sighs and shifts his position under the goosedown comforter. Warm. Not...His eyes open promptly and focus on the lamp on the bedside table. A green band goes around the shade; like malachite, David thinks out of nowhere, or jade.He turns over onto his back and takes in more of his surroundings. Chest of drawers, small table, two matching chairs, rich bedstead, dark wallpaper and heavy curtains. David catches his reflection in the mirror across from his bed and groans. His head falls back onto his pillow and he closes his eyes again.Last night...what...?He gathers up his strength and sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, then winces and brings his hand to his head with a sharp intake of breath.A knock comes at the door. "Who...who is it?" he manages."Mr. Spencer, it's Rebekka. May I come in?"David looks up and spots a thick terry robe hanging on the bedpost, which he hastily throws over his spare frame and ties tightly above the waistline of his boxers. "Yes, uh, one second," he calls, and clumsily runs to the door, nearly tripping on his shoes, which had been placed next to the bed.He opens the door to a weakly-smiling Rebekka. "Good afternoon, Mr. Spencer. Lydia asked me to deliver this to you when you awoke." She holds a serving tray out to David and waits.David blinks at the offering: two pieces of dry toast on a china plate; a matching china teapot with a black tea tag-label dangling from beneath its lid; a green pear cut into eighths, smelling lightly of lemon and drizzled with honey; a covered butter dish; a small piece of paper folded in half. All on a fine linen placemat with a matching napkin wrapped around a complement of silverware."Thank you," he says finally, and takes the tray from Rebekka, carefully putting it down on the small table in the corner. He tweezes the note up off the tray and begins reading it. It's an effort: the handwriting makes David's eyes water.
"Hmm," he says, and places the note back on the tray. "I wonder if there're any aspirin here...I could use some." David peeks under the napkin and shifts a couple plates around.Rebekka clears her throat gently. "Enjoy, Mr. Spencer," she says. "You can stay here as long as you need to. Just ask at the front desk and someone will drive you to your car. Your tuxedo is hanging in the closet"--she indicates it with a gently pointing hand--"and there's a sweater and pair of jeans in your size in the chest of drawers. Call me if you need anything," she finishes, and turns to go."Wait, please," David says.She turns back around and looks at him expectantly. "Yes?""I wanted to thank you for taking care of me," David explains."It's nothing, really," she insists."No, I mean...I must have been a handful last night, and you really were a lifesaver. Then to bring me this room service--""That wasn't me--that was Anders and Lydia. She was going to bring it in herself, but she got called away, so I volunteered."David smiles. "I'm glad you did. Thank you."Rebekka blushes. "Did...did you want anything else?""Actually, could I get some aspirin? I think--oh, wait." David lifts the cover off the butter dish, revealing a full, capped syringe."I guess you don't need that aspirin after all," Rebekka says quietly from over David's shoulder.He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. After a moment, he carefully replaces the cover and turns to Rebekka. "If it's not a problem," he says with a hesitant half-smile, "would you make it extra-strength, please?"
Damn, thinks Albert, now I know why I don't go to parties. He stands half-awake over the lab table, stirring his coffee almost unconsciously. After what seems an eternity, he tinks the spoon on the rim of the mug and places it in the lab sink. What a hangover. He stifles a yawn and takes a sip of the scalding java. It's too hot to drink, and Albert's eyes open wide as he fights the instinct to spit it out all over the table. At this exact moment, Thomas walks in--actually bounces in, with a friendly smile plastered across his face. "Hey, Dr. Rosenfield! Good morning! How are you doing today?" Albert nods, gulping his hot mouthful and glaring at the young doctor. Thomas, oblivious, chatters on. "Sorry I'm late. I just got the call and got here as soon as I could. So what's on the schedule for today?" "You're not supposed to be here at all," Albert finally manages. "Where's Laura?" "You didn't hear? Her daughter was kidnapped--or is missing, at least--so she and Dion are taking the day off and waiting for word on her. I'm here to take her place." Albert looks up at him, disbelief dancing across his features. "You're shitting me," he says carefully as he puts his mug on the table in front of him. "Emily Spencer? The Emily Spencer?" "Yeah." "Little kid, about yay big?" Albert asks with raised eyebrows, indicating her size with two outstretched hands. Thomas tilts his head and peers at the measurement. "Well, if she were a fish, I guess that would be about appropriate," he remarks. "But she's about eight, nine months old, so, yeah, around there. Anyway, she's missing," he reiterates, and grabs for a file folder on the corner of the table. "Is this our current case?" "Wait, wait, wait," Albert interrupts. "Are you sure we're not supposed to be working on her case?" Thomas laughs. "I'm pretty sure. Gordon has a handle on it, from what I hear, and I guess we have work to do down here. Right?" He gently waves the manila folder back and forth. "Is this the case, Doctor?" he asks again. Albert puts his face in his hands and mumbles something. Thomas looks mildly concerned. "Are you okay? You really seem upset about this. If you don't mind my saying so, it's a bit...uncharacteristic for you. What can I--" "No, forget it. It's nothing," Albert replies, picking up his mug of coffee again and taking bigger sips. "And, yes, that's the current casefile. Robert Emilio." "I was just about to ask again," Thomas admits with a slightly embarrassed smile. "And I would have been just about to twist your head off," Albert informs him as he makes his way to his office in the back. "I'll be in my office if you need me. And you won't need me for some time, will you, Doctor Warren?" "No, sir," Thomas confirms, chastened, as he begins reviewing the file. "Good," Albert mutters, hand on the doorknob. He's just about to enter when Thomas calls out, "One sec, Alb--Doctor Rosenfield. There's something I'd like to point out here." Albert turns away from his door with a scowl and folds his arms across his chest as Thomas meanders over to him with the file open in his hands. "See here, where it says the coins in the decedent's eyes, ears, and mouth were Swedish?" "Yeah..." Albert says. "What's your point?" Thomas hesitates. "My girlfriend's Swedish." Of course she is, Albert realizes. And so is her brother. The cogs in his muzzy head start to turn, and he throws out a glib response as cover. "So did she kill him or what?" Thomas is visibly startled, then laughs nervously. "No, no, of course not." But Anders, he thinks. If I could get him away from Bekka... There is a moment of silence as both doctors think the same thing but are afraid to vocalize it. Finally Thomas speaks: "I, uh, I have my suspicions about her brother, though. I think we should contact him, maybe bring him in--" "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down there, cowboy." Albert shakes his head. "We need evidence. The coins...the coins are...are probably not good enough. Besides--" "But if he did it," Thomas interrupts, "wouldn't you want to get him off the streets? Especially if he has some sort of connection to this Windom Earle guy?" Albert frowns. All I want to do is take a catnap. My head is killing me and we have some piss-ant vigilante here with blood on his mind. "Look, leave the legwork to the boys upstairs, okay? Will you go back to work on this body if I give Gordon a call? Maybe get this ball rolling?" "Yeah, that's fine," Thomas answers, visibly dejected. "I'll just, uh, get back to the body, then, shall I." He turns and walks back into the main room, leaving Albert to scoot into his office. I will call on this, Albert tells himself as he locks the door behind him and settles into his chair, only let me rest a while first. He puts his feet up on his desk and leans back, lazily formulating plots of revenge and retribution as he drifts off to a shallow and uneasy sleep.
Rebekka walks carefully down the street from the hotel to the nearest bus stop, and stands there shivering, both from cold and the realization that if Anders found out she had been speaking with David, her life would become very difficult indeed.She sighs, and suddenly remembers a dream she had early this morning: an unsettling one where she was a flightless owl (because Anders called me that, she rationalizes), surrounded by strangers chucking rocks at her. She had awakened from this dream gasping for breath, and when she stood unsteady at bedside with plans to sip a glass of warm milk, she was overcome by nausea and just made it to the bathroom in time.Another chill dances through Rebekka's slender frame as she remembers how damned careful she had to be not to wake her brother. Her fears turned out to be unfounded, though, since he was nearly comatose--the Philadelphia Philharmonic couldn't wake him if they were playing in front of his face. I must be coming down with something, Rebekka thinks miserably. Or maybe it was aftereffects from the party. The air was pretty blue. But I feel fine now.She hooks her thumb under her pursestrap and pulls it more fully onto her shoulder. As she does, she notices the airmail envelope pertly peeking out--the one she had snagged off the kitchen table--and fingers it, curious. Just then, the bus pulls up, forcing Rebekka to put aside the envelope for the moment and do battle with the hordes of holiday shoppers that have turned a simple busride to work into a standing-room-only event. It's not a very long ride to the bookstore, but a total of four seated passengers over the course of the journey glance only briefly at Rebekka before offering her their seats. She smiles, bemused, and shakes her head, thanking them for their kindness as she remains standing.
::knock-knock-knock::Anders, still sprawled out on the sofa, shifts his position slightly and sighs in his rapidly dissolving sleep.::knocka-knocka-knock-knocka-knock::He turns face up and, eyes still closed, calls out, "Yeah?" This voice is severely sleep-distorted, making him sound unusually breathy and weak. "Who is it?"Lydia's voice rings out from beyond the door. "It's me-ee!""Come in," Anders responds, not moving from his makeshift bed."Can you open the door for me?"Anders groans quietly, then sits up as something dawns on him. "Did you bring food? Hang on--I'll be right there," he tells her, and gathers all his strength to pull himself off the couch and onto unsteady feet. He sways through a sudden headrush and stumbles to the door. "Coming, coming," he mutters.Although none of the myriad locks and latches are fastened, Anders touches each one in turn, going through the motions and reassuring himself that they're unlocked. He finally manages to throw the door open. Lydia smiles up at him, fresh as a daisy and conspicuously empty-handed."Thank you," she trills, and slides sideways past Anders into the apartment as he looks on with a sort of dumbfounded disbelief."You didn't bring lunch?" he asks, closing the door. "I asked you specifically to bring food. I'm starving." He runs a hand through his tousled hair, then rubs his neck absentmindedly."Oh, you were serious?" Lydia asks innocently. She sashays through the living room and throws herself backward onto the charmingly overstuffed armchair in the corner.Exchanging his grogginess for his usual selfish petulance, Anders scowls and replies, "Yes, I was serious. And I told you, let yourself in. I mean, if you had your hands full with the food you were supposed to bring me, then, yeah, okay, I could see--""Look at me," Lydia interrupts. "What do I look like?"Anders just waves his hand dismissively and lies back down. "Never mind," he replies. "I don't want to get into any of this right now."Lydia scowls, and, not wanting to quit without having the last word, adds, "You know how I feel about being bossed around. I'm no maid, and I'm not your sister."Anders explodes. "Never mind, I said!" he shouts, then immediately retreats into a broody silence. Seeing she'd touched a nerve, Lydia smirks, then asks, "Is she still coming with us to Miami tonight?" Each word drips with mild revulsion, as though Rebekka were an embarrassingly incontinent two-year-old with sugar-sticky hands and Lydia the Queen of England."No, you're coming with us, remember? The third wheel," he answers tartly, and rolls over 'til his face is buried in the couch's back cushion.Lydia raises an eyebrow. "I thought it was the dope that made you such a bastard, but I guess that particular feature was factory-installed." She waits for a retort, but, receiving none, changes the subject. "Now how are you feeling?""Now?" Anders mumbles into the upholstery."Yeah, now that I'm here."He turns toward her again. "Extra shitty, thanks." He offers a tight little smile before turning back around."Oh, go to hell. That reminds me: If I ever look as awful as you do right now, do me a favor and just kill me. Put me out of my misery."Anders sits up suddenly. "An excuse! I've been waiting for one of those. What a perfect Christmas present." He clasps his hands casually behind his head and leans back, gazing into the middle distance and smiling faintly.Lydia is appalled. "God, you sick sonofabitch, you're playing it out right now in your head, aren't you?""It won't be pretty," Anders admits.She lunges forward and smacks his face, hard, then goes into the kitchen to begin making coffee. Anders is stunned speechless, and touches his reddening cheek as if to convince himself of what actually happened. It always surprises him into inaction.Neither speaks as the coffeemaker burbles and spits and sends the aroma of a fine Sumatra through the apartment. Eventually Lydia emerges from the kitchen with two steaming mugs and walks one over to Anders before sitting down.Anders acknowledges her with a cautious nod and sips carefully. "I do for you what I want to do and when I want to do it," Lydia murmurs in a low and quiet voice. "Do you see?""Yeah," Anders answers. "Yeah, I see."The two are quiet again as they drink their java.Lydia breaks the silence: "You really overdid it last night, didn't you? I would never let myself get as bad as this."Anders rolls his eyes. "Because you're just such a good girl.""No, I didn't say that. Only that I wouldn't want to overdo it.""Sometimes people get carried away," Anders admits. "Anyway, it was fun while it lasted. Eat, drink, and beat Mary, that's what I always say." He smiles.Lydia points at him accusingly as she takes another sip, then swallows and says, "I heard that, mister.""Good. You know it's partly your fault with that damn wine of yours, Vin Mariani or whatever it was called."Lydia nearly chokes on her coffee over his pronunciation. "Not 'Vin Mary-Annie', you fool," she snickers, then says it in flawless French. "I thought you knew French, she adds.""I didn't know you did, but anyway. Good wine. Good wine."Lydia smiles. "I thought you'd like it. Red wine and cocaine makes a fine cocktail.""It makes my head pound is what it does, thank you very much.""Don't pin this all on me. You were more than three-quarters there before I even came on the scene, and we're not even going to mention your gross negligence in not inviting me." She empties her mug and places it on the table beside her. "How about a hair of the dog that bit you? Or that tore you to shreds, rather?"Anders shakes his head. "It doesn't work that way. It's like..." He pauses to think of an apt metaphor. "Okay, you run a coffeehouse. You can brew up a hundred cups at a time for your customers, and usually that'll last you the whole day--sometimes longer."He sips from his mug, collects his thoughts, and continues. "But then one day there's a...a convention in town--stop laughing!" he chides Lydia, who's trying not to giggle. "A convention or whatever, I don't care; anyway, a lot of people--and they all come to your shop in a short period of time demanding coffee. So you get rid of the hundred cups a lot more quickly."The problem is that you have some really old slow-ass coffeemaker that takes forever to brew. Up to a day sometimes. So even though customers keep coming with their empty mugs, they aren't getting filled and the store has to shut down until the coffee is brewed again." He nods to himself, satisfied with his explanation, and drinks the last from his cup.Lydia stares blankly. "And this has what to do with hair-of-the-dog?" she asks."Coffeeshop, that's me," Anders replies, ticking it off on his finger. "Coffeemaker, my brain. No comments. The coffee is this chemical called dopamine.""I've heard of it," Lydia interrupts."Good for you. Now, cocaine is the conventioneers. All those empty cups at once. It used up all my dopamine and now coke won't do a thing until my brain makes more, which could take a while. Got it?""Wow, I'm impressed," Lydia exclaims, applauding heartily. "Where'd you get all this?"Anders makes a face. "Bekkers. One of her little lectures, only she didn't put it in metaphors. God, she pisses me off."Lydia begins to say something when the phone rings. "You get it," Anders says urgently. "I think I'm not home."She picks up the phone and uses her most dulcet tones. "Good afternoon! May I help you? ...One moment, please, and I'll see if he's in. Your name? Dion Spencer?"
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