Eleventh Hour

away. “I don’t want you to get killed.”
    “I won’t. Drop it. Give me one of those egg rolls. Oh, dip it first. Thank you.”
    She watched him eat. It was dark, almost seven o’clock in the evening. They’d been alone only for the past four minutes. Savich and Sherlock were the last to leave, Sherlock saying, “Remember, we’re two doors down, in twenty-three, and it’s the same phone number. Enjoy the Chinese.”
    “You need another pain pill,” Nick said when she realized he wasn’t going to eat any more. She fetched him one from the bottle on the dresser.
    She didn’t even take the chance that he’d try to be macho, just shoved it in his mouth and handed him a glass of water.
    “That should help you sleep. You need rest, not any more talk.” She stood up and stretched, then began pacing the small room, to the door and back again.
    “That was really much too close.”
    “No,” Dane said, shaking his head, “that bullet old Milton fired in the church was much closer.”
    “How many more times can we be lucky?”
    “This second time wasn’t entirely luck,” Dane said.
    “Yeah, yeah, you’re Superman.”
    He said, “Promise me you won’t run, Nick.”
    “Listen, you, I want you to stop looking into my head.”
    “You’re real easy to read, at least right now. Running won’t help you. You do realize that, don’t you?” His brain was stalling out, working slower, beginning to fuzz around the edges. He couldn’t be certain he’d make any sense in another minute. He felt bone tired, his body and his brain closing down.
    She said, “Well, I’m not a jerk, so I won’t leave you while you’re down. So stop trying to figure out how you can get your paws on some handcuffs.”
    “Thank you,” he said, and closed his eyes. At least Savich had gotten him out of his clothes. He was wearing a white undershirt and sweatpants, no socks. He liked to feel the sheets against his toes. Nick pulled the single sheet to his chest, then straightened it over him.
    He had nearly died because of her.

TWENTY-FOUR
    CHICAGO
    She heard him unlock the front door, walk into the large entrance hall, and pause a moment to hang up his coat. She heard him mumbling something to himself about some contributor. When he walked into the living room, where she sat in one of the sleek pale brown leather chairs, his face went still, then lit up.
    “Nicola, what a wonderful surprise. I was going to call you the minute I got my coat off. You lit the fireplace, that’s good. It’s very cold outside.”
    She rose slowly, stood there, staring at him, wondering what was in his mind, what he was really thinking when he looked at her.
    “What’s wrong? Oh God, did something else happen to you? No one told me a thing, no one—”
    “No, nothing more happened. Well, actually, I did get a letter from your ex-wife, warning me that you are trying to kill me because you believe I’m sleeping with Elliott Benson.”
    “From who? You got a letter from Cleo?”
    “That’s right. She wrote to tell me you believe I’m sleeping with Elliott Benson, that you believed she slept with him, too.”
    “Of course you’re not sleeping with him. Good God, Nicola, you won’t even sleep with me. Besides, he’s old enough to be your father.”
    “So are you.”
    “Don’t talk like that. I’m nowhere near that old. You know I’ve wanted to sleep with you, for months now, but you put me off, and now you’ve begun to back away from me.”
    “Yes, I have, but that’s not what’s important here, John.”
    “Yes, I agree. Now, what’s this nonsense about a letter from Cleo? That’s impossible, you know that. She’s long gone, not with Elliott Benson, for God’s sake, but with Tod Gambol, that bastard I trusted for eight long years. What the hell is this about?”
    “I got the letter just a little while ago. She warned me that you would try to kill me, just like you did her. She told me to run, just like she ran. I want to know what this is all about, too, John. She makes serious accusations. She wrote about your mother’s supposed accidental death, and the death of your college sweetheart—both car accidents. Her name was Melissa.”
    His face flushed with anger, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, like a reasoned, sympathetic leader reassuring a constituent, the consummate politician. “This is nonsense. Ridiculous nonsense. I don’t know who wrote you a letter accusing me of all this, but it wasn’t Cleo. She’s