Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(51)

“I missed all but the end of it,” said the Secret Service guy regretfully. “I was too busy not dying and then scrambling out from under Kelly—thank you. But as soon as he realized he was alive, Ford started screaming that it was fifteen minutes early.”

“Abbot got the whole thing on his cell phone,” said Adam.

“We contacted Representative Rankin,” said the Secret Service guy. “You’ll be surprised to know that he was shocked and appalled.”

The Secret Service guy sounded honestly regretful when he added, “Unfortunately, I think that shock was real, at least. I’d love to pin this to that slimy toad. But it’s likely that the whole thing rests on Ford.”

“What is your name?” I asked. “I can’t just keep calling you the Secret Service guy.”

“Judd Spielman,” he said.

“Cool,” I said, leaning forward earnestly. “Paul saved me.”

“And there she goes again,” murmured Kelly. “We know, Mercy. You’ve told us a time or two.”

I turned to look at him—he was somewhere behind Adam—but I ended up burying my face against Adam’s chest. It felt so good I stayed there.

When I lifted my head, the Secret Service guy whose name was Judd Spielman was gone from the end of the bed. Instead, inexplicably Tory Abbot was there in an immaculate suit that was slightly different from the one he’d worn in the meeting. The lines in his face were a little deeper, and he had a splint on his left arm.

He was saying, “—hadn’t panicked we’d all have been dead and he’d have been alive.”

It felt like I’d just blinked and he’d appeared out of nowhere, but his presence wasn’t the only change in the room. Everything was a little grubbier than it had been—the white sheets had acquired dirty smudges.

Adam was cleaner, though. His hair was wet and he was in different clothing. Kelly was gone, and Warren sat on the windowsill, looking out at the setting sun.

“I hate drugs,” I said muzzily. “My mouth is dry.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Adam, kissing my forehead. Warren got off the window ledge and brought a glass of water with a straw. “And they won’t be giving you any more. Looks like you sustained lots of cuts and bruises but nothing major.”

“Probably,” said Warren, going back to the window.

“Probably,” agreed Adam smoothly. “Having a hotel dumped on top of someone isn’t usually something people walk away from, so they’re keeping you here for a couple more hours to be sure.”

“You’re driving them batty,” said Warren. “Because a hotel fell on you and you should be dead. They can’t figure out why you aren’t.”

“Paul saved me,” I told Adam.

He kissed me again. “I know, love.”

“Why does she keep saying that?” Warren asked. “Does she have a concussion?”

“He asked me to,” I told Warren with drug-born earnestness. “He touched my cheek and asked me to make sure that everyone knew that when push came to shove, he was a hero.”

“He died instantly,” said Abbot, not ungently. “He couldn’t have asked her to do anything.”

“I see dead people,” I told him.

“Hush,” Adam said.

“That’s why I don’t like hospitals very much,” I continued. “Paul died and the only thing he wanted me to tell people was that he saved me.” I paused. “He didn’t want me to tell Mary Jo he loved her.”

“You see dead people?” asked Abbot, his voice arrested.

“Let’s just give Abbot time to brief us, okay?” Warren said. “You’re talking nonsense, Mercy.”

I nodded—which hurt my neck, my shoulders, and my left toe, so I stopped.

“Your wife talks to ghosts?” Abbot asked.

“P-p-please!” I told him earnestly in the voice of Roger Rabbit—or as close to it as I could get. “Only when it’s funny.”

“Go to sleep,” Adam told me.

I closed my eyes and listened until we were all alone. But I must have slept a little because when I woke up, Judd Spielman the Secret Service guy was back. This time he had taken the same seat that Abbot had used.

“The FBI say that the bomb was expertly constructed. From the brass caps to the detonation wiring.” Spielman was wearing clean clothes, too. Instead of another suit, though, he’d gone for jeans and a T-shirt. It made him look tougher—the shiner didn’t hurt that impression, either. Some people (me) get a black eye and people ask, “Hey, who beat you up?” Other people (Spielman) get a black eye and people say, “Where did they bury the other guy?”

Adam doesn’t get shiners.

“Goes with him being raised by a demolition expert,” said Adam.

“Guess the kid was bright and paid attention.” Spielman’s tone was ironic. “But I wouldn’t have sounded as admiring as my contact did. The boy killed two people, including himself. I asked them, if he was such a genius, why wasn’t he working for his parents’ company? They told me that he didn’t like to take orders. So his father encouraged him to go into another line of work before he killed someone—hence the viticulture. His family didn’t quite say it, but my guy in the FBI says that he started to get radical and his family shipped him out west to get him away from all of that.”