Chapter 22
It hurt like the very devil, but Mitch remained stoic while she laid a track of closures along the cut. When she finished with the last one, she assessed her handiwork, then pushed back her chair and went over to the sink to wash her hands.
“They’re holding for now,” she said, “but I don’t recommend you do anything strenuous for the next several days.”
As he pulled on his T-shirt, he grimaced. “I promise I won’t.”
“If it looks like it’s getting infected—”
“I’ve already taken a couple of antibiotic capsules. John keeps a stash here.”
“He keeps a stash?”
“The swamp teems with germs and hazards. There are lots of ways to get sick, debilitated, or dead.”
“Well, I won’t be here long enough to experience any of that.” She finished returning all the first aid supplies to the shopping bag and, after tying a loose knot to close it, handed itto him. “Take this with you and keep it handy. Those closures will need replacing. Don’t forget to use the salve. As soon as I use the bathroom, we can go.”
“Not until I’ve eaten something. You indulged in Roland Malone’s fine cuisine. I didn’t have dinner of any sort, and I’m starving.”
She looked perturbed and ready to argue, but all she said was, “Excuse me,” and went into John and Beth’s bedroom.
As soon as the door closed behind her, he went over to a sideboard attached to the wall. The upper half of it had open shelving loaded with mismatched dishes and glassware. The bottom was formed by three deep drawers. One of them contained another of John’s stashes: a collection of burner phones that had never been used. They were good to have on hand.
He chose one that was fully charged and sent Jim Tucker a text: Anything?
By the time Dylan returned to the kitchen, he was opening a can of soup. “Steak and potato. A whole meal in a can. I’m happy to share,” he said as he emptied the contents into a saucepan and turned on the stove.
“No thank you.”
“Something to drink?”
“Water’s fine.” She picked up the bottle she’d left on the table and took a drink. “Isn’t that John Bowie in the picture on the nightstand in the bedroom?”
“With the tall, lanky girl? That’s John and his daughter from his first marriage. Molly. That picture was taken about eight years ago. Out of high school, she got a scholarship to a ritzy art school in Manhattan. She’s up there now.”
“Do they have a good relationship?”
He scoffed. “They’d walk through fire for each other. Fortunately, she doesn’t mind sharing him with Beth. She and Molly took to each other from the start.”
While explaining that, the soup had heated. He took a box of crackers from the pantry, tested one for staleness, and decided they were fresh enough. He ladled soup into a bowl he took from the sideboard, got a spoon from the silverware drawer, and carried everything over to the table. “Sure you don’t want anything besides water?”
“I’m sure.”
He motioned toward the empty chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
“Mitch, I need to get home.”
“Are you just going to hover while I eat?”
She sighed and, with exaggerated annoyance, pulled out the chair. He didn’t sit until she did, then he ate a couple of spoonfuls of soup and a cracker, reached for a napkin in the holder in the center of the table, and wiped his mouth. “What happened down there in Central America?”
Dylan yanked her gaze from the stuffed alligator mounted on the wall. Her posture, her expression, everything about her wenten garde.
He said, “You had just as well talk about it, because I already know what happened.”
“Of course. You looked me up and pieced bits together to form a history.”
“Yeah, but you miss a lot when you’re working with bits. You can overlook key pieces. To a detective, that’s like having a dull toothache that hangs on until those missing pieces come to light and you get the full picture.”
