Read Online The Bible Repairman and Other Stories by Tim Powers - Free Book Online
Authors: Tim Powers
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opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitated, then said, “Call Hoag Hospital. We’ve got to get Lyle back here right now, not later today.”
Scarbee turned around to face the desk. “That’s earlier than we said. His doctors won’t –”
“Keep watching Hollis!” When Scarbee turned back to the window, Evian said, “They’ll go along if Lyle insists. I’m sure that’s what happens. Tell him we’ll give his family more money. Double.”
“I hope they’ve got an ambulance free, to drive all the way here from Newport. Now he’s putting his helmet back on. Hollis, down there.”
Evian hit a button on the intercom. “You guys see the biker out front?” he asked.
“We see him,” came a woman’s voice from the speaker.
Scarbee said, “I think he’s trying to start his motorcycle. It looks like he’s jumping on it.”
“Get him inside,” said Evian, “polite if possible.” He released the button.
A moment later Scarbee said, “Couple of security guys, running out. And – huh! I think they just stun-gunned him. Now they’re walking him back in, but I think he’s unconscious. His motorcycle fell over.”
“Not very polite.” Evian stood up and ran his fingers through his graying hair. “Now I guess we all talk to Hollis. I swear this wasn’t in the goddamn schedule! Get him into the conference room – and remind them to be sure the area of measurement is locked. And get somebody to prop his silly motorcycle up again.”
Kurt Hollis was still shaky and nauseated, but he sat back and sighed when the bald man slid a bowl of M&Ms across the table toward him. Hollis looked past the four people on the other side of the table at the windows high in the white cinder-block wall, then glanced at the two men standing by the door behind him.
At last he focused on the four people sitting across from him. Two of them he had seen a few minutes ago in the parking lot – the dark-haired young woman in a lumberjack shirt with the sleeves rolled back, and the blond man in a silver-fabric windbreaker. All the other men were in jackets and ties.
The bald man waved at the M&Ms. “The electric shock made your muscles go into rapid spasms,” he said. “All your blood sugar was converted to lactic acid.”
Hollis stared at him, and the bald man looked at the ceiling, apparently reconsidering what he had said. “You should eat these … candies,” he said finally.
“Cigarettes,” said Hollis. It was the first time he had spoken in several days, and his voice was hoarse. He spread his hand, then slowly reached into his damp brown leather jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels and hooked a Bic lighter out of one side of it.
“Smoking!” said the bald man. “No, you can’t use those in here.” Hollis let go of the cigarette pack and the lighter. “You’ve mistaken me for somebody,” he said. “Check it out. Let me go and this whole thing is just my word against yours.”
The blond man in the silver windbreaker leaned forward. “You are Kurt Hollis,” he said, “fifty-one years old, apartment on 16th Street in Santa Ana.”
The gray-haired man beside him shifted in his chair and said, “We think you recognized Felise here.” He waved at the young lady. Hollis stared at her. Fluorescent lights in the ceiling were bright enough for him to see her clearly against the muted gray daylight from the windows.
“No,” he said. “And I don’t know anybody named Felise. I’m Kurt Hollis, but you’ve got crossed wires somewhere.” He rubbed his eyes, then dropped his hands to the tabletop and tucked the lighter back into the cigarette pack. “I’m going to walk out of here,” he said, shifting his chair back on the carpet. “Where’d you put my helmet?”
Felise reached out and took a handful of the M&Ms. “You can’t possibly eat all of them,” she said, and her voice was light and amused.
And Hollis recognized her.
“Liquor,” he said, and reached into his jacket again,
Scarbee turned around to face the desk. “That’s earlier than we said. His doctors won’t –”
“Keep watching Hollis!” When Scarbee turned back to the window, Evian said, “They’ll go along if Lyle insists. I’m sure that’s what happens. Tell him we’ll give his family more money. Double.”
“I hope they’ve got an ambulance free, to drive all the way here from Newport. Now he’s putting his helmet back on. Hollis, down there.”
Evian hit a button on the intercom. “You guys see the biker out front?” he asked.
“We see him,” came a woman’s voice from the speaker.
Scarbee said, “I think he’s trying to start his motorcycle. It looks like he’s jumping on it.”
“Get him inside,” said Evian, “polite if possible.” He released the button.
A moment later Scarbee said, “Couple of security guys, running out. And – huh! I think they just stun-gunned him. Now they’re walking him back in, but I think he’s unconscious. His motorcycle fell over.”
“Not very polite.” Evian stood up and ran his fingers through his graying hair. “Now I guess we all talk to Hollis. I swear this wasn’t in the goddamn schedule! Get him into the conference room – and remind them to be sure the area of measurement is locked. And get somebody to prop his silly motorcycle up again.”
Kurt Hollis was still shaky and nauseated, but he sat back and sighed when the bald man slid a bowl of M&Ms across the table toward him. Hollis looked past the four people on the other side of the table at the windows high in the white cinder-block wall, then glanced at the two men standing by the door behind him.
At last he focused on the four people sitting across from him. Two of them he had seen a few minutes ago in the parking lot – the dark-haired young woman in a lumberjack shirt with the sleeves rolled back, and the blond man in a silver-fabric windbreaker. All the other men were in jackets and ties.
The bald man waved at the M&Ms. “The electric shock made your muscles go into rapid spasms,” he said. “All your blood sugar was converted to lactic acid.”
Hollis stared at him, and the bald man looked at the ceiling, apparently reconsidering what he had said. “You should eat these … candies,” he said finally.
“Cigarettes,” said Hollis. It was the first time he had spoken in several days, and his voice was hoarse. He spread his hand, then slowly reached into his damp brown leather jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels and hooked a Bic lighter out of one side of it.
“Smoking!” said the bald man. “No, you can’t use those in here.” Hollis let go of the cigarette pack and the lighter. “You’ve mistaken me for somebody,” he said. “Check it out. Let me go and this whole thing is just my word against yours.”
The blond man in the silver windbreaker leaned forward. “You are Kurt Hollis,” he said, “fifty-one years old, apartment on 16th Street in Santa Ana.”
The gray-haired man beside him shifted in his chair and said, “We think you recognized Felise here.” He waved at the young lady. Hollis stared at her. Fluorescent lights in the ceiling were bright enough for him to see her clearly against the muted gray daylight from the windows.
“No,” he said. “And I don’t know anybody named Felise. I’m Kurt Hollis, but you’ve got crossed wires somewhere.” He rubbed his eyes, then dropped his hands to the tabletop and tucked the lighter back into the cigarette pack. “I’m going to walk out of here,” he said, shifting his chair back on the carpet. “Where’d you put my helmet?”
Felise reached out and took a handful of the M&Ms. “You can’t possibly eat all of them,” she said, and her voice was light and amused.
And Hollis recognized her.
“Liquor,” he said, and reached into his jacket again,
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