Covet

Chapter 7

When Jim came out of the bathroom, diPietro was gone and a nurse with a lot to say had taken his place. While she went on about…shit, whatever the hell it was…Jim focused over her shoulder in hopes of cutting short the tirade.

“Are you done?” he asked when she took more than a single breath.

Crossing her arms over her large bosom, she looked at him like she was hoping she'd be the one to put his catheter back in. “I'm going to call the doctor.”

“Well, good for you, but it's not going to change my mind.” He glanced around, figuring the private room he'd gotten was diPietro's influence. “What happened to my things?”

“Sir, you were nonresponsive up until about fifteen minutes ago, and you were dead when they brought you in. So before you take off like you had the common cold, you should—”

“Clothes. That's really all I'm interested in.”

The nurse stared at him with a kind of hatred, like she was so done with patients giving her lip. “Do you think you're immortal?”

“At least for the time being,” he muttered. “Look, I'm through with arguing. Get me something to wear and tell me where my wallet is, or I'm walking out in this and making the hospital pay for my taxi home.”

“Wait. Here.”

“Not. For. Long.”

As the door eased shut, he paced around, energy burning through him. He'd woken up logy, but that was all gone now. Man, he could remember this feeling, back when he'd been in the service. Once again, he had a goal, and as before, that gave him the power to throw off exhaustion and injury and anyone who threatened to divert him from his target.

Which meant that nurse had better get out of his way.

Not surprisingly, when she came back a couple of minutes later, she brought not one, but three reinforcements. Which was not going to help her. While the doctors formed a circle of rational thinking' around Jim, he just watched their mouths move and their eyebrows go up and down and their elegant hands gesticulate.

As he thought about his new job—because he sure as hell wasn't listening to the MD brigade—he wondered how he was going to know what to do. Yeah, he had a date with diPietro…but then what? And, holy hell, was that girlfriend going to be there?

Talk about “guess who's coming to dinner.”

He focused on the peanut gallery. “I'm done. I'm leaving. Can I have my clothes now, thanks.”

Crickets in the background. Then everyone walked out in a huff, proving that they thought he was stupid, but not mentally compromised—because adults who had their marbles were allowed to make bad choices.

As the door was shutting, Adrian and Eddie stuck their heads in the room. Ad smiled. “So you tossed the white coats out on their asses, huh?”

“Yup.”

The guy chuckled as he and his roommate stepped inside. “Why does this not surprise me—” The whistle-blower nurse barged past them with a pair of hospital scrubs and a large Hawaiian shirt draped over her forearm. Ignoring Eddie and Adrian as if they weren't even there, she tossed the threads onto the bed and presented Jim with a clipboard. “Your things are in that closet and your bill's been taken care of. Sign this. It's a form stating that you are releasing yourself AMA. Against medical advice.”

Jim took the black Bic from her and drew an X on the signature line. The nurse looked down at the mark. “What is that?”

“My signature. An X is legally sufficient. Now will you excuse me?” He untied the neck ribbon on the johnny and let the thing drop from his body.

Full-frontal got her out of the room without further conversation.

As she took off at a dead run, Adrian laughed. “Not much on the words, but you know how to get things done.”

Jim turned around and drew on the scrub bottoms.

“Hell of a tat you got there,” Adrian said softly.

Jim just shrugged and reached for the ugly-ass shirt. The color combination was red and orange on a white background, and he felt like a frickin' Christmas present with the damn thing on.

“She gave you that because she hates you,” Adrian said.

“Or maybe she's just color-blind.” More likely it was the former, though.

Jim went to the closet and found his boots lined up on the bottom and a plastic bag with the St. Francis Hospital seal hanging on a hook. He put his bare feet into his Timberlands and took his jacket out of the bag, covering up the damn shirt. His wallet was still in his coat's inside pocket, and he went through the folds. Everything was there. His fake driver's license, his false social security card, and the VISA debit card that linked to his Evergreen Bank account. Oh, and the seven dollars that was change from his having bought the turkey sandwich and the coffee and the Coke that morning.

Before life had FUBAR'd out big-time.

“Any chance either of you didn't come on a motorcycle?” he asked the roommates. “I need a ride back to the site to pick up my truck.”

Although to get out of here, he'd hop on the back bump of a Harley if he had to.

Adrian grinned and swept a hand through that gorgeous hair of his. “Brought my other wheels. Figured you'd need transport.”

“I'll take a clown car at this point.”

“Give me a little more credit than that.”

The three of them left, and when they passed by the nursing station, no one got in their way, even though all the staff stopped what they were doing and glared.

The trip from St. Francis to diPietro's nascent temple took about twenty minutes in Adrian's Explorer, and he had AC/DC playing the entire time. Which wouldn't have been a problem, except for the fact that the guy sang every word of every song and was never going to be the next American Idol: Fucker wasn't just tone-deaf—he had white-boy rhythm and way too much enthusiasm.

As Eddie stared out the window like he'd turned to stone, Jim cranked the volume even louder in hopes of drowning out the wounded badger behind the wheel.

When they finally turned onto diPietro's dirt drive, the sun had set and the light was draining from the sky, the tree stumps and the raw patches casting sharper shadows because of the angle of illumination. The hacked-up land was utterly stark and unappealing, and contrasted badly with the unrazed opposite shore, but no doubt diPietro was going to replant it with specimen everything.

He was definitely the type who had to have the best.

As they pulled up to the house, Jim's truck was the only one left, and he was ready to jump out at it before the Explorer rolled to a stop. “Thanks for the ride,” he shouted.

“What?” Adrian went for the volume and turned it all the way down. “What you say?”

In the acoustic vacuum, Jim's ears rang like church bells, and he resisted the urge to try to shake the vibration out of his skull by slamming his forehead into the dashboard. “I said, thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.” Adrian nodded at the F-150. “You okay to drive?”

“Yeah.”

After he got out, he and Eddie pounded knuckles, and then he walked over to his truck. As he went, his right hand searched out the pocket of the shirt the hospital had given him. No Marlboros. Damn it. But come on, like coffin nails were going to be a parting gift when you pulled out of St. Francis?

While Adrian and Eddie waited for him, he filled his cigaretteless hand with his keys and unlocked his—

A flash of movement by the back tire caught his eye.

Jim looked down as the dog he'd shared his lunch with limped out from under the security of the transmission system.

“Oh…no.” Jim shook his head. “Listen, I told you…”

There was the sound of a car window going down and then Adrian's voice: “He likes you.”

The mutt did that curled-sit thing and stared up at Jim.

Shit. “That turkey I gave you sucked. You have to know that.”

“If you're hungry, everything tastes good,” Adrian cut in.

Jim glanced over his shoulder. “Why are you still here? No offense.”

Adrian laughed. “None taken. Later.”

The Explorer reversed, its tires crunching over the cold ground, its headlights swinging around and hitting the half-done house before sweeping across the cleared acreage and the river beyond. As the illumination headed off down the lane, Jim's eyes adjusted in the darkness, and the mansion presented itself as a jagged beast, the enclosed first floor its belly, the ragged second story framing its thorned head, the scattered piles of stacked brush and logs the bones of its victims. Its arrival had consumed the peninsula, and the more it gathered strength, the more it would dominate the landscape.

God…you were going to be able to see it for miles in all directions, from land and water and sky. It was a real temple to greed, a monument to everything Vin diPietro had obtained in his life—which made Jim willing to bet that the guy had come from nothing. People who had money inherited old houses this size; they didn't build them.

Man, derailing diPietro from this shit was going to be a hard sell. Very hard. And somehow, the threat of eternal damnation just didn't seem like enough of a motivator. Guy like this wasn't going to believe in life in the hereafter. No fucking way.

As a cold wind rolled across the property, Jim looked back down at the dog.

The thing seemed to be waiting for an invitation. And prepared to sit it out for eternity. “My apartment's a pit,” Jim said as they stared at each other. “About on a level with that sandwich. You come with me and it ain't no lap-of-luxury gig.”

The dog pawed at the air as if a roof and four walls were all it was looking for. “You sure about this?” More with the pawing. “Okay. Fine.”

Jim unlocked the cab's door and bent down to pick up the thing, hoping he'd read the conversation correctly and wasn't going to lose the tip of a finger. All was cool, though. The dog just lifted its butt and gave its body up to the palm that encircled its belly.

“Damn, we need to put some weight on you, boy.”

Jim settled the animal on the passenger seat and got behind the wheel. The truck started up quick, and he turned the blowers off so that the little guy didn't catch a chill.

Flipping his headlights on, he eased the engine into gear and followed the path Adrian and Eddie had forged, turning around and going out the lane. When he got to Route 15IN, he hit the left-hand blinker and—

The dog ducked under his arm and sat in his lap.

Jim glanced down at the animal's boxy head and realized he had nothing to feed the thing. Or himself.

“You want more turkey, dog? I can hit the Citgo on the way home.” The thing wagged not only its tail, but its entire bony butt.

“Okay. That's what we'll do.” Jim hit the gas and eased out of diPietro's driveway, his free hand stroking the dog's back. “Ah, just one thing…any chance you're housebroken?”