possible.”
“That would be our preference,” Claire said, “but we understand fully, ma’am, that you have things to do that can only be done in New York.”
“Quite right,” Holly replied, shooting a sidewise glance at Stone. “You’ll be happy to know that, after my shopping spree, I’ll be doing all my fittings and further appointments here in Stone’s house. He’s kindly provided a large room upstairs where those can take place.”
Bill let out a deep breath. “That was a sigh of relief, ma’am,” he said. “I think it would be best if they not enter the house through the front door or the office entrance. We would prefer to meet them at the rear gate to the gardens, on Second Avenue. We have someone there.”
“A good move,” Stone said.
“Some of these people, like Ralph Lauren, are VIPs in their own right, and I’d prefer it if they could enter and leave through the garage.”
“A touch of the cloak-and-dagger,” Stone said. “They’ll like that. But please let them know not to arrive in stretch limos; that would strain our facilities, not to mention our garage doors.”
“I’ll see to it,” Bill said.
The two agents tossed off the remainder of their drinks and excused themselves.
16
Colonel Wade Sykes sat in a rear treatment room at a veterinarian’s office a few miles from his base and watched the DVM inject a man’s left arm with lidocaine, then flush the wound, and after testing for numbness, used a probe to locate the bullet. When he had done so, he used another tool to extract it and dropped it into a steel tray. He flushed the wound again and applied a coagulant, then trimmed the edges, stitched it closed, and bandaged it. “Okay, you can sit up now or, if you’re feeling ill, just lie there for a few minutes.”
“He doesn’t feel ill,” Sykes said. “Let’s go, kid. We’ve got to get out of here before daylight comes.” He handed the DVM ten folded hundreds. “It was our lucky day, Doc, when you grabbed that nurse’s ass and got drummed out of med school for your trouble.”
“Maybe my lucky day, too. My work here is easier, and my patients don’t complain. Let this guy rest for twenty-four hours, Colonel, before you put him in harm’s way again.” He gave the man another injection of something, then handed him an unmarked bottle of pills. “One, twice a day, until they’re all gone.”
“Is there a painkiller in there?” the colonel asked.
“There is not. I know your policy on pain. Those are an antibiotic. You don’t want the trouble of an infected patient.”
“He’s going to get back on that pony pretty soon,” Sykes shot back, slapping the young man on the back and causing him to wince. “C’mon, boy.” He led the man outside and put him in the rear seat of his pickup, then drove off toward home.
Once there, he put the man on a bed in the bunkhouse, threw a blanket over him, and went home for dinner. His cook, an older black man named Elroy, a fine practitioner of the old Southern school, set down a plate filled with a fried chicken breast, collard greens, and creamed corn. A plate of biscuits followed, then he poured a glass of a wine his boss had already chosen. Two of Sykes’s men and a young woman called Bess were waiting for him.
“How’s he doing?” the woman asked.
“We don’t discuss business at table,” Sykes replied, rolling his eyes toward Elroy. They all continued eating in silence. When they were done they left the dirty dishes for Elroy, then adjourned to the living room, where Sykes poured everyone a brandy.
“Sorry about that, Colonel,” Bess said. “I thought you trusted Elroy.”
“I’m alive because there exists only a very short list of those I find trustworthy. Elroy’s not very bright, and obviously he’s . . . not one of us. Who knows what hatreds he harbors?”
“Quite right,” she said. “Now, how is the boy?”
“He’s asleep. The doctor gave him something, I think, and his wound
“That would be our preference,” Claire said, “but we understand fully, ma’am, that you have things to do that can only be done in New York.”
“Quite right,” Holly replied, shooting a sidewise glance at Stone. “You’ll be happy to know that, after my shopping spree, I’ll be doing all my fittings and further appointments here in Stone’s house. He’s kindly provided a large room upstairs where those can take place.”
Bill let out a deep breath. “That was a sigh of relief, ma’am,” he said. “I think it would be best if they not enter the house through the front door or the office entrance. We would prefer to meet them at the rear gate to the gardens, on Second Avenue. We have someone there.”
“A good move,” Stone said.
“Some of these people, like Ralph Lauren, are VIPs in their own right, and I’d prefer it if they could enter and leave through the garage.”
“A touch of the cloak-and-dagger,” Stone said. “They’ll like that. But please let them know not to arrive in stretch limos; that would strain our facilities, not to mention our garage doors.”
“I’ll see to it,” Bill said.
The two agents tossed off the remainder of their drinks and excused themselves.
16
Colonel Wade Sykes sat in a rear treatment room at a veterinarian’s office a few miles from his base and watched the DVM inject a man’s left arm with lidocaine, then flush the wound, and after testing for numbness, used a probe to locate the bullet. When he had done so, he used another tool to extract it and dropped it into a steel tray. He flushed the wound again and applied a coagulant, then trimmed the edges, stitched it closed, and bandaged it. “Okay, you can sit up now or, if you’re feeling ill, just lie there for a few minutes.”
“He doesn’t feel ill,” Sykes said. “Let’s go, kid. We’ve got to get out of here before daylight comes.” He handed the DVM ten folded hundreds. “It was our lucky day, Doc, when you grabbed that nurse’s ass and got drummed out of med school for your trouble.”
“Maybe my lucky day, too. My work here is easier, and my patients don’t complain. Let this guy rest for twenty-four hours, Colonel, before you put him in harm’s way again.” He gave the man another injection of something, then handed him an unmarked bottle of pills. “One, twice a day, until they’re all gone.”
“Is there a painkiller in there?” the colonel asked.
“There is not. I know your policy on pain. Those are an antibiotic. You don’t want the trouble of an infected patient.”
“He’s going to get back on that pony pretty soon,” Sykes shot back, slapping the young man on the back and causing him to wince. “C’mon, boy.” He led the man outside and put him in the rear seat of his pickup, then drove off toward home.
Once there, he put the man on a bed in the bunkhouse, threw a blanket over him, and went home for dinner. His cook, an older black man named Elroy, a fine practitioner of the old Southern school, set down a plate filled with a fried chicken breast, collard greens, and creamed corn. A plate of biscuits followed, then he poured a glass of a wine his boss had already chosen. Two of Sykes’s men and a young woman called Bess were waiting for him.
“How’s he doing?” the woman asked.
“We don’t discuss business at table,” Sykes replied, rolling his eyes toward Elroy. They all continued eating in silence. When they were done they left the dirty dishes for Elroy, then adjourned to the living room, where Sykes poured everyone a brandy.
“Sorry about that, Colonel,” Bess said. “I thought you trusted Elroy.”
“I’m alive because there exists only a very short list of those I find trustworthy. Elroy’s not very bright, and obviously he’s . . . not one of us. Who knows what hatreds he harbors?”
“Quite right,” she said. “Now, how is the boy?”
“He’s asleep. The doctor gave him something, I think, and his wound
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