Friday evening
He heard his name from a distance, and felt hands shaking him. He didn’t want to wake, wanted to drift back into the sweet oblivion nestling him deep, but there was pain now, bright and sharp in his back, and so he opened his eyes.
Flashing lights. Voices, screaming, calling. He tried to focus, but his eyes wouldn’t work right. A woman’s voice in his ear, calm, controlled, a touch of fingers, feather light. “Nicholas? Can you hear me? Answer me.”
Her voice was familiar somehow. He searched for the woman’s name. Mike. Mike Caine. Her blond hair was swinging in his face. He reached up, whether to push it out of his face or hug her, he didn’t know, and she wrapped her arms around him. He felt the warmth of her tears and smiled. Better. Even pain lessened in a woman’s arms. She was soft and warm, and her hair smelled like flowers, and wild grass. Jasmine, he thought.
Then she pulled away from him, and pain sliced across his lower back like a hot knife. He gasped and was gone again.
When he awoke the second time, the confusion, the heat, the noise were gone. The air around him was quiet, deathly so. Something cold was across his face; pulses of chilly oxygen pushed into his nose. Low, steady beeps, the thrum of his own heart in his chest, pounding hard. The smells were different, antiseptic and unnatural. Hospital. He was in hospital.
“Nicholas? You’re back. No, stay with me. Stay awake now. Listen to me. You’re going to be okay.”
His vision swam into focus. Mike was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand held between hers. She had a black smudge on her cheek. He wanted to reach up and wipe it away, but his arm was curiously heavy.
She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth, fast and light. “You listen to me, you lamebrain. Trying to get yourself killed was not part of the deal.”
His voice wouldn’t come. She gave him a sip of water. It tasted better than his grandfather’s favorite single malt, Glenfiddich. His voice came out a croak. “What happened?”
“You blew up the building.”
It was coming back now, bits and pieces, the blue-white gleam of the diamond in the box, the red and orange wires, the hot explosion at his back.
“Not me. I closed the lid.”
“You should have told the bomb that. The moment you stepped out the door, the whole building blew. You had a shard of glass in your back, plus several cuts from the shrapnel. The doctors removed it all. And your hands were burned a bit. You most likely have a concussion, and your hearing might be messed up for a while. Mine’s finally getting back to normal. It was a big blast.”
He couldn’t feel his back, and panic began to creep in. “My back?”
“You’re probably numb from the lidocaine. They had to stitch you up a bit. You’re going to be sore, but you’re all right.”
“Anyone else hurt?”
She shook her head. “Some people banged up, but everyone’s okay.”
He looked around the room, small, white, one chair. The blinds were closed. It seemed like night to him though. “How long have I been out?”
“A few hours. You were bleeding badly, and you were unconscious. I thought—well, you’re okay. Tomas was scared for you, too. Yes, he’s all right. Last time I saw him he was shaking like a leaf, stuttering as he tried to answer the police officer’s questions.” She touched a hand to his cheek. “Don’t do that again, all right?”
“I’ll do my best,” and he smiled, though it hurt, and leaned back against the crackly pillow.
“Menard and the Geneva police are all over the bomb. The fire was confined to the one building, which was amazing. C-4, it looks like, on a detonator. Was it similar to the bomb at the Met?”
“No. There was a pressure switch. She wasn’t playing around this time.”