The Hit

Chapter





19





ROBIE LEFT THE FLOWER SHOP and headed on. He had a lot to think about. And he was angry. Flowers at both scenes. No, actually remnants of flowers at both scenes. The files he had been given were not the only thing his agency had redacted. They had policed the crime scenes and removed the white roses that Reel had left there, but they had missed a couple petals.

In her message Reel had suggested that he watch his back. That there were other agendas on the table. Now he was thinking she was more right than wrong about that.

The new location Blue Man had directed him to was west of D.C. in Loudoun County, Virginia. This was horse country, big estates behind miles of fencing, mingled with more modest homesteads. Interspersed throughout were small towns with upscale shopping and restaurants that catered to the well-heeled playing at being country squires. Alongside those establishments were stores that sold things people actually needed, like crop seed and saddles.

Eventually Robie turned down a graveled lane bracketed by dense pines that had turned the ground underneath them orange with their fallen needles. There was a sign at the entrance to the lane that warned folks who did not have business down here not to make the turn.

He came to a steel gate manned by two men in cammies and holding MP5s. He and his car were searched and his invitation to be here confirmed. The steel gate slid open on motorized tracks and he drove on.

The complex was sprawling and all on one story. It looked like a well-funded community college.

He parked and walked to the front door, was buzzed in, and a woman in a conservative navy blue pantsuit escorted him back. On her hip rode her security creds. Robie eyed them. When she glanced up at him and saw what he was doing she admonished, “I wouldn’t commit them to memory.”

“I never do,” replied Robie.

He was left in a sterile examination room by the woman, who closed the door behind her. He assumed it would lock automatically. He doubted they wanted him wandering the halls unaccompanied.

A minute later the door opened and another woman came in. She was slender, in her late thirties, with long dark hair tied back, glasses, and red lipstick. She wore a white doctor’s coat.

“I’m Dr. Karin Meenan, Mr. Robie. I understand you’ve sustained some injuries?”

“Nothing too serious.”

“Where are they located?”

“Arm and leg.”

“Can you disrobe and get up on the table, please?”

She prepared some medical devices while Robie took off his jacket, shirt, pants, and shoes. He perched on the table while Meenan sat on a stool with rollers and moved closer to him.

She looked at the burns. “You think these aren’t serious?” she said, her eyebrows hiked.

“I’m not dead.”

She continued to examine him. “I guess you have a different set of standards than most.”

“I guess.”

“Did you clean these?”

“Yes.”

“You did a good job,” she noted.

“Thanks.”

“But they need some more work.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m also going to give you some meds to prevent infection. And a shot.”

“Whatever you think best,” replied Robie.

“You’re a very cooperative patient.”

“Do you get any other kind here?”

“Not really. But I didn’t always work here, either,” said Meenan.

“Where before?”

“Trauma center, southeast D.C.”

“Then you’ve seen your share of gunshot wounds.”

“Yes, I have. Speaking of which, you have your share.” She eyed two spots on Robie’s body. She placed her finger in a divot on Robie’s arm. “Nine-mil?”

“Three-fifty-seven, actually. Shooter was using an off-brand that luckily jammed on him the second time around, or else I might not be here talking to you.”

Her gaze flicked up at him. “Are you often lucky in your work?”

“Almost never.”

“It’s not about luck, is it?”

“Almost never,” he repeated.

She spent the next hour thoroughly cleaning and then bandaging his wounds. “I can give you the first round of meds in the butt or the arm. The injection spot will be sore for a while,” she said.

Robie immediately held out his left arm.

“You shoot right-handed, I take it.”

“Yes,” he answered.

She stuck the syringe into his arm and depressed the plunger. “There will be a bottle of pills waiting for you in the lobby. Follow the directions and you shouldn’t have any problems. But you were lucky. You came close to requiring skin grafts. As it is the skin may not heal completely without plastic surgery.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll see you again.”

“Do you do autopsies here?”

She looked surprised. “No, why?”

“Then you probably won’t see me again.”

Robie slipped his clothes back on. “Can you direct me to where I need to go next?”

“Someone else will come in to do that. There aren’t many places here I’m cleared to go.”

“Glad you signed up?”

“Are you?” she shot back.

“Keep asking myself that every day.”

“And your answer?”

“It changes depending on the day.”

She held out her card. “My contact info is on there. Burns are not to be messed with. And you really need to take it easy. I would limit strenuous exercise, travel, and. . .” Her voice trailed off as he stared at her. “And none of that is possible, right?”

He took the card. “Thanks for fixing me up.”

She walked to the door and then turned back. “For what it’s worth, good luck.” And then she was gone.

Robie waited there for another five minutes.

The door opened.

Blue Man stood there. Suit, modest tie, polished shoes, hair perfect.

But his face was not.

In those features Robie could see that Blue Man was not himself at all today.

Which meant that things were about to change for Robie.