A Safe House

52

Herbie Fisher had been alerted, so Stone and Ken, the detail commander, took a break in Stone’s office, where the fruits of Kentucky were tasted. After Ken left, Stone was still, unaccountably, taking deep breaths. “I’m feeling a little bushed,” he admitted to himself.

Then his chin sagged to his chest, and a moment later, he slid from the chair and onto the carpet with a deep sigh.

He was not unconscious, he reflected, but neither did he seem to be capable of conscious movement or even of planning such. It wasn’t unpleasant, as long as he didn’t think about it. He tried to look around the room, but his vision, though working, was incapable of swiveling, zooming, or fixing upon an object for very long before it began to wander.

He was appreciating the soft texture of the hand-woven Persian carpet upon which his cheek rested when something filled most of his field of vision. When he thought about it for a time, he decided it was a boot of western origin.

“He’s out,” a not unfamiliar voice said.

“His eyes are open,” an even less unfamiliar voice replied.

“It’s the gas,” Voice One said. “It affects different people in different ways.”

“Will it kill him?” Voice Two asked.

“To be determined.”

Stone found this exchange disturbing. Who were they talking about? Certainly not him; he didn’t feel even a little deceased. In fact, he felt buoyant, perfectly contented. Well, he reflected after a moment, not perfectly so. In fact, he seemed, though comfortable, paralyzed, sort of. He tried wiggling a toe. That seemed to work, though he was unable to confirm that by any available means, so he wiggled a finger. That worked, though he wasn’t sure which finger.

“You want me to off him?” Voice One asked.

“Not yet,” Voice Two said. “I want to have a good look around this house first. See if there’s anything I’d like to steal or, if necessary, buy from his estate. And I want to leave the medical examiner a fresh corpse.”

“I’ll follow you,” Voice One said, and the two seemed to drift away.

Fresh corpse? Stone thought. That meant recently dead, didn’t it? And they seemed to be referring to him. It occurred to him that he might not be taking his position seriously enough. He tried wiggling all his fingers at once. Ten working fingers, five on each hand. He tried getting a palm-down hand under his face, and then to right himself. That worked long enough to get an elbow under his body, then lean on it. His field of vision was now occupied by a telephone on the coffee table. It seemed to be within his grasp, if he could reach.

He made a monumental attempt to grab the phone and missed.

Wait a minute, he thought. There was a better solution to this problem if he could just remember what it was. He devoted himself to that for a moment. “Cell,” he said. He managed to roll onto his back and grope for the scabbard that held his iPhone. A moment later, it was in his hand. Then he dropped it, and he couldn’t figure out where.

Then the phone on the coffee table spoke to him. “Boss?” it said.

“Boss,” he repeated.

“Is that you?”

“Boss.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Gas.”

“I’ll get you something for that,” she said. “Can you hang on for a minute?”

“NO!”

“You sound funny,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’m coming down there.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Gas.”

“Have we got a gas leak?”

“No. Call Dino.” He fell back onto the floor, exhausted by his efforts. What he needed was a nap.

“I like those paintings,” Voice Two suddenly said. Stone had enough consciousness to know not to move. “I’ll bet there are more,” Two said. “They’re by his mother.”

“Why does that matter?” Voice One said.

“I don’t know, it just does.”

“Can we get the paintings into the van?”

“Yeah, and him, too.”

“He’s not a lightweight, you know.”

“That’s why you’re going to do all the work, Harley.”

The name Harley got through the fog to Stone’s ear. It made him feel... What was the word? Revulsion.

“Was he lying like that when we left?” Slade said.

“He probably twitched a little. They do that sometimes.”

“Maybe you should bind him before we move him,” Slade said.

“Bind him with what?”

Oh, no, Stone thought. Not duct tape.

“Duct tape,” Slade said. “Find some.”

Stone did not like duct tape. He had had an unpleasant encounter with it once before, and he didn’t want to repeat the experience. He looked up through the glass-topped coffee table and saw something sharp: a letter opener, made from an old hunting knife. He had bought it in a thrift shop somewhere. He began to think about how to get a hand on it.