Diana Rowland - How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

After taking a whiff of the loose stuff, I opted for the six capsules. It wasn’t that it smelled bad , but props to Kyle for having the foresight to get pills. I choked down the algae and three C’s with a full bottle of water, and in ten minutes the spongy rot on my face faded to a patch of odd discoloration that I could cover with makeup—or at least make it less OMG what the hell is that on your face? I checked the places on my side, arm and thigh as well and was enormously relieved to find all of them significantly less icky. Meanwhile, Philip had mixed the loose algae with water to create something resembling industrial sludge and slammed it down. Hardcore.

“You can barely see it,” Naomi reassured me after I peered in the mirror for the umpteenth time.

“Not fair,” I said, glancing past her to Philip and the matching blemish on his jaw. “It makes him look tougher.”

“No, it makes him look like he missed a patch shaving,” Naomi corrected with a grin.

“As long as he looks equally silly,” I said.

Philip gave a long-suffering sigh. “Are we done destroying the last shreds of my self-esteem?”

“For now.” I punched him lightly on the upper arm. “C’mon, let’s go see Jane.”

Jane was staying at the Langston Arms Hotel which, I was told, was as nice as The Fairbourne but smaller and more low key, and apparently better for security purposes.

The lobby was fully carpeted in patterned royal blue, and along with cream colored walls and off-white cushy chairs, had a light, cool feel. The desk clerk didn’t bat an eye when I told him I was there to see the congresswoman, and obligingly called up to the room. I had little doubt my reception would’ve been far different—probably involving burly security guards—if I hadn’t phoned Jane to let her know I was on the way over for a midnight rendezvous.

“Someone will be down momentarily to escort you to her room,” he informed me, then gestured toward a bank of elevators.

Philip and I moved that way, and a few minutes later Jane’s bodyguard, Victor, stepped out of the elevator. He held the door while he looked beyond us and around, then beckoned us in with two fingers.

I hurried to get in but Philip simply glanced at Victor and stayed where he was. “I’ll keep watch down here, ZeeEm.”

I hesitated, then nodded. Better to keep it as simple and nonthreatening as possible. Once the doors closed Victor slid a key card into a slot, then put in a code on a keypad. He remained silent, gaze steady upon me as the elevator rose, and when the doors opened he led the way down the hall to a set of double doors. Once again he used a key card and a code for entry, then proceeded into a suite about the same size as the one at The Fairbourne, but with tons of dark wood, antique-looking furniture rather than the modern style of ours.

Jane stood beside the sofa wearing rich blue velour pants and a top that looked comfortable and elegant at the same time. She turned as we entered. “Angel! I tried several times to call the number you gave me but it kept going to voicemail.” She looked worried and stressed and off-center—not at all her usual self. “What on earth is going on?”

“A lot of shit,” I said with a grimace. “I’m sorry. I lost my phone.”

She sat down but didn’t relax. “Where is Pietro?” she asked, tone firm. She wasn’t going to put up with evasions any longer. “He doesn’t answer his phone, and his assistant will only tell me that he’s away on business. But why is Brian here if Pietro is in trouble?”

I glanced at Victor and then back to Jane. “Um, any chance we could talk in private?”

Jane looked to the grim-faced bodyguard. “It’s all right, Victor. Could you step into the bedroom please?” He opened his mouth to speak, and she lifted a hand. “Yes, you may leave the door open.”

Victor gave me a dark look, then stalked into the bedroom, positioning himself on the far end of it, but still with a line of sight that allowed him to glare at me. I couldn’t really blame him, but it bugged me that he might still be able hear our conversation.

I sat on the sofa beside Jane and lowered my voice. “Can you trust him not to repeat stuff he hears? Even if it’s kind of weird?”

“I trust him completely,” Jane said, matching my low volume. “But what do you mean by weird?”

“Well, for starters, Pietro’s been kidnapped, and Saberton’s behind it.”

Shock swept over her features. “Kidnapped? When? Why? What are the authorities doing about it?”

“Wednesday. Three days ago,” I said, “and we can’t call the authorities.”

“Why on earth not? Does this have something to do with the defense contract?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that what the Sabers wanted?”

“Huh? No.” I shook my head, though now that she’d said it I wondered if maybe there was more going on here. “It has to do with a . . .” What the hell, I’d try the same approach I used with Randy. “A medical condition he has. And I have. Brian and a bunch of others too.”

That caught her off guard. “Medical condition?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is it related to the blotch that appeared on your face?” She peered at my jawline, clever eyes noting that it was still there beneath the makeup.

I automatically lifted my hand to my jaw, grimacing. “It’s related. Kind of. Saberton wants to, er, find out more about how the condition works, and I think they wanted to kidnap you earlier today in order to put pressure on Pietro.” My thoughts returned to her comment about the contract. “But I might have been wrong,” I confessed. “I think maybe they might also want to pressure Pietro and, in turn, you, to get them that defense contract they want so damn badly.” I considered it for another couple of seconds then blew out my breath. “Yeah, that actually makes a lot more sense, though I’m still glad I got you away from them.”

“So am I, to be honest,” Jane said. “But what could they possibly want to pressure Pietro about?” Her gaze remained steady upon me, and I had to fight not to squirm beneath it.

“Um, about the medical condition. And his organization, I guess.”

She leaned closer. “And why aren’t the authorities involved?”

Damn it, I was utterly out of my depth. I felt my shoulders hunching. “The medical condition is . . . it’s pretty weird.”

She straightened and pressed her lips together in obvious annoyance. “Angel Crawford,” she said, snapping the name out with more authority than my third grade teacher ever had, “that is the second time you’ve used the word ‘weird.’ This is Pietro ,” and the unspoken My came through with that. “I need to understand, because right now I want to pick up the phone and call the FBI.”

I groaned. “Okay. Shit. Shit.” Damn it, Brian would kill me but at this point what the hell choice did I have? I stood and moved to the little kitchen area of the suite, and a couple of seconds of digging in the drawers produced a small knife. I tested the edge with my thumb. It would be sharp enough for what I needed to do. Good thing I had a little packet of emergency brains in the side pocket of my cargo pants.

Knife in hand, I began to move back toward Jane. She stood up in alarm, even as I registered a blur of motion to my left.

In the next instant my face met carpet, with Victor on top of me and my breath somewhere in the Hudson River. In less than a second he had the knife out of my hand and secured somewhere on his person. My face was squished against the floor, but I managed to squawk out, “I wsnt ging to hrt her!”

“Angel!” I saw Jane—or rather, from my angle, Jane’s shoes and lower legs—take a few hesitant steps toward me. “What were you going to do with that knife? Victor, let her up, please.”