Between Christmas and the New Year, Nadine called Rainey one morning to beg off coming over to write. She was coming down with something, she told him, and thought she'd keep her germs to herself. Mort spent his first day alone playing hooky -- well, electronic pinball, actually -- and didn't even open the docs for the book. On the second day, he made a few minor changes (with notes of what and why) and noticed there weren't any lights on at her house that evening. On the afternoon of the third day, New Year's Eve, when he still hadn't heard from her, and there was no answer at her house, not even the machine, he got worried enough to go over there.
As soon as he opened the door with the key she'd given him, he knew something was very wrong. The house was almost as cold as the outdoors; the major difference was that it was out of the wind. Then the smell hit him, and he gagged. There was no sign of her downstairs, not in the main room, with its pine-and-tinsel garlands still ringing the walls, or in her demure bedroom. Rainey climbed the stairs to the loft, his heart thundering. (What if, oh God, what if -- ) There was a rasping cough, and he bounded up the last few steps.
Nadine was curled up on the couch, shaking, and from the smell of things, she'd been there for several days without moving. There was a trashcan nearby, stinking of vomit, and the blankets were equally rank. There was a gallon jug of water with an inch or so of liquid at the bottom, a bottle of generic aspirin, an empty tissue box and an old-fashioned glass thermometer on the coffee table.
Rainey automatically picked up the thermometer and read it. It had registered 103.4 -- no telling when that had been, but from her flushed face and fever-bright eyes, he was willing to bet it was still that bad, if not worse. Her breathing sounded terrible -- probably some kind of pneumonia -- and he tried to think of something that might help. A hot shower? Maybe. And a clean bed. If that didn't help, he'd try hauling her into town in the morning. New Year's Eve was no time to go near a hospital, unless you were bleeding from a major artery.
Mort hurried downstairs to throw the switch on the electric hot water heater, glad he'd remembered that detail before he got her into the bath. There were clean towels. He cased her bedroom quickly -- her bed was already made, and he swiftly found a warm fleece nightgown to change her into afterward. His last act was to crank the thermostat on the climate control, setting it for 80 degrees without a qualm.
Heading back to the loft, he got Nadine peeled out of the soiled bedding and tried to get her down the stairs without breaking both their necks on the staircase. It wasn't easy. She was almost as tall as he was, and not delicately built.
It wasn't until he wrestled her filthy clothes off that she began to struggle in earnest. "No! Leroy, stop!" She sounded fretful, the pitch of someone who's said the same words again and again.
"I'm not Leroy. Come on, Nadine, you need a shower. You'll feel better," Rainey coaxed. He'd have to get in there with her, he realized. She was barely upright. (Well, it's not like she hasn't seen it before, and I don't think she was too impressed. Besides, she's in no condition to make a pass....)
That rationalized, Rainey stripped down to nothing and started the shower. When he reached for Nadine, she snapped. "Leroy!" she screamed, pushing him away so violently that he rebounded against the far wall. "No! How many times do I have to kill you?" Mort froze. He couldn't have heard that right. Surely, what she'd said was, "How many times do I have to TELL you?"
Looking at her, face distorted with rage, eyes shining with fever, Rainey felt a pang of uncertainty. Right now, Nadine appeared more than capable of killing someone. He had his back to the wall, disbelief and horror warring within him as he stared at her.
Another spasm of coughing doubled her up, and Mort had a strange sensation of double vision. "Miss Nadine," he heard himself say. "Now, Miss Nadine -- " He walked over to her without ever intending to move. "Let's get you cleaned up." He put his arms around her and guided her into the shower. It was easily big enough for both of them. He found a net puff and squeezed shower gel onto it.
She'd stopped resisting; apparently Shooter was more convincing than he was. His hands moved gently, cleansing her with the least possible touch. Nadine leaned passively against him, calm now. There was a long surgical scar on her lower abdomen, but what really puzzled him were the other marks, little round dimples on the sides of her ribcage and her inner thighs. What the hell...?
Cigarette burns, Shooter told him, and Rainey fought a wave of nausea. (If that Leroy person did that to her, I don't blame her for -- ) Mort let go the thought like a balloon, and let it drift away.
Soon he had her towelled dry and gotten her warmly clad and tucked into bed with a glass of water and some aspirin. Her temp was down to 101.2, which was a lot less alarming than the earlier reading. She protested when he tried to leave, even though he hadn't planned on going farther than the kitchen, to see if he could scout up some chicken soup.
That was how Mort Rainey found himself welcoming in the new year -- in bed with Nadine Cooper, her head pillowed on his shoulder as she slept. He hoped whatever she had wasn't too contagious. He didn't need whatever it was that was going around.
========================
Hmm, did she or didn't she? Guess only Leroy knows for sure....
.
As soon as he opened the door with the key she'd given him, he knew something was very wrong. The house was almost as cold as the outdoors; the major difference was that it was out of the wind. Then the smell hit him, and he gagged. There was no sign of her downstairs, not in the main room, with its pine-and-tinsel garlands still ringing the walls, or in her demure bedroom. Rainey climbed the stairs to the loft, his heart thundering. (What if, oh God, what if -- ) There was a rasping cough, and he bounded up the last few steps.
Nadine was curled up on the couch, shaking, and from the smell of things, she'd been there for several days without moving. There was a trashcan nearby, stinking of vomit, and the blankets were equally rank. There was a gallon jug of water with an inch or so of liquid at the bottom, a bottle of generic aspirin, an empty tissue box and an old-fashioned glass thermometer on the coffee table.
Rainey automatically picked up the thermometer and read it. It had registered 103.4 -- no telling when that had been, but from her flushed face and fever-bright eyes, he was willing to bet it was still that bad, if not worse. Her breathing sounded terrible -- probably some kind of pneumonia -- and he tried to think of something that might help. A hot shower? Maybe. And a clean bed. If that didn't help, he'd try hauling her into town in the morning. New Year's Eve was no time to go near a hospital, unless you were bleeding from a major artery.
Mort hurried downstairs to throw the switch on the electric hot water heater, glad he'd remembered that detail before he got her into the bath. There were clean towels. He cased her bedroom quickly -- her bed was already made, and he swiftly found a warm fleece nightgown to change her into afterward. His last act was to crank the thermostat on the climate control, setting it for 80 degrees without a qualm.
Heading back to the loft, he got Nadine peeled out of the soiled bedding and tried to get her down the stairs without breaking both their necks on the staircase. It wasn't easy. She was almost as tall as he was, and not delicately built.
It wasn't until he wrestled her filthy clothes off that she began to struggle in earnest. "No! Leroy, stop!" She sounded fretful, the pitch of someone who's said the same words again and again.
"I'm not Leroy. Come on, Nadine, you need a shower. You'll feel better," Rainey coaxed. He'd have to get in there with her, he realized. She was barely upright. (Well, it's not like she hasn't seen it before, and I don't think she was too impressed. Besides, she's in no condition to make a pass....)
That rationalized, Rainey stripped down to nothing and started the shower. When he reached for Nadine, she snapped. "Leroy!" she screamed, pushing him away so violently that he rebounded against the far wall. "No! How many times do I have to kill you?" Mort froze. He couldn't have heard that right. Surely, what she'd said was, "How many times do I have to TELL you?"
Looking at her, face distorted with rage, eyes shining with fever, Rainey felt a pang of uncertainty. Right now, Nadine appeared more than capable of killing someone. He had his back to the wall, disbelief and horror warring within him as he stared at her.
Another spasm of coughing doubled her up, and Mort had a strange sensation of double vision. "Miss Nadine," he heard himself say. "Now, Miss Nadine -- " He walked over to her without ever intending to move. "Let's get you cleaned up." He put his arms around her and guided her into the shower. It was easily big enough for both of them. He found a net puff and squeezed shower gel onto it.
She'd stopped resisting; apparently Shooter was more convincing than he was. His hands moved gently, cleansing her with the least possible touch. Nadine leaned passively against him, calm now. There was a long surgical scar on her lower abdomen, but what really puzzled him were the other marks, little round dimples on the sides of her ribcage and her inner thighs. What the hell...?
Cigarette burns, Shooter told him, and Rainey fought a wave of nausea. (If that Leroy person did that to her, I don't blame her for -- ) Mort let go the thought like a balloon, and let it drift away.
Soon he had her towelled dry and gotten her warmly clad and tucked into bed with a glass of water and some aspirin. Her temp was down to 101.2, which was a lot less alarming than the earlier reading. She protested when he tried to leave, even though he hadn't planned on going farther than the kitchen, to see if he could scout up some chicken soup.
That was how Mort Rainey found himself welcoming in the new year -- in bed with Nadine Cooper, her head pillowed on his shoulder as she slept. He hoped whatever she had wasn't too contagious. He didn't need whatever it was that was going around.
========================
Hmm, did she or didn't she? Guess only Leroy knows for sure....
.