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Rune Alignment

Chapter 12

"Unh . . . yeah . . . Goren," he mumbled into the cell phone as he lifted it from its cradle. He squinted at the clock, three eighteen. He cleared his throat, "Eames? That you?" Silence. He bolted up, feet on the floor, suddenly wide-awake. "Gleason? Gleason, talk to me. Are you ok?" Silence. "Who is this?" A long silence, then . . .

"Bobby," a whisper, a shuddering whisper.

"Gleason! Are you ok?"

"An envelope came under the door. I don't want to open it. What should I do?"

"Don't touch it. I'll be right there. Buzz me in when I get there, ok?" Silence. "Gleason, buzz me in, right?"

"Yes."

Bobby grabbed his jeans from the chair where he'd tossed them two hours ago and pulled them on, slipped on the black tee shirt from earlier as well and slid his bare feet into loafers. He snatched his phone from the bed, his keys, wallet, shield and weapon from the dresser and went to the kitchen for his leather jacket on the back of the kitchen chair.

He parked in her lot thirty minutes later. Her Volvo hadn't moved. He took a pair of latex gloves and an evidence bag from the glove box and trotted to the lobby door.

With his right hand on the door handle, he pushed her button next to the buzzer box. Nothing. Come on, damn it. He pushed it again. Nothing. Shit! Once more. Buzz, click. He yanked and strode to the elevator.

"Gleason, it's me. Don't step on the envelope when you open the door." The dead bolt turned and the door opened a bit. Bobby pushed it further and saw the envelope on the floor, a simple white business envelope lying face down. He side stepped it, shut the door, flipped the bolt and faced Gleason.

She stood wrapped in some kind of blanket; he could see her shivering. He went to her pulled her close and she cried into his shoulder. He held her and let her cry; she clutched his shirt and cried like a child. His heart was breaking.

Suddenly she pushed away and ran toward the hallway. He heard her retching. Bobby followed her slowly, not knowing what to do. He stood in the hall, hands in his pockets, leaning back against the wall until she came out. She had splashed water on her face and had pulled back her hair with a clip. They stood and looked at each other. She cast her eyes down, as if ashamed, readjusted the throw and walked back to the living room.

She sat on the couch, the only furniture besides a small dinged table and an old lamp, she pointed to the envelope. "That's it. I don't know when it came. I saw it when I went to the bathroom. It wasn't there at midnight. I must have fallen asleep and didn't notice when it came. Take it away." Her voice was flat, expressionless.

Bobby stood staring at her. He saw the exhaustion -- it showed in her face, her swollen eyes, her pale skin, her rounded posture; he heard it in her voice. She still wore the same jeans and long sleeved tee shirt from yesterday morning. Her feet were bare.

He pulled the gloves from his pocket and stretched them on, then took the evidence bag from his pocket. He went to the envelope, stooped, picked it up by a corner, and slid it inside the bag. He sealed the bag, returned it to his inside coat pocket and glanced at his watch. Then he went to Gleason, pulled off the gloves and put them back in the pocket.

They sat silently for a while, not touching. "Why didn't you let me in earlier?" he asked. She said nothing. "I, I want to help you. I can protect you. Come here," he reached for her, afraid she would retreat.

"Take off your jacket," she said instead and he glanced at her. "I don't like the smell of leather," she explained. Bobby smiled slightly, took off his jacket, threw it aside and settled back on the couch. He slipped off his shoes as Gleason curled up into his arm, against his chest, pulling the throw around her. He tucked in the edges and held her with both arms. Slowly she stopped shivering, her breathing slowed and deepened and she was asleep. Together they slept.

He lay naked, gasping, sore from his last go at himself. He needed her. His want was so deep; he knew he was losing control. Get her, use her. No one else could do to her what he could. No one would want her after he got to her. The smart bitch. So smart. So goddamn smart.

He lay there, hating her. Reliving what he'd done, what he would do next, he began to stiffen again. He couldn't help himself. He reached and began to stroke.

"Gleason," he said softly, "wake up. Gleason." He wanted to stroke her hair, touch her gently to wake her, but he couldn't move. The left half of his body was completely numb and he had a crick in his neck. So this is what a stroke feels like, he thought. "Honey, wake up."

She sighed, stirred and electricity shot through his arm and leg. He grimaced as she sat up. Strands of hair fell from her clip and the side of her face wore creases from his shirt. She stretched and asked, "What's wrong?" But it wasn't a panicked question, it was natural, calm. She looked at him and said sleepily, "Come on, this isn't comfortable. Let's go to bed." She stood, shrugged up the throw around her, and reached for his hand.

"I, I can't," he said.

"It's ok, I trust you."

"No, I, I really can't. I can't move. My leg and arm are asleep." He gestured feebly.

Gleason looked at him sitting there looking up at her, misery written all over his face. He didn't move, really couldn't. She smiled. And the smile grew. She started to laugh, head thrown back; it was a magical sound. "Oh, my god, I invite a man to my bed and he feigns paralysis to avoid sleeping with me."

"No, no, no, I want to, I, I just . . . can't . . . get up." Bobby tried to stand, fumbled and winced and said, "Help me, pull me up." Still chucking, she grabbed his huge hand with both of hers and pulled. He was on his feet wobbling and wincing. Fireworks shot up and down his leg and arm, "Ow, ow, ow," he yelped. Gleason put an arm around his waist and he leaned on her as she led him toward the bedroom.

"You move like Quasimodo's lame brother," she said.

"Yeah, well, we need to stop at the bathroom," he said as they hobbled across the living room.

"Ok, but, numb or not, you're on your own in there," she said.

"No problem; hurry."

"Better?" she asked when Bobby emerged, limping slightly.

"Much."

"Come on, Gumby, let's go to bed."

Bobby followed her into her bedroom. She lay down on the near side of the bed and turned onto her left side. He stepped around to the other side, slipped his weapon from his belt and set it on the dresser top, and stretched out behind her. Gleason wiggled close and Bobby snuggled closer. He held her. They moved even closer. That twitch in his pants again, big time. Nice, this was very, very nice.

"Bobby?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you smoke?"

She felt him tense, "Um, no, not really, only . . . no . . . well, maybe once in a while. I quit once. I don't smoke now, only sometimes."

She was already asleep.