"Dinner," he said gruffly. "That's all I want."
Well, that and a clue about what he should be doing with the guy. But hopefully a side order of here's-an-idea would come with the meal.
As he stood up, the world spun and he had to use the wall for balance. After a couple of deep breaths, he lurched for the bathroom - and knew when the hospital johnny broke open because diPietro said f**k under his breath.
Clearly the guy was getting a look-see of what was all over Jim's back.
Pausing at the door, Jim looked over his shoulder. "Is 'fuuuuuuck' the way rich people say yes?"
As their eyes met, diPietro's suspicious stare narrowed even further. "Why the hell do you want to have dinner with me?"
"Because we have to start somewhere. Tonight's good for me. Eight o'clock."
When all that came back at him was tense silence, Jim smiled a little. "Just to help you along, it's either dinner or I file a workers'-comp action against you that will make your checkbook bleed. Your choice and I'm good with either outcome."
Vin diPietro had dealt with a lot of SOBs in his lifetime, but this Jim Heron guy was high on the list. It wasn't the outright threat, necessarily. Or the two hundred pounds on that big frame. Or even all that attitude.
The real trouble was the guy's eyes: Anytime a stranger looked at you like he knew you better than family, you had to wonder what the angle was. Had he done his research? Did he know where your bodies were buried?
What kind of threat was he to you?
And dinner? The bastard could have squeezed him for cash, but all he wanted was meat and two veg?
Unless the real ask was going to come outside of the hospital. "Dinner at eight," Vin said.
"And because I'm a fair guy, I'll let you pick the place."
Well, hell, that was easy. If there was going to be trouble, a public peanut gallery was not the kind of condiment Vin was after. "My duplex at the Commodore. You know the building?" Heron's eyes went to the window over the bed and then returned.
"What floor?"
"Twenty-eighth. I'll tell the doorman to let you up."
"See you tonight then."
Heron turned away, flashing that back of his again.
Vin swallowed another curse as he got a second gander at the black tattoo that covered every inch of skin Heron was showing. Against the vista of a graveyard, the Grim Reaper stared out of that muscled back, a hood shielding its face, its eyes glowing through the shadow created by the robe. One bony hand was locked on its scythe, and the body was leaning forward, its free palm reaching out as if in a moment it was going to snatch your soul. Equally as creepy, there seemed to be a tally at the bottom: Underneath the fringe of the Reaper's robes, there were two rows of little line marks grouped in fives.
You added that shit up and you got to a hundred pretty damn easy. The bathroom door shut just as a nurse came rushing in, her crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the floor. "What...where is he?"
"He unplugged himself. I think he's taking a piss and then leaving."
"He can't do that."
"Good luck changing his mind."
Vin headed out and walked down to the waiting room. Leaning inside, he got the attention of the two workmen who had insisted on hanging around until Heron woke up. The one on the left had piercings on his face and the hard-ass, kinked-out air of someone who enjoyed pain. The other was huge with a long, dark braid over the shoulder of his leather jacket.
"He's ready to go home."
Pierced got to his feet. "The doctors are releasing him already?"
"Got nothing to do with the docs. He made the decision himself." Vin nodded down the hall. "He's in room six sixty-six. And he's going to need a ride home."
"We're on it," Pierced said, his silver eyes serious. "We'll get him where he needs to go."
Vin good-bye'd the pair and went over to catch an elevator down to the first floor. As he stepped inside the car, he took out his BlackBerry and called Devina to let her know they were having a guest for dinner. When he got voice mail, he kept it short and sweet and tried not to wonder what the hell she was doing while he was leaving his message.
Or who, as was the case.
Halfway down, the elevator bumped to a halt and the doors opened to let a pair of men in. As the trip downward resumed, the two traded affirming noises, like they'd just concluded a conversation satisfactorily and were reinforcing the fact. They were both dressed in slacks and sweaters, and the one on the left was balding at the crown, his brown hair pulling away like it was afraid being on top of the mountain...
Vin blinked. And then blinked again.
A shadow bloomed all around the balding man, the glimmering, shifting aura the color of pencil lead and the consistency of heat waves on pavement.
It couldn't be...oh, God, no...after all these years of quiet, it couldn't be back.
Curling his hands into fists, Vin closed his eyes and willed away the vision, kicking it out of his brain, denying it access to his neurons. He did not just see that. And if he had, it was a misread of the overhead lighting.
The shit was not back. He'd gotten rid of it. It was not back.
He cracked a lid, looked over at the guy...and felt like he'd been punched in the gut: The translucent shadow was as obvious as the clothes the man was wearing and as tangible as the person standing next to him.
Vin saw dead people, all right. Before they died.
The double doors opened at the lobby, and after the pair filed out, Vin dropped his head and walked as fast as he could for the exit. He was making good time, running from the side of himself he'd never understood and didn't want anything to do with, when he slammed into a white coat who was carrying an armful of files. As paperwork and manila folders took flight like startled birds, Vin helped steady the woman and then dropped down to help her clean the mess up.
The balding man who'd stood ahead of him in the elevator did the same.
Vin's eyes locked on the guy and refused to budge. The smoke was emanating from the left side of the man's chest...boiling up into the air from a specific spot.
"Go see a doctor," Vin heard himself say. "Go see one right away. It's in your lungs."
Before anyone could ask him what the hell he was talking about, Vin scrambled to his feet and tore out of the building, heart in his throat, breath coming in short blasts.
His hands were shaking by the time he got to his car, so it was a good thing BMWs let you get inside and start the engine without plugging the key into anything.
Gripping his steering wheel, he shook his head back and forth.
He'd thought he'd left all that freaky bullshit behind. He thought that second-sight crap was solidly in his past. He'd done what he'd been told to do, and even though he hadn't believed in the actions he'd taken, they had appeared to work for almost twenty years.
Ah, shit...he couldn't go back to the way it had been before.
Just couldn't.
Chapter 7
When Jim came out of the bathroom, diPietro was gone and a nurse with a lot to say had taken his place. While she went on about...shit, whatever the hell it was...Jim focused over her shoulder in hopes of cutting short the tirade.
"Are you done?" he asked when she took more than a single breath.
Crossing her arms over her large bosom, she looked at him like she was hoping she'd be the one to put his catheter back in. "I'm going to call the doctor."
"Well, good for you, but it's not going to change my mind." He glanced around, figuring the private room he'd gotten was diPietro's influence. "What happened to my things?"
"Sir, you were nonresponsive up until about fifteen minutes ago, and you were dead when they brought you in. So before you take off like you had the common cold, you should - "
"Clothes. That's really all I'm interested in."
The nurse stared at him with a kind of hatred, like she was so done with patients giving her lip. "Do you think you're immortal?"
"At least for the time being," he muttered. "Look, I'm through with arguing. Get me something to wear and tell me where my wallet is, or I'm walking out in this and making the hospital pay for my taxi home."
"Wait. Here."
"Not. For. Long."
As the door eased shut, he paced around, energy burning through him. He'd woken up logy, but that was all gone now. Man, he could remember this feeling, back when he'd been in the service. Once again, he had a goal, and as before, that gave him the power to throw off exhaustion and injury and anyone who threatened to divert him from his target.