I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Jazzola and Hawkslayer, who have been fantastic reviewers, inspiring me to continue posting this story. :)
Part Ten
"You stay there, Boss. I'm s'posed to be in charge," said Chris, feeling nothing like a man in charge as he stood up from the Guv's kitchen table. He wished Sam was feeling better. He didn't like the Boss looking so pale and tired. He also wished Sam wasn't accused of murder. That way, they wouldn't be in this scary situation. That way, they could all be down at the pub sharing a nice, big round of drinks.
"You sure, Chris?" Sam asked him, looking somewhat relieved that he didn't have to stand.
Chris wasn't sure if the line on the Boss's forehead was from pain or worry or maybe both. "I'm sure. Just... relax."
Reaching under his jacket to pat the pistol Ray had suited him up with, Chris made his way into the living room to the front door, mentally telling himself to relax. The doorbell rang again, jarring his nerves. "I'm coming. I'm coming," he muttered. When he reached the door, he realized that it was complete with a peephole. Good. That made him feel better. He shut one eye and squinted with the other, peering through the tiny circle of glass.
What he saw on the other side did nothing good to his nerves. Peering back at him with a look of distaste was DCI Afton Gore. Standing behind Gore was someone tall enough for his head not to be visible through the hole. Big, intimidating Babbin, Chris thought.
And now Chris wasn't sure what to do. He didn't really want to let Gore and Babbin in. He didn't like them, and he knew the Guv didn't. He also knew that they were a potential danger to the Boss. On the other hand... If he didn't let them in, he could be in serious trouble. All that paperwork Gene and Annie had filled out had stated that Sam would be kept at the Guv's house under constant watch. If Gore and Babbin turned up at the house to find no one home, there could be trouble for all of them—even the Guv. Probably especially the Guv...
"Who is it?" Sam called from the kitchen.
Chris could hear shuffling and realized that the Boss was getting up. He started to call back to him, but knew that Gore and Babbin would be able to hear that.
The doorbell rang again.
Swearing under his breath, Chris jogged back into the kitchen. "It's Gore and Babbin," he told the Boss, all in a rush.
Sam's eyes widened, his body tensing visibly. "Oh!"
"What do I do, Boss?"
The steak was actually good, but Gene found himself without much of an appetite. His eyes wandered the restaurant, and his mind kept wandering back to Sam and Chris. He had a funny feeling about leaving them at his house alone. Maybe he should call the station... have Phyllis send Ray to check on them. Yes, that's what he would do. If some murderous bastard showed up at the Hunt home, injured Sam and young Chris would be in a spot of trouble. Ray, on the other hand, would not.
"'Scuse me, luv." Gene wiped off his mouth with one of the thick red napkins. "I've got some business to attend to."
Alice raised an eyebrow at him. "I have a feeling it's not the kind you attend to in the little boys' room."
"Nope. 'S not." Gene stood. "Keep a sharp eye out. I need to make a phone call."
"Are you sending backup to our house?" Alice asked quietly.
Gene wondered at how easily she was slipping back into the life of a police detective. "Yeah. I'm sendin' Ray."
Alice nodded once. "Good. Do that. I'll watch for our suspect."
Leaving the watching in her hands, Gene walked quickly toward the restaurant doors.
"Need anything, sir?"
Gene glanced to his right. It was their waiter talking to him, the young fellow with the deep voice who seemed to have a hard time tearing his eyes away from the long legs of the pretty hostess. "'M fine. Just need to make a call."
"Do you need to use our telephone? It's that way." The boy pointed toward the front desk, where sat that silly Frenchman.
"No. Thanks. I'll use me own."
The young waiter eyed him skeptically. "Your own? Do you live nearby?"
Over-curious little bastard. "No. It's a..." Gene swore inwardly as he realized how easy it would be to give away his purpose for being there. "It's one of them newfangled things, one of them car phone things. The wife's all about new technology. Thinks it makes us class to have one of them things."
"Oh. Wow." The waiter's eyes widened. "That's—that's cutting edge. Mostly only police and such have those."
Gene resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah. Class." They were near the exit now, and he wondered if the kid was ever going to stop following him.
"Can I—Do you mind if I see it?" the waiter asked.
"Look, kid, it's a private phone call," Gene told him, skidding to a stop and placing a firm, restraining hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's very important. And none of your flippin' business."
"Oh. Sorry, sir." The boy's face flushed.
Gene sighed. This was going to cause a scene, cause unwanted attention if he didn't fix things. "And besides..." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone, when what he really wanted to do was shout at the kid to bug off. "We wouldn't want you to get in trouble on the job, would we? You've got work to do."
The waiter brightened. "Right. Yes, sir." He bobbed his head at Gene. "When you and the missus come back to our restaurant, you just ask for Stanly Summers, sir." And with that, he walked away, leaving Gene feeling exhausted from the boy's chatter and curiosity.
The DCI finally made his way out of the restaurant and headed toward where he had parked the Cortina.
Sam shuffled to the sofa and plopped down, biting back a cry of pain as his muscles and bones protested at the sudden movement. He looked at Chris, who was studying him with worry.
"Boss?"
"Open the door." They had to open the door. They had to. Otherwise, Gene would be in trouble, and all of them would be in trouble. He nodded to Chris, who was hesitating. "Go ahead. Open the door."
Eyes wide, Chris nodded back. "Okay, Boss." He reached to turn the knob.
Alice waited for Gene to return, jiggling one foot under the table. The lamb was good. It was very good. But she couldn't concentrate on that now. She had a job to do. Chewing on her lower lip, she glanced over her shoulder for the umpteenth time—looking for either her husband or a man in a red checked suit. She sighed as, once again, she saw neither.
This was turning out to be a worrisome night.
"It's Chris, isn't it?" Gore asked as he strode past Chris into the Hunts' living room.
"Yeah. It's Chris. But you can call me DC Skelton." There was a note of defiance in Chris's voice, and Sam winced inwardly. They had to keep things calm, keep them level. "What do ya want?"
"I've come to make sure things are going the way they should," Gore answered Chris, but his eyes were on Sam, narrowed and hot with hatred.
Sam wondered what he had ever done to make this ridiculous man hate him so much. He wrestled down the urge to make a snide comment.
"Things are going fine," Chris assured the two officers, which would have sounded better had it sounded more... assured. "The prisoner is under control."
"And coddled, it would seem," Gore remarked, turning to Chris. "Why isn't this man in handcuffs?"
Chris stuck out his chest and straightened his shoulders. "He didn't seem a threat."
Good, Chris. Nice improv.
"Not a threat?" Gore grinned suddenly, disarmingly, and Chris took a step backward, seeming as cowed by the grin as anything else—including Babbin, who loomed over average-sized Gore, glaring at Chris. "Well. It would seem we did our job, didn't we, Babbin?"
"Huh huh," laughed the big fellow. "Yeah." He frowned, sniffing the air. "What's cooking?"
"Pasta," Chris said quickly. "I was just... fixing myself a bowl of pasta."
Sam swallowed down a curse. If Gore and Babbin walked into the kitchen, they would see the two bowls of pasta on the table. They would know that Sam was indeed being coddled, that he was in no way being treated like a prisoner accused of murder.
"Pasta, eh?" Gore was quiet for a moment, seeming to consider. "Well." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Why don't you fix us some? We're tired and hungry. Just came from looking into a case."
"Which case, sir?" Chris asked.
Sam's ears perked up. It was a good question.
"Some murder of some vagrant," Gore muttered in reply. He waved a hand toward the kitchen. "Now run along and fix us some of Hunt's pasta."
"Right. Yes, sir." Chris looked to Sam for confirmation.
Sam felt himself tense up when Chris turned his way. Would Gore and Babbin catch that look? Would they realize that Chris still answered to Sam? "God, I'm hungry," Sam said quickly, rubbing his sore stomach. "Chris, why won't you give me any food?" Pretending he was hungry and his stomach ached didn't require any acting. He held Chris's eyes meaningfully, hoping the young officer would catch on.
Thankfully, he did. "There'll be none for you, B—Tyler," Chris replied, stumbling only briefly over the words. "You're a murder suspect, not a house guest..." He grinned a bit and added, "Or a houseplant."
Sam resisted the powerful urge to snicker. Instead, he affected a groan and leaned heavily against the cushions on the sofa.
"Snap to it and get our food, man!" Gore commanded. "We'll cuff Tyler while you're at it."
Sam's stomach twisted inside. And this time, it wasn't from his injuries or from being hungry. He tried not to let his sudden fear show as Chris passed him on the way to the kitchen. Oh, but he didn't want to be left alone with Gore and Babbin. Tough. You don't have a choice.
"Babbin. Cuffs." Gore walked to stand in the center of the room, arms crossed, scowling at Sam.
Babbin hurried to do his superior's bidding, crossing the carpet and brandishing a set of cuffs.
"Been easy on you, haven't they?" Gore asked, keeping his voice low.
Sam glared up at the man as Babbin yanked his hands in front of him. "Being under arrest is not my idea of easy," he bit out. He winced as Babbin clicked the cuffs tightly around his wrists. He clenched his hands into fists so that the big thug couldn't see that they were shaking.
"Oh, but I bet Hunt's been babying you." Gore took a few steps closer. "He doesn't believe you did it, does he?"
"Why should he? I didn't." Sam couldn't resist putting that in. He was never going to admit to something he didn't do. And plus, he didn't want to give Gore the satisfaction of seeing him intimidated... although, a split second too late, he realized that he should be trying to do just that.
Gore studied his fingernails, then buffed them on the sleeve of his wine-colored corduroy jacket. "If he had let me have a few more minutes with you, you'd be singing a different tune."
Sam shook his head. "No. I don't think so."
"No?" Gore propped his leg up on the sofa and leaned over Sam, then looked up at Babbin and nodded.
Babbin grabbed the cuffs and yanked Sam to his feet.
Sam gasped at the sudden movement, his ribs twinging sharply.
"Do you know what a punctured lung feels like, DI Tyler?" Gore poked a finger roughly into Sam's ribs.
Sam couldn't hold back a murmur of pain, but he clenched his teeth and didn't let it get farther than that.
"Pasta's ready." Chris walked back into the kitchen, carrying two steaming bowls of pasta. He stopped short when he saw Babbin holding Sam up and Gore poking at his broken ribs.
Easy, Chris. Don't overreact.
"Uh..." Chris hesitated.
Sam could have sworn he heard his heart beating in his ears. He met Chris's eyes steadily. I can handle this. We can handle this.
"Pasta?" Chris's voice squeaked out as he held up the bowls.
"Don't mind if I do." Babbin released his hold on the handcuffs and took a bowl of pasta from Chris. "Smells awful good. Hunt's missus must be talented." He chuckled. "Wonder how else she's talented..."
Chris looked horrified. Sam felt horrified. If Gene were here to hear those words coming from Babbin's mouth... Muscle-bound thug or no, Babbin would be a dead man. Or at least a very bruised and bloodied one.
Gore shoved Sam back down on the sofa and took a bowl as well. Sam pressed his lips together to keep from screaming as his bones and muscles were jarred once again. He was never going to get well at this rate... He shot a glare in Gore's direction—and as he did so, he noticed something... Something about the shape of Gore's shoulders, the way he bent over the bowl of pasta...
Sam's head began to spin.
When Alice saw the man in the red checked suit walk into the restaurant, she stood up so fast, her head started to spin. Steady, old girl. You can do this! She watched to see where he was headed, making sure to note the table where he sat, then started off casually across the marble floor of the button-bedecked eatery. She had to get a better look at him. She couldn't seem him very well from so far across the restaurant.
She decided that if anyone stopped her, she would pretend she was looking for the loo. Then she noticed the giant, glowing, sign formed from numerous translucent buttons reading "Restrooms" and changed her story. I'll say I'm looking for my husband, that I'm worried he didn't take his medication. There. That will work. She giggled to herself at the thought of anyone trying to get Gene to take medication...
The man in the red checked suit was just ahead, seated alone at a small, round table, beneath a lamp decorated in red and gold buttons. He was bent over the menu, sitting a bit crookedly in the chair, gray hair reaching from under his hat to brush the back of his collar.
Alice stopped walking and frowned. The man's hair was unkempt. And upon further examination, she noticed the sorry state of his shoes. They did not at all match the red checked suit. Loud and tasteless as the suit may be, it looked to be made of fairly expensive material...
Curiosity got the better of her, and Alice practically marched to the man's table. She tapped on his shoulder. "Excuse me."
Instead of simply turning, the man leaped to his feet, banging his knees against the table and nearly knocking it over. He spun to face her with wide eyes.
Alice stared up at him. Way up at him. This man was very tall and lean, with a scraggly beard and fear in his eyes.
"Oh. I'm terribly sorry." Alice bobbed her head politely. "I thought you were someone else."
"I didn't steal it!" the man burst out, causing half a dozen nearby patrons to look their way. "I swear to you. I didn't steal it!"
"Sh, sh. I know. Quiet down!" Alice motioned for silence. Then she calmly continued, intrigued. "I'm not accusing you of stealing anything."
"He gave it to me," the man told her in a whisper. "He gave me the suit!"