Page 5 of Triple Threat

A singular piece of the disguise was that the vehicle had to be absolutely nondescript. All the badges on the sedan were interchangeable. Was it an Audi, a Mercedes, a Chrysler? It was all of them, none of them, it didn’t matter. With access to the state registry, I could change Lach’s car information in less than a minute.

A silver sedan with a banged-up fender was not so nondescript. There was also his vanity to contend with – he liked everything flawless and perfect – and a cracked headlamp, a wrinkle in the bonnet, a damaged quarter panel, and he would be in a foul temper. The damage was startling. The front quarter panel was deeply gouged by the rail, the passenger doors were badly scratched, and the rear taillight hung from a single clip and a length of wiring harness.

Getting the car fixed would be more trouble than it was worth. The sedan was a few years old at this point. A replacement would be the better option. I set up an email query to our automobile people, a clandestine garage out in California. Simple request, replacement sedan with the normal tier-two package – engine upgrade, chassis reinforcement, bullet-resistant glass and armor panels around the body, and self-sealing tires and gas tank. They would get back to me with an invoice and shipping information. The delivery truck would very likely take the old sedan as part of the deal.

That would make Lach happy. He was almost always pleased when we acquired new cars, new guns, or some other new thing that wasn’t a piece of electronics that worked for me. With that out of the way, I could focus on our new guest, this woman that he knew.

I had come to accept his chaos.

That didn’t make having a guest any easier. I had come to expect and enjoy my solitude.

I still had plenty of time to do the background searches on whomever Sadie bloody Brooks was.

* * *

Doc Max showedup before Lach turned back up, but that wasn’t a real surprise. Doc was punctual and Lach was off duty. He might be MIA for two or three days, blowing off steam. Maxine arrived in a matter of black coupe, wearing a matching matter-of-fact black slacks and white blouse. The black and brass doctor’s bag was her one concession to the medical field, and she had mentioned it feeling fitting since she only did house calls and didn’t run something as large as an office practice.

“There’s bad news, but mostly good,” she said, after spending fifteen minutes examining her patient. “Short version is pneumonia, some bronchitis, and a fever. The good news is that all of this can be handled with antibiotics, and a few other things she can take.” I nodded appreciatively and offered her a cup of Earl Grey. She accepted with a polite nod of her head. “Thank you, Conan,” she replied.

One of my delights from the Doc was that she could properly pronounce my name, with the right inflection. I was British, not Cimmerian. While I might have been a great many things, a sword-swinging barbarian with an atrocious haircut, I was not. She likewise appreciated the simple delight of a properly prepared tea. In our respective professions, civility was often a scarce commodity.

“I have several days’ worth of the medication she will need in liquid form. Unconscious people are inconvenient to pill, and I know you can handle a hypodermic.” I nodded. “After the vials are out, there is the same medication in pill form, for when your Sleeping Beauty is awake and able to swallow.”

“How long will she be unconscious?” I asked.

“A few days if it can be helped; one of the medications is a sedative. She needs serious rest. Considering the experiences that I’ve had with transient Americans, you should know they like to make a mess and try to run,” she said and took a sip of her tea.

“Transient Americans?” I asked.

“I don’t know her circumstances. She might have a home, it might be a bad one, but superficially, she looks homeless. I don’t want to presume, so transient American. They wake up, in a strange place, with IVs, maybe electrodes, and panic. When they panic, the first general instinct is to escape. They pull the IVs out like they’re in a movie and bolt for the nearest door, usually so hopped up on their own adrenaline they ignore how fucking excruciating that actually is, and by the time they reach the door, they pass out,” she said.

“People actually do that?” I asked.

“Panicked people, scared people, yes,” she said. “After someone pulls an IV out by force, they’ll look like a heroin junkie for a few weeks; the bruises are deep and ugly. Sometimes you have to deal with secondary infections from that, or blood-clotting issues. It’s messy. We’ll keep her asleep for a while, taper off the sedatives, and then let her come up naturally.”

“Lucky you had all that in your bag,” I said.

“You are a perceptive person, Conan. You said she likely had pneumonia, so I prepped for treating pneumonia and exposure-related diseases. I have what you’ll need to run her a saline and a glucose IV, no need for her to dehydrate or completely starve while she’s asleep,” she said.

“As always, thank you,” I said.

“It was nice and easy this time – no blood, no bullet wounds. I appreciate that courtesy.” She laughed.

When the good doctor left, I was allowed back to my background searches for the stranger in the guest room. Lach had told me her name was Sadie Brooks, and my web trawlers hadn’t come back empty-handed. On the contrary, they had so much it was impossible to sort through all of it. Was Sadie her legal name, just a nickname, her middle name? Was it Brooks, Brookes, Brux? I only had the three syllables he’d said before leaving.

Matching pictures to faces wasn’t going well. She wasn’t in the best of health, and if she was atransient American, chances were that she didn’t have a large social media footprint to track. Hopefully when she woke, she would be amenable to answering questions and filling in all the gaps.

Hopefully.

Chapter Three

Sadie…

This was the third, maybe the fourth time, that I’d woken up. It was different in that it was the first time I felt any sort ofwith itwhen I did. I had vague impressions of the first few times. Of waking up, mouth dry, an arm behind my shoulders lifting me into a sitting position enough to drink. Water, a salty chicken broth, some Gatorade, maybe…

I vaguely remember being helped to the bathroom a time or two, but none of it made sense. None of it looked real. A fever dream of opulent surroundings. A home, arich one, and not a hospital.

I twisted onto my side and huddled in on myself and waited for the dizziness to pass, trying to put the nonsensical images into some sort of comprehensible order. I wasn’t having any luck.

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