New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Thank you.” Sylvia closed her eyes, just left the slit under her lashes. “It’s hot. I’m so hot. I think I’m dying.”

“If you are, it’ll be hotter where you end up, end of the day.”

He turned as the nurse bustled in.

“Says she’s sick, says she’s hot, says she’s dying.”

“Nausea’s not unusual after the procedure she had, and the meds.” Laying the back of her hand on Sylvia’s brow, the nurse raised the bed.

On a moan, Sylvia tried to turn, straining against the cuff on her right hand. “Pain. There’s a pain.” When she began to gag, the nurse grabbed a bedpan.

“Can’t. Can’t. Cramp. Need to—I can’t.”

“Just breathe. I need to take off the right restraint, ease her over. She’ll boot all over both of us otherwise.”

Muttering, the cop unlocked the restraint. In one vicious swipe, Sylvia slashed the laser across his throat. Even as he stumbled back, spurting blood, she pressed it to the nurse’s cheek.

“One peep, one sound, and I carve your face off.”

“Let me help him.”

“You’d better help yourself and unlock the other cuff. This thing will slice you open at five feet. You’d know that, being a nurse. Get the cuff off. Hurry.”

To get her moving, Sylvia gave her a shallow nick. Freed, she flexed her fingers. “Got some blood on you,” she commented. “But that happens in hospitals. Strip.”

She thought about killing the nurse, but it might involve more blood. Too much on the scrubs might cause too much attention. Instead she used the restraints, gagged her with medical tape.

“You got big feet,” she commented when she put on the nurse’s shoes. She pulled her hair back, fixed on the ID card, then grabbed a tray, tossed some supplies into it.

“Give Dallas a message for me. Tell her Isaac and me, we’ll be coming for her.”

She walked out, walked briskly with her tray—and remembered belatedly she should’ve taken the nurse’s ’link. But by the time she walked out the exit, she was smiling.

Cars had ’links. It’d been a while since she’d boosted a car.

Just like old times.

Melinda kept him engaged, considered every moment he focused on her rather than Darlie a gift. The nights she’d spent studying him as she might a disease that had infected her had paid off. She knew his profile, his pathology, all of his background that had been discovered and published.

She knew he was well-read, considered himself an erudite man with exceptional taste. She discussed classic literature, segued into music—classical, contemporary, trends, artists.

Her head throbbed like a rotted tooth, but Darlie stopped shivering and eventually went limp in sleep.

When she disagreed with him she walked a tightrope, carefully navigating the shaky line between opinion and argument, conceding, flattering, even forcing out a laugh now and then as if he’d scored a point.

“But I like a good, silly comedy now and then,” she insisted. And thought she’d have sold her soul for one cool sip of water. “Complete with pratfalls. Especially after a long, hard day.”

“Without wit it’s mindless.” He shrugged. “If it doesn’t make you think, it’s not art.”

“Of course you’re right, but sometimes mindless is just what I want.”

“After a long, hard day. Counseling all the bad girls.”

Her heart tripped, but she nodded slowly. “It’s good to tune out and laugh. But as I said, you’re right about—”

“And do you spend all day telling them it’s not their fault, like you told our little Darlie here?”