5

Arthur had to drive with only one hand. His right arm was still usable, albeit painfully, but the wound on his neck began bleeding an alarming amount while he was driving, and he had to keep pressure on it so that he didn't bleed out.

Thankfully, the bleeding slowed to a trickle by the time they got off the highway. Arthur pulled into the parkinglot of the fourth motel they came to and managed to extricate five one-hundred dollar bills from his wallet one-handedly.

"I need you to do something for me, Philippa," he said, handing her the money. "What I need you to do is go through those doors and up to the person behind the desk. Tell them your big brother says we need a room for one night, and that if they don't ask any questions that all this is theirs. Can you do that?"

Philippa nodded and took the money. She started to get out of the car then stopped. "I tell them my big brother says so?"

"Yes." Arthur wiped a bead of sweat away from his brow. "You tell them that."

"Are you my big brother?"

Arthur stared at her, not sure if she was being serious or not. "For the next hour or two and for all intents and purposes, yes."

Philippa grinned at him then dashed off. Arthur leaned back against his seat and wiped the blood off his hands, on the inside of his suit jacket, trying to make himself as presentable as possible. The suit was ruined anyway.

Several minutes later Philippa came back with a room key and a handful of chocolates bearing the motel's logo. "Look what the lady gave to me!"

"That's . . . wonderful," said Arthur, easing himself out of the driver's seat. What was not wonderful was that their room was on the third floor and getting up there was a bitch and a half. They took the stairs. Arthur didn't want to risk running into someone in the elevator, or boxing themselves in. By the time they made it to the room, Arthur's entire leg felt on fire, and his head was starting to get spinny. He managed to lock the door behind him and deadbolt it then slid down it, glad to be able to sit down again.

"You look sick," Philippa told him, moving to stand right in front of him with one foot on either side of his legs, right in his face. "We should get Mommy to make you some chicken soup."

The very thought of food made Arthur feel like throwing up . . . but he was thirsty. "Water . . ." he whispered longingly.

Philippa looked at him thoughtfully then disappeared from his immediate field of vision. He heard a chair being pushed across the floor, then heard the water running. Several moments later, she was back in front of him with a glass of water. "You're thirsty?"

Arthur took the glass and drained it. The liquid's cold temperature seemed to help just as much as its hydrating properties, because he felt the coolness go straight to his head and chase away the hazy feeling that was plaguing him. "Thank you," he told her. "How about we call your Daddy now and have him come get you?"

"Okay!"

Arthur managed to remove the disposable cellphone he'd bought earlier from his jacket pocket and dialed the number that according to his research would connect him with Cobb's cellphone. Then he handed his phone to Philippa, knowing that she was the one Mr. and Mrs. Cobb would really be wanting to hear from.

Cobb felt like he was living in a nightmare. So did Mal if the way she kept putting her top down and spinning it was an indication of anything. He kept checking his own totem, twisting his wedding ring around on his finger, taking note of all the little knicks and stratches that only he knew were there. All of them were in place, and Mal's top kept on toppling.

The scene at his house when he arrived was . . . not good. That was the only polite way of phrasing it. There were five bodies, including Marx's. Almost all of them had died from a single headshot. Only one had been shot in the throat, and had bled a profuse amount, leaving a long trail of blood across the carpet and down the stairs before he'd finally killed over. Marx was found dead in Philippa's room, right beside her bed. From the blood splatter it looked like he'd actually been shot while he was on the bed. The implications of that filled Cobb with fear and dread so terrible that he felt like he was suffocating.

Then there was the fact that his daughter was missing and that the window was open, with a thin trail of blood leading to it. There was also the limo in their driveway with a blown out tire. The same treatment had been given to their babysitter's car.

"This is actually a good thing, mate," said Eames, trying to be confident in the face of the Cobb's dread. "The most likely scenario is that darling Arthur charged in like a white knight, made it all the way to Philippa's room, obviously killing everyone in his way, then discovered that there were more guards and left through the window with Philippa. He probably got grazed by a bullet or two. Not enough to put him out of the fight, only enough to leave a trail. Then he escaped in whatever car he came in and made sure that the bastards wouldn't be able to follow him too easily by shooting those tires."

"One of the neighbors' cars was stolen," whispered Mal.

"If those blokes are smart they took it and fled," said Eames. "Their employer's dead. They have nothing to gain chasing down two kids with such a big head start, especially since one of them has such a penchant for headshots."

It was true, but Cobb couldn't stop worrying. When he phone rang he grabbed for it like a lifeline and answered it immediately. "Hello?"

"Hi Daddy."

"Philippa . . ." Cobb felt tears come to his eyes. "Philippa, darling . . . are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine, Daddy. I'm here with my new brother."

"What? Brother?"

"His name is . . . What's your name?"

There was a muffled response.

"His name is Arthur. He said that for the next hour and for all intents and purposes he's my brother."

"Oh." Not the most intelligent answer in the world, but Cobb really didn't know what else to say, at least not immediately. "Well, uhm . . . You are okay, right? No one hurt you?"

"One of your friends hurt me. He squeezed me and threw me on my bed then sat on me, but then Arthur came in and stopped him."

"So he didn't . . . he didn't do anything else to you?"

"Well, he yelled at me . . . wait a second . . ." her voice got a bit softer as she spoke without her mouth to the phone. "What's it? Are you sure he'll know? Okay." Then her voice got louder again. "Arthur says to tell you that it didn't happen and that you don't have to worry."

"Thank God." Cobb grabbed his wife and pulled her into a relieved hug. She couldn't hear what Philippa was saying, but from her husband's side of the conversation she could tell what was going on. She squeezed him back and her knees must have gone weak with relief because she was clinging to him.

"Arthur also said all your friends are assholes. What's an asshole, Daddy?"

"Err . . . Where are you now, Philippa?" asked Cobb.

"I'm with Arthur. Huh? Okay. He says to tell you we're in the Hollow Way Motel off the highway. Room 310. He says not to bring any goddamn cops because he doesn't want to get hauled off to jail, but to come get me. You will come, right? I want to see you, Daddy."

"Yes, honey," said Cobb, close to tears again. "We're coming. You just . . . stay with Arthur. He's taking good care of you, isn't he?"

"He is, but he looks sick. Tell Mommy to bring him some soup."

"I will, sweetheart. We're on our way now. Honey, can you put Arthur on?"

"Okay. Daddy wants to talk to you."

There was a shuffling noise, then a sound like the phone had been dropped. Finally, after a little more fumbling, Arthur answered. "What?"

"Arthur? Arthur Pendragon, right?" asked Cobb, even though he didn't really need to. The icy, suspicious voice was unmistakable.

"What do you think?" his tone was harsh and impatient, but Cobb didn't miss the way his words were slurring slightly.

"I don't know how to thank you for what you've done. I can't thank you enough –"

"You can pick up your kid without leading the cops right to me."

"I will. I promise. I just . . . you saved my daughter. I . . . I . . . don't even know what to say, you don't know what you've done for me, and I –"

"Philippa wants to talk to you again."

"Wait!" said Cobb urgently.

"Do you really have anything to say to me, Cobb?" asked Arthur sounding very irritable.

"Are you okay? On the window sill there was blood and Philippa said you don't look good, and . . ." Cobb knew he was babbling, but he didn't care. He had never been in a situation like this before, God willing he would never be in a situation like this again, and even though he was usually very good at fast talking and staying cool-headed, he couldn't keep his thoughts in order. "Did you get shot saving my daughter?"

"They're all flesh-wounds. I've had worse."

"All? You were shot more than once?"

"I mean it's a fleshwound," said Arthur. "And I've had worse."

Remembering all the scars on his chest and stomach, Cobb believed him, at least about the having worse part, not about the only being shot once part, but he still didn't like the sound of that slurring. "You're sure you're okay? If you need to go to a hospital –"

"No hospital," said Arthur flatly. "Just . . . just come get your daughter. And introduce yourself when you knock, so I know it's you, or I'm going to start shooting through the door."

"Alright, but –"

"Here's Philippa again."

There was more shuffling and muffled noises as the phone changed hands again. "Hi Daddy!"

"Hi sweetheart."

"Can I talk to Mommy?"

"Of course. Mommy's right here." Cobb handed the phone to his wife as they reached their car. Once again Eames got in the back and Cobb slid into the driver's seat.

"Everything's okay?" asked Eames.

"Yeah," said Cobb, hardly able to believe it. "Yeah. Everything's okay. Philippa's safe. Arthur saved her. He got to her in time. God, I just . . ."

"You need me to drive?"

"No, I'm okay." Cobb smiled and shifted the car into drive as his wife slid into the passenger's seat. "Everything's okay," he said again, and this time that fact really set in.

Arthur clawed his way back to his feet and staggered to the bathroom, snagging a book of motel matches off the counter as he went. He needed to patch himself up, he knew, or there was a real possibility that he wouldn't survive the night.

Cleaning himself up from four bullet wounds was neither fun nor easy. He had to dig the bullet out of his arm with nothing but his Swiss-Army-Knife and nothing to numb to pain. He kept his teeth clamped down on a towel to muffle his screams so that he didn't scare Philippa, who continued chatting merrily with her parents in the other room.

His side wound wasn't as bad. It was little more than a graze and the bullet had gone straight through and missed anything vital. Same with his leg injury, even thought that one hurt like a bitch. His neck was the worst. It kept bleeding sluggishly, even after he'd kept pressure on it for so long. With a sigh he removed one of the last two bullets from his gun, and pulled the actual bullet out of the cap. He poured the gunpowder directly into the bullet wound then lit a match and pressed it to the powder. Red hot pain brought him to his knees and he felt sobs trying to claw free of his chest.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the pain subsided. He splashed some more water on his face and cleaned up his blood as best he could, then stumbled back out into the room.

"Daddy wants to talk to you again," said Philippa as he collapsed onto one of the beds.

"Tell your daddy I said to go to hell," responded Arthur, closing his eyes.

"Arthur says to go to hell, Daddy . . . Okay. Daddy says to tell you that we're almost here."

"Fine, fine." Arthur closed his eyes. Some time must have passed, because the next thing he knew someone was knocking on the door.

"It's me. Cobb," said the man, obeying Arthur's instructions to identify himself when he knocked.

"Daddy's here!" said Philippa happily.

Arthur tried to sit up his muscles rebelled and he remained limp on the bed. "Err . . . Philippa? Do you know how to open the door?"

"I think so."

Arthur heard her start dragging the chair across the room again.

"Is everything alright in there?" asked Cobb.

"Fine, Daddy! I'm opening the door!"

Things went hazy again, then the next thing Arthur knew, someone was standing over him. Arthur saw a hand reaching toward his face and for a moment he forgot the entire dayy's events.

"No! Don't touch me!" he weakly raised one of his own hands and tried to bat the intruding arm away. "Don't . . . don't . . ."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," said Cobb holding up his hands in a nonthreatening way. "It's okay Arthur. It's me. Dom."

"Cobb?" Arthur coughed painfully.

"Yeah."

"You got Philippa okay?"

"Yes. She's right here. So's Mal and Eames."

"Great," muttered Arthur. "Now go away."

"See, Mommy! He's been my brother for an hour and I really like him. Can we keep him?" Philippa was asking.

"We'll see, dear," was Mrs. Cobb's answer.

"He needs a hospital," said Eames, sounding uncharacterisitically serious. "I count four bullet wounds, no one of them too serious, but anyone who gets shot four times needs real medical care."

"No hospital," insisted Arthur. "You've got your daughter back safely. Now just go."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Arthur," said Cobb. "You look really bad. I'm afraid if I just leave you here –"

"It's not your problem, Cobb," said Arthur, breathing heavily. "Just take your daughter . . . and this . . . and get out of my room." He managed to dig the check he'd gotten printed for Cobb out of his pocket.

"This is a check for half a million dollars," said Cobb incredulously.

"Was stopping by to give it to you," said Arthur. "That makes us even."

"I can't accept this."

"Sure you can."

"Even if I was inclined to, no bank would take a check splattered with this much blood."

Arthur hadn't thought about that. "I'll mail you a new one."

"Please don't," said Cobb. "Let us help you, now, Arthur."

"We're even now. You saved my life. I saved your daughter's and gave you half my share. We don't owe each other a thing." Arguing was becoming harder. Hell, just breathing was becoming harder.

"That's not true. We owe you so much more for what you've done for us," said Mal, moving closer to the bed. "Please, Arthur. Let us help you."

"No hospital," muttered Arthur.

"We won't go to a hospital then. We'll take you home with us."

Arthur shook his head, then decided never to do that again. The room shouldn't have been spinning while he was lying down like that. "Cops," he reminded the Cobbs.

Mal sat down beside him and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "We'll take ou somewhere else then. We'll take care of you. We'll make sure you're okay, child. Is that alright?"

"Okay, Mom," whispered Arthur, because he was too tired to argue anymore. Then he realized that his grip on what was really going on was slipping because Mal was most definitely not his mother, and if she was, he'd be giving her the cold shoulder, not giving in to what she wanted. Not that his mother would have been trying to take care of him anyway, but that wasn't the point. "Sorry. I mean . . ." but he didn't get a chance to say what he meant. His eyes refused to stay open any longer and he drifted off into a long, dreamless sleep.

To be concluded in the next chapter . . .