The second he’d seen Mrs Holmes make her move, Tom had made his. All thoughts of ducking low, grabbing chairs and throwing missiles fled from his head and he went for the shortest possible route between the two points that were himself and Stanley. He threw himself straight over the hyperbaric chamber.
It was chest-high and he had almost no run-up, plus he was weak from the smoke and his bad leg ached, but he still seemed to take off like Superman, and felt metal bolts and ridges bruise and scrape his belly and hips as he slithered over the rounded shell, his hands locking around Stanley’s throat.
They crashed to the floor together, Tom on top, Stanley’s head making a sickening crack against the shiny lino. Tom saw his eyes roll back and his grip on the butt of the black gun loosen. He snatched the weapon from Stanley’s hand and spun it away across the floor.
When he saw Stanley coming back to him, he picked up Little Women. It was like a brick in his hand, and it felt embarrassingly good to smash it into Stanley’s face and to watch blood squirt from a freshly opened cut on the bridge of his nose. Felt so good, in fact, that he did it again. He was sure he could knock some teeth out too, so took aim …
His hand was halfway to Stanley’s grimacing mouth before he realized he was no longer holding the book. He curled his fist and punched the man instead, which was less satisfying, and made him wince as the man’s teeth dug into his knuckles.
When he looked up, Mrs Holmes was holding Little Women, with an expression of disgust.
Directed at him!
The nurse stood beside her, holding the gun on both of them like someone who knew what the hell she was doing. Even as he watched, Tom saw her flick the safety off with a practised thumb.
This was Kentucky, after all.
Looking over his shoulder as Stanley coughed and moaned, semi-conscious beneath him, Tom saw Lucia’s sobbing, gasping face staring out of the side porthole at him, like some shocked alien in a passing spaceship.
‘I thought I heard something!’
They all turned to Halo.
‘Gimme a hand here,’ said Tom, and Halo edged between Mrs Holmes and the end of the chamber, keeping a wary eye on the nurse with the gun. ‘Step on that cigarette, will you?’
Halo obliged.
‘Get me something to tie this bastard with.’
Halo pulled open a couple of drawers and found an Ace bandage. Together he and Tom got the still-groggy Stanley’s wrists bound tightly together, then fastened to a metal strut under the chamber.
Tom sat heavily on Stanley’s belly, ignoring the grunt it forced out of his captive. He turned to the nurse. ‘Can you call security?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed and Tom sighed. He tugged his ID from the scrubs.
‘NT—’ he started, and then got all choked up and couldn’t say the rest because he was so happy and relieved to be able to say those dumb initials and for it still to be true.
‘SB,’ Halo finished for him. ‘He’s a federal investigator. You need to call security.’
The nurse, who should really have been recruited by the marines, Tom reckoned, jerked the gun. ‘I’m keeping this,’ she said. ‘So no funny business.’ She backed away and picked up a phone on the wall.
Tom turned to Mrs Holmes. ‘Lucia needs a doctor.’
As if coming back from a trance, the woman snapped into action-mode and hurried from the room.
Tom knelt forward, still straddling Stanley, and ran his hands through the man’s pockets until he found a wallet, then he dropped heavily on Stanley’s guts to check through it, making him groan.
‘I’m gonna kill you, asshole,’ Stanley choked out.
‘Again?’ said Tom, mildly. ‘You’re shit at it.’ He pulled out a California driver’s licence. ‘Rickard Westacott Stanley. The Third.’ He looked up at Halo and they both spurted laughter.
Tom grinned at the glowering killer. ‘Where’d you learn to shoot cops in the face, Rickard? Princeton?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Whatever.’
He flicked through the rest of the wallet. Cash; credit card in the name of John Ronson; receipts … ‘These for the expenses you claim on fucking murder?’ Tom tossed them aside, not waiting for an answer.
Stanley was quiet, watching him. Despite his victory, it made Tom uncomfortable. The look said Stanley knew something he didn’t; there was even a little curl to his lip that said something amused him.
Tom finally found it.
A photo of Stanley and Ness.
Arms around each other. Happy together.
Stanley saw the precise moment Tom found the photo written on his face, and laughed. Despite the blood on his nose and in his mouth, he laughed and laughed and laughed, while Tom stared at the photo, his mind spinning back through time, snatching at clues, gutted by realization.
I know that guy. He’s an asshole …
What’s your boyfriend’s name?
Richard …
The shock and surprise in her eyes when Stanley had hit her in the barn; Stanley’s fury as he ran his hands over her breast, between her legs, suspecting that Tom had fucked her, jealous because of it, letting her know she was still his, whatever orders they were under.
‘You were just a job to her, Patrick.’ He raised his eyebrows towards Lucia. ‘Like this whore.’
