Chapter 9: Under Siege

The cab pulled up to the front doors of the Holiday Inn on Dockside Road. Laura gave a snort of derision: Of course Keyes wouldn't venture out into the unknown, selecting an American hotel chain when there were hundreds of unique properties across London to choose from. Handing her cab driver his fare and a hefty tip, she climbed out of the cab and walked briskly through the front doors. Not bothering to stop at reception, she strode directly towards a pair of elevators at the rear of the lobby. Tapping her foot with impatience as she was waiting on a car to arrive, her temper continued to brew.

How dare he?!

Well, she'd had it. She and Mr. Steele had enough on their plates at the moment and the last thing she needed was Norman Keyes following her while she pursued Remington's attackers. That Remington wouldn't have been in London if not for Keyes? Her temper ticked up another notch as she stepped into the elevator, her anger increasing with each floor passed. When the doors slid open on the eleventh floor, she marched with purpose to room 1124 and rapped firmly on the door.

Tap, tap, tap went the toe of a pump.

She knocked again. Pressing her ear against the door, she could hear muffled movements beyond it. Lips pinching with irritation, she reared back and knocked harder.

"Keyes, I know you're in there," she yelled. The sound of something glass breaking was followed by a groan. She banged again. "Keyes?"

A half minute later, she'd had enough. Removing her pick kit from her purse, she released the latch on the door and slowly pushed it open, not knowing what to expect.

"Keyes?" she called.

When the room remained silent, she eased her head through the crack and looked inside the room. Spying Keyes lying prone near the end of the bed, she eased inside.

"Keyes?" she called again in a lower voice.

Cautiously she approached him, neatly side stepping the shattered lamp that lay on the floor nearby his head.

Stooping down, she lay a pair of fingers against his neck.

Dead? He's dead?!

Disbelieving, her hand moved to his wrist, where again no pulse was found.

She shifted on her feet, looking around the room. The only way in or out of the room was the door through which she'd entered which meant the perpetrator was still here somewhere. Slowly, she began to rise to her feet.

"Hold it!" A voice boomed behind her. "Scotland Yard. Please rise slowly and keep your hands within view…."

With a groan, Remington sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Laura's been gone far too long," he assessed, then lay a condemning eye on Mildred. "What were you thinking, allowing her to hare off on her own? She's hardly in tip-top condition herself and need I remind you these are some very nasty characters she's in pursuit of, Mildred?" Mildred went from sheepish to defensive in the blink of an eye.

"Whoa there, Chief. What did you want me to do? Tie her to the bed?" she admonished in a disapproving tone. He held up a hand in apology, then gained his feet with a great deal of discomfort.

"Sorry, sorry. I swear to you, I've never met a more hardheaded individual – man or woman," he complained. "She'll rasp in my ear for hours on end about not going off on our own but thinks nothing of ignoring her own edicts." He peeled back the tape adhering the IV tube to his lower arm, wincing. "A classic example of Miss Holt's 'Do as I say and not as I—"

"Just what do you think you're doing?" a familiar and strident voice from behind him demanded. Relieved both that Laura had returned and that he didn't have to go off in search of her, he sat down heavily on the side of the bed with a grunt.

"Where the bloody hell have you been, Lau-ra?" he lengthened her name with displeasure. "I was about to head out in search of you."

"Exactly how far do you think you would have gotten?" she scoffed, laying a hand against the back of his head and holding his hand, helping him recline against the bed again. "You can barely manage the hallway without collapsing."

"That's hardly the point!" he bit out. "You were gone four-and-a-half hours, Lau-ra! Out looking for trouble in a strange city, no less!" With a roll of her eyes – then a wince, as the headache that had been following her the last two hours reminded her it was still there – she plumped his pillow.

"I would have been back hours ago," she replied in a tone suggesting he was being overly dramatic, "If I hadn't been detained by the police."

"The police?" Mildred gasped. "Miss Holt, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Laura insisted, as she tucked the sheet around Remington then picked up his cup and filled it with water. "The same can't be said about Norman Keyes," she added wryly. She held the glass to Remington's lips.

"Keyes?!" Mildred repeated, aghast. "What's that bum done now?"

"He's been murdered." Remington choked on the water he'd been drinking and shoved the glass away.

"Keyes is dead?" he sputtered, while coughing. "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be, given I'm the one who found him," she deadpanned.

"What?!" Remington and Mildred exclaimed in unison.

Laura walked them through the afternoon's events while she paced the room.

"I was held until Lombard arrived, not that I can blame them," she finished. "There was only one way in and out of that room, except the window, but we were eleven stories up!"

"Still, it's not impossible," Remington considered aloud. "Was the room facing street side?"

"No, the view was of the back of another building as a matter of fact."

"Then with the right planning and equipment…" He allowed her to finish the thought for herself.

"Planning takes time and the man's only been in the country a few days," she countered. "Who could he have crossed so badly in such a short period of time?"

"I have complete faith in Keyes' ability to inspire rage in a very short period of time," he offered back. Her brows quirked upwards and she gave him a brief, breathy laugh, unable to disagree.

"Still—"

"And for all we know someone else has taken a page from his own playbook," he continued. "Maybe someone he's crossed in the States simply followed him over here, much as he did myself."

"I suppose it's not impossible," she admitted, tacitly, "But I can't shake the feeling this is somehow connected to you."

"The Chief?" Mildred gasped again.

"I think I've a rather sound alibi," he was quick to point out.

"That's not what I mean," she frowned, crossing her arms as she continued to walk back-and-forth across the room. "Maybe… maybe he's been digging into the names on those passports and someone didn't like it." Remington half-scowled, half-pouted.

"And again I must ask: Exactly how many enemies do you think I have, Laura?" She gave him a cockeyed smile, taking a bit of enjoyment at his pique. "Besides, I never used any of the names on my passports in London. Here I've been known singularly as Harry." Laura frowned and shook her head.

"Well, that doesn't make sense. Felicia—"

"Felicia and I met in France," he cut her off. "It was two, two-and-a-half years before we ran into each other here in London." She frowned then her face brightened as an idea came to mind.

"Maybe she told—"

"She wouldn't have done that," he cut her off with a shake of his head which he immediately regretted. "It's understood that to identify another's aliases comes at the risk of your own being revealed. Our roles, our aliases, are as much our life's blood as our skills."

"I would also think tipping off the police on a fellow thief was against this code of yours." His lips pursed. She had him there, and she knew it too. Both Chalky and Felicia had offered him up to the coppers last time he'd been in London.

"And you'd be right, but—"

He was spared further explanation when the door to the room opened and Daniel stepped in carrying an impressively sized picnic basket.

"Harry, my boy, how are you feeling?" Daniel greeted, then lifted the basket slightly. "I'm afraid you've set Tildy into quite the tizzy. I've listened to her rail most of the afternoon that you were already far too thin, and now you'd be without a single decent meal when it is commonly known a body needs to be fed to heal." Despite the fact he was still irritated with Daniel, Remington chuckled.

"Well, thank heavens I was able to get back into her good graces then, eh?"

By silent agreement – as containers and plates were removed from the picnic basket, and lemon roasted chicken, parmesan potatoes and lemon ginger spinach were served – conversation veered away from Keyes towards the more mundane: The weather, the accommodations at the hotel… the accommodations there at the hospital. With Remington still annoyed with Daniel, Laura wondering if Remington's current condition was due to some con Daniel was pulling, and Mildred quietly eating, yet avidly watching each of the other three and prepared to excuse herself should it be necessary again, the meal might have been mouth-watering good, but the experience as a whole could only be described as… painful. There was a palpable air of relief when Dr. Townsend and Claudia entered the room, and in under two minutes Daniel and Mildred had both bid their goodnights and departed.

Much as it had gone at each of their meetings, Townsend first examined Laura – decreeing they could reduce her medication that night to the amitriptyline and tramadol, and would reevaluate come morning – then Remington whom he pronounced…

"Coming along nicely…"

The much coveted shower was granted and the dreaded traipse up and down the hallway cancelled…

"You'll be expending more energy than you think, I believe," Townsend noted.

After removing the dressing from Remington's wound and capping off his IV port, Claudia disappeared from the room behind Townsend with the direction…

"Just press the nurse's call button when you've finished and I'll be straight along."

Then, for the first time since he'd arrived, he was able to move unencumbered by tubes and poles… and he took advantage of that freedom as much as he could. As soon as the bathroom door closed behind him, he touched his fingertips to her waist and she turned to him, carefully stepping into his one-armed embrace.

It was the first time he'd been able to truly hold her since she'd departed London… And, as it had been from the start, her nearness settled the thoughts and feelings that had been rioting since the evening he'd learned of Daniel's betrayal. He and Laura could get through anything so long as they were together, as had been proven countless times these last years. A full minute ticked by before he brushed his lips over the top of her head and lightly patted her hip. With a gentle squeeze of the palm of his hand, she released it, then stepped behind him to ease his robe over his shoulders.

There was nothing sensual about the shedding of their clothes on this night. It was a slow, deliberate process: There were splinted fingers not to be jostled; a shoulder to take care not to tug on; ribs not to bump; and a tall, heavy man to keep steady on his feet. Her practiced fingers made fast work of the buttons of his shirt, then she stepped behind him to carefully lift the shirt over his shoulders and remove his arms. She'd seen only a sample of the bruising on his torso when Townsend had inspected the healing bullet wound. Now, she saw it all in technicolor and she was uncertain how to interpret the sudden hiss of breath he'd drawn in: Was his view in the mirror the first time he'd really seen himself on full display… or were the slight movements required to disrobe him the cause?

"I want to send Mildred back to LA tomorrow," she spoke, as much as to distract herself as him.

"Worried about the Agency being left unattended too long?" he speculated in a tight voice.

"In part," she confirmed. "She's more than capable of running skip traces and convincing clients we're currently out-of-country on a hush-hush case. Even more importantly, we need her there so she can prioritize any background investigations we may need as we figure out just why someone-" Her words stumbled when she dropped his shirt to the floor and her eyes fell on a particularly vicious bruise that was the clear outline of part of a work boot print. Without plan, she whispered her fingers over it, her blood simmering with fury. When he was already down, someone had clearly stomped on him.

"I'd wager the paunchy bugger played football in his youth," he offered, having accurately surmised one of the contusions on his back had caught her attention. "He was particularly fond of using his feet." Silently vowing she'd see the man behind bars, she schooled her features to reflect a calm she didn't feel, then stepped around to his front and reached inside the waist of his pajama bottoms for the draw tie.

"We still have no idea what we're up against," she continued as though she'd never stopped speaking, "And neither of us are in are in tip-top shape right now. At least if Mildred's in LA, we'll know she's not going to cross paths with whoever is behind this." She slid pants then briefs down over his hips. "Hold onto the handrail if you need to," she advised, then carefully worked the pants and underwear over his feet.

"How long do you intend to stay?" It's a question he'd been wanting to ask since he'd awakened to find her asleep in the adjoining bed. She stood and pulling her blouse from beneath the waistband of her pants, began unbuttoning it.

"Until we find whoever is responsible for this," she answered simply, dropping her shirt to the floor, her bra following. "We may have the answer to the identities to two of the men who did this. I'll show you once we get you back to bed."

Something that was far easier said than done. By the time they showered, redressed and had walked the short distance from bathroom to bed, as Townsend had predicted he was thoroughly exhausted and, had he been asked, would have sworn even the hair on his head was aching. Tossing his robe at the end of the bed, Laura helped him in then hit the call button as Claudia had instructed. She'd no sooner tucked the sheet around Remington than Claudia sailed through the door. With practiced efficiency, the nurse hooked Remington back up to his IV and added an injection through the port before turning her focus to redressing his wounds.

With Remington occupied, Laura returned to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Absently, she plugged in the inexpensive hair dryer Mildred had purchased and turned it on, allowing her thoughts to wander as she brushed and dried her hair.

Handling the man in the room outside was a careful balancing act: Show him too much empathy and he'd try to take advantage, but show him too little and he'd interpret it as a lack of concern for his personal well-being. The brisk, no nonsense approach she'd assumed when tending to his various bumps, bruises, lacerations and abrasions had proved that perfect balance: That she was tending his wounds personally said that she cared and the brusque manner with which she did so announced there would be no coddling forthcoming.

If she didn't pull it together before she stepped back into that room, he'd take one look at her and accurately assess he had her in the palm of his hand for the evening.

And that wasn't acceptable… Not at all.

She'd known the beating had been serious, but she hadn't understood to complete brutality of it until she seen him completely unclothed. Those weren't surface bruises covering his back, torso and the back of one of his thighs, but serious wounds – black, eggplant… the brightest of blues. The most stomach turning though were a trio of bruises the center of which was a bright, sickly yellow ringed by red then black and shades of green. She'd attended enough autopsies to know those particular hematomas meant multiple vessels had burst and a great deal of bleeding had taken place beneath the surface of his skin.

He'd suffered, terribly… and had been meant to. To what end? His assailants hadn't intended for him to live… Had, in fact, had a gun meant to guarantee that end. There were only two answers she could come up with: Either the attack had been personal and whoever had ordered it had directed his assailants to draw it out and make him suffer as much as possible or the beating was meant to convey a message. But what message? And for whom?

Well, whatever the answers to those questions, they wouldn't find them tonight.

With a sigh, she turned off the hair dryer and reached for the small bottle of lotion, applying a light layer to her face and neck, before exchanging the bottle for toothbrush and tooth paste. Two minutes later she stepped back into the room, walking directly to a chair and picking up the sheet that had been left there for her along with blanket and pillow. After making her bed on the sofa, she crossed the room removing her purse off the dresser, then joined Remington, seating herself next to him on his bed.

"I'll return momentarily with your medication, Mrs. Steele," Claudia announced, finished with her charge.

"Thank you," Laura returned then turned her attention to the man beside her. "Think you're up to looking at a couple of photos?" He did his best to give her a smarmy look and to waggle his brows, failing miserably. Still he pressed on.

"I can think of something I'd rather be doing…" She patted his hand, placatingly.

"Don't get your hopes up. I imagine it will be weeks before you'll be up to what you have in mind."

"'Then kiss me, my bonnie, while these lips are still warm,'" he urged. She rolled her eyes in answer.

"A bit dramatic, don't you think?" she questioned as she leaned down.

"King Richard and the Crusaders, Rex Harrison, Virginia Mayo, Warner Bros., 1954," he rattled off in a murmur.

"I should have known," she whispered, then pressed her lips softly to his. Despite his fatigue and discomfort, he lifted his right arm and pressed his palm to the back of her head then attempted to deepen the kiss. She smoothly slipped away.

"Awww," he groaned his discontent.

"That won't do either of us any good," she admonished. "Now, about those pictures." She reached for her purse, removed the papers and unfolded them. "Do you recognize either of these men?" He forced eyes that were growing increasingly bleary on the papers, studying both pictures at length.

"Mmmm, that's two of them," he finally acknowledged, "Although this Smith bloke has gained a good thirty pounds since this picture was taken."

"But it's somewhere to start," she pointed out. "We have their names and know where they live, so—"

"I wouldn't count on that if I were you," he cut her off. "Laura, do you think I might get a glass of water?"

"Sure, of course," she said, sitting up and reaching for pitcher and cup. "Why not?"

"To start, those applications listed them as day laborers and most day laborers are transient by nature." Gratefully, he took the glass from her and slowly raised it towards his lips as if the cup were as heavy as a gallon of milk.

"You said to start?" she prompted when he lowered the cup from his lips. She took the glass from him, concerned the remnants would end up on his lap if she didn't.

"I'd lay odds the driver licensing for the Jones fellow is a forgery," he informed her, while shifting in the bed, trying to get more comfortable. "An impressive one, but a forgery nonetheless."

"Well, then, we'll need to devise a plan to get them to come to us," she decided undeterred, turning to remove her notepad and pen from her purse. An attempt to cross his arms over his chest was met with a grimace, so he settled for closing his eyes and pursing his lips with displeasure. Was it too much to ask for a little tender loving care instead of business?

"If this Jones chap knows a forger as skilled the one who created that driving license, someone on the streets will know how to find him. I'll have Daniel put out word in the morning," he replied, never opening his eyes. She scribbled a list of 'to do's' in her notebook as he spoke, frowning down at the paper at the last.

"Do you really think that's wise? If this has anything to do with whatever you seem to believe Daniel is up to—"

"Look, Laura, whatever you think of Daniel, if something happened to me because of one of his gambits, he wouldn't rest until the responsible parties were brought to justice." The sharp note in his voice made her pen pause and she swiveled her head to regard him…

And scrunched her face. So much for striking that balance. The closed eyes and pouting lips said he was feeling neglected, and the line between his brows expressed his discontent with her remark about Daniel. With a sigh, she acknowledged her misstep. Setting pen and notepad on the rolling table, she shifted to her side, propping the side of her head up with a palm.

"How do you feel?" she asked in a soft voice, while fingering back a lock of hair. His eyes opened, regarded her for a split then closed his eyes again.

"About how I look," he answered, sullenly. Unseen the corners of her mouth quirked upwards: She'd lay money that his lower lip was protruding more now than only a moment ago.

"Why don't I make us a cup of tea…" A single blue eye popped open then closed again with a frown.

"I seem to recall something about no caffeine." Her lips lifted further in a smile.

"Mildred picked you up some decaffeinated tea that she said the market owner swore by…" she added a light note to her tone, "Not to mention a copy of Gone With the Wind for that VCR." Both eyes opened this time. "So as I was saying, I could make us a cup of tea, then we'll put on a movie and share the sticky toffee pudding Tildy sent over for dessert." She brushed back his hair again. "What do you say?" The pouting lip didn't vanish but the blue eyes warmed.

"Well, it's an improvement." She mentally rolled her eyes again, as she got down from the bed and leaned in to touch her lips to his. The pout vanished and he seemed slightly more mollified.

"I'll be right back."

True to her word, she was, and with body warmed by the tea, stomach filled by the pudding and a bit of pampering, he was sound asleep before Ashley Wilkes was granted his Christmas furlough. Or so she thought…

His hand tightened around hers when she made to get out of the bed.

"Stay," he murmured. She didn't require assistance deciphering he meant for the evening not just the next few minutes. The image of his battered body flashed through her mind.

"Oh," she balked, "I don't think that would be wise." She held out and arm, indicating the bed. "It's such close accommodations I would want to risk accidentally—"

"It's the same size as the bed in your loft, and we've more than enough room," he countered, groggily.

"Yes, but—"

"Having you near is the best medicine there is." A pair of bleary, yet beseeching, blue eyes regarded her. Damn and double damn. It was lines like that led to her - more often than not - stepping over that fine line between expressing sincere concern and coddling. A smile played on his lips and his eyes closed again, when she huffed in defeat.

"These little lines of yours aren't going to work very long, so I'd use them sparingly if I were you," she scolded for form's sake, as she climbed from the bed to retrieve her pillow and blanket from the couch.

Dropping the items on the bed, she picked up the little paper cup on the table that held her medication, tossed a pill in her mouth and washed it down with water.

"Shall I turn off the television?" His eyes cracked open.

"One doesn't just turn off Gone with the Wind, Laura," he managed in as snooty a tone as he could muster.

This time she did roll her eyes, but left the movie playing and turned off the light. Stretching out on her side, she rested her head near his shoulder.

"Happy?" He dragged heavy eyelids open a crack.

"Not even close," he replied sullenly, then closed his eyes again. She shifted closer and eased her hand into his, taking care not to jostle the braced fingers.

"Better?" A twitch at the corner of his mouth said it was an improvement, although not enough, and served, too, as an acknowledgment it was the best he could hope for under the circumstances.

He surrendered himself to sleep, and Laura lost herself in the movie, the very movie she'd once gushed to Remington…

"Oh, I do hope this has something to do with Gone With The Wind. Now that's one movie I do know about. I've seen it a dozen times."

Her love of the movie mattered little, for sleep stole her away before Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton could become Scarlet O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy…

In the deep hours of the night, white noise filled the hospital room backlit by the snow on the television. Gone with the Wind had long ago come to its conclusion… not that either of the occupants in the bed had registered as much, given they'd long ago fallen into slumber.

A sliver of bright light filtered in from the hallway, and a man dressed in nurse's whites slipped into the room. His feet stalled. No one had told him the wife would be in the bloody room. What was he do about her? It would look mighty suspicious should both of them come up dead in the morning.

He crept forward silently, footsteps muffled by rubber soles. He eyed the woman who'd yet to stir, then studied the man. Convinced they both slept soundly, he took the syringe from his pocket and removed the cap. With a final glance at the couple, he reached for the IV port, securing it in his left hand, as he lined the syringe up with his right…

A/N: I can honestly say that up until last night I have never watched Gone with the Wind... and frankly was shocked Laura had proclaimed her love for it. A scheming woman with no regards for anyone but herself, you'd think Laura would not only equate her with the Anna's and Felicia's in Remington's life, but should have left Laura shuddering with the woman's unending lies and ploys. Then we come to Rhett Butler - the epitome of the romantic gentleman when this movie was released. Really? We have spousal abuse not to mention the implication as he carried her up the stairs that he was going to have her willing or not. On top of all that, he is a womanizing cad who doesn't particularly care who he does business with as long as his pockets are well lined. Both of these character - based on the character of Laura - should be repugnant to her. I don't get it. Anyone care to take a stab at what she sees in the movie?