Busted Flush

Gabriel, Delia, and Iolante are in the backyard. Gabriel is turning the flower beds into riots of blossoming flowers. The clashing perfumes are almost overwhelming. Iolante flits about half dancing, half flying. Delia is surrounded by rabbits, squirrels, dogs, a few mice, a mole, a pony, and God help me, a milk cow who lies in the grass contentedly chewing her cud.

“You have to put them back from wherever you summoned them,” I say sternly as I kiss the top of her head.

“Finders keepers,” she says.

“I will not be known as a horse thief and a cattle rustler,” I say.

“Have fun,” says Gabriel with an off-handed wave.

“Be careful,” says my princess.

Bethany is in the kitchen with Drake. They are making tea. Whatever Bethany is creating out of the ingredients on the counter smells wonderful. I dip a finger into the batter and get my hand slapped.

“No, Daddy, not ’til it’s cooked.”

“You’re in charge,” I tell Drake and then I can put it off no longer. I picture Siraj’s hotel room and make the jump.

He’s behind the desk twining a pen between his fingers. Siraj is not a restless man and anxiety goes shivering down my spine. Perhaps it’s because of the way he trapped me in my Noel form back in Cairo, but I allow my soft peripheral vision to take over and I catch a sense of movement behind a connecting door of the suite.

I’m teleporting even as a blinding flare of pain rips through my side. I need to concentrate before I jump. Think about where I’m going. Visualize the place. This time it’s purely unconscious. I hit the ground amid the piping screams of children. I’m lying on my back half in and half out of the sandbox at the local playground in Cambridge. My father had taken me there to play when I was a kid.

My left hand is slick and sticky with blood as I press it hard at the point of my agony. I’m six blocks from home. But I can’t go home like this. Niobe will freak. I roll over and manage to get to my knees. The swings on the tall steel swing set are swaying lightly in the breeze, the chains squeaking. I realize that blackness seems to be closing in from either side, narrowing my focus. I need a doctor. Now!

I concentrate and find myself collapsing among the chairs in the emergency room of Charing Cross Hospital. Their clattering is like the distant sound when a row of punting poles goes tumbling. There is again screaming. I can feel my body morphing and shifting and it hurts like hell where the bullet hit me. The screams start again at higher intensity, then rough hands grip my shoulders and legs, there’s the sound of tearing as my shirt is torn open. They’re trying to drag my hand away from the wound. There’s enough of them so that eventually they succeed.

The first thing I see when I awaken is the puke-colored curtain that has been drawn around my bed. Beyond the cheesy fabric comes the beep and wheeze of medical equipment, the sounds of coughs and moans, and a querulous old voice calling, “nurse, nurse.” My torso is swaddled in a tight bandage from just below my nipples to just above my navel. It hurts to sit up, but I manage and pull back the curtain. Through a window I can see a night sky. Shit, Niobe is going to be so worried.

The next thing I notice is the broad back of a copper. The rattle of the curtain rings has him turning around. Of course. I arrived as an Arab man, and I was armed to the teeth.

“There now, sir, you just settle back down.”

I hold up a hand. “I’m Noel Matthews, ID number 232751. You need to call the office of the Silver Helix.”

We have a pretty decent quality of cop in this country. They don’t argue, they take the obvious step when presented with information—they check it out. After a call to his superior officer, and a call back from said officer, the cop is flapping his hand at me and saying, “You ought to take it easy, sir,” as I am pulling the IV out of the vein in the back of my hand.

“I’ve got to get home.”

Twenty minutes later they’ve brought me clothes, returned my pagers, cell phone, weapons, cash and wallet with Bahir’s information, and the idiot doctor is still remonstrating with me.

There is a text message on my Noel cell phone. Call me, Siraj. My spine seems cold and not just because of the open back of the hospital gown. Flipping open the phone I call him.

“Siraj, dear fellow, haven’t heard from you since I escaped your hospitality in Cairo.” I fill my voice with that insufferable British drawl that makes almost everyone in the world hate us. Particularly if they’ve been crown colonies.

“Yes, and now I have a pretty good idea how you did that.” His tone is equally conversational. “I also understand why Bahir was so quick to kill Abdul and switch allegiance to me.”

“Pity it turned out so badly. How did you figure it out?” I’m actually curious.