The Wild Road Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Marjorie M. Liu
said quietly, “you looked like you needed help. That’s all. Allow a man one stupid moment in his life.”
One stupid moment. She wondered if it could be that simple, and thought about the dead men in the hotel room. Had that been a stupid moment? Someone had killed them. Maybe her. Maybe? Probably. If she could do it once, she could do it again, no matter how abhorrent the idea currently seemed.
You’re not safe to be around. You need to run.
Run. Or turn herself in. But when she began to tell the man to call the police, her dry throat caught up with her and she started coughing.
The man stood. He was big, larger than life, broad and muscular beneath his long-sleeved navy crew and jeans. His hands were the size of baseball mitts, but he did not lumber when he moved. He was graceful, careful, as though he was aware of his size and strength, the damage he could do.
He moved up the bed and she turned her head, saw a bottle of water on the nightstand. She struggled to sit up, and he held out his hand. He kept his distance, but she felt the strength of that gesture and froze.
“Keep your feet still,” he said, looking almost embarrassed. “Let me.”
He handed her the water bottle, which was new and sealed. The woman would not have taken it otherwise. She unscrewed the lid, leaned back against the pillows and drank. Her throat was dry, painful. The water tasted so good she wanted to cry. She drained it. The man had another waiting for her when she finished, and she took it from him gingerly.
He did not try to touch her. He seemed to go out of his way not to, holding the bottle at the very top with just two of his fingers.
She drank a little, then stopped as the man moved back down to the end of the bed. He sat, staring at her feet, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. Behind him, at the door, there was a shuffling sound.
The door opened. An old man peered into the room. He had a clear blue gaze and trim features. A dark red robe covered his slender frame, and a knit cap of the same color perched upon his head. Dapper, elegant. His eyes traveled from the man at the foot of the bed and found her face. He looked worried, but he gave her a small smile and the woman relaxed a little, in spite of herself.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“For the last few minutes,” added the first man, not meeting her gaze. “I think I woke her.”
“Where am I?” she asked, again.
“Astor Street,” replied the old man promptly. “Gold Coast district…”
“Chicago,” she finished, realizing just in that moment how selective amnesia could be. Bits and tendrils of information streamed into her mind. Chicago. Gold Coast. The second richest neighborhood in the United States.
The woman would rather have remembered her name.
“I am Frederick,” said the old man formally, his hands beginning to tremble. “The gentleman working on your feet is Lannes.”
Lannes did not look at her. He held tweezers, and in one swift move put them against the bottom of her right toe. She felt a sharp pain, flinched, and he leaned back, a small piece of glass held glistening and red. He dropped it and the tweezers into the bowl. Reached back to rub his neck.
“That’s it,” he said with a sigh. “I got it all.”
“Thank you,” she told him, still afraid but unsure what to do about it.
The man-Lannes-made no reply. He reached down, out of sight, and came back with a pair of thick white socks that were so massive she felt certain they could only belong to him. He began to put one on her, hesitated just short of wrapping his hand around her foot, and glanced back at Frederick.
The old man blinked, and the woman saw surprise, then understanding pass over his face. Tremors still wracked his hands, but he took the sock from Lannes. The woman sat up, pushing away the covers. The sudden movement made her dizzy, but she fought past the sensation. “Let me do it.”
“You’re hurt,” said Frederick.
“Just my feet,” she replied.
One stupid moment. She wondered if it could be that simple, and thought about the dead men in the hotel room. Had that been a stupid moment? Someone had killed them. Maybe her. Maybe? Probably. If she could do it once, she could do it again, no matter how abhorrent the idea currently seemed.
You’re not safe to be around. You need to run.
Run. Or turn herself in. But when she began to tell the man to call the police, her dry throat caught up with her and she started coughing.
The man stood. He was big, larger than life, broad and muscular beneath his long-sleeved navy crew and jeans. His hands were the size of baseball mitts, but he did not lumber when he moved. He was graceful, careful, as though he was aware of his size and strength, the damage he could do.
He moved up the bed and she turned her head, saw a bottle of water on the nightstand. She struggled to sit up, and he held out his hand. He kept his distance, but she felt the strength of that gesture and froze.
“Keep your feet still,” he said, looking almost embarrassed. “Let me.”
He handed her the water bottle, which was new and sealed. The woman would not have taken it otherwise. She unscrewed the lid, leaned back against the pillows and drank. Her throat was dry, painful. The water tasted so good she wanted to cry. She drained it. The man had another waiting for her when she finished, and she took it from him gingerly.
He did not try to touch her. He seemed to go out of his way not to, holding the bottle at the very top with just two of his fingers.
She drank a little, then stopped as the man moved back down to the end of the bed. He sat, staring at her feet, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. Behind him, at the door, there was a shuffling sound.
The door opened. An old man peered into the room. He had a clear blue gaze and trim features. A dark red robe covered his slender frame, and a knit cap of the same color perched upon his head. Dapper, elegant. His eyes traveled from the man at the foot of the bed and found her face. He looked worried, but he gave her a small smile and the woman relaxed a little, in spite of herself.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“For the last few minutes,” added the first man, not meeting her gaze. “I think I woke her.”
“Where am I?” she asked, again.
“Astor Street,” replied the old man promptly. “Gold Coast district…”
“Chicago,” she finished, realizing just in that moment how selective amnesia could be. Bits and tendrils of information streamed into her mind. Chicago. Gold Coast. The second richest neighborhood in the United States.
The woman would rather have remembered her name.
“I am Frederick,” said the old man formally, his hands beginning to tremble. “The gentleman working on your feet is Lannes.”
Lannes did not look at her. He held tweezers, and in one swift move put them against the bottom of her right toe. She felt a sharp pain, flinched, and he leaned back, a small piece of glass held glistening and red. He dropped it and the tweezers into the bowl. Reached back to rub his neck.
“That’s it,” he said with a sigh. “I got it all.”
“Thank you,” she told him, still afraid but unsure what to do about it.
The man-Lannes-made no reply. He reached down, out of sight, and came back with a pair of thick white socks that were so massive she felt certain they could only belong to him. He began to put one on her, hesitated just short of wrapping his hand around her foot, and glanced back at Frederick.
The old man blinked, and the woman saw surprise, then understanding pass over his face. Tremors still wracked his hands, but he took the sock from Lannes. The woman sat up, pushing away the covers. The sudden movement made her dizzy, but she fought past the sensation. “Let me do it.”
“You’re hurt,” said Frederick.
“Just my feet,” she replied.