Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(64)

Bourne squinted in the deepening western light that elongated their shadows. “I’ve got to get in there, Jimmy.”

Lang sighed. “Well, I sure don’t know a way.” He considered for a minute, then snapped his fingers. “But there’s someone who just might.”

“What’s his name?”

“Arthur Lee.”

“Crowcroft’s manager.”

“Right.” Lang nodded. “He’s a good friend of mine.” He slapped his left thigh. “Ever since he fixed the leg I broke.”

Bourne reflected for a moment. “You can introduce me. I can say—”

“Now hold on a sec. Art’s a peculiar bird. For one thing, he don’t like big city people, especially those like to snooping around his property. For another, he’s a fistful of Prickly Petes.”

In other circumstances Bourne might have laughed. “There’s got to be a way,” he said. “Tell me everything you know about him.”

—



Arthur Lee squinted gimlet-eyed at Bourne when Jimmy introduced them. Jimmy had invited Art to his house for dinner, not an unusual occurrence; Art, an inveterate loner who didn’t even own a TV or a computer had never refused.

“Who’s this?” he said, standing in the open doorway. He had a face like a hobo’s shoe—every line a crevice, every protuberance a boulder. Black eyes, glossy and wary as a crow’s, scrutinized Bourne as if he were a piece of meat hanging in a butcher shop. “I don’t know him.” As if Bourne were deaf or invisible.

“Jason’s an old friend of mine,” Jimmy said easily. “Don’t stand on ceremony. Come on in, Art.”

Arthur Lee did not make a move to step over the threshold. From one fist dangled a bottle of mountain whiskey. “I think not.”

“Oh, come on. I made your favorite—”

“Not a bit of it.”

As Jimmy had said, the stubbornness in Arthur Lee stemmed from his background, stubbornness born of generations of fury.

“Arthur thinks of himself as some kinda freak,” Jimmy had told Bourne while relating as much of his friend’s family history as he knew. “Well, it’s more than that, really. He despises the English lord in him. Y’see, Jason, he’s overseer and slave all wrapped up in one self-hating bundle. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be him. But don’t judge him too harshly. Deep down, he’s got a good heart; trouble is he often has a problem locating it.”

Which was why, just after Jimmy had called to invite his friend over for dinner, Bourne used a pair of small scissors he found in Jimmy’s bathroom to open up the stitches in his shoulder. Immediately, he started to bleed. When he had come out, blood seeping through his shirt, Jimmy said, “Damnit all, what the hell did you do?” And then his eyes lit up, and he grinned, tapping the side of his head with his forefinger.

Now, as Arthur Lee backed away, Jimmy said, “Hold on, Art, it’s not that I didn’t want your company, but… and Jason told me straight out he didn’t want any help, but, I mean, just take a look…”

Lee hesitated, still suspicious, took a step back toward them.

“What now?”

“His shoulder. Here, take a look…”

Lee squinted. “Awful lot of blood there.”

Jimmy nodded. “See what I mean. The boy’s as stubborn as you, not wanting to take any help.”

Lee took another step forward, studying the mass of blood soaking through the shirt. Then he glanced up at Bourne. “Son, I do believe you’re lucky I’m here.”

Then, handing Jimmy the bottle of mountain whiskey, he stepped inside, already taking over.

—



Arthur Lee cocked his head. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” Bourne said.

“It’s Jason—” Jimmy began before Bourne cut him off.

“Smith,” Bourne said, with a quick glance at Jimmy. “Jason Smith.”

They were sitting in the hallway just outside Jimmy’s bathroom, where he had pulled up three chairs. Lee, leaning on his elbows after peeling off Bourne’s shirt, pursed his thick lips. “That’s some wound you’ve got there, Mr. Smith.”

“Why don’t you call me Jason.”

“Why don’t the sun crawl down from the sky.” Lee addressed Jimmy without taking his eyes off the wound, rattling off a list of items he’d need. While Jimmy was in the bathroom hunting and gathering, Lee continued in a jaundiced tone. “Someone did a right nice job the first time around.” He eyed Bourne. “What happened?”

“I live an active life.”

Lee gave a little bark that might have been a laugh. “No city feller, huh?”

“I hate cities,” Bourne said truthfully.

“Ach, don’t get me started.”

Jimmy returned with all the first aid requirements, and Lee set about his work. “Arthur,” he said, “Jason is something of a linguist.”

“Is that so.” Lee concentrated all the harder on cleaning and disinfecting Bourne’s wound. “I’ll bet he doesn’t know how to speak my language,” he said, in Powhatan, an eastern Algonquin offshoot.

“I would be honored if you would address me directly, Powtitianna.” Bourne replied in the same language.