Stuart Woods - Fresh Disasters

“Okay.” She left and came back. “Sam Teich has already left the office for the weekend; won’t be back until Monday. Mr. Finger has left, too, for Las Vegas, expected back on Monday.”

“Damn it,” Stone said, “I forgot to hound them about the accounting. Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait until Monday morning. Call Sam Teich first thing. I may wait until Monday morning to come back to town.”

“Well,” Joan said, “don’t wear yourself out up there.”

Stone was upstairs packing a bag when Dino called.

“Hey.”

“Good morning.”

“Afternoon.”

“Oh, all right, good afternoon. What’s up? I’m trying to get out of here for Connecticut before the rush-hour traffic starts.”

“Big news: It’s already started.”

Stone looked at his watch: two p.m. “Shit,” he said.

“I just called to let you know Devlin Daltry made bail at night court. Apparently, he had a lawyer standing by.”

“Swell, so he’s loose on the town again.”

“Yeah, watch your ass.”

“I hope he tries to follow me; I’ll lose him in the wilds of Connecticut. He’ll never find his way home again.”

“That fast car of yours is gonna get you killed yet.”

“What kind of car does Daltry drive? I mean, apart from the stolen Taurus he used to run over me.”

“A white BMW M6, the sports coupe. That was the first thing we checked after your bump-and-run experience.”

“It wasn’t a bump-and-run experience; it was a hit -and-run experience.”

“Whatever.”

“It was an experience I hope you never have, being hit and runned.”

“How’s the leg?”

“Several colors of black, blue and yellow, thank you, each indicative of a level of pain.”

“Take your pills.”

“Don’t worry; the minute I’m through driving for the day.”

“See you Sunday night at Elaine’s?”

“If I don’t stay until Monday morning.”

“Don’t wear yourself out up there.”

“You’re as bad as Joan. Bye.” Stone hung up, grabbed his duffel and headed for the garage. Halfway out of the room he stopped, went back to his dressing room, opened the safe and took out his little Colt Government.380 auto, a holster and two magazines. He put the holster on his belt, slapped in a magazine, racked the slide, flipped on the safety, holstered the pistol and put the spare magazine in his pocket. He checked his wallet to be sure he had his Connecticut carry license, then headed for the garage again.

Third Avenue was jammed with cars headed uptown for the bridge, so he turned west and fought his way across town toward the West Side Highway. By the time he reached it it was after three o’clock, but at least traffic was moving pretty well, at least until he encountered a backup because of a fender-bender. Once past that he zoomed along for all of two minutes before the backup at the turn for the George Washington Bridge slowed him down again, but once past that he was driving at speed again. Farther north, on the Saw Mill River Parkway, he switched on the illegal-in-New-York-State fore-and-aft radar detector and let the Mercedes E55 out a little on the winding road, enjoying the 5.5-liter turbocharged engine and the superb suspension and brakes. Then he remembered the white BMW M6 coupe and started checking his rearview mirror.

Once he thought he caught sight of such a car, but he quickly left it behind. After he joined I-684 north, the fun was over for a while-too many New York State troopers. The radar detector constantly beeped, and he was glad he’d slowed down.

He took I-84 east to the turnoff for Route 7 north and to its end. From there, he was on country roads again, and that was when he found the white M6 in his mirror, staying well back but there.

Once free of some local traffic, he accelerated up a fairly straight stretch of Connecticut roadway, across a bridge, past an old mill, then right on Wewaka Brook Road. Half a mile later, he turned into a friend’s driveway, drove up a hill, flew into his friend’s garage, then got out of the car and peeped at the road. The M6 passed in a white blur with a howl. Stone got back into his car, reversed his route and drove into Bridgewater.

He parked in front of the local shop and bakery, went in, bought a double espresso, drank it, then got back into his car and made his way to Washington without further sightings of the BMW. He pulled into the driveway of his little cottage, parked behind the hedge, grabbed his duffel and let himself into the house.

“Hello!” he called out. No response. He looked into the kitchen, found it empty, then walked upstairs to the bedroom, the.380 in his hand. At the foot of the bed was a massage table, all set up and draped with sheets. “Celia!” he called out, but there was no answer. Then he felt something hard poking into his back.

“Stick ’em up,” an odd, deep voice said.

Stone raised his hands and was greeted with a girlish giggle. He turned around to find Celia, dressed in a short robe, her hand formed into a gun, laughing uncontrollably.

“You thought I had you, didn’t you?”

He put his arms around her, lifted the hem of the robe with one hand and slapped her hard on the ass with the other. “Bad girl!”

She laughed and kissed him. “Put the gun away. You have time for a drink while you’re getting out of your clothes,” she said. “Then I’m going to give you the best massage you ever had.” She went to the dresser, where a glass, an ice bucket and a bottle of Knob Creek awaited and poured them both a drink.

Stone was already naked when she turned around. She handed him his drink.

“Take a big swallow, then lie facedown on the table.”

“I don’t know if facedown is physically possible at the moment,” he said, pushing against her to show her why.

“Oh, deal with it,” she said, taking his drink and shoving him toward the table. She set the drink on a little shelf, meant for resting his elbows.

Stone climbed onto the table, did some anatomical shifting for the sake of comfort, then settled onto the sheet and put his face into the cradle. Celia had put a straw in his drink, so he was able to sip without lifting his head. She pottered around for a moment, then came toward him.

He felt a trickle of hot oil down his back.

“Too hot?”

“No, just right.” He took another sip of the bourbon from his straw.

She began to work on him, rubbing the hot oil into his back and buttocks and the back of his thighs, paying particular and tender attention to his bruised leg. He had forgotten how strong she was and what good hands she had. She spent three-quarters of an hour kneading every available muscle, then told him to turn over. He took the last sip of the bourbon and followed instructions.

“Well,” she said, “if I had put a sheet over you, you would have supplied the tent pole.”

“All your fault,” he breathed, as she began massaging his neck and shoulders and scalp. She continued down his body for another half hour, until he thought he would explode, then she gently cupped his testicles in her hand and, with the other hand and the hot oil and, occasionally, her mouth, she rendered him limp and helpless.

“Sleep for a while,” she said, spreading a blanket over him.

His leg was throbbing where she had massaged it. “There’s a bottle of pills in the left-hand pocket of my trousers,” he said. “Give me one, please.”

She gave him the pill with a little water. “I know it’s sore, but it will feel better tomorrow. I’ll wake you in time for dinner.”

Stone drifted into a soft, fuzzy sleep.

Stone and Celia arrived at the Mayflower Inn for dinner. He loved the place, and always looked forward to the perfume of wood-burning fireplaces as he entered. The inn had originally been designed as a school by Erich Rossiter, the same architect who designed Stone’s house, and had been expensively converted to its new use by a local couple with deep pockets. It was handsome, gracious, welcoming, and the food was good.