Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Molina vanished like Giacchino Petrocelli.

“Max!” Revienne leaned forward to touch his hair. “A head injury. I came as soon as that insane news item started being reported on the local TV news shows.”

Max closed his eyes. More unwelcome publicity, he thought before surrendering to the moment. Freesias were one of the most sweetly scented flowers, and so European. Despite their overbearing odor, he could still smell Revienne’s signature perfume as she leaned over him with the hovering concern of an angel.

“You’re overwhelmed,” she said. “It is the injury, or my flowers? The injury hasn’t affected your memory?”

“It wouldn’t dare forget you,” he said with a smile. “Truthfully, I don’t know yet. And you always overwhelm me, whether you’re flower-bearing or not.”

“Have they caught the criminal who did this? And is poor Mr. Devine all right?”

“I’m just dented, but he was sliced. He’ll be fine but scarred.”

“And you, your poor head.”

“Lucky to be here to see you again.”

A nurse with a clipboard and a sack of something appeared. “Good news, Mr. Kinsella. You’re fine and free to go. Just sign this. Your clothes are washed and dried.” She lifted an arm and eyed Revienne, reaching up for the curtain. “I’ll assist you into them, and then we’ll wheel you out.”

Max almost expected her cheery voice to ask, Won’t that be fun?

“Your visitor can meet you in the hall, and I’ll find some more bags for the flowers.” She stared at the two showy arrangements on the shelf. “Those will be difficult to transport, but we’ll manage.”

Max shrugged apology and gazed up at Revienne.

This was not the kind of reunion he’d envisioned.

She bent down and kissed him. “I’m so glad you’ll be fine, Mr. Randolph, darling.”

The nurse’s brow wrinkled to hear the pseudonymous surname he’d used on the run, but Revienne didn’t notice. “I’ll see you home and get you settled.” She turned to the nurse. “Please. Don’t worry about anything. I’m a doctor. He’s in good hands with me.”

*   *   *

Revienne’s car was a silver Saab. He wondered whether it was rented or borrowed.

Thinking about such things kept his mind off the humiliation of being carted out of the hospital by two women, people staring, like a helpless papoose.

His hair, not to mention his head, was a mess. Now he understood what women meant by that phrase. Humiliation.

At least his legs worked well once he’d struggled out of the wheelchair. He set the passenger seat on recline and sighed, hoping no one on the streets could see him in this position.

“Rest easy,” Revienne said, amusement in her voice as she drove the car down the driveway. “Less than twenty-four hours ago, you were facing an armed robber. Will you be safe at home alone now?”

“Yes, I’ll be safe at home alone,” he heard himself growl. “Damn it.”

“Max. Don’t pout. You’re in far better condition than when we fled the Swiss clinic. I detect no greater memory deficit.”

“Swell.”

“Swell? The wound on your head is swelling?”

“An American expression, like ‘peachy keen.’”

“Max. Go slow.” A fingertip reached out to press his lips. I don’t know all this American patois.”

He refrained doing anything untoward with the finger. “It’s called slang.”

“What a crude word.”

“You’re right.”

“I’ll get you settled at your home when my GPS gets us to Mojave Way. I love GPS! One can be at home anywhere. If only we’d had it in the Alps.”

She’d pronounced Mojave as it was spelled, not with an h for the j. The Spanish way.

It reminded Max she was a stranger in a strange land, as he had been on her turf recently, and he should give her the benefit of the doubt. Why did he have to be so continually on guard?

“Mo-hah-vee.” He corrected her anyway. “The desert extends into Mexico, so it’s a Spanish word.”

She repeated the pronunciation. “The desert is like me, half one thing and another.”

He smiled at her. “French and German.”

“It gets dark so fast here in Las Vegas,” she commented, hunching to stare through the windshield.

“That’s because we’re in a valley. The sky above is bright, but the shadows are creeping inexorably in from the mountains.”

“We will have a desert sunset for your homecoming.” She flashed him a glance. “I can stay, if you like.”

“Can you do something with this industrial haircut?”

“No. Likely no.” There was a lovely foreign lilt to her English, but it wasn’t as hypnotic as Kathleen O’Connor’s Irish mist of an intonation.

Was Molina right? Did he like foreign women, or only possibly treacherous ones? No, Max thought. There was Temple. And there was no one like Temple.

He hadn’t answered Revienne, he realized. He’d always be grateful for her aid and comfort in the darkest moments of his life, and his ego could use some coddling, but it felt dishonest.

“I’ll be all right,” he told her.

The car pulled up in front of his house in twilight.

Revienne made a happy sound at landing on target and got out to circle the car and extract him.

Max squinted at his front door, now shut and not even bearing crime scene tape, so minor the incident inside had been to the authorities.