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Doctor Kent said to take it. It ll help the pain. And make
you sleep.
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I was tempted. An extend period of oblivion seemed very
attractive. What time is it?
Almost midnight.
Of what day?
Wednesday.
Thank God it was still the same day. Well, maybe I would
take the pill. Will I be able to get up in the morning? I asked
Tonia. This won t turn me into a zombie or anything, will it?
I don t think so. But what if it did?
I have work to do, I said. People are counting on me. As
Frost said, But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I
sleep. Of course, I don t have miles to go tonight, but
Shut up and take the damned pill, Tonia said roughly.
You ll be up at the crack of dawn ready to slay dragons or
whatever you think you need to do. God, Caitlin, give yourself
a break.
I shook my head but took the pill. I m holding you
responsible, I told her. Did you call Val?
Yes. She s fine. Enjoying a domestic evening with Baxter.
Sounds thrilling, I said. I began to count the seconds,
waiting for the pain in my arm to stop. God, when? It throbbed
with every one of my heartbeats, a slow, dark, persistent pulsing
of agony. What about you? I whispered, closing my eyes. It s
past everyone s bedtime. Why don t you just toddle off to the
spare bedroom? I m okay now.
I ll go in a few minutes, she said. Do you want
anything?
Between the pain killer and my own fatigue, I was having
trouble concentrating. Just some more water, I told her.
She held a glass to my lips and I drank what I could. She
settled down again in her armchair, and switched off the bedside
lamp.
The pain killer was making me giddy, and I hung onto the
mattress, fearing I might float off. I felt light and insubstantial, and
imagined my spirit to be a bird, beating its wings in preparation
to take flight from my body. The wings beat in rhythm with my
pain, and I began to be afraid that when those wings of agony
stopped beating, my spirit would leave my body behind, a useless
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shell from which it had finally fled. But before the wings stopped,
a black tidal wave rolled over me, and I rose to greet it, my mind
appalled at the eagerness with which I embraced oblivion.
Just before dawn, I awakened. I was lying on my right side,
knees bent. Someone lay behind me, one arm around my waist.
Her hand clasped mine, and I could feel warm breath on the
back of my neck. I groaned, and in the crepuscular gloom, closed
my eyes and wept.
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THURSDAY
CHAPTER NINE
When my alarm went off at eight-thirty, I briefly considered
hurling it through the window. Without thinking I rolled over
on my left arm, and cursed unimaginatively as it reminded me
that I had been shot only yesterday. Then I remembered. Tonia.
I sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what had prompted her
to do what she did. She had been in my bed when I had awakened
early this morning, hadn t she? That certainly hadn t been Repo s
arm around me. However, I was definitely alone now.
I got up, and on my way to the bathroom, passed the door
of the spare bedroom. It was firmly closed. I raised my hand to
knock, then decided against it. I didn t have time for this right
now. Hell, I didn t even understand the mystery I had been hired
to solve did I want to take on another one, too?
I showered as best I could, combed my hair, and dressed,
making enough noise to wake the dead, but Tonia didn t emerge.
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I left some food for Repo who was, I supposed, snoozing away
with Tonia, took one last look at the closed door, and left the
house. Later, I decided. I had business to attend to.
The Oak Bay Police Department is a little Tudor cottage
marooned on a macadam beach. Clearly, no Canadian Canute
had been able to hold back the asphalt waves lapping its door. For
years it handled complaints no more serious than nocturnally
yapping dogs and misplaced rose shears. For the inhabitants of
Oak Bay, the only indication that the force was with us was the
punctilious policing of on-street parking in Oak Bay Village a
high-crime district if there ever was one. Woe betide the driver
unable to puzzle out the meaning of the splashes of curbside color
that governed parking times: white for one hour, green for half
an hour, yellow for fifteen minutes, and red for pickup/dropoff.
What s hard about that? Even today, constables customarily lurk
behind lampposts, rubbing their hands in glee, waiting eagerly
to slap tickets on Porsches from Pittsburgh or Lincolns from
Los Angeles which linger too long in the yellow zone.
Gary Alexander, aka Sandy, was not a constable. He did not
write parking tickets. He was a detective in the Major Crimes
Division, which, sad to say, no longer included barking dogs
or lost property. Like an apple rotting from within, the world
was going to hell, and the rot had finally erupted even here in
peaceful Oak Bay.
I liked Sandy. He was a direct, no-nonsense Scot, about fifty-
five, with a ferociously bristling moustache, and an unshakably
sunny outlook on life. I d had occasion to work with him when
I was in the CP s office, and we always got on well together. He
was one of the few men I knew who didn t feel that my sexual
orientation was a lamentable condition to be cured by a night of
male attention. Actually, I don t know what he thought as we d
never discussed the subject. It had come up once, years ago, and
he hadn t turned a hair. I was glad. Sandy was a damned good
detective, a very useful contact, and a good friend. Today I had
come to call in a marker.
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He met me outside the police station. Let s not talk here.
I ll buy you coffee, he suggested.
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