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"Have you had any more headaches?" Dr. Roth
asked. "Any migraines?"
"No." I shook my head. "Which given that high
stress levels usually trigger one, is kind of
amazing."
"No other problems?"
"None. I feel fine, Doc."
"Good." He paused briefly and exchanged a
quick glance with Dr. Singh. "How about those
periodic taste sensations?"
I started to tell him they were still there, but
stopped. There was something eager in his eyes, in
the way he was leaning forward slightly, his fore-
arms on his desk. I had a sudden vision of me as a
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lab rat, undergoing test after esoteric test while a
team of scientists took copious notes.
"Uh, well," I said instead, "you were right. They
just faded away."
"Glad to hear it," he replied, and I wasn't imagin-
ing the disappointment in his voice, or the rather
unpleasant mingle of apples and aloes at the back
of my throat.
"Hey, Doc, do you have any idea what was going
on there?"
"As you know," he said without meeting my eyes,
"you received blows to your head, to the areas
where the temporal lobes of your brain are situated,
and to the back of your cranium, over the hind-
brain. It's possible that the concussion and asso-
ciated swellings caused your neural pathways to
misfire for a while, and they've since repaired them-
selves." There was a lot more medical-techno-
babble, and it sounded a hell of a lot more scary
than the reality, but frankly it went over my head. I
was okay, that was all I needed to know, and the
aloes-apples deal was something I could live with.
"That's great," I said enthusiastically, as if I'd
understood every word.
"We'll be able to make a better prognosis," he
continued hopefully, "if the symptoms should
return."
In other words, he hadn't a clue what had hap-
pened inside my skull or why it had happened, and
no way was I going to walk right into the fucking
labs and let them mess around with my brain.
"You'll be the first to know," I lied and beat a very
fast retreat.
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I got to the Bakehouse far too early, but that
gave me time to inhale a much-needed coffee and
calm down. While I was doing that, I remembered I
had to let Ari know how I'd gotten on. I didn't want
to get into a long telephone conversation with her,
instead I sent a brief text, All results neg, I'm fine.
Drew was next. I called him, but he didn't pick up,
so I left a brief message saying I was okay, then
ordered another coffee. But I wasn't okay. As I
shoved my cell into my pocket, I was too aware that
my hand was shaking slightly. Maybe I wasn't get-
ting the migraines, but my nerves were screwed up,
that was for sure. Yet it wasn't the psycho's threat
campaign that had hurt Amber, or the weird tastes,
the tests and their results that had me on edge, but
something else I couldn't pin down. I closed my
eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
When I opened them again, Joe was there, his
expression worried.
"If you ask me if I'm all right I will punch you," I
said quietly. When did I get to be so aggressive?
"Okay," he replied cautiously. "Was it bad news?
What did the doc say?"
"Gave me a clean bill of health. Have you had
anything back on the letter bomb yet?"
"It turned up just before I left to come here," he
said. "Paola told us the first letter and the package
looked identical: computer printed label, no
postage, dropped into the BSA mailbox and marked
Personal. The brainiacs at CSI say it was an ama-
teurish job, put together with easily obtainable sub-
stances, probably working from instructions off the
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internet, and given the small amounts used, was
most likely intended to scare rather than kill."
"Tell that to Amber," I growled.
"Like I said on the phone, we've spoken to Cray
and his contacts. They were amazingly varied," he
continued with a wry smile. "Mostly daddy bears
rather than twinks." That had my jaw dropping.
Cray had never shown any interest in older men.
Not that I knew about. But when it came down to it,
what did I know, for God's sake? "There are a few
more we're trying to trace, but the new development
makes it pretty certain none of them were involved.
We'll be checking them out just to be one hundred
per cent, of course. We'll wait for the guys at
Bellamy to contact us, but we'd like to talk to
Connors ourselves. Was there anything waiting for
you at the loft?"
I shook my head. "No, nothing. I haven't
checked the house, though. Something could have
been left there."
"Give me the key and I'll do it. Officially."
I fished out my key ring and removed the house
key, sliding it across the table toward him. "Thanks,
Joe."
"Hey, all part of the service. Now, how about we
celebrate your test results at the club tonight? I've
got some good news as well."
"Sorry, Joe," I said with real regret. "I'm wiped. I
haven't been sleeping much lately, and I have a
long drive tomorrow."
"Are you sure you still want to be working that
job?"
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"Yeah, I'm sure. Going to be on it for quite a
while, with any luck." And with any luck, Drew
would be around as well. At least for the duration.
Even though I had no intention of letting him get
any closer, working with him was turning out to be
a masochistic pleasure. "So what's your news?
Promotion already?"
"I wish. No, I--uh--might have met someone," he
finished in a rush. His color was high and there was
a silly grin beginning to show.
"That's great!" I leaned over the table and gave
him a hug, genuinely pleased for him. "Who is he?
Where did you meet him? What's his name? What
does he look like?" My God, could I sound any more
like my sister?
"He's a civilian, just started working in the
Special Property office this week--transferred in
from Kingston. He's thirty, unattached, his name's
Mark Fisher and I feel like I've been hit by a truck."
If anything, Joe's flush deepened. "I think he's it,
Perry," he continued, his voice gruff. "I know it's
only been a few days, but I haven't felt like this
before."
"Yeah." That was the way I was around Drew. "I
hope he feels the same way. I'd hate for you to get
hurt."
"I think he does. He gets this kind of dazed look
when-- Shit. Can we change the subject before I
end up terminally embarrassed? How's the Bellamy
job going?"
"Couldn't be better." I was more than happy to
follow suit. "It's fascinating, restoring an old house,
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and this one is pretty special. How about you? Is
being a detective as cool as it is on the TV?"
Joe rolled his eyes. "You bet. Fast cars, cool
chicks, hot men--who could ask for more? But seri-
ously? I'd like it better if one of my friends wasn't
being threatened by a nut job."
"Protect and Serve, man," I smiled, though it felt
as if it turned out to be more like a grimace. I could
have done without the reminder. "Protect and
Serve."
I tried Drew's cell again after Joe had gone. No
response. I left another message and headed for the
office to deal with some more of the Post-Its. Then I
phoned Drew, again left a message, and drove back
to the loft.
By the time I got there, a text was buzzing on my
cell. I took a quick glance. It was from Ari, a simple
command of 'Call me, jerk!' So as soon as I was
settled on the couch with a mug of coffee, I did just
that.
After I'd given her a word-for-word account of
my meeting with the two doctors, she was silent for
a moment, then she blew her nose forcefully.
"Are you crying?" I demanded. "Ari?"
"No!" she growled, and sniffed. "I'm just--so
relieved, you idiot! Perry, please come and stay for
a while. I think we need some quality family time."
"Yeah," I agreed. "That sounds good. But I can't
just yet. I'm right in the middle of setting up a
couple of projects."
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"Okay, but I'm going to keep on nagging until
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