Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

Chapter Nine

I watched the Swiss countryside roll by outside the passenger's window in the front seat as Garth drove along the highway to Geneva. Harper and Veil sat in the back; Harper dozed, while Veil kept turning in his seat to look for a pale blue Volvo, or anything else that might be following us.

"Jan Rawlings doesn't exactly have the old European ring of a countess's name to it," I said, turning toward Garth.

"You've got that right," Garth replied casually as he glanced in the rearview mirror. "As a matter of fact she's American, an ex-social worker from New York City."

"A who?"

"I know the feeling. That was my first reaction too."

"The closest living relative to one of the richest men in the world was a New York social worker?"

Garth shrugged, again glanced in the rearview mirror. "Maybe Blake didn't share the wealth. Or maybe the woman's just an eccentric. A lot of rich people are, you know. Maybe she enjoyed working for a living. The title could have been bought, or it might be wishful thinking."

"Well, she's certainly in a position now to do a lot of social working."

"Indeed. She not only inherited the castle but Blake's entire estate as well; every last holding, every penny. She's got to be one of the world's wealthiest women."

In the distance, barely visible in the hazy morning, slow-moving shapes that I thought might be helicopters had appeared on the horizon. Helicopters were anything but a rare sight in Switzerland, but for some reason the sight of them made me nervous. There had been no time to try to obtain guns, if guns were obtainable, and this lack of weapons did not exactly generate a feeling of security. I asked, "No other heirs?"

"None that the obituaries mentioned."

The helicopters disappeared into some low clouds, and I turned back toward my brother. "That seems odd, Garth. With that much money at stake, you'd think there would have been third and fourth cousins crawling out of the woodwork to contest the will and claim a piece of the action."

"All I know is what I read. The same obituary that mentioned that Blake and the elder Neuberger were half brothers said she was the sole beneficiary, and the will was uncontested at that time."

"You got anything else on her?"

"Brief articles in a couple of business magazines. It seems she's pretty reclusive herself; she doesn't give interviews. She doesn't flaunt her wealth, doesn't give or go to the usual fancy parties, and generally avoids the social scene altogether. In fact, you might almost say she lives like a social worker. Presumably, she has an army of CEOs and accountants to run her business empire, and she just kind of hangs out in her castle. Rumor has it that she gives away enormous amounts to various charities, but always anonymously."

"Jesus Christ," I said. "Another money-laundering operation?"

"Could be."

"Anything else?"

"Like what? I don't think I did too badly for one night, and I'm still waiting to be properly congratulated."

"Proper congratulations on you. How did Blake die?"

"A bodyguard killed him."

"Interesting. Assassination, or did he abuse the help?"

"Unknown. The obituary simply said he was killed by one of his bodyguards, who was then killed himself."

The helicopters had reappeared on the horizon. Although it was hard to tell with the distance that separated us, it appeared to me as if they might be keeping pace with us. Veil had seen them too. We exchanged glances, nodded. The helicopters were definitely making me nervous. I was, yet again, in violation of a police order to stay within the Zurich city limits; if the helicopters belonged to Interpol or the Swiss authorities, and they were on to my presence in the rented car, I assumed we would already have been intercepted by a police cruiser. I didn't like the presence of the helicopters. I also didn't like what seemed to be my only two options: go back to Zurich and passively wait in hiding for the whole thing to blow over, whatever the "whole thing" might be, before I was blown over, or forge ahead into the unknown in an effort to increase my chances of survival. I was forging ahead. I was naturally worried about Harper, Garth, and Veil, but I had done my best to prevent them from exposing themselves to my peril, and I had to admit I was more than a bit relieved to have them with me.

I turned my attention back to Garth, said, "You mentioned that R. Edgar Blake had a private intelligence-gathering operation."

"The largest. He owned a number of satellites through his various corporations, and probably had a lot of stringers around the world. That's usually how these things work."

"Right. What happened to that business asset? Is the Countess Rawlings running that too?"

"Unknown. She may-"

"Could be company!" Veil said sharply. "Green Saab coming up on the left, Garth!"

We were in the center lane of a three-lane highway. Garth quickly glanced over his right shoulder to see if he had room, then yanked the wheel in that direction, sending us into the far right lane. "How many in the car?"

"Only one that I can see-the driver. Here he comes; he's following. He's motioning for us to pull over."

"Fuck him."

I turned around in the seat, got up on my knees, and craned my neck, trying to see around Veil, who was shielding Harper with his body at the same time as he was looking out the rear window. A short throwing knife with a flat, taped handle had suddenly appeared in his right hand. "He's coming up fast now, Garth. Close on your left."

"Okay. Anything in his hands?"

"They're both on the wheel. But he could have a gun on the seat."

"Right," Garth said evenly as he glanced in the side mirror. "I'm tracking him now. Buckle up, everybody, and hang on. If he comes alongside, I'm going to try to cut him off or ram him. If he does have a gun on the seat, we can't risk letting him get close enough to have a clear shot at us."

"Check," Veil replied calmly. "Get ready to do it now. I think he just put the pedal to the floor."

"I've got him."

I watched through the left side window in the back as the hood of the green Saab appeared, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Garth's fingers tighten on the steering wheel as he prepared to sideswipe the other car. A second later the features of the other driver came into view-pale brown hair and eyes, angular face, wispy moustache. "Hold it, Garth!" I said, grabbing my brother's shoulder. "It's Duane Insolers, the designated big mouth from the CIA."

Garth's fingers remained clenched on the wheel. "Is that supposed to make me feel better, Mongo? Fuck him. He's outta' here."

"No! If he was going to fire on us, he could have done it by now. He's got a clear shot, and the agency probably would have issued him a bazooka if that's what he wanted. He's looking to talk. It can't hurt to hear what he has to say."

Garth tilted his head back slightly. "Veil?"

"All right, we'll have a parley. I'll keep an eye on him; one bad move, I'll stick a knife in his throat."

"Okay," Garth said as he eased the car over to the hard-packed dirt on the shoulder of the highway and braked to a stop.

Veil immediately got out of the car, walked around the rear, and stood close by the window on Harper's side. Both of his hands were hanging at his sides and appeared empty, but I didn't have to see it to know that he had palmed the knife and was holding it ready. We had practiced together a few times, and I knew Veil could plant a throwing knife in the center of a target faster than most people could fire a gun.

The green Saab rattled to a halt just ahead of us, and Insolers got out. He saw Veil, unbuttoned his tweed overcoat, and held it open to show that he wasn't carrying a gun in his belt or a shoulder holster. Then he came forward, ignoring Veil. Veil didn't ignore him. As the CIA operative came up to the car, Veil stepped up to him, abruptly grabbed one of his arms, and twisted it around behind his back, forcing him down over the hood of the car. With his free hand Veil patted him down, searched through his pockets. As Veil proceeded with his business, Insolers looked up and shot me a pained look. I turned my head and looked to my left, out the window on Garth's side. The dark shapes on the horizon had disappeared once again.

"He's clean," Veil announced, speaking to Garth. He and my brother hadn't been kidding when they'd told me I was to be "handled." I was being virtually ignored when it came to security matters.

Garth nodded. Veil released Insolers' arm. I rolled down my window as Insolers straightened his overcoat, then walked up to my door and leaned down close to the window. Immediately, I was aware of the strong medicinal smell the man exuded.

"We have to talk, Frederickson."

"So talk."

"Come to my car."

"You join us. There's plenty of room."

"I have to talk to you alone."

"The fellow standing right behind you is Veil Kendry. This is my brother, Garth, and my friend, Harper Rhys-Whitney.

They're handling me, Insolers, and I just don't think I'd be permitted to accompany you alone to your car. We're all in this together."

Insolers shook his head impatiently as he nervously tugged on the ends of his moustache. "You have absolutely no idea what it is you're getting into."

"Insolers, if you've got something to tell me, why don't you just come out and say it? We're just a little conspicuous standing here at the side of the road."

"Either get in the car, pal," Garth said tersely, "or get the hell out of the way." He didn't bother even looking at Insolers. "Decide right now."

Insolers cursed softly, then abruptly opened the rear door and slid onto the seat next to Harper, who wrinkled her nose slightly and moved away from him. Veil remained on watch outside the car.

"You can't go where you want to go, Frederickson," Insolers said with quiet urgency.

"How do you know where we're going? Maybe we're just out for a ride, enjoying the Swiss scenery."

"You're going to the castle in Geneve."

"Bingo. What are we going to find there?"

"Nothing of any use to you. But you can't go."

"But we are going. If you didn't want me to eventually wind up at Countess Jan Rawlings' castle, why did you mention R. Edgar Blake and the 'countess' in the first place? You dropped quite a few clues and dollops of information on me the other day in my hotel room. Why? Incidentally, you should be warned that these are trick questions, because I already know the answers. But I wouldn't mind having you fill us in on certain details."

Insolers pressed one hand over his eyes. When he took the hand away, he was wearing another pained expression. "It was just a mistake, Frederickson. A miscalculation. I thought you already knew much more than you did."

"Bong. Wrong answer. Spooks like you who work the field, and there are damn few of you left, don't rise to your level by giving out information to people you think already know it. Are you kidding me? I couldn't get you to shut your mouth."

Insolers' expression grew even more pained. "It's the truth. I couldn't believe you were being honest with me about your reason for coming to Switzerland. It was very important for me to find out who your real employer might be and what your real goals were. At the time I thought we might have common interests, and I didn't want us working at cross-purposes."

"Nope. Wrong answer again. I can see I'm going to have to prompt you. You see, if I'd met you six months from now in some bar in New York and you told me that story, I'd have no reason to doubt you. However, the fact that you are now sitting in the back of this car proves that you have gone to considerable trouble, and probably gone without much sleep, all in order to keep track of my movements and everybody I've talked to since you talked to me. You've obviously been very curious about what I might find out. Now, what does that tell me?"

"You shouldn't take my presence in the back seat of your car so lightly, Frederickson. What it should tell you is that if I can follow you, so can other people."

"That's been true all along. But now, suddenly, you want to call the game off, and that I'd really appreciate having you explain to me. It was after I'd finally convinced you I was really acting as nothing more than a gofer for Neuberger that you started name-dropping in earnest. You primed me just to see what I would do and what I might find out on my own. You've been trying to run me, Insolers, get me to do something for you that you couldn't do yourself. What? What do you possibly think I can find out that you don't already know, for Christ's sake? And why, all of a sudden, do you want me to stop?"

I had been turned around, talking to Insolers through the space between the two bucket seats in front. Now Insolers leaned forward so that his face was very close to mine.

"You've got it all wrong, Frederickson. You've cooked up a fantasy with teeth that could get you all killed."

"Why don't you just say why it is you don't want us to go to Blake's castle to meet the countess?"

Insolers sighed, again tugged at his moustache. He glanced out the side window, as if gathering his thoughts, then looked back at me. "The countess isn't going to talk to you, Frederickson.

I guarantee you that. The countess isn't even a countess. She's just part of a very elaborate cover for a very large and very secret CIA operation."

"Aha. Now we're getting someplace. Did R. Edgar Blake work for the CIA?"

Insolers' laugh had no trace of humor in it. "Hardly. But, as you may already know, he ran his own intelligence-gathering business. It was sort of like a hobby with him, and he was pretty good at it. He had his own company satellites, good economic analysts, and great contacts in business and industry all around the world. Among other things, he housed a multimillion-dollar complex of computer gear in that castle, and he kept elaborate files on all sorts of things, including lots of sensitive information about the many government intelligence agencies he routinely did business with. The CIA often used him as an asset, buying information we didn't have, or sometimes just to verify something we suspected, like crop failure in the Soviet Union. He also did business with the KGB. He was often a useful go-between.

"We were perfectly happy with the arrangement until one day Blake decided to switch from passive information gathering to go into actual operations. He owned a company in Texas that manufactured a drug called gluteathin, or GTN. The drug-" Insolers paused when he saw Garth and me exchange glances. "You already know about this?"

"Just tell your story, Insolers," I said. "So far, you haven't touched on the points that interest me most-why you've been trying to run me, and why you now want me to stop."

"Just listen, Frederickson. Gluteathin is an extremely powerful hypnotic drug used for treating schizophrenia and severe delusional psychoses. It puts a normal person into a deep, drug-induced trance in which the subject is highly suggestible, and the person can be made to forget anything he said or did while he was in the trance. Blake's researchers also came up with a little sweetener that they added to the mix-a chemical compound that amplifies strength, like a continuous surge of adrenaline. Blake figured he had the makings of a pretty good weapons system that was cheap to produce and could bring in enormous profits."

Garth and I looked at each other, and I could see we were both thinking the same thing. "Assassins," my brother said tersely. "Drug a man, plant a target in his mind, and then send him off like a guided missile."

"Or a human lobox," Harper said, horror in her voice.

Insolers' brows knitted. "A human what?"

I said, "Never mind. Blake's people used this drug, gluteathin, to program assassins, right?"

Insolers nodded. "Throwaway assassins. He got his subjects from a phony psychological research program he'd set up at a college in New York he owned. Supposedly, the project's purpose was to study the long-term physical and psychological effects of prison on long-term ex-convicts. The subjects were paid, so Blake got a lot of client referrals from social workers and ex-convict self-help programs. In fact, what he was looking for was a specific psychological profile in men with sociopathic personalities, murderers who would not subconsciously resist a suggestion to kill again. When he'd find a suitable subject, he'd pluck that person out of the research project by feeding him a bullshit story about being selected for a special rehabilitation project. The man would be given an easy job with good pay, under an assumed name, in one of Blake's companies around the world. Naturally, the subject thought he'd died and gone to heaven. But, to use your brother's analogy, he was in reality nothing more than a guided missile, sitting in its silo, waiting to be programmed and fired. When Blake would find a suitable customer who wanted somebody killed, and who was willing to pay a high fee, Blake would take one of the subjects he had in reserve, drug him with gluteathin, hypnotize him, then prime him to kill the selected target. Experts will tell you that anyone at all can be assassinated, just as long as the assassin doesn't mind dying himself; all it takes is someone willing to drive a truckload of dynamite or strap a bomb around his waist. You need a kamikaze. Well, all of these subjects were unwitting kamikazes; drugged and hypnotized, they would walk right up to a victim in broad daylight to put a knife in his heart or a bullet in the brain. If the subject was captured, he would reveal nothing, because he would not remember anything. He would not recall his reasons for wanting the victim dead, because he would have had no reasons. He would not recall working for Blake, and there would be no record of his employment, since he had been working under an assumed name. However, few subjects were ever captured, since they'd been programmed to kill themselves after they'd killed their victim. The police would naturally assume the assassination was merely the work of a crazed killer. If an autopsy was performed on the subject, a pathologist would have to know exactly what to look for in order to find any traces of the gluteathin and strength amplifier. A simple idea, really, given the right human and chemical materials, and very effective."

"Indeed," I said. "It sounds like the kind of program the CIA could learn to love."

"I won't deny it interested us, or that some people wished that we'd come up with the whole program ourselves. But there was no way the agency would have bought one of those zombie assassins from Blake; he already had a lot of bad stuff on us in his files, and we weren't about to put ourselves in a position to be further compromised by him. His real problem with us began when his clients started using those assassins to eliminate some of our favored clients. He allowed that to happen once too often, and Langley decided to put him out of business."

"The bodyguard who killed him was a CIA operative?"

Insolers raised his pale brown eyebrows slightly. "My, my, you are well informed."

"I only know what my brother reads in the newspapers. Was the bodyguard your operative?"

"No. You could describe him as an acquired asset. He was a man by the name of Tommy Wing, psychotic, long-term ex-convict originally referred to the research project by his parole officer. Tommy turned out to be so off-the-wall that Blake couldn't resist putting him to work full-time as a combination chief bodyguard, executive of sorts, and exotic house pet. In prison he'd acquired the nickname 'Hammerhead,' because he was a biter; in a fight, he'd use his teeth the way other men would use a shiv. Blake put him in nominal charge of keeping an eye on all his potential assassins. When it was decided that it was time for Blake to retire, it was arranged for Mr. Wing to be snatched for a few hours while he was in this country on one of his supervisory trips. He was shot up with gluteathin, programmed to kill Blake, and then sent on his way to Geneva. First chance he got, he tore out Blake's jugular with his teeth."

"That little tidbit wasn't in the obituaries," Garth said drily.

"We got to Blake's personal and corporate records before anyone else, including his lawyers. We did some fancy legal-illegal, actually-footwork, called in some specialists from other intelligence organizations who were in a position to be helpful and who had reasons of their own to cooperate, used the information in Blake's files to apply pressure on those who didn't wish to cooperate, and took over the whole kit and caboodle. The CIA now effectively controls all of the wealth and other assets that once belonged to one of the world's richest men. This is a CIA operation that not even the President of the United States, much less any congressional oversight committee, knows a damn thing about. It put us in a position to finance off-the-shelf operations until doomsday, but we needed a cover. Jan Rawlings was it. The papers reported that she was a social worker, but that's not true. She was a secretary for a company in New York that was in reality a CIA asset, and she was extremely loyal. We cooked up a lot of stuff showing that she had been Blake's mistress for years, and our team of specialists cooked up a will that left her everything. I was one of a number of operatives involved in the operation, so I'll have a lot of company in prison if any of this ever gets out."

"Yeah, yeah," I said impatiently. "It sounds really neat, Insolers, but before the Swiss Highway Patrol shows up, would you mind telling us what any of this has to do with John Sinclair?"

"Absolutely nothing," Insolers said forcefully. "There's no connection between what I just told you and John Sinclair. Nada. But what I have just described to you is the most effective and valuable ongoing CIA operation ever mounted, and you are going to make some very powerful and extremely dangerous people very dyspeptic if you go knocking on the door of that castle and start asking questions of any sort. Now, I'm not saying they'll kill you, but I'm also not saying they won't. As for me, my ass will be mulch, and I'll be extremely fortunate if all I lose is my pension. I happen to like my job, and my health is reasonably good; I'd like to keep both-which is why I do not want you going to that castle."

"Look, Insolers, why-?"

"Why did I mention Blake and the countess in the first place? It was a mistake. I was very much focused on John Sinclair, and I thought you might be plugged into something; there are lots of rumors in the agency that you and your brother here are wired into all sorts of things, know some top secrets. We know you're personal friends with Mr. Lippitt, the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency, and we suspect you're on more than good speaking terms with the President; some of our people actually think the two of you know things that could get Kevin Shannon impeached and put the whole administration out of business. I really did think you might already know about R. Edgar Blake and our countess, because we have reason to believe Mr. Lippitt knows. More important, I thought you might know about Cooked Goose and how it might be connected to Sinclair. I desperately wanted that information. I thought that by mentioning Blake and the countess to you, it would indicate I could be trusted. That's all, Frederickson. Obviously, I seriously miscalculated, and I suppose you could accuse me of underestimating you. I never dreamed you'd go to the lengths you have to dig into these things, and now you're going way off the tracks. It's the truth, Frederickson. I swear it."

I turned to Garth, who had been studying Insolers intently. "The man swears he's telling the truth, brother. What do you say?"

"He's very good, Mongo," Garth replied evenly. "Also very hidden."

"It's his job to be hidden. What are you reading?"

"Mixed signals. He's giving us a combination of lies and truth, but I can't tell which is which. I think he's hiding something very important."

I turned my attention back to the CIA operative with the medicinal smell. "So there you have it. What very important thing are you hiding, Duane?"

Insolers, looking thoroughly nonplussed, jerked his thumb in Garth's direction. His face darkened. "Who the fuck is he, Frederickson? Mr. Polygraph?"

"Something like that, Insolers," I replied mildly, "and you just flunked the test. I've got no more time to hang around here, but it was nice chatting with you."

"Get out, pal," Garth said in the kind of low, flat voice I recognized all too well as a danger signal to whoever it was he might be speaking to. "The powwow's finished."

Insolers' next move was snake-quick, fluid, obviously much-practiced. Veil had searched the man thoroughly, but he would have needed a microscope and a few hours to find the weapon the man was carrying. Insolers plucked at the sleeve of his overcoat, and instantly two of the horn buttons popped off to become finger grips for a piano-wire garotte which was placed around my neck, pressed against my jugular. One good tug on the wire, and my head was going to land in my lap.

"Everybody just stay still!" Insolers snapped as Harper cried out and Garth started to raise his hands. "And you outside! Just stay there, and back off! If I even catch a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye, Frederickson dies. Don't think I'm bluffing."

"If he dies, you die a second later," Garth said, his voice a deadly whisper.

"Big deal. Will that help comfort you at his funeral, big brother? I'm tired of fucking around with you people. We're going to the airport, and you're all going home."

I swallowed hard, trying to work up some moisture in my mouth, and I felt the piano wire press even harder against my flesh as my Adam's apple bounced up and down. "I'm not even supposed to leave Zurich, Insolers, much less the country. The police have my passport."

"Don't worry about it, Frederickson. Your passport and everybody's luggage will be brought to the airport, which is where big brother is going to take us right now. Turn on the engine and head us back, big brother."

"You've got it, Insolers," Garth said. "I'll do what you say. Let's get our friend in here first."

"Leave him. I'll send someone to pick him up, and he'll be on the next flight to New York after yours. Turn the engine on, big brother, or your brother's neck is going to spring a leak."

As Garth reached for the ignition key, I kicked out with my left foot. The toe of my shoe hit the key, breaking it off in the lock. I winced, wondering what it would feel like to have my jugular sliced like a slab of cheese. Nothing happened; the pressure of the wire on my skin increased slightly, but the steel didn't break the skin.

"You must be insane, Frederickson," Insolers said, an almost comic note of incredulity in his voice.

"Yeah, well, I'm also very impulsive," I replied in a croaking whisper, "and my impulses tell me that the people who are trying to kill me won't stop just because you've put me on a flight to New York. I'll be just as dead with a bullet in my brain as-" I stopped speaking when I caught Harper's reflection in the rearview mirror as, ashen and grim-faced, she moved across the seat toward Insolers. "Don't kill him, Harper!" I added quickly.

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than Insolers grunted in surprise and started. The sudden move caused the wire to bite into my flesh, and I could feel a ring of blood begin to ooze down my neck. The pressure was released almost immediately, but the damage had already been done.

Harper's low-pitched, husky voice didn't quaver as she spoke to Insolers. "Before you put any more pressure on that wire, mister, let me tell you what you feel in your crotch. It's a little wooden box, and inside is a tiny little snake called a krait. It's what I use instead of Mace for solving personal problems of this nature. In Africa they call it the hundred-foot snake, because that's about as far as a man can stagger after he's been bitten by one. One flick of my finger and the lid comes off. The snake will strike immediately, and it's not a pleasant way to die. Take the wire away from Robby's neck. Do it right now."

Garth said, "You don't have to worry about suffering too long, Insolers, because I'll snap your fucking neck about one second after you tug on that wire."

The combination of a poisonous snake pressed to my groin and Garth glowering in my face certainly would have given me pause, and I liked to think that Insolers at least looked a bit pale at the moment, but I had to give the man credit for nerve; I would certainly have been the first to know if his hands started to shake, but they didn't, and his voice was steady when he spoke.

"If you kill me, so be it, but this man is also dead. I am going to kill him if you don't do what I say. If you think about it, you'll realize that it makes no sense for you to gamble with his life when all I'm asking you to do is drive to the airport. Now get the car started, big brother. Cross the wires."

I heard the sound of glass exploding behind me, to my right, and Garth's hands instantly came up, grabbing both of Insolers' wrists and pulling them forward. The wire came away from my neck. I gasped, put my hands to my throat, and twisted around in my seat. Veil's arm was protruding through the right rear window, and his hand was gripping Insolers' throat just under the chin, forcing the man's head back. In another moment Insolers' windpipe would be crushed, his neck broken, or both.

I gagged, held up my hands. "Don't. . don't kill him," I managed to say in a hoarse whisper.

Without loosening his grip on Insolers' throat, Veil ducked down so that he could look at me through the broken window. "Why the hell not?" he asked in a casual tone.

Garth said, "An excellent question, Mongo. Why the hell not?"

I took my hands away from my throat, saw that they were covered with blood. "Two reasons. First, we know he's been lying to us, but we're not sure what the lies are. We don't know what's up ahead of us in that castle, and Insolers could prove to be a useful bargaining chip-but only if he's alive. Second, we still don't know why he tried to run me, or what his game really is. He may yet get around to telling us the whole truth, and it could prove to be information we'll need."

"Whatever you say, Mongo," Veil said in the same casual tone, and cocked his wrist slightly before removing his hand from Insolers' throat.

The CIA operative went limp. A tremor shook his body, and then he was still, slumped in the back seat, his head in Harper's lap. For a moment I thought Veil had gone ahead and killed him anyway, but then I noticed that he was still breathing.

"He'll be napping for a while," Veil continued. "Shall we tie him up?"

Garth, who was examining my neck as he gently wiped away blood with a clean handkerchief, nodded. "We'll use his car, put him in the trunk. Mongo, it's with mixed emotions that I announce my suspicion that you're going to live. The slice is messy, but not deep, if it leaves a scar, it could be a hot topic of conversation at cocktail parties."

Harper got out of the car, opened the door on the driver's side, and none too gently pulled Garth away from me. "You tend to Insolers," she said, her tone leaving no doubt that she was unamused, "and I'll take care of Robby. I suppose you'd have thought it was really funny if that wire had slit his throat. Give me Insolers' shirt, and I'll see if I can't make a bandage and scarf out of it."

Garth raised his eyebrows in mock alarm, then winked at me before getting out and going around to the other side of the car to help Veil with Insolers. Harper slid onto the seat next to me, kissed me very hard and passionately, then resumed the job of gently wiping away blood until the bleeding finally stopped. I sighed, rested my head against Harper's ample bosom as I was fitted for a bandage and ascot.