Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(116)

“No. I’m fine,” Harry said.

Clive drew the knife away, and it was all Harry could do not to collapse into sobs. “Is that enough?” He turned imploring eyes on Clive.

The man smiled genially and nodded. “That’s fine.”

“Thanks for your help, Nancy,” Harry said. “You can go.”

Nancy left, throwing a worried glance back over her shoulder. “You let me know if you change your mind about that Advil,” she said.

The door clicked closed. Harry began to sob silently.

“Don’t fall apart yet, Mr. Whelan,” Clive chided him. “I need printouts of the credit cards you billed for those two rooms, please.”

Somehow Harry managed to perform that task. Clive tucked the sheets into his pocket, and spun the knife, a twinkling show of dexterity, like a baton twirler. “Thank you, Mr. Whelan. You’ve been very helpful. And in case you’re tempted to discuss what just happened with anyone…your supervisor, for instance, or the police, or the McClouds—”

“I won’t,” Harry assured him, his voice breaking. “I promise.”

“Or your mother,” Clive continued. “Or even that pretty colleague, the one who’s so worried about you. My associates and I informed ourselves before I came here. Your address, for instance. Where you live with your mother in that Victorian home in Tacoma. Pretty, but those old houses are firetraps. It would be tragic to come home from work and find that your mother had been burned to death in a house fire, hmm? Batteries run down in the smoke alarms. Tsk tsk. Terrible shame.”

“I promise, I—”

“And then there is Nancy, that lovely girl who wants to play nurse. Isn’t that sweet of her. She lives in that apartment complex on the other side of the park, all alone with her cat, in unit 8D. Violent things can happen at night to young women all alone. Just terrible. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for something like that, would you?”

Harry shook his head, and realized to his dismay that he could not stop shaking it. It just kept on twisting, back and forth. No. No. No.

Clive smiled and grabbed the top of Harry’s head, forcing it to stop turning. “Excellent, then. We understand each other.” He held out his hand, as if they had just conducted a normal business meeting.

Harry was horrified to realize that his slavish obedience to the other man actually extended to automatically holding out his trembling hand to shake. Clive shook it and gave it one last, agonizingly painful squeeze. Harry cringed and squealed like a whipped dog.

“Have a great day, Mr. Whelan. Thanks again for all your help.”

The door closed. Harry collapsed on his desk. His throat felt like it would implode. His groin throbbed. He felt raped, torn. Bleeding inside. He hadn’t known how easy it would be to be mortally hurt.

Then it flashed in his mind, like a pop-up banner on the computer. An appalling thought.

What a man like that might do to a three-year-old girl.

He shoved the thought away as if it electrocuted him. Too much. He couldn’t deal with that too. That little girl was not his responsibility. This was not his fault. He had not caused this.

There was a timid knock on the door. He scrambled for a fast food napkin to wipe his eyes and nose. “What is it?” he snapped.

Nancy peeked in the door. “Harry? I just, um, saw that guy go out. I thought I’d check on you. I was wondering…what the eff?”

For one crazy instant, he was tempted to tell her everything. What a sweet relief it would be, to let someone else carry some of the weight of the horribleness of the ten minutes that had just passed. Then he thought about her all alone at night with her cat in unit 8D.

No. Don’t.

He blew his nose again. “That was a tricky situation,” he said, hating the phlegm-clogged, officious tone in his own voice. “Sometimes in this business, you just have to make a judgment call.”

“Ah,” she said. “Um. OK. Harry, are you sure you’re—”

“Yes! I’m fine! It’s just this sinus thing I get sometimes. Allergies. It’s no big deal. Don’t worry about me.”

“OK.” Her face reddened. The door started to close.

“Nancy?” His voice had a wobbly, pleading tone. He took a deep breath to steady it as she opened the door and peeked back in. “Uh…don’t mention this to anyone else, OK?” he begged. “I mean, no one.”

She looked almost scared. “Whatever,” she said softly.

The door closed. There was a strange finality to the sound. As if the door was closing on the person he had fantasized about becoming.

He’d been cut down, trimmed into something that would always be smaller now. Someone who would never get rid of that pot belly and train to run in the local 10K. Never ask Nancy Ware out to the Blues In The Park concert series. Never get his own place and move out of his mother’s house. Someone who would never make general manager.

He grabbed the wastebasket, vomited into it until bitter snot hung from his face over the plastic sack. He mopped it off, touched his balls, wondered if they were irreparably damaged.

Wondered if it would be a relief to run his car off the road into the river tonight when he got off work. Just to make this awful feeling stop.



“Push with your legs,” Sveti encouraged her. “Up and down. That way you can go higher all by yourself.”