34. Dante
34
DANTE
T he moment she starts to fall, I’m running toward her to cushion the blow. Thank God for the foresight of having the ground remain as it had for decades – dirt. Solid, brown dirt. No chance of any real damage, but just the thought of her hurting herself hurts me. Unbelievably.
I carry her all the way back through the maze, met by the buggy half way down the Plantera side, and I climb onto the vehicle with Moneybags still in my arms, refusing to let go of her, barking orders to ensure the doctor is on hand as soon as we get back to the house. I send up a silent prayer for the decision I made to take on an ex military doctor who now served as one of my soldiers. His condition was that he no longer serve as a doctor. My condition was that in an emergency, he would have to. We would now put our mutual conditions to use and see if they did indeed pay off.
I carry Moneybags to her room and set her gently on the bed, making way for the doctor to come in and inspect her. I clear the room of everyone but the doctor and myself, and ask Helga to stay. I don’t want Moneybags to awaken suddenly and be taken by surprise. Let her at least feel like there is another woman in the room, no matter that Helga is built like a torpedo. The doctor runs his stethoscope against Moneybags’ chest and checks her blood pressure. He pries her lips open and places a thermometer under her tongue. He takes her pulse, her limp wrist in his hand as he smooths his thumb against her skin. I watch every single movement with concentration, careful not to miss a beat. Moneybags is out cold, giving no indication she is aware of her surroundings, even when the doctor lifts her eyelids and flashes a light into her unmoving pupils.
“Over-exertion,” he says, when he finally straightens and tucks the flashlight in his coat pocket. “There’s nothing physically the matter with her. She’s just exhausted.”
“She spent hours in the pool this afternoon.”
“Could be that. And heat stroke. Nothing a little rest won’t fix. I’ll check back in on her in an hour.”
I turn to Helga after the doctor has left and start shooting off commands. Freshly squeezed orange juice. Lemonade. All manner of exotic fruit. A hearty chicken soup. Anything that will expedite Moneybags regaining her energy. I walk around the room as she lays sleeping in her bed, condemning myself mentally for allowing her to wander into the maze. I should have known, the minute her mind checked out and she stood up from that table, that she was not altogether well. I should have prevented her walking away. I should have stopped her. Even if I had to drag her back into the house myself.
Many hours later, after the doctor has been to see her several times, every hour on the hour, and proven himself an asset beyond my expectations, Moneybags grumbles back to life with a low moan. She stirs awake slowly, her eyes skimming the room as she gathers her whereabouts. Her hand shoots up to her head, where she rubs at her right temple, as though soothing a much unwanted ache.
“Welcome back.” I keep my voice as soft as possible.
“My head. How long have I been asleep? What happened?”
She tries to sit up but fails, throwing her head back down onto the pillow in defeat. I stroll to her side, pulling her up by her arms until she is in a sitting position, a stack of pillows cushioning her back.
“You outdid yourself today, Moneybags. Too much sun.”
She frowns, digging into her memory as she tries to recall the day’s events.
“My head hurts,” she complains, rubbing at her temple again.
“It might do for a few days. The doctor’s due any minute to check in on you again.”
“Again?”
“Had to make sure you’re okay. Don’t want you dying on my watch unless I’m the one killing you.”
My attempt at humor falls flat, failing to elicit even a smart ass comeback from her. I lift the juice from the bedside table and raise the straw to her lips, urging her to drink. She does so, reluctantly, then waves my hand away.
“Orange juice? Really? What am I, two ?”
And there it is. Moneybags is back, her smart mouth definitely still in functioning order. I grin internally, happy to see there are no long terms effects of the fall she’s taken.
“It’s either the juice or chicken soup to pick you up – take your pick. I won’t have anyone accusing me of not looking after you while you’re in my care.”
* * *
I look down at my card. Queen of Hearts. Throw it on the table. Moneybags throws her six of spades on top of it. It is my suggestion that we go back and play our little card game. To break the monotony and give Moneybags something to do. She remains in her position, sitting upright in her bed, cross legged. And I sit opposite her on the bed, looking forward to a game of truth or dare with her without the burden of stakes. I want to know everything there is to know about her. Every single little thing.
“Ask your question,” she pushes, raising her eyebrows in impatience.
“Will you always be this impatient?”
“Stick around and you’ll find out.”
She throws her card on the discard pile and reaches for another card.
“I haven’t asked my question yet,” I remind her.
“You mean that wasn’t the question?” she asks innocently. “I was sure there was a question mark at the end of your sentence.”
I purse my lips and let the matter slide as she throws her Queen down against my 10. She’s won one over me by default.
“Will you always refer to me as Moneybags?”
“For as long as I live,” I laugh.
We continue in this manner for some fifteen minutes, bantering back and forth as the color returns to her face. I realize I have learnt so much about her through this casual interaction, and I’m eager to know more. I want to explore every corner of Moneybags’ life. I want to know what makes her tick (other than getting into trouble), what makes her sad and what makes her happy. What her hopes and dreams are. What her plans are for the future.
“You’ve delicately avoided answering most questions about yourself,” she points out, leaning over to pick up another card. “Are you always so closed off?”
“Is that your question?”
She sets her cards down to the side and fixes me with serious eyes. Waiting for me to say something of some significance. I’ve managed to sidestep almost all her questions with smart ass comments. The fact that she willingly wants to learn more about me, of her own volition, tingles something deep inside me until I find myself wanting to share something with her.
“What’s your question?” I ask her.
She raises her eyebrows in question, two tight slashes above her beautifully large eyes. I hold her gaze for the longest time as she seems to consider my words. She picks up her cards and reaches for another.
“No cards,” I tell her, taking her losing stack from her hand. I can give her that. I can give her a frank conversation without there being something on the line, a price to pay.
“What will you give me?” she asks, her curiosity piqued. Once a gambler, always a gambler. I already know that Moneybags is a high stakes player. She is a risk taker.
“Three questions,” I tell her. “I’ll answer three of your questions, whatever they might be.”
“In return for?” She isn’t just a good gambler. She is a great gambler. A winner. Only a great gambler remembers that nothing is ever given without something in return. She is wondering what the tradeoff would be here.
“Free of charge,” I tell her.
“Why? Why would you do that?”
I lift my shoulders in a shrug, then let them fall back into their rightful place. It feels good to offer her something she wants. To give her something of me. Something she so obviously wants.
My phone chimes with an incoming message. I lift the phone and check the message. Jacob Mills, my police informant, who never contacts me unless it’s important.
“Gables requesting meeting.
Has important information regarding your girl.”
I reread the message then flick my eyes toward Moneybags. She is watching me intently. Your girl could only mean one thing. There is no other girl in my life. Gables has found out something – enough to know that it involves a girl, because it obviously isn’t something I’ve given him. I can’t let something like this go without taking further action. I have to go and pay him another visit and find out what he’s learnt in regard to Moneybags.
“I have to go.”
I get up from my place on the bed and straighten, looking down at her questioning gaze. I don’t want to leave her. Without saying a word, the look on her face tells me she feels the same. She doesn’t want me to leave any more than I want to leave her.
At some point, something in our dynamic has shifted and we have started caring for one another. Maybe just a little bit. But the feeling is there nonetheless, and it’s mutual.
“What is it?”
I shake my head. This is one question I’m not ready to answer. There is no telling what Lucas Gables will tell me. The leader of the Savages must be so afraid of the fallout that will follow a betrayal against us that he persisted in finding out anything that could help me put his dogs to sleep. Obviously, whatever he has to tell me must be important enough for him to reach out to Jacob. Even after I’d told him I would handle the situation and make his own problems disappear, he’d been fearful enough that he’d become proactive and done some digging himself.
“Don’t waste your three questions. Think of what you really want to know; I’ll give you free rein when I get back.”