Дж. Уорд - Lover Unleashed

This was so not how he’d envisioned this day ending. He’d assumed he’d be buying drinks for the owners he’d beaten. . and maybe in the flush of victory taking Ms. Hanson up on her generous oral suggestion.

Getting into his Porsche, he started the engine. Caldwell was about forty-five minutes north of Queens, and his car could practically drive the trip back to the Commodore itself. Good thing, too, because he was a goddamn zombie.

No radio. No iPod music. No phoning people, either.

As he got on the Northway, he just stared at the road ahead and fought the urge to turn around and. . yeah, and do what? Sleep next to his horse?

The thing was, if he could manage to get home in one piece, help was on the way. He had a fresh bottle of Lagavulin waiting for him, and he might or might not slow down to use a glass: As far as the hospital was concerned, he was off until Monday a.m. at six o’clock, and he had plans to get drunk and stay that way.

Taking the leather-wrapped wheel with one hand, he burrowed into his silk shirt to find his Jesus piece. Gripping the gold cross, he sent up a prayer.

God. . please let her be okay.

He couldn’t stand losing another one of his girls. Not so soon. Jane Whitcomb had died a whole year ago, but that was just what the calendar told him. In grief time, it had been only about a minute and a half since it had happened.

He didn’t want to go through that again.

Downtown Caldwell had a lot of tall, windowed buildings, but there were few like the Commodore. At a good thirty floors in height, it was among the taller in the concrete forest, and the sixty or so condos it housed were Trump-tastic, all marble and nickel-plated chrome and designer-everything.

Up on the twenty-seventh floor, Jane walked around Manny’s condo, looking for signs of life and finding. . nothing. Literally. The guy’s place was about as much of an obstacle course as a damn dance floor, his furniture consisting of three things in the living room and a huge bed in the master suite.

That was it.

Well, and some leather-seated stools at the counter in the kitchen. As for the walls? The only thing he’d hung anywhere was a plasma-screen TV the size of a billboard. And the hardwood floors had no rugs, just gym bags and. . more gym bags. . and athletic shoes.

Which was not to say he was a slob. He didn’t own enough to be considered a slob.

With growing panic, she walked into his bedroom and saw half a dozen blue hospital scrubs left in piles on the floor, like puddles after a rainstorm, and. . nothing else.

But the closet door was open and she looked inside—

«God. . damn it.»

The set of suitcases lined up on the floor were small, medium, and large — and the middle one was gone. So was a suit, given the bald hanger hanging in between the other jacket-and-slacks pairings.

He was off on a trip. Maybe for the weekend.

Without much hope, she dialed into the hospital’s system and paged him once more—

Her call waiting clicked in, and as she looked at the number, she cursed again.

Taking a deep breath, she answered, «Hey, V.»

«Nothing?»

«Not at the hospital or here at his condo.» The subtle growl coming over the connection amped up her going-nowhere rush. «And I checked the gym on the way up here as well.»

«I hacked into the St. Francis system and got his calendar.»

«Where is he?»

«All it said was that Goldberg is on call, true? Look, the sun’s set. I’ll be out of here in, like, a—»

«No, no. . you stay with Payne. Ehlena’s great, but I think you should be there.»

There was a big pause, like he knew he was being held off. «Where to next for you?»

She gripped the phone and wondered who she should pray to. God? His mother? «I’m not sure. But I’ve paged him. Twice.»

«When you find him, call me and I’ll come pick you up.»

«I can get us home—»

«I’m not going to hurt him, Jane. I’m not incented to rip him apart.»

Yeah, but going by that cold tone of voice, she had to wonder whether the best-laid plans of mice and vampires, blah, blah, blah. . She quite believed Manny would live to treat V’s twin. Afterward? She had her reservations — especially if things tanked in the OR.

«I’m going to wait here a little longer. Maybe he’ll show. Or call. If he doesn’t, I’m going to think of something else.»

In the long silence, she could practically feel a cold draft through the phone. Her mate did a lot of things well: fight, make love, deal with anything computer-based. Being forced into immobility? Not a core competency. In fact, it was guaranteed to make him mental.

Still, the fact that he didn’t trust her made her feel distant.

«Stay with your sister, Vishous,» she said in an even tone. «I’ll be in touch.»

Silence.

«Vishous. Hang up on me and go sit with her.»

He didn’t say anything further. Just cut the connection.

As she hit end on the phone, she cursed.

A split second later, she was dialing again, and the instant she heard a deep voice answer, she had to brush away a tear that for all its translucency was very, very real. «Butch,» she croaked. «I need your help.»

As what little was left of the sunset disappeared and night stamped its time card and took over the next shift, Manny’s car was supposed to have gone home. It was supposed to have driven itself straight into Caldwell proper.

Instead, he’d ended up on the southern edge of the city, where the trees were big and the stretches of grass outnumbered the asphalt acres ten to one.

Made sense. Cemeteries had to have good stretches of pliable earth, because it wasn’t like you could plug a coffin into concrete.

Well, guess you could — it was called a mausoleum.

Pine Grove Cemetery was open until ten p.m., its massive iron gates thrown wide and its countless wrought-iron street lamps glowing butter yellow along the maze of lanes. As he entered, he went to the right, the Porsche’s xenon headlights sweeping around and washing over stretches of grave markers and lawn.

The site he was drawn to was a beacon that ultimately signified nothing. There was no body buried at the foot of the granite headstone he was going to — there hadn’t been one to bury. No ashes to put in a canister, either — or at least none that you could be sure weren’t mostly those of an Audi that had caught on fire.

About a half a mile of roping turns later, he eased off the accelerator and let the car glide to a stop. As far as he could tell, he was the only one in the whole cemetery, and that was just fine with him. No reason for an audience.

As he got out, the cool air did nothing to clear his head, but it gave his lungs something to do as he inhaled deeply and walked over the scratchy spring grass. He was careful not to step on any of the plots as he went along — sure, it wasn’t like the dead would know that he was above their airspace, but it seemed like a respectful thing to do.

Jane’s grave was up ahead, and he slowed as he approached what wasn’t left of her, as it were. In the distance, the sound of a train whistle cut through the stillness — and the hollow, mournful sound was so fucking clichéd he felt like he was in some movie he would never sit through at home, much less pay to see in a theater.

«Shit, Jane.»

Leaning down, he trailed his fingers along the top of the marker’s uneven edge. He’d chosen the jet-black stone because she wouldn’t have wanted anything pastel-y or washed-out. And the inscription was likewise simple and unfussy, just her name, dates, and one sentence at the bottom: REST IN PEACE.

Yup. He gave himself an A for originality on that one.