Is It You?

1

I suppose, if it came right down to it, Mr. Wallace was the cause of it.

He was the man who ran the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security, and he told me, “Meet Mr. Vincent at the DC morgue,” so that was what I did.

Mr. Wallace didn’ttell me to follow Mr. Vincent to George Washington Hospital.

But I did anyway.

It was dumb on my part, and maybe a bit egotistical as well. Who the hell was I to think Mark Vincent needed anyone to look out for him?

But in the morgue he’d looked…I couldn’t pinpoint it, but it seemed to be a combination of disillusionment, frustration, and sheer pissed off-ness.

And I’d also seen the look in his eyes when he’d thanked me for not giving up on him. Oh, those weren’t his exact words, but that was what he meant.

He really hadn’t expected anyone to do that for him.

I couldn’t see doing anything less, any more than I could have walked away when Mr. Adams told me what I’d have to do on occasion. It was the way I was raised…

But I guessed you could also say that Mr. Vincent had a hand in it as well.

When he turned into the hospital’s parking garage, I killed my headlights and let the car inch forward into it as well. Mr. Vincent’s taillights were about twenty feet ahead of me. Truthfully, I was proud of myself for having come this far without him spotting me. He really must have been distressed.

But when a van started backing out of its spot, and he zipped around it, I realized I’d been made. The van stalled, and I lost precious minutes waiting for the driver to regain his composure and drive off.

Okay, I had two choices. I could try to track down my boss, or I could get the fuck out of Dodge.

I swore under my breath. No, there was no choice. I had to find Mr. Vincent and make sure he was all right. Only then could I drive home with a clear conscience.

My friend Michael would have called me goody two-shoes, and there would have been an unpleasant edge to his words. Not that that had stopped him from relying on “goody two-shoes” to haul his ass out of hot water, which I’d done more than once.

I sighed. Thinking of Michael always saddened me. So much distance between us. How much longer would we have remained friends if he hadn’t died?

Someone rapped on the driver’s side window. And I jumped and jammed on the brakes, which screeched a bit, even though I wasn’t going more than five mph. How the hell—

I shouldn’t have let myself become distracted. I should have known. It was Mr. Vincent. I lowered the window.

“Lost, Matheson?”

“Shi—uh…No, sir.” My foot was cramping up from the force I was placing on the brake, and I shifted into neutral.

“Care to tell me what you’re doing here, then?”

“Sorry, sir. I know it isn’t my place, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m okay.”

Of course he was. He was Mark Vincent. I sat there trying to look unconcerned, all the while wracking my brains for a graceful way to get out of this cluster fuck.

Abruptly he said, “All right, I’m right over there. Take the next spot.”

He was going to clock me. Well, there was no getting around it. I’d overstepped the bounds, and he had every right to discipline me as he saw fit.

I parked my car and got out, waiting for him to punch me in the face. I just hoped he wouldn’t break my nose. It was my best feature.

He looked me over, then shook his head and turned to walk away. “Don’t just stand there, Matheson. I have to take care of this, and then you can explain why you felt the need to baby-sit me.”

“Yes, sir.” I breathed out a sigh of relief. Maybe I hadn’t totally screwed this up. I hurried after him, through the doors that opened into the emergency department. I wasn’t familiar with it. The few times I’d been injured in the line of duty, I’d seen doctors who worked out of the WBIS.

Mr. Vincent, however, knew where he was going.

He crossed to a cubicle and yanked the curtains aside. “Fuck. Haven’t they found a bed for him yet?” He looked furious, and I was grateful that glare was not directed at me.

On the bed were two figures, one with disheveled white hair who was sleeping with his thumb in his mouth. The other, obviously the patient, was drowsily stroking the spiky platinum strands. He had been severely beaten. “S’okay, baby.”

Baby? Who—

“It’s notokay.” My boss snarled.