The Warhol Incident (26 page)

“Smartass,” he sighed, defeated.
“It doesn’t matter.” He was annoyed.

“Wait,” I was reaching the limit on my volume, “I’m sorry.
I don’t know how to turn it off sometimes.” We were in the middle of the parking lot, being stared at by too many nosy onlookers.

“Funny, you know how to shut me out all the time.
I’m not a complete moron.” He spun around to face me. “I’ve been reading the papers. You cut me off. No contact. All I had was the news. I read about that body hanging in the warehouse, the bomb at the motel, and the hostage situation yesterday.” He was seething. “I get a call from the police, and I made the only logical assumption.”

Fighting the urge to point out this was exactly why we shouldn’t be involved, I shut my mouth.
It wasn’t fair. I never considered how this would affect him. Martin opened the car door, and I got in.

“It’s over,” I whispered.
He looked hurt and confused. Bad choice of words, Parker. “Abelard’s dead.” My voice was scratchy, and I fought the urge to cough, only compounding the problem.

“What happened?”
He was no longer angry. His short burst of anger was replaced with distress as I proceeded to gasp for breath around my coughs. He swept my hair behind my shoulder and studied the ligature marks around my neck as he gently stroked my back.

“You know the French and their garrotes,” I joked.
He wasn’t amused. “Nick took care of him,” I responded seriously. Shutting my eyes, I remembered how badly I wanted to pull the trigger. Thank god, Abelard was dead.

“Good.
I hope he gets a commendation.” His tone was eerily sincere. I nodded in agreement as he started the car and pulled away from the hospital parking lot. “Where to?” he asked, caressing my back as I got the coughing under control.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?
You can just drop me off at my place, and I’ll take it from there.” I put him through enough today, and I didn’t want to deprive him of his main joy in life, his job.

“I’m the boss.
I can play hooky anytime I want, and right now, that’s exactly what I want.”

Gracing him with an appreciative smile, I considered my prescriptions.
“Drugstore then my place,” I instructed, resting against the seat and avoiding the speedometer. Martin had a habit of driving like he was trying to place at the Indy 500.

“Condoms and sex, got it.”
He raised an eyebrow and winked. Laughing slightly, I was glad he dropped the serious edge.

“That sounds like more fun than cough drops, painkillers, and something cold to drink.
Not to mention, the pool of blood on my floor that I don’t want to deal with anytime soon.”

“Well, those aren’t completely mutually exclusive events, except for the blood on the floor thing.”
He missed our verbal sparring over the past week. “You don’t have to go home. You can stay at my place,” he offered, but I shook my head.

Martin drove to a drugstore where I picked up a few bags of throat lozenges, some sore throat spray, and a bottle of cold water while I waited for the pharmacist to fill my prescriptions.

“If you won’t
stay with me, at least get a hotel room,” he suggested, “my treat.” I was about to protest since he shouldn’t throw his money around now that we were whatever we were. I didn’t want him to think I was a prostitute. This was not a twisted re-enactment of
Pretty Woman.
“Or half the room.” He was being appeasing.

“When will you
give up on this stupid compromise kick?” 

“That’s the problem with both of us being alpha dogs.
It’s a daunting, uphill battle, but maybe one day you’ll actually consider me an equal,” he retorted, and I glared at him. “Plus, I plan on spending just as much time in that room as you are.”

“Tease,” I sighed.
“I’m sure my place is fine. The coroner should have removed the last remnants of scum by now.”

Arriving at
home, I stared uneasily at the stairwell. My stomach tightened, and I shut my eyes. Abelard had taken these same steps to my apartment. Running through the scenario, if O’Connell hadn’t intervened, I would have killed Abelard or died trying. Shuddering, I pushed all of it aside. This was my place; I would not cower or run away. It was over.

“Hey, guys,” I spoke to the uniformed officers inside the apartment O’Connell and Thompson had used for surveillance.
“Are you done in my apartment yet?” The two uniformed cops looked bewildered, so I pulled out my identification and handed it to them.

“Body’s been removed.
Some detectives and techs are still scoping the place out. Did you want a professional cleaning service?” one of the cops asked, relinquishing my keys.

“No, I got it.”
How much of a mess could one dead guy make? The cops wished me an uneventful evening and a full recovery.

“Are you sure you want to go in there?” Martin asked skeptically as we walked past the bloodstains left on the wall by my wrist.

“Shit,” I muttered, handing him my keys, “I’ll be right back.
Go inside. Don’t freak out.” Not waiting for a response, I reversed direction to ask the officers if my gun had been recovered. It had been collected as evidence, and I could pick it up in a few days. When I went back to my apartment, the door was open, and Martin was standing on the threshold. “I told you not to freak out.”

“I’m not.”
He was only staring at my blood-soaked carpeting, completely motionless.

“Right,” I sighed and edged past him.
Luckily, the carpeting only ran from my front door down the hallway. The rest was hardwood floors. With the exception of where Abelard had been shot, he hadn’t caused much damage to my apartment. All the other blood was mine. Considering my options, the carpet could be replaced or pulled up, leaving the hardwood underneath, assuming it didn’t soak through. At the moment, there were better things to think about.

A number of police a
nd Interpol agents were finalizing their reports. They all turned and stared at the two of us as we stood near my doorway. One of the uniformed officers moved to intercept, but Thompson caught my eye.

“Parker,” he called and offered a slight nod.
Being here and watching the techs catalog my apartment as a crime scene made me realize how much I wanted to leave. The new plan was to pack a bag and get the hell away from here. Martin was right, as irritating as that was. 

“What can I do?” Martin asked, tearing his gaze away from the floor.

“Some tea would be nice.”
Another coughing fit was threatening to come on, and keeping him busy was a good idea. He dutifully went into my kitchen and began boiling water as he rummaged through the cabinets, looking for teabags.

“Are you okay?” Thompson asked, staring at the ligature marks on my neck.

“Uh-huh.
Not much for talking. What’s going on?” The police and Interpol were photographing my apartment and cross-referencing the evidence in order to finalize their incident reports. Thompson figured they would be finished within the hour, but there was no reason why I needed to wait around that long.

“Check this out
,” one of the cops called, kneeling over my bloodied carpet. Thompson and I crouched down to get a better look at the object the man was holding. It was a small, blood-covered, strip of metal that resembled a toothpick. It must have been what Abelard used to slip the cuffs. The pieces were coming together, but I resisted the urge to shout ‘ah-ha’.

“What is it?” Thompson asked, staring at the item.
The tech shrugged, and before I could interject my two cents, another man joined us and flipped through the digital photos taken of Abelard’s remains. His left hand was bloody, and there was a deep puncture just below his knuckles. The sicko stowed the lock-pick inside his own flesh to use in the event of his apprehension. Standing up, I knew I needed to get out of here. The more I learned about Abelard, the faster my mind was imagining worst case, what if scenarios.

“I’m going to pack a bag,” I whispered.
“My ride,” I jerked my head toward Martin and regretted the motion instantly, “is dropping me off at a hotel. Whatever you need, I promise I’ll give you tomorrow.” Getting a few sympathetic looks, I went into my bedroom and tossed some necessities into a bag and repeated the process in the bathroom.

When I emerged, Thompson and Martin were talking in my kitchen.
The tea was in a travel mug on the counter. Glancing once more at the dried pool of blood, I reminded myself the bastard was dead, and I was safe.

“I’ll hold off the dogs until tomorrow,” Thompson assured me, referencing all the possible law enforcement agencies that would want reports and forms to be signed.

“Thanks.”
Picking up the tea, I took a sip. “Lock up when you leave. Clearly, I live in an unsavory neighborhood.” He smiled and squeezed my shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re okay.
In my book, any day’s a good day when the only one who ends up in the ground is a psychopath.” I let Thompson’s comment go, unsure if he was fishing for information or just offering some sage advice. 

Martin remained uncharacteristically quiet through the entire exchange and simply followed me out of my apartment and back to the stairwell.
On the fourth floor landing, I paused to get a grip. As I leaned against the cinderblock walls, I put my face in my hands and took a few deep breaths.

“What can I do?” he asked quietly.

“Just give me a minute.” My stomach was twisted in knots, thinking about all the things that could have happened or almost happened. I stood up and blew out an unsteady breath. “Guess I might take you up on that hotel offer after all.” He smiled, and we left the building and checked into the nearest hotel. 

A simple room for one night was all I needed, but he insisted on an upgrade, which led to a suite with a separate bedroom and kitchenette.
I had no desire to argue since I was completely worn out. Honestly, any place free from blood and police would suffice; it didn’t matter if it was a tiny room with a twin bed or a palace.

In the bedroom, I searched for a comfortable change of clothes.
When I came out, Martin was leaning against the kitchen sink, staring at the wall. Today must have been just as unsettling for him, I thought sadly. He needed to go back to his life and stay out of mine.

“Mind if I take a shower and change into something else?” I asked.
He looked up as if he had forgotten I was in the room with him.

“Take your time.
I’ll be right here. Did you need me to do anything? I can do whatever you want.”

“It’s okay.
I can manage.” I gave him an encouraging smile, and he went back to staring at the sink as I shut the bathroom door.

The soap and shampoo were heaven
ly escapes from everything I endured. With Abelard being all over me and then the hospital, I just wanted every reminder gone. If I could have crawled out of my own skin, I would have. Instead, I shut the water, dried off, and changed into a pair of pajama shorts and a cropped tank top which I normally reserved for running on the treadmill. The mirror was covered in condensation, so I opened the bathroom door as I towel dried my hair. As the humidity dissipated, I stopped and stared at my reflection. The image before me made me shudder.

“Would you mind terribly if we turned the heat up?” I called.

“I believe you already did.” Martin smiled flirtatiously, watching from the couch.

“What did I tell you about using old, tired clichés?”

“I’m not sure you understand the meaning of the word cliché. Furthermore, how is it a cliché when I speak the truth?” He went to the thermostat and adjusted the temperature before turning back to me. “Honestly, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” I scoffed at him.

“Then you need glasses or a neurological exam.”
He came into the bathroom as I searched through my supplies for antiseptic and gauze. “Look at me.” I dropped my bag and stared at the bruised and battered version of myself. “All of this because of one sick, twisted motherfucker.” My own jaw clenched, and I swallowed the lump in my throat uncomfortably. Martin was not the person I should be pointing these things out to. He stood quietly, his hand absently running the length of my arm.

“You’ll heal.”
His voice was a whisper of hope, not only for my physical injuries but the psychological ones which I was sure I had yet to even experience.

After properly dressing my wounds, I switched my train of thought to something more productive as he microwaved some water and made a fresh mug of tea.
There was a duffel bag near the door. He must have called Marcal to bring him some necessities while I was in the shower. It must be nice having those kinds of resources, I thought as I realized the million things I needed to do: call Ryan, call Mark, remove the carpet, get new carpet, find a new place to live, retrieve my gun from evidence.

“Have you talked to Mark?”
Surprisingly, he hadn’t called about the incident.

“Not recently.
Why?”

“He’s okay, but he took a bullet to the vest yesterday when we were pursuing Abelard.
I just wanted you to know ahead of time. He’ll probably be calling once Farrell submits his report, so… yeah,” I finished lamely.

“Okay.”
Martin was still being uncharacteristically quiet and was keeping in almost constant physical contact with me. At the moment, his arm was around my shoulders while we sat on the couch. The morbidity of my apartment hindered all conversation, even after our escape.              

As I
predicted, Mark called soon after, and I gave him my unofficial report. There was something bothering me about the entire thing, but I didn’t figure out exactly what it was. I kept the thought to myself and promised, once O’Connell was cleared, the three of us were going out for drinks. Hanging up the phone, I checked the time. When I was released from the hospital, there had been a brief burst of renewed energy but being in my apartment drained me. It was early, but I was tired. Martin insisted on ordering dinner, so while we waited, I took my tea and went into the bedroom to lie down. He followed like a lost puppy.

I woke up gasping.
Strong arms were around me, and I jerked away, trying to free myself. “Alex,” his voice was in my ear, “you’re okay. It’s just me. Everything is okay.” I stopped struggling and opened my eyes, taking a deep breath and coughing. The inside of my throat felt like it was filled with razorblades. “Nightmares?” he asked, knowing my susceptibility to such things.

“Something like that.”
The feeling of being restrained in any sense made my heart race and panic set in. Sitting up, I took a sip of cold tea. Putting the mug down, I tried to think clearly. “Did I miss dinner?” He chuckled.

“No, b
ut I’m glad you have your priorities in order.” He turned toward the alarm clock. “Another twenty minutes,” he reported. How long could I have been asleep? Not more than a half hour, unless that was some really slow room service.

“Good.
I’m starving.” He sat up next to me, and I couldn’t resist the draw of snuggling against him. He was turning into a crutch, and I would have to put a stop to it. He wasn’t handling this situation well, and it wasn’t helping me any. “You know, you don’t need to be here. I’m okay. Everything is okay.” Maybe I had been a parrot in a past life. Although, I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince of these facts.

“If it’s all the same to you,” he brushed my hair away from my neck and placed a cool compress along the ligature marks, following doctor’s orders, “I’ll hang around.
The last time I let you out of my sight...” his voice dropped away. On the one hand, Martin wanting to be here was comforting, but on the other, I was fighting the urge to push him and his smothering habits away. “Look at us, back in a hotel room after a stint in the hospital. Let’s not turn this into our thing,” he joked. “Next time, we’re going straight to the hotel for some cheap, tawdry rendezvous, instead of stopping at a hospital first.”

Once the food arrived, we ate in uneasy silence in the living room.
After dinner, the dirty dishes were tossed onto the tray, and I retreated to the bedroom, allowing him to accompany me. It was still early, but I was done for the day. My wrist and neck were throbbing, and I relented and took a painkiller. He didn’t protest the fact I could no longer sleep in the dark and had to have the living room light on, or that it wasn’t even nine o’clock, but we were in bed. He was just relieved I wasn’t in a body bag. That made two of us.

It was around
two a.m. when I awoke. Going to sleep at such an early hour was a bad idea. Carefully disentangling myself as I tried not to wake him, I climbed out of bed.

“Are you okay?”
Even half asleep, his voice was still etched with concern.

“I’m fine.
Go back to sleep.” I closed the bedroom door and went into the living room. Pouring a glass of water, I found a towel and filled it with ice and then dipped a washcloth into the melted ice bucket before finding my phone and dialing Ryan. I took a seat on the couch, icing my wrist and putting the cloth against my sore neck.