“You’re driving them batty,” said Warren. “Because a hotel fell on you and you should be dead. They can’t figure out why you aren’t.”
“Paul saved me,” I told Adam.
He kissed me again. “I know, love.”
“Why does she keep saying that?” Warren asked. “Does she have a concussion?”
“He asked me to,” I told Warren with drug-born earnestness. “He touched my cheek and asked me to make sure that everyone knew that when push came to shove, he was a hero.”
“He died instantly,” said Abbot, not ungently. “He couldn’t have asked her to do anything.”
“I see dead people,” I told him.
“Hush,” Adam said.
“That’s why I don’t like hospitals very much,” I continued. “Paul died and the only thing he wanted me to tell people was that he saved me.” I paused. “He didn’t want me to tell Mary Jo he loved her.”
“You see dead people?” asked Abbot, his voice arrested.
“Let’s just give Abbot time to brief us, okay?” Warren said. “You’re talking nonsense, Mercy.”
I nodded—which hurt my neck, my shoulders, and my left toe, so I stopped.
“Your wife talks to ghosts?” Abbot asked.
“P-p-please!” I told him earnestly in the voice of Roger Rabbit—or as close to it as I could get. “Only when it’s funny.”
“Go to sleep,” Adam told me.
I closed my eyes and listened until we were all alone. But I must have slept a little because when I woke up, Judd Spielman the Secret Service guy was back. This time he had taken the same seat that Abbot had used.
“The FBI say that the bomb was expertly constructed. From the brass caps to the detonation wiring.” Spielman was wearing clean clothes, too. Instead of another suit, though, he’d gone for jeans and a T-shirt. It made him look tougher—the shiner didn’t hurt that impression, either. Some people (me) get a black eye and people ask, “Hey, who beat you up?” Other people (Spielman) get a black eye and people say, “Where did they bury the other guy?”
Adam doesn’t get shiners.
“Goes with him being raised by a demolition expert,” said Adam.
“Guess the kid was bright and paid attention.” Spielman’s tone was ironic. “But I wouldn’t have sounded as admiring as my contact did. The boy killed two people, including himself. I asked them, if he was such a genius, why wasn’t he working for his parents’ company? They told me that he didn’t like to take orders. So his father encouraged him to go into another line of work before he killed someone—hence the viticulture. His family didn’t quite say it, but my guy in the FBI says that he started to get radical and his family shipped him out west to get him away from all of that.”
“Well, that worked,” said Warren.
“Like dumping a drowning boy into the ocean,” agreed Spielman. “He came here and joined the local Bright Future chapter, dated a few girls from that group. Then he brought a new girl for a couple of weeks. Word from the Bright Future people is that those two said something about being tired of belonging to a useless group who didn’t do anything but talk and paint graffiti—a charge BF denies, for the record. They quit coming. My guy is checking to see if they found another, more radical group, or if they headed off on their own.”
“Any word on the connection to Ford?” I asked.
The whole room turned to look at me—apparently they hadn’t noticed that I’d started paying attention again. Adam’s hand tightened on mine.
“Apparently Ford was a friend of the kid’s family,” Spielman said. “I understand that right at the moment, past tense is the correct verb form. The kid’s father is ready to do murder.”
“Why now?” asked Adam suddenly. “This was a meeting of—you’ll forgive me—minions. Why didn’t he wait until the key players were in place?”
“Because Ford had been dating Senator Campbell’s youngest daughter before she broke it off,” Spielman said heavily. “Apparently he was worried that if Campbell was killed, Stephanie would move back to Minnesota and he would lose his chance to get her back.”
“Wow,” I said, a little awed by the . . . wrongness of that thinking. “That’s special.”
“How do you know that?” Warren asked.
“Ford is talking like someone put a nickel in him,” said Spielman. “I have no idea why. I don’t see how announcing that he did it for the good of mankind because we shouldn’t be bargaining with the fae, we should be nuking them out of existence, is going to help him in court. He is sounding more like someone campaigning for president than someone facing time behind bars for bombing a government meeting.”
Warren growled, “For murder.”
Spielman’s face lost the blandly pleasant expression that seemed to be its default setting. “I know. I helped carry your man out.”
Warren breathed deeply. “Sorry.”
“Me, too,” said Spielman.
“Paul—” I started to say, but Warren broke in.
“Saved you,” the lanky cowboy said firmly. “On purpose. I never liked him, would not have thought he had it in him. I was wrong and he died a hero.”
“You wouldn’t have survived if he hadn’t protected you,” Adam said. “We won’t forget what we owe him.”
Eventually Spielman left with a couple of his people. The doctor came and told me I could go, but I shouldn’t make any life-changing decisions for a day or two.
Warren headed to his truck as I climbed into the SUV under Adam’s assessing eye.
“At least,” Adam said as he started the big diesel engine, “we know that this attempt had nothing to do with witches.”
“No,” I told him. “Abbot smelled like the witch in Benton City. Not like Frost; I don’t think they are related. But the two of them use the same laundry soap, shampoo, and toothpaste—and he carries her scent, too, a little.”
“Abbot,” said Adam slowly. “But not Ford.”
“I couldn’t tell you which one of the government minion clones in that meeting was Ford,” I admitted. “And maybe the bombing was all this Ford guy in some sort of attempt to make sure that the government and the fae don’t reach any sort of agreement.”
“But,” Adam said, “Ford is acting weirdly—and we have a witch who we think might be able to make mundane people do things.”