Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(9)

I don’t think I was telling her the truth. I had a feeling I was probably the velvet glove through which the iron fist would presently come punching if she wasn’t suitably persuaded. If they couldn’t get it from her by just issuing a writ—which they probably couldn’t—it would be all too easy to approach her landlord, drop him a line about the latent time-bomb she was keeping on his property.

Strangely enough, that wasn’t how I wanted things to go.

“OK?” I said again.

She looked at me. “It’s been a very nice few days,” she said. “Thank you, Christopher. There were places that I wanted to see again, and thanks to you, I’ve seen them. You’ve been very kind.”

I was busy telling her that it was nothing, I was happy to do it, when it struck me that she wasn’t listening to me. What’s more, there was something odd about her face. Frown lines made an X between her eyes. She raised a hand, froze briefly, caught between one moment and the next. Then she pushed her head forwards. Her hand darted out.

It was a single, rapid movement, like a child stealing a toffee. She dipped the box, and then her hand was at her mouth. She looked at me. Her eyes were very wide. They rolled back in their sockets. Her cheeks were swelling. There was pressure in her face, under the skin, blowing up inside her. I made to grab her, and then stopped, not quite believing what I saw.

She swallowed.

I saw it happen. I heard it happen.

For a moment, then, I thought she might be sick. She’d throw it up and everything would be OK. Except she didn’t. And it wasn’t. And for Melody Duchess Vanderlisle de Vere, it would never be OK again.





Chapter 9

Profanity




“Melody,” I said. I kept my voice calm, level. “You need to spit that out. You need to spit it out right now.”

She was sitting very upright. She looked like a wooden doll.

“Make yourself sick,” I said. “Come on. You can do it. Quickly, now—”

Her face suddenly scrunched up like an old rag. I said, “Melody—” and it hit her, every nerve-end firing, everything going off at once. Her head jerked forward. Her lower jaw churned side to side as if she were trying to free herself from something. Strings of flesh stretched in her neck. She kicked out. Her arms thrashed. An awful, high-pitched whine came from her throat.

The stack of magazines went over. The lamp hit the floor, the shadows tumbled down the walls. She was slipping off the chair, twisting her body, arms and legs shaking in frenzy.

“Oh—oh—oh—”

“Melody!”

I didn’t want to touch her. I didn’t want to form a link to what was going through her, but I reached out anyway and took her hand. It was icy cold. It was like all the heat had been drained from her body. I pulled her towards me. I leaned back in my chair. She sprawled across my knees. She was flailing so much I could hardly keep my grip. Her free arm did cartwheels. Her legs kicked. She was everywhere. But I got her across me and I slapped her hard on the back. She was so thin I was scared I’d break her, but I hit her again, and again, then thought, That’s what you do for somebody who’s choking. But she wasn’t choking. She’d swallowed the thing. Swallowed it. I’d seen the bob of her throat as it went down.

She was light. Even in her seizure, I was able to gather her up, push her back against the row of shelves. I grabbed her under her arms and pulled her upright. Books and ornaments went spilling to the floor. It was happening very slowly. I could think it all through, see exactly what I had to do, and think, I can’t do this.

Then I punched her in the gut.

She folded. But she didn’t throw up.

“Jesus, Melody.” I straightened her up again. She’d stopped thrashing so much. Her whole body was twitching, shivering. She seemed dazed, stunned. “Why the fuck—?”

But why was obvious. That, too, I saw now with crystal clarity. She’d been planning it right from the start. All our nostalgic visits. She’d been saying goodbye. I’d been the transport on her farewell tour.

I’d helped her commit suicide.

“Throw up, can’t you?”

“Chris . . . topher . . .”

Her voice was wrung out, squeezed dry. It was barely audible.

I hit her again. Her upper body shot forward, then she sagged against me. Christ, I thought, I’m beating up an old lady.

I felt her spittle in my face. But still she wouldn’t puke.

“Will you drink something? If I get it for you?”

She wheezed, a sound like a broken bellows.

I lowered her into the chair, as careful now as I’d been brutal earlier. I was thinking: salt and water, mustard powder. That was what you gave someone to make them throw up.

But not with corrosives.

Acid, bleach, stuff like that: you make them drink water, or milk, lots and lots of it, dilute the poison. If they bring it up, it’ll do as much harm coming back as going down . . .

What was this? Not corrosive, anyway. I headed for the kitchen, phone in hand. I called the Registry in Jersey City. Their phone rang on and on. I found a cup. I found . . . garlic powder. Turmeric. Dried parsley. Sea salt. Chili powder . . .

“Registry.”

The voice was slow and half-asleep.

I identified myself. I gave him codes. I told him it was an emergency. I said, “I need a flask here, right away. I mean now, got that? If you have anybody with a flask, Manhattan, Upper West Side, get them to this address, now, OK? This is urgent. This is life and death—”