In comparison, though, Holloway’s home was more subdued: a white clapboard front, colonial-style, with black shutters and a painted-blue door. Holloway’s butler was already out on the front step by the time Ames managed to coax the vintage car up his drive and put it in park.
Ames ran up the gravel to talk to the butler, explaining the situation far better than Dara could have right now, no doubt. He and Leo carried Noam between them, up the steps and into Holloway’s wood-floored foyer. Holloway himself met them in the sitting room, sweeping newspapers off a chaise so they could set Noam down.
“He needs a healer,” said Holloway, crouched down on the floor with one pale hand gripping the corner of the seat cushion. “This doesn’t look good. Can I ask what happened to him?”
“Lehrer happened,” Ames said grimly. She paced back and forth in front of Holloway’s tall windows, arms crossed tight over her chest. “He’ll probably be here any minute, looking for us.”
“I’ll call around for a discreet hotel,” Holloway said, rising to his feet. “For the time being, my personal physician can examine him. He’s well compensated for his discretion.”
Dara and Ames exchanged looks.
“Fine,” Dara said at last, looking back to Holloway. “If he can get here fast.”
“We’re so fucked,” Ames muttered after Holloway had left the room. She was chewing on her thumbnail, all the way down to the quick. “Once Lehrer realizes we aren’t at yours or my dad’s house, this is the next place he’ll check.”
“We shouldn’t move Noam again too quickly,” Leo said. He’d taken a seat on the ottoman, legs bunched up to fit between that and the armchair. “He’s in shock.”
All their gazes swung back round to Noam again, who’d gone the same taupe color as the upholstery beneath him.
For better or for worse, Leo was right.
Holloway returned soon with a sachet of ice and pillows to prop up Noam’s head. The ice went on Noam’s wrist—and his ribs, which were bruised and contorted beneath his skin when they lifted up Noam’s shirt. But that was all they could do until the physician arrived, a thin older man carrying an antique black bag that must have been bigger on the inside, judging from all the equipment he pulled out of it.
The doctor kicked the rest of them out of the sitting room while he worked. Holloway had his cook make up a cheese board for them to snack on as they waited—although for his part all Dara could manage was to peel the leaves off one of the little wild strawberries and swallow hard against his rising nausea. Ames rummaged through Holloway’s cabinets and pulled out a bottle of tequila, stared at it for a solid five minutes, then put it back unopened. They all waited in silence.
The doctor emerged after an hour or so, peeling latex gloves off his hands and dropping them in Holloway’s kitchen trash. He drew Holloway into a separate room—that in itself was enough to make Dara’s heart knot—but Holloway returned quickly enough.
“Noam’s spleen has ruptured. It will probably heal on its own, but for now ... he needs a blood transfusion,” Holloway told them. “Dara, Leo ... are either of you AB negative?”
Leo shook his head. “A positive.”
“I’m O negative,” said Dara.
“Perfect. Do you object to ...?”
Dara dropped his demolished strawberry. “Let’s go.”
Holloway led him back into the front room, where his physician rolled up Dara’s sleeve and tied off the tourniquet, instructing Dara to squeeze his fist tight as he slid the needle in.
Afterward, Dara dropped down into his seat at the kitchen table with the others, a bandage wrapped thrice round his elbow and a low dizziness coursing through his head. He dropped his brow into his hands.
“Should’ve eaten something first,” Ames said archly, and Dara kicked her under the table.
He found Holloway in his study later that night, the room lit only by a single lamp atop Holloway’s desk. Holloway lifted his head when Dara came in—he’d been hunched over some papers on his desk, reading glasses perched on his long nose.
“Did you need something?” Holloway said.
“No. I wanted to say ... thank you.” Dara stood in the center of Holloway’s rug, trying hard not to twist his hands in front of him like a nervous child.
He’d known Holloway since hewasa child, of course, although Dara wasn’t sure he’d ever been nervous. He wasn’t raised to be nervous.
Holloway was elected attorney general when Dara was twelve. He’d been so young when Dara met him—was still young, in truth; had grown a mustache in an effort to look more dignified.
Holloway’s mind had been an interesting place.
“Of course,” Holloway said, drawing off his glasses and setting them aside. “Might I offer you a drink?”
Dara shook his head. “No. Thank you.”
