Supervillainess (Part One) (10 page)

Kimber left her office. He had planned on
going for a run, but the thought of a hot shower, after a week of
lukewarm ones at the hospital, sounded too good to pass up. He
returned to the locker room and gathered his meager belongings. He
had exactly two sets of running outfits, five sets of scrubs and a
pair of jeans and sweatshirt remaining from the fire. The clothes
had been at work – everything else was gone.

He called a taxi and then waited several
minutes before it arrived. Uncertain what to expect from the
invitation to stay in a stranger’s house, he debated whether or not
he should return the keys and find his own place. The driver
whisked him all the way across town, out of the city’s center and
into one of the quiet neighborhoods he didn’t know existed.

Millionaires’ Row,
read the street sign. The taxi turned down a
cobblestone street lined with historic, towering townhouses on
either side. The hedges and gates in front of each building were
meticulously maintained. Not a single crack was to be seen in the
sidewalks, and no cars parked alongside the curbs to obscure the
views of gorgeous bougainvillea that clung to wrought iron lattices
and arches in each gate.

Behind the gates, the townhouses were a
mixture of brick and stone front, ranging in size from four stories
to six, and each wider than a city bus was long.

The driver stopped, and Kimber looked from
the address written on the paper to that displayed on the arch.

You can’t be
serious,
he thought, tired enough he almost
laughed at the beautiful townhome with its stone facade.

He paid the taxi driver and got out, gazing
upward in curiosity as well as surprise. He had a feeling his
supervisor had been the one to broach the idea of him staying
there. He couldn’t imagine someone voluntarily offering up a
multi-million dollar property to a stranger.

He unlocked the gate and entered, closing it
behind him. A small courtyard shrouded by ten feet tall hedges
contained a garden and stone seating areas. He walked up the stairs
to the front door and unlocked it.

A chandelier came to life as the door
opened. The ceiling of the foyer rose three stories high. Dark,
wooden floors were offset by lighter, neutral walls, black fixtures
and rugs, and modern furniture in dark woods.

Resting his belongings on the floor, he
walked through the bottom floor of the townhome, past a formal
living room, home theatre, and large kitchen. When he reached the
sliding glass doors on the backside of the house, he understood why
this was called Millionaires’ Row.

Kimber opened the doors and stepped onto a
large deck overlooking the river. A patch of green grass ran from
the edge of the entertaining area to a private pier. Far across the
expanse of water, stately mansions rose up from the banks.

He leaned against the railing of the deck,
gazing at the lights reflecting off the glossy surface of the
river. The air smelled of water, and giant hedges rose on either
sides of the property to create a sense of privacy. The patter of
rain on the roof and awning overhead was soothing, soft.

It was by far the nicest house he’d ever
seen. After several deep breaths, he returned to the interior.

Kimber explored three out of four floors,
until he was satisfied he knew the location of everything he
needed.

“Maybe I’m glad I didn’t refuse,” he said to
himself, observing the large guestroom he had selected. It was the
size of a hotel suite, complete with its own kitchenette.

Too tired to venture to the fourth floor, he
stripped and took his first hot shower in a week, and then sank
into a plush bed to sleep.

***

Kimber awoke to the scent of bacon and eggs.
His nose wrinkled, and he stretched back. His first solid night of
sleep in a week hadn’t been disturbed by voices over the intercom
or dreams about running through fire to save his neighbors. Instead
of awaking refreshed, though, he felt as if the events of last
weekend and his week of double shifts were just catching up to
him.

His body ached, and he was as tired as when
he dropped into bed last night. He sighed and reached for the phone
on the pillow beside his. It was a few minutes before seven. His
alarm hadn’t gone off. It was the smell that drew him from
sleep.

Kimber sat up abruptly.

Someone else was in the house.

Had Tish been wrong about the dates of her
friend’s vacation?

He dressed hastily and left the room with
his backpack, preparing a profuse apology for why he was sleeping
in a stranger’s house.

He reached the last stair and glanced
towards the door. Was it rude for him just to leave? Did he owe the
owner an apology?

Did he really want to deal with any more
embarrassment after the articles the local media continued to
feature?

His mind decided, he struck off towards the
front door.

“Mister Wellington,” came a deep, male voice
from behind him.

Kimber drew a breath and prepared to
apologize. Turning, he was momentarily taken aback by the size of
the man. Kimber had a large frame – but this man was nothing short
of menacing. Seven feet tall, blocky shoulders, dark hair streaked
with white, and a black suit.

“Your breakfast is ready,” the stranger said
and turned, returning to the kitchen.

“Uh … okay.” Kimber trailed.
“Breakfast?”

The massive man didn’t respond. He went to
the breakfast nook overlooking the river and stood to the side,
hands crossed before him as he waited. On the table was a plate of
food and steaming cup of coffee.

Kimber looked from the man to the food,
perplexed.

“If you prefer, I can make French toast,”
the man offered.

“No, no. This is great.” Kimber approached.
He set his possessions behind the chair and sat. “You’re sure this
is for me?”

“It is,” the large man answered.

“You’re a … cook?”

“Among other things.”

“How did you get in here?”

“My boss owns the place. She told me to make
sure you were comfortable.”

Tish’s friend had gone all out. Kimber dug
into his breakfast, not about to turn down a free, home-cooked
meal, even if the large man standing over the table while he ate
was distracting. The food was flavored well, hearty and fresh. When
he had finished, the other man swept his dishes away.

Kimber rose. “Thanks,” he said and gathered
his belongings.

“I can drive you to work.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Do you have a ride?”

Kimber didn’t respond.

“I made you lunch.” The man pulled a lunch
pack from the fridge and set it on the counter.

Okay, this is getting
weird.
Kimber reached out to take it, not
wanting to offend his host but not certain why anyone would go to
these lengths for a stranger either.

“So … who are you?” he asked.

“Igor.”

Helpful assistant whose appearance was
unnerving? The name definitely fit, Kimber thought.

“If you leave your clothes, I’ll wash and
press them for you,” Igor said, glancing at the laundry bag Kimber
held in one hand.

“No, thanks.”

Igor shrugged and left the kitchen. “I’ll
pull the car around front,” he said over his shoulder.

Kimber wasn’t used to being waited on. He
walked out of the front door and through the courtyard. Once he was
outside the gate, he waited in the drizzle for Igor’s car.

The Maybach Igor drove was another surprise.
He had even donned a cap, as if driving was another of his duties
and not a simple favor to a guest.

Kimber climbed in back. He made a mental
note to tell Tish he didn’t need a place to stay anymore. It was
one thing to stay at a friend’s apartment, and quite another to
squat in a multi-million dollar property with a butler.

The trip to the hospital was silent. Igor
dropped him off at the front of the hospital and then pulled away.
Kimber watched him go, uncertain what to think about his first
experience being chauffeured.

With a shake of his head, he walked into the
hospital and to Tish’s office first. Her administrative assistant,
Melissa, told him she was out sick, and Kimber returned to the
locker room.

He tucked his dirty clothes back into his
locker.

“Nine o’clock at Tapirs,” someone
called.

Kimber shifted the door to his locker so he
could see the speaker.

“Bring a pen so you can autograph our
newspapers.” Gary stood ten lockers down from him, smiling.

Kimber sighed. Before he could reply, the
cheerful nurse was gone.

After his weird morning, he didn’t think
he’d feel up to friends. Then again, things couldn’t really get
much stranger.

He changed and reported for duty and was
soon immersed in resolving whatever crises came through the ER
doors.

Hours later, after his shift was over,
Kimber ran through the darkened, quiet streets around the hospital.
The fast-paced beat of electronica thumping in his ear buds
propelled him forward and drove away everything except for the
sensation of his feet pounding against cement. Working out was the
only time when his mind was clear. He relished the peace physical
activity brought him.

He passed a group of men standing outside of
a rundown house and turned a corner, heading back towards the
hospital. Lost in the rhythm of his breathing, he didn’t notice the
car with darkened windows draw up alongside him until it swerved
off the road and crossed the sidewalk twenty feet ahead to block
his path.

Four men darted out of the vehicle and
started towards him, two carrying guns and another two with blunt
objects.

Kimber slowed and glanced behind him,
uncertain who or why anyone would be approaching him. No one else
was in sight, and he stopped, tugging his ear buds from his ears.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he shifted to the balls
of his feet.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked.

One of them raised a gun.

Kimber raised his hands. “I don’t have any
money.”

“You Kimber Wellington?” one asked
gruffly.

“How –”

“We’re here for you, not your money.”

Kimber opened his mouth to protest while
simultaneously reaching into his pocket to dial 911 on his phone.
He backed away, preparing to run, when a shot rang out.

He froze, waiting to feel pain tearing
through him from the wound.

None came, and he patted down his torso.

One of the men before him dropped, dead from
a bullet wound to the head.

The others dove for cover. One aimed for
Kimber as he ran. Kimber stumbled behind the car nearest him,
landing on the asphalt with a grunt. Broken glass littering the
street pierced his palm, and he grimaced.

A firefight broke out between those who
claimed to be after him and others he wasn’t able to see. He
hunched down behind the car, unable to tell who was firing at whom
by the sounds, and not about to stand up to figure it out.

Just when I thought my
life was bad enough …
Was this the night he
died? Kimber’s body was tense, and cold fear streaked through
him.

He shifted to his knees. The direction from
which he’d run appeared to be clear. If he kept low and darted from
car to car, he might be able to leave the area safely.

As soon as he had formed a plan, the street
fell silent. Kimber waited, heart hammering. No sound came from the
direction of the four men.

“Mister Wellington!”

Kimber frowned.

“Mister Wellington!”

It was definitely Igor’s voice.

Kimber peered out from around the car to see
the large man in his black suit standing four cars down, closer to
where the men who approached him had been.

Catching sight of his movement, Igor turned
to face him. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” Kimber said. He left the
protection of the car cautiously. Shaken by the incident, he
started forward. “Are they gone?”

“More or less.”

As he rounded the car, Kimber caught sight
of the blood. He drew closer to Igor, eyes glued to the first of
the dead bodies. When he reached the spot where he had been before
the men confronted him, he stopped.

All four of his would-be attackers had been
shot in their heads. Instinct made him kneel by the nearest of them
and check for a pulse. Dead. He studied the others.

“You should wait in the car, Mister
Wellington,” Igor advised.

Kimber gazed up at him, and it dawned on him
that the butler had to have been following him in order to appear
out of nowhere like this. “What’re you doing here, Igor?” he asked
in a hushed tone.

“Protecting you.” Igor motioned to the dead
men. In his right hand, hidden from Kimber’s previous point of
view, was a gun.

The wail of distant sirens reached Kimber.
“From what? Or whom?” he asked.

Igor replaced the weapon in its holster
beneath his arm. “Come on, Mister Wellington. We need to
leave.”

“I think I should stay and explain things,”
he replied.

“My boss wouldn’t approve.”

“I don’t care. The police … wait, who’s your
boss?”

“Reader.”

Kimber gazed at him blankly.

“Keladry Savage.”

Understanding passed through Kimber, trailed
by anger. “And these guys?”

“Jermaine’s henchmen,” Igor answered. He
went to the car and opened the back door, waiting. “He found out
you helped her.”

Kimber bit back his response. He had
unknowingly put himself in the middle of a mafia family crisis.
“Where are you supposed to take me?” he demanded, eyeing the
interior of the car.