Malcolm and Ives 02 - Trouble With Air and Magic (19 page)

Had she used her
dim mak
again? Uncontrolled energy arrows could be fatal. Oh, lord, please, no. She didn’t want to kill another person.

It had taken her last victim nearly a week to die.

She decided to imitate the gunman and moan, too. For effect, she added a tossed head and a groan of discomfort.

Conan, bless his calculating heart, picked up on the signal instantly. “I think I’d better find the doctor. If you’ll leave your card, Officer, I’ll be certain to have her call as soon as she remembers anything. We don’t want this criminal back on the streets.”

The uptight politeness didn’t sound like Conan. Dorrie translated his undertone as
I’m going to bash that gun-toting shit into next week without anyone’s help.
His fury would make her feel better if she wasn’t so terrified that she’d already done what he wanted to do.

Conan shut the door behind the policeman and immediately crossed the room to help her out of bed. “I can’t dispense pain meds. How’s the shoulder?”

“Hurts. How are we getting out of here?” But his big hand squeezing hers almost made the pain worth it. It wasn’t just his strength but the steadiness of his energy in the face of her confusion. He knew what he was doing. And the damn man was probably enjoying it.

“I located surgical caps and a mask and some shoes,” he told her. “I need to sneak them in here. Go into the bathroom and lock the door. If anyone comes in, tell them you’ll be out shortly. Here, take the IV stand with you.” He pushed the rolling stand toward the bathroom.

“Food,” she reminded him.

His whole angular face lit up. Brown eyes crinkled at the corners, and his nose fit perfectly in proportion to his broad smile. He had to be the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Every neglected hormone in her battered body performed a happy dance. She no longer cared if she hurt.

“Steak,” he promised. “I’ll be quick.”

He was back with the purloined gear before a nurse had time to check on her. She couldn’t lift her arm to pin her hair. Together, they stuffed the curly mass into the cap. She let the face mask dangle loosely like she’d seen in the movies. The shoes were too big but better than heels.

“Purse?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Don’t think they brought it with you. Your staff isn’t quick on emergency preparation. We’ll figure it out later. Let’s split.”

Conan checked the corridor, gave the all clear, and followed behind her as she strolled toward the nearest exit. She wasn’t the sort to willfully disobey rules. Her heart pounded as much in fear of the humiliation of being caught, as in fear of meeting another gunman.

They hurried down the stairs to the parking garage level. He’d parked his batmobile in the physicians’ lot. The man hadn’t seen a rule he wouldn’t break.

“Where now?” Dorrie asked as she strapped on her seatbelt and he backed out with a squeal of tires.

“We’re circling the wagons,” he replied cryptically.

Conan hated to leave Dorrie alone in the car while he ran into a pharmacy to buy a large bottle of Advil, but he couldn’t drag her up a mountain without painkillers. He was taking a risk that her wound wasn’t as serious as people shooting at her. He couldn’t tell her there might be more than one villain in this piece. He was juggling too many balls and didn’t have all the information yet.

But when he returned outside to see a couple of teens admiring his Mercedes, he realized he’d never tried to hide anywhere except in his office before, and he was bad at it.

“We need to ditch the car,” he told her as he climbed in and handed her the pills and a bottle of water.

“Food,” she demanded while she struggled with the bottle top.

He popped it open for her and handed it back. “Drive-thru now, steak later,” he promised, backing out of the lot.

Circle the wagons.
He hoped the Librarian meant with Dorrie inside the circle and the
Chinese predators
on the outside. As far as he knew, there were no Chinese of any sort at the foundation’s office, other than Dorrie. And he was a hundred-and-ten percent certain she hadn’t shot herself.

Besides, he had worse news that proved she wasn’t the only target. He didn’t think he’d break that to her just yet, not while she was looking like a frail flower ready to shatter.

After they’d filled up on grease at a taco joint, Conan drove in the direction of his brother’s Santa Monica condo. Dorrie apparently had regained enough energy from the taco to send him a quizzical look. “Why Santa Monica?”

“Oz owns more cars than a used car lot. I’m trading rides until we’re certain there’s only one shooter.” Conan steered into the condo’s lower level parking garage and pulled in next to his brother’s aging pickup. It didn’t have an electronic key he could open with his key app but the old truck didn’t have a lock either. And it was easy enough to hotwire, he decided minutes later, after hooking it up and gunning the engine. He stepped down to help Dorrie out of his car.

Wiping her fingers free of taco grease, Dorrie merely watched him with amazement. “If you ever turn to a life of crime, I’m leaving the city.”

“Until we know who’s gunning for you, you’re leaving the city anyway.” He eased her into the pickup’s cab and helped her with the seatbelt. He winced every time she did.

He had a ridiculous urge to wrap her in blankets and carry her around, but that was probably because he knew she wore nothing under those scrubs. He was trying to be solicitous, but the chemistry of her kiss had fried his brain.

“I need clothes,” she reminded him, as if he needed reminding. “And Toto.”

Conan figured she was still pumped full of medication and that’s why she wasn’t arguing any more than that. He needed her to fight back so he’d quit turning gray with worry.

“I’ve got people taking care of Toto,” he told her. If he told her who and why, she would insist on going over to his house, and that wasn’t happening. “My job is to take you somewhere safe. Duck down while we pull out of here.”

He found one of Oz’s ball caps in the seat and tugged it over his hair. He didn’t look like his glamorous brother, but he shouldn’t look too much like the person who’d just driven in with a Mercedes either.

“It was just one kid,” she finally argued as he pulled up the interstate ramp heading east. “I don’t think there’s an entire gang after me.”

Here’s where the shit really hit the fan. Now that they were on the road and she couldn’t jump out of the truck, Conan clutched the wheel and gave her installment number two. “Feng Li was the man who killed your mother, right? He got out of jail last week. Is there any reason he might send someone after you?”

Stone cold silence followed. He glanced anxiously at his passenger, but she was still curled up, hiding, on the seat, her expression invisible.

When she said nothing, he continued with his speculations. “There are other alternatives to the shooter’s motives. Someone could have picked up your license plate number at the Adams plant yesterday. Or the person in your office who hates you may have decided to target you directly. We have no idea in which direction to look.”

His bet was on the ex-con, but he couldn’t relate the attacks on Dorrie to Magnus and Bo. After today’s chain of ugly events, he had an itchy notion they were connected. He checked his mirror and hit the gas. “We’re on the freeway. You can sit up now.”

She struggled upright, her poker face on. “What about my father? Did anyone call him?” she finally asked, without inflection.

“I called him earlier.” Conan produced his phone and handed it over. “I don’t know if anyone is tracing phone calls, but we probably ought to turn this off after you’re done.”

Dorrie hit her father’s number. At her greeting, he bellowed a relieved “Dorothea!” in her ear.

“I’m fine, Dad. It’s just a scratch, but I fainted and scared everyone.” She was petrified, but Dorrie did what she could to reassure her father, while her mind whirled—

Feng Li was free?

“Your mother used to faint all the time,” her father complained. “Scared the hell out of me. You’d better stay with friends. What in hell is going on at the office?”

She almost managed a smile at how quickly his concern turned to belligerence. She’d forgotten her mother’s
drama queen
fainting spells. “Conan is on it, Dad. And the police.” She had to be practical, quench her churning fear and pretend normality. “You might want to appoint someone to carry the checks and timesheets over to you until you can set up a new signature at the bank. It’s probably better to have more than me and you on the account.”

There was a moment of silence as they both thought of Bo, whose name was also on the account. He would have been the one to call on.

“Damned right,” Ryan Franklin said after clearing his throat. “I’ll call Zimmer.”

“No, don’t call him. He hates me.” Dorrie took a deep breath as she said that, waiting for her father to jump all over her. When he fell silent, she continued. “Tillie is too new to take on too much responsibility, but she can organize the paperwork and run by after hours for your signature. Give her a raise or overtime for the extra work. We’ll discuss a third party signature later.”

“Where will you be?” he asked instead of questioning her judgment.

“Wherever Conan’s taking me. Probably best you don’t know. I’m turning off this phone, too. I’m sure it’s only for a day or so, until the police know there’s only the one kid involved.”

“Is Oswin there?” her father demanded. “Let me talk to him.”

Dorrie turned the phone on speaker and held it up, but contrary to all driving laws, Conan grabbed the cell, turned off the speaker, and listened. She snatched the phone back as soon as Conan removed it from his ear. “Dad? I’m turning this off before we leave the freeway. Love you. Take care of yourself!” She switched off the phone and handed it back. “What did he have to say?”

“He just wanted to shout at me a little, too.” Instead of glaring, Conan regarded her gravely. “You stood up to him.”

So she had. Sort of. Self preservation had taken a different path today. She needed to protect herself against the outside world more than she needed to pacify her father.

Had Feng Li sent someone to kill Bo, too? Why?
She’d
been the one to kill his brother.

That hadn’t been Feng Li shooting at her.

Confused, she shrugged, then winced at the pain shooting through her shoulder. “If Dad’s well enough to bellow, he’s well enough to take no for an answer.”

“You could tell him you don’t want to be the foundation’s director,” he suggested, hooking the phone back on his belt.

“I’m already homeless. You want me to starve, too?” Too exhausted to argue more, she leaned the seat back and closed her eyes.

***

When Dorrie woke again, Conan was steering the truck up a winding mountain road. Rocks and piñon passed by outside the window. “Feeling any better?” Conan asked as she stirred to watch a bright blue bird flit by.

“I can still eat a steak,” she said absently, watching for a road sign to determine where they might be. Glancing down at her watch, she could see they hadn’t been gone too long.

“Dot’s Café probably has fried steak,” he told her, obviously familiar with their destination. “Not sure I’d recommend it, but their burgers are good. We can stop at the store and pick up meat. Probably best to stock the refrigerator anyway.”

She summoned the energy to glare. “I just bought groceries. They’re with my clothes and dog. Where are you taking me?”

“Ah, she’s back.” He grinned and gestured at the sprawl of lowlying buildings ahead. “Welcome to El Padre, the last frontier.”

It looked like a frontier town, with a farm store, a collection of wooden buildings termites should have eaten long ago, a few ancient Victorian mansions, one converted to a B&B, and various smaller residences tucked down side streets. Conan took the main road straight through town to the outskirts.

“Why here?” she demanded.

He turned down a dirt driveway. “I know people here. We can rent this house for as long as we need it. And it’s not so far from L.A. that I can’t zip back and forth as necessary.”

“Tell me what the point is of staying out here?” she asked warily.

“Because your sister-in-law reports strangers tried to pick up your brother’s kids, and I’ve temporarily stored them at my place.”

In horror, Dorrie swung to gape at the stubborn set of his angled jaw. She waited for an explanation, but Conan was already pulling up to a walled courtyard and ignoring her.

Bo’s kids.
Who would harm Bo’s kids? The same people who’d shot her? Why? The only villain she saw in this piece was Feng Li. What would he have to gain by seeking revenge on kids who hadn’t even been born when his brother died?

Dorrie recalled family legends from China, but she couldn’t summon fear of legends from many decades and thousands of miles away.

“The kids are okay?” was all she could ask.

“Amy’s in a state of hysteria, if I’m correctly judging her threat to steal credit cards and flee to Brazil. The kids seem fine. When they were approached, your niece screamed bloody blue murder, Brandon kicked one of the jerkwads, and the little one ran crying to the nearest neighbor, before they all scattered to the winds and hid, just as your brother apparently taught them to do. Does kidnapping run in the family?”

“No more than murder,” she conceded honestly.

“Your brother trained them well.”

She heard the question in Conan’s voice, but she didn’t how to answer it. “He would,” she agreed, with a sinking realization.

If Bo had taken the family tales seriously, then he would have trained his children to protect themselves. Just as Mei had tried to train Dorrie. Unsuccessfully, it appeared. Her money was still on the here and now. “Where are they?” she demanded. “What if someone tries again?”

“Chances are it was a random act,” he warned. “But they’re safe in my place for now.”

“Your place.” Dorrie leaned her head against the seat and tried to imagine Amy and the kids in his beach house. Her brain was too weary to make the effort. “And you want them to stay here, with me?”