In the Teeth of the Wind (17 page)

"Sure, we'd like to see him," Samuel said gruffly, understanding her nervousness. He pushed to his

feet.

Conor was sitting in a wheelchair when they entered the room. Only one bottle of fluid dangled from

his arm. The catheter was gone - as was the nasogastric tube - and he was alert enough to be smiling

broadly at them.

"You don't go anywhere unescorted do you, pretty lady?" he asked and they were thrilled to hear his

voice steady and firm, if a little quieter than they were use to hearing it.

"You know how those damned interns and residents are," Trip grumbled, holding back a little as

Rhianna bent down to kiss Conor's cheek. "You can't trust them to keep their hands to themselves."

"Isn't that the truth?" his nurse agreed, laughing.

Rhianna stepped back, motioning Brett and Dave forward. "Go on; he won't bite!"

Both men shuffled forward, getting in one another's way until Trip shoved Donne ahead of him.

"How ya doing homeboy?" Dave asked, his voice breaking. If he seemed concerned that Conor could

barely lift his arm to shake hands with him, he covered it nicely. He was careful of the bandage strapped

across the top of Irish's hand.

"I've been better," Conor admitted. He shifted his weak gaze to Trip. "You been taking care of her for

me?"

"As much as she'd let me," said Trip.

"Thanks, man," Conor said. "I appreciate it more than you know."

"Hey, what are friends for?" Trip shrugged. His face was burning for using the cliche, but he doubted

anyone noticed. Rhianna and Conor were looking at one another, and Donne was flirting with the nurse.

"Are you ready, Detective Nolan?" the nurse asked.

"Whenever you are." Conor was holding Rhianna's hand and didn't seem inclined to relinquish his

trophy.

"When he's settled in over in Rehab, you gentlemen can come see him during visiting hours which are

between one and three in the afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays," the nurse said as she began to

wheel Conor out of the room.

"That's it?" Trip asked.

"For now," she answered.

Donne put his hand on Trip's arm when he would have followed the nurse. "Let him have her to himself

awhile, Neville."

Trip nodded, watching the trio as they waited at the elevator bank. "He looks all right, don't he?"

"Good as can be expected," Donne answered.

"I wanna catch 'em, Dave. The men that hurt him."

"We all do."

"Darlington don't believe him."

"He will," Donne stated. "Sooner or later, we'll prove to him, Irish couldn't do something like this to

himself!"

****

The semi-private room was on the south side of the building with the warm sun streaking through the

blinds to lay bars of light across the pale blue sheets on the bed. Conor's half of the room had the

window and, for the moment, he would be the only inhabitant. A slight herbal smell reminded him of the

potpourri Rhianna had on her bathroom vanity. He made a note to ask her if she'd transferred that same

aroma to their place.

_Their place._ He smiled, unaware his grip had tightened on her hand. Since learning she'd moved into

his house, he could no longer think of it as his. It was theirs and he couldn't wait to leave here and begin

his life there with her.

"Here we are," the nurse said cheerfully. She put the brakes on the wheelchair, turned back the sheets

on the bed, then reached down to help Conor stand up. "Do you want to sit by the window or lay back

down?"

"I'd better lay down," he said, feeling lightheaded as he stood there in her firm, professional grasp.

"You want to keep your robe on?"

He looked at Rhianna. "I'm hot. Would you mind?"

"I think I can handle seeing you in your P.J.s, Irish."

Between the two of them, the women got him in bed, but he wouldn't let them cover his legs. He was

sweating, feeling hotter than he thought he should, and said as much to the nurse.

"It's almost time for your meds." She adjusted his pillow behind him and showed him how to work the

TV and call buttons.

"I won't start doing what I was doing yesterday, will I?" He fused his gaze with the nurse's.

"You've got nothing to worry about." She glanced at Rhianna. "If you start feeling bad, I'm sure Miss

Marek will leave so you can rest, won't you, dear?"

Rhianna understood. He had gone into convulsions the day before and she knew he didn't want her to

see him in such a way. "Yes, of course."

When the nurse left - promising to bring him a fresh carafe of iced water - Rhianna pulled up a chair

and sat down beside his bed. During the time they had been in the room, he had only let go of her hand

long enough to take off his robe.

"Dr. Gilbert says the FBI wants to talk to me," he said as she started to speak.

"That can wait." Rhianna didn't want anyone - not even Franc Boucharde - imposing on Conor.

"I wasn't using, Rhianna," he said, hurt in his eyes. "I swear to God I wasn't. I was snatched and they

shot me full of heroin and kept shooting me up until I was hooked. I'd have done anything to keep from

suffering like that." He squeezed his eyes closed. "Even pumping my own veins full of that shit."

"I believe you," she said firmly and when he opened his eyes, she nodded. "How much of it do you

remember?" She felt very protective of him, maternally so. "Give us someone to start looking for."

"I didn't recognize them, but there are a few things that might help. One of them was Colombian. It's

more the impressions I got than anything else, but that's half of detective work. The rest is luck and you

know it."

"What happened after they took you? Where did they go?"

"I was in so much pain, I wasn't all that aware of what they were doing to me. They tied me up,

plastered duct tape over my mouth and put me in a van. When we stopped we were in the country. They

took me to a silo, stripped off my clothes, handcuffed me to a cot, and shot me up. They put an IV in my

arm to keep me hydrated and fed me once a day. I never saw the woman again."

"What woman?" Rhianna snapped. "Who do you mean, Irish?"

Conor's brows came together. "The woman at the bar that night at the Brew. Felicity something or

other." He put his free hand up to rub his forehead. "For the life of me I can't remember her last name,

but she was blonde, about five foot seven, green eyes. You remember her. The woman I bumped into

when I got up to leave?"

Rhianna looked away. "The one wearing the white beaded dress?" There was time later to tell him she

knew precisely whom he was talking about.

"I don't remember what she was wearing, but she followed me home that night." At her look, he shook

his head. "I didn't let her in, but do you remember how horny I was the next morning?" When she gave

him an exasperated look, he squeezed her hand. "Remember what happened in the break room?"

"Vaguely," she answered, lying through her teeth for she'd lain awake at night remembering every

moment of that encounter when Conor had pressed himself so intimately against her.

"I don't know how she did it, but she put something in my drink," he explained. "She admitted it the

next evening when I came home to find her on my porch, waiting for me."

"And you let her in that time," Rhianna accused. "The night you were supposed to have met me."

Conor winced. "Yes, but it was the damned drug she'd given me making me act that way."

"Okay, for the sake of argument, we'll say she slipped something into your drink. It was some kind of

undetectable super aphrodisiac. Why would she have done that?"

"So they could take me, Rhianna!" he said. He explained to her what had happened the night he was

abducted.

"A damned good decoy." said Rhianna when he finished. "Catch a man with his pants down and he's

obliged to follow you wherever you lead him."

"Don't," he asked, hurt by her tone. "I made a mistake, but honest to God, Rhianna, it was not

intentional. I swear it wasn't. I wouldn't have hurt you for anything."

Rhianna nodded, feeling foolish for her jealousy. "So, we look for the bitch in the white-sequined

dress." She made a mental note to call Joey as soon as she could get to a phone. "The one who likes

Celtic warriors."

Conor frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You don't remember what she said when you told her your name? She said something about Conor

being a Celtic warrior's name. A very virile name, if I recollect."

"You remember more of that night than I do," he mumbled.

"The bitch's name was Felicity Rogers," she said. He looked up at her with a raised brow. "I've

already been looking for her, but she doesn't seem to exist."

He was starting to hurt, beginning to wish the nurse would come with his medication. He didn't want to

ask Rhianna to leave because just sitting there looking at her was something he had never expected to be

able to do again. But neither did he want her to see the mess he turned into when the need became more

than he could handle.

"I better get going," Rhianna said, seeing the sheen of sweat oozing along his upper lip. She saw the

naked discomfort forming in his eyes as he shifted gaze about the room as though looking for a hole to

climb into. She got up. "Want me to bring anything from home?"

_Not from your house_, he thought as she bent over to kiss him. _Not from my house or our house,

but from home._ The word was to be cherished.

"Just yourself," he said as her lips lingered for a moment against his own.

"You didn't mind me moving in, did you? If you'd like for me to…" she started to say, but he put both

hands on her cheeks and held her face so he could look into her eyes.

"You are right where I've always wanted you, Marek." She felt the tremor in his hands, noticed the

sweat popping out on his forehead and marveled at the effort it took for him to try to appear normal. She

eased out of his hold. "I'll come back in the morning."

Conor shook his head. "Day after, okay?" He locked his gaze with hers. It wasn't a request; it was a

plea. "I think they want to do that Rapid Detox thing tomorrow morning. I don't want you here for that."

"No problem," she said without hesitation. She went to the door, turned and looked back at him. "You

haven't told them about your arrest in seventy-three, have you?"

He didn't need to ask who'd told her what had happened then. His sister always enjoyed making him

out to be a villain.

"Just thought maybe you shouldn't."

"I won't."

"And in case you're wondering," she continued, "I think it was a shitty thing they did to you and as

soon as you're outta here, maybe we ought to see about finding the mother of your child."

Conor flinched. "I have a son," he told her. His eyes clouded with tears. "But his mother, Bridget, died

giving birth to him."

Rhianna felt as though someone had slapped her. "Oh, Irish. I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," he said. "I never got to say goodbye to her or hold my boy."

"Where is he, now?"

"I've never been able to find out."

"We'll find out!" she said and with that left him staring after her and loving her more than ever.

Five*

"He's in room 347," the black man told the Colombian. "Sandford Rehabilitation Clinic on Harrison."

"How is he?"

"Getting better every day."

"What are they giving him?"

"Naltrexone, first thing tomorrow morning."

"Can you get to him?"

"Yes."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight will be just fine."

Six*

The hand came down over his nose and mouth so tightly Conor couldn't breathe. He jerked awake,

lifted out of his sleep by the pressure covering his face and the rough hands clamping his wrists to the

bed. All he could see above him were the dark outlines of two heads. He tried to kick out, to dig his

heels into the mattress deep enough to give himself leverage to strike out at his attackers, but his feet

were tangled in the sheets. With a knot of fear racing up to block his throat, he felt himself suffocating and

his fingers curved into claws as he tried to break the grips on his wrists. The sound of the IV tubing

clanking against the metal stand drew his terrified eyes toward it. A third head appeared above him.

"Don't worry, pig," came the hated voice of the black man. "We ain't gonna kill you."

"But you're gonna sleep real good!" the other men snickered. "For a long time!"

There was a flash of light on the syringe in the black man's hand then Conor's head was forced to the

side. The sting of the drug going into his neck was excruciating and behind the restriction covering his

mouth, Irish bellowed in agony.

"Don't like that, does he?"

"Hurts like hell," the black man conceded. "Pull the IV out of his hand."

Conor felt only a minimum of discomfort as the IV catheter was ripped from his flesh. What did it

matter anyhow? Sweet, merciful oblivion was closing in on Conor's mind and he was being enfolded in

comforting warmth. His breathing slowed and he relaxed, giving himself over to the drug.

"You still with us, pig?" The black man chuckled and bent over to peer into Conor's unseeing gaze.

"You floating," was the prognosis.

His world slowed; the sneering voices were drudges of sound. The obstruction covering his nose and

mouth lifted, cool air replaced the smell of garlic and body heat. He sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and