The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (17 page)

The doors along the hall opened onto more of the same patient wards, and Irene moved as fast as she dared, not letting herself dwell on what she saw. The smell was thicker here, though, and she couldn’t seem to draw a decent breath. She loosened the collar of her coat. She fanned herself with one hand. Something was burning inside her. Her stomach. Her heart.

Because there were just so many of them. How was it possible?

At the end of the hall, a heavier door was set into a reinforced frame. A narrow window broke the thick wood. Irene stretched up on tip toes and looked through the glass.

Cian lay in a hospital bed. The handcuffs on his wrists were visible.

His hair was messier than ever.

Irene tried the handle. Locked. She opened her clutch, pulled out a spare bobby pin, and fiddled with the lock. It took her a few solid minutes, but then the lock gave a pop, and the door opened. Irene stepped inside and shut the door.

Cian was sprawled out like a sleeping bear, making the hospital bed look far too small for him, and he was wearing only a thin cotton gown. Irene felt her cheeks heat. On a man of Cian’s size—and build, for that matter—the gown left relatively little to the imagination.

Irene had a good imagination.

“Cian,” she said, crossing the room and taking his hand. “Cian, you have to wake up.”

He sat straight up, eyes flashing open, and said, “What in the hell?”

“You weren’t asleep.”

“No. What are you doing here?”

“Getting you out of here.”

“Getting me out of here? What do you think this is? A murder-mystery on the radio?”

“Do you want to get out of here?” Irene asked. “Or do you want to stay? Perhaps you enjoy the new wardrobe.”

Red climbed into Cian’s cheeks, almost dark enough to match his hair, but he managed to keep from looking down at the gown.

With a smirk, Irene started working on the handcuffs.

The first opened easily enough. Cian rubbed his wrist. Then, while Irene worked on the second set of cuffs, he reached down—obviously hoping that she wouldn’t notice—and tugged down the hem of the gown.

Irene’s smirk grew.

Footsteps came from the hallway.

“Irene.”

“I hear.”

The steps came closer.

Cian shifted on the bed. “Leave it, Irene. Get out of here fast.”

“They’re too close,” Irene said. “Besides, I don’t think you want a visit from the Whelan brothers when you’re all tied up.”

“Damn. The Whelan boys?”

Irene shushed him. “Let me focus.”

The second handcuff clicked free as the door opened. Irene straightened, her hand diving into her clutch for the revolver, but as she turned around she froze.

The man had a gun aimed at Irene. He shut the door without looking away from her, fixing her in place with hard, dark eyes that were set deep in his face. And it was a hard face. Stone, but the kind of stone Michelangelo never would have worked with. Roadside stone, pitted and scarred. He wore a dark suit and a hat, and the clothes had been fine once. A businessman on rough times. Or, perhaps, simply the slow settle into middle age that many men made, with the clothes following.

The gun seemed connected to an invisible hook in Irene’s stomach.

“You,” Cian said. “You were there. You killed Seamus—”

Before Cian could finish, the man swung the pistol towards Cian. Irene dragged her revolver free, knowing it was too late.

The door crashed into the man, knocking him forward a step. As he fell, the man flung his arm up and fired. The clap of the shot rang in Irene’s ears, and chips of plaster dropped from the ceiling, but Irene pulled the revolver and fired anyway. Only one shot, and it went awry, knocking a cross-stitch of yellow irises from the wall. Before she could fire again, Cian grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back.

The first Whelan brother pushed his way through the door, but the man had already turned and fired. The round caught the closest Whelan in the gut, knocking him back into his brother and sending them both into the hall. Shouts came from deeper in the hospital, and the man in the suit swore. He darted out of the room, firing twice more.

Irene’s fingers were cold and numb as she held the revolver steady.

“Irene,” Cian said.

“We need to go.”

He nodded. “Can you—”

It took her a moment to realize he needed help. She slid the revolver into a coat pocket, put Cian’s arm across her shoulder, and helped him to his feet. She might as well have tried to pick up the First Baptist Hospital itself. The man weighed a ton, and every inch of him was muscle. Irene knew that first hand. She could feel the lines of his body through the gown.

Somehow, Cian got to his feet, but he stumbled on the first step and stopped. When Irene looked up at him, he shook his head. He was white as a sheet.

“Sorry to ruin your plan,” he said.

“No. You’re coming with me.”

“I can’t,” Cian said. She could feel his leg, pressed against hers, trembling.

A hand knocked on the still-open door, and a moment later, Harry Witte poked his head into the room.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“Harry?” Irene said. “What are you doing here?”

Cian, on the other hand, bristled. He almost growled.

If Harry noticed Cian, though, he didn’t show it. He stepped through the door. One shoe left a bloody footprint as he crossed the room. He took Irene’s place supporting Cian and said, “I brought transportation, but I’m afraid there’s a bit of a jam.” Then he urged Cian forward a step. Cian grunted, and dislike mingled with pain on his face, but he took one step. And then another.

“That’s right,” Harry said. “You’re doing great.”

This time, Cian really did growl, but Harry only laughed.

To Irene, it seemed to take an eternity for the two men to reach the doorway, but it must have been only a few minutes. At Harry’s gesture, she passed through the door first, and then she saw the jam he had mentioned. Both of the Whelan brothers were slumped across the length of the hallway. Beyond them waited a wheelchair.

Irene grabbed the closest Whelan brother’s leg. She dragged him clear of the path to the wheelchair. Red soaked the man’s shirt and coat and left a smear across the yellowed tile.

Dead, her brain told her.

Not stopping to think about that word, Irene hauled the other Whelan brother out of Cian’s way. Harry helped Cian into the wheelchair. Irene waited for a protest from Cian, some sort of disparaging comment, but he settled into the chair without a word. His face was the color of old linen. His eyes were closed.

“You’ll have to carry that,” Harry said, nodding to a pile of folded clothing next to the wheelchair. On top of the clothes sat a large pistol that Irene recognized. Cian’s.

She scooped up the clothes.

Harry pushed the wheelchair. Cian’s head bobbed with the uneven tiling. The clothes in Irene’s arms barely weighed anything.

As they reached an intersection, a group of orderlies came into view. At the front was a man dressed in police blues, holding a nightstick. He came to a stop, pulled a revolver from its holster, and took aim.

“Show me your hands,” he said.

Harry slowed the wheelchair and raised his hands. “Officer, the man you want—”

“Down on the floor,” the policeman said. “You too, miss.”

Irene left her revolver in her pocket. She got down to her knees.

“Buddy,” the policeman said to Harry, “I already told you to get down on the floor.”

Harry stood there, hands raised. Then he said something that sounded like a word but wasn’t. Irene almost recognized the sound. Harry flipped his hands up.

The policeman and the orderlies flew backwards, bouncing across the tile like dust before a vigorous broom. Wind howled in Irene’s ears, flapped her coat, twisted between her legs. The group of men struck the far wall in a jumble of bodies. For another moment, the wind continued to shriek, and then it vanished as quickly as it had come.

Harry gripped the wheelchair again, turned to look at Irene, who was still kneeling, and said, “To the left, I think. Don’t you?”

Then he grinned, turned left, and started running down the next hallway.

Irene scrambled to her feet and ran after him, pushing wind-tangled hair out of her face.

What in God’s name had just happened?

Settled onto a sofa in Harry’s apartment, Cian tried to get comfortable. He shifted, wincing at the pain in his side, and tried to free himself from the heavy blanket. Sweat popped out in hot, stinging sparks across his face. He was hot. Damned hot. Thirsty too. Irene had left a tray of tea on the nightstand, and the thought of drinking it sent a wave of nausea through Cian. With a last kick, he dislodged the blanket. Lukewarm air drifted over bare legs and toes.

Frost on the window mocked him.

For a minute, Cian stared at the window. The heat made his thoughts muddier than the Mississippi. He knew, from Irene’s vocal—and voluble—remonstrations, that he was not supposed to get off the sofa. She would be furious if she found him walking about.

On the other hand, he was pretty sure that if he didn’t open that window, he would burn to death.

It took two tries to leverage himself to his feet. The pain wasn’t as bad this time. His whole left side felt like it’d been torn open, packed with coals, and stitched shut again. Cian was half-surprised that the skin wasn’t red hot through the thin cotton undershirt he wore. He probed the bandages with one hand as he used the back of an armchair to make his way towards the window. Puffy flesh, scorching hot.

Bad. Infected.

He’d seen wounds like that in the war. Wounds that didn’t get better.

God, he was so hot. Maybe Irene could set the kettle on his side and boil water for her tea. Then, at least, he’d be of some use.

One last, vertiginous step, and then he was at the window. He rested a cheek against the glass. His skin stuck to the frosted surface.

Wonderful. Bliss.

He flipped the latches, pulled his cheek away, and lifted the window. Icy air brushed his chest and neck, colder and better than any kiss.

He wondered what Irene’s lips felt like.

He wondered why he wondered that.

“Gracious, Cian.” Pearl stood in the doorway, a basin in her arms and a towel over her shoulder. In the cool air, steam poured off the water in the basin. “What are you doing?”

“I was hot.”

“You need to rest.” Pearl set the basin down and guided Cian back to the sofa. To be truthful, it was more than guidance. She had one arm around his waist, her hands careful of his wounds, and practically carried him. When she had him settled on the sofa, she retrieved the blanket from the floor, but Cian shook his head. The heat chased sparks through his brain, giving words plenty of shifting shadows in which to hide.

The worry on Pearl’s face was obvious.

She retrieved the basin and set it by his side. For a long while, she sat there, until the water had cooled. Then she wet the corner of the towel and gently cleaned his face, his neck, his arms, his legs. The water helped with the heat. A little. Cian felt himself slipping into sleep.

Later, he heard Irene’s voice, drifting at the edge of his dreams. Whatever she said, the words skipped off the surface of sleep. But Pearl’s words came to him, clear and deep and true, like a rung bell.

“He’s burning up.”

Irene paced the living room of Harry’s apartment. She had thrown her coat across the back of a chair in order to pace better. The tasteful art, the gold and silver and crystal, the patterned sofa and the matching chairs—all of it was hateful. Harry lounged in one of the chairs—the one not occupied by her coat—looking like he wanted a cigarette, or a drink, or probably both.

“I don’t know how you can just sit there,” Irene said as she whirled around to pace again.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Irene flushed. It was the third time she’d said it.

She marched across the room again.

When she reached the end of her path and turned, a rap came at the front door. Harry rose with easy grace, crossed to the door, and opened it. He stepped back and let Freddy into the room. The old Hun shrugged out of his coat, which Harry took, but he kept his grip on his cane. The two men spoke in low voices for a moment.