“Elgar,” I say. “He is on his way to safety, and he would not wish you to risk your own. I will check over your car, and we will drive to the shops.”
Elgar nods wordlessly, then winces, holding his neck stiffly.
“And then, after you have eaten, you may take your medication and sleep,” I add.
“What about planning the trap?” Elgar asks.
“It will keep,” I promise him.
Elgar
After informing the guards via the texting system Riletti explained to him, Elgar grabs his largest cap to hide the little spot on the back of his head where they’d drilled a small hole in his skull, and then watches as Forsyth inspects his car for black magic. And, he assumes, cut brake lines.
The drive to the grocery store is short, but paranoia has him glancing over his shoulder every few seconds, anyway. He freezes when they walk out of the parking lot and past the bench outside the entrance, but it’s occupied only by an old lady and her dirty little terrier. No man in black.
Everyone in his periphery is an extra burden he has to try to pay attention to, a potential new source of attack, and Elgar’s not ashamed to admit that he has a pretty tight grip on Forsyth’s elbow by the time they’ve picked up a plastic shopping basket. Forsyth pulls him around the store at as quick a pace as Elgar’s battered body will allow. He tires quickly, head aching from the fluorescent lights.
I should’ve stayed home, in bed, Elgar thinks. The wish is followed by a flash of memory—the Viceroy looming over his hospital bed, eyes glowing amber and filled with vicious glee, knife shining in the meager light of the monitoring screens. Elgar shudders.
“Elgar?” Forsyth asks, pausing in the middle of the cereal aisle. “Do we need to leave?”
“No, I . . . I’m fine. I just—” He looks up to try to reassure Forsyth, but all thoughts of what he was going to say next are knocked out of his head when he sees someone he recognizes. “Maddie!” he breathes, when he catches sight of her profile.
She turns to him with a weak smile, until she recognizes who he is. Then her mouth drops into a miserable frown, her shoulders hunch, and . . . yes, she has the yellowing remains of what must have been a spectacular bruise around her eye. Her blue eye.
“Mr. Reed,” she says, inching backward. “I—”
Elgar, who’s been coming down the aisle toward her, stops. It occurs to him suddenly that she might not be happy to see him. That she might blame him for what has happened to her.
“I’m happy to see you, Maddie,” he says, instead, from halfway up the aisle. He folds his hands and tries to look as harmless as possible. “I’m glad to see you’re safe.”
She makes a sound like a half-swallowed sob. Behind him, Forsyth steps up, standing just over his shoulder, wary and watching.
“No thanks to me, I know,” he allows. “I’m sorry.”
Maddie shakes her head, makes a dismissive gesture, but never actually says, “It’s fine,” or, “I accept your apology.” Elgar just stands there, waiting to see if she wants to keep talking to him. If she decides to walk away, he’ll let her. He won’t blame her for it, either.
But she doesn’t walk away. She just stares at him, face inscrutable. “I told the cops this,” she says at length,. “but you should know, too.”
“Know what?”
“The day he left”—Maddie hiccups around another half-sob—“it’s when he saw the appearance announcement.”
“The what?”
“ConClusion, in Toronto?” Maddie says slowly, as if Elgar’s stupid, or slow. Maybe he is. Maybe the meds are stronger than he thinks. He’s heard of people not realizing they’re hopped up on painkillers and doing dumb stuff like grocery shopping before. “They announced your surprise addition to the line-up. He made me monitor the social media around you, and when they said you’d be there . . .”
Forsyth makes a considering sound, and Elgar is desperate to ask him what he’s thinking. But not here. Not now. Not yet.
“Since the car crash, he . . .” Maddie says, and then hesitates. “He thought you wouldn’t get hurt. I don’t know why, but he thought it would only kill Juan. He never explained why he thought you’d be fine, and I . . . I never asked. I couldn’t ask.”
“I’m sorry. Maddie, I had no idea—”
She holds up her hand, silencing him. “He tried to get me to drive him all the way to Toronto. But after the black eye, my dad took my car keys, to keep him from . . . a-and I couldn’t go, so he left. Thank god, he left without me. He just . . . let me go.” She sobs again, pressing her hand against her mouth, shaking and white-knuckled.
“My dear Miss Garcia, you are overwrought,” Forsyth says, coming forward, probably to escort her to a bench or something else gentlemanly, but Maddie jerks back, away from him. Forsyth stops where he is, respecting her choice.
“He said . . .” Maddie goes on once she’s caught her breath. “He said, he never just wanted to kill you. He wanted to do something worse first. Something more terrible. Something that would make you suffer the way you made him suffer.”
Elgar feels all his joints seize up with new terror, dread prickling along his scalp, under his beard. “What’s worse than killing me?”
“I don’t know,” Maddie whispers. “Mr. Reed, I really don’t know.” Then she sets her shopping basket down and abandons the store.
Elgar’s mind begins to churn, but Forsyth only shakes his head, once, when he turns to ask him what he thinks is going on. They’re silent for the rest of their short shopping trip. It isn’t until they’re back at his house that Forsyth says: “Well, he has chosen the place and time, it seems. Now it is up to us to be
