No Stone Unturned: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery, Book Eleven Page 21

  When there were only two people in front of me, and just as the children’s choir began to sing, I pulled the euros out of my pocket. One of the bills fluttered to the ground. I bent down to retrieve it and saw flames licking beneath the food stand. A pool of grease or some other flammable liquid had dripped and caught fire...right next to a propane tank. Grease ran down the side of the tank, and flames were already licking at the bottom of it.

  Holy explosion!

  I immediately pushed forward through the line, trying to get the attention of the vendor. Unfortunately, the folks in front of me thought I was trying to cut in line, so one guy grabbed me by the arm.

  “Fire!” I yelled and pointed under the cart. Either no one understood my English or the noise of the choir was making everything hard to hear. I briefly thought about whipping out my phone to translate, but there was no time.

  Another hasty glance beneath the cart confirmed my estimate that we had a few minutes at most before that tank blew sky-high. The explosion would be significant in this tightly packed crowd, even if I couldn’t calculate exactly how significant, since I didn’t know the ratio of expansion during the ignition of propane gas. But if I used a factor of 10 to 1, hundreds of people—including the entire children’s choir—would be within the blast radius. Worse, the metal shards from the tank would act as projectiles, wounding or killing many more.

  Time to do something.

  Pulling free of the guy’s hold on my arm, I ran around the side of the food stand and got down on my knees to get a closer look at the tank. Bits of fat and grease were already burning on the side of the tank, as well as beneath the gas line leading out of it. If that burned through, it could be moments, not minutes, before the tank exploded. Time was shorter than I thought.

  People were yelling at me. I ignored them. Instead, I ripped off my T-shirt and used it to protect my hands from the flames as I pulled on the strap holding the tank to the stand. The strap released, but the tank was jammed, and the gas line connecting it to the cart was still connected. Flames were now cresting the top of the tank. I tried to twist the shutoff valve close, but the flame was too intense.

  Finally the owner noticed the fire and started running. People panicked and started screaming and shouting.

  “Crap!” I wiped the sweat from my eyes, then planted my feet and pulled with all my strength again, but the tank still wouldn’t budge.

  “Come on,” I shouted in frustration.

  That’s when I felt a cool hand on my back. “Cara, move out of the way.”

  Slash.

  Thank God.

  He must have spotted me and known immediately what was going on. As Slash reached for the tank, I knew we had to free the tank from the gas line that connected it to the grill in the cart. I spotted a large meat cleaver and grabbed it. Slash’s eyes met mine, and our plan was coordinated wordlessly. We both knew I wouldn’t have much time once I cut the line. He’d taken off his T-shirt, too, and ripped it in half, planning to hold the handle of the tank with both hands wrapped in the cloth. From firsthand experience, I knew that was almost like having no protection. Slash thrust his hands into the flames, grabbed the handles and heaved as I chopped down. The tank came free, but a blue flame was now coming from the severed line.

  Most of the grease fire had gone out after it had been removed from the source of combustion, but the tank was still red-hot and had a jet of flame from the gas line whipping around. Slash’s hands had to hurt like crazy, but he stood looking calmly around.

  I knew what he was searching for. Where the heck do we put a bomb in the middle of a street packed with people?

  The crowd around the cart had thinned significantly, but the children’s choir was still going full blast, either oblivious to the danger or too afraid of the nun to stop. I abdicated my position next to Slash and ran toward the choir, waving my hands and screaming like a maniac. Fortunately, that caused the children and spectators to finally pay attention. I’m not sure if the crazed look on my face, the smoldering T-shirt in my hands, or Slash, bare-chested and holding a flaming tank, did the job, but they screamed and scattered.

  People were panicking in earnest now, running in every direction. Whistles were screeching and I could hear sirens heading our way. They would be too late. I was surprised that the fire hadn’t crawled up the gas line to the tank yet, but it had to be close. Slash put the tank down and tried again to twist the shutoff valve closed, but it had expanded from the heat and wasn’t budging.

  Running toward Slash, I spotted a manhole cover in the street between us, so I raced toward it and tried to pry it up. A lone policeman who had arrived and sized-up the situation quickly ran to help me. He used a clip from his belt to get a grip on the cover and lever it up slightly out of the hole. Together we wrestled the lid sideways, just enough for Slash to toss the tank inside. The three of us managed to get the manhole cover back on and take two steps away before it blew.

  A bright flash enveloped us as the ground heaved. Amid the light overwhelming my eyes, I had a momentary image of the manhole cover rocketing straight up, and I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t be around when it came back down. But before I could move, the force of the blast tossed me backward onto the asphalt. I heard the crack of my head as it hit the street and had time for one last thought before the world went black.

  Was Slash okay?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Father Julian Koenhein

  This was becoming a nightmare.

  Julian prided himself on his efficiency and competency, but once again he was bringing the cardinal bad news. Swallowing his discomfort, he knocked on the cardinal’s door. Once he was ushered in, he shifted nervously on his feet in front of the cardinal’s desk, clutching the paper tightly in one hand.

  “What is it now?” Cardinal Lazo asked.

  “Your Eminence, the DNA results have arrived.”

  “It’s about time. What does it conclude?”

  “Well, that’s the thing.” He cleared his throat, bracing himself for the onslaught that was sure to come. “We’re not sure what it means.”

  Cardinal Lazo set down his pen and rested his elbows on the desk. A frown crossed his face. “Explain yourself.”

  “The results confirm that the DNA is one-hundred percent German shepherd.”

  The cardinal stared at him as if he were out of his mind. In a way, he wished he were. That, at least, would make a lot more sense than the skewered results of the testing.

  “What? Why is a dog the result of his DNA test?”

  Julian swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “I’m sorry, but that’s the DNA that was taken from the water bottle in the trash at his room in the hotel. I don’t know why or how it was in his room.”

  The cardinal slammed his hand on his desk, causing Father Koenhein to jump. The cardinal was well known for his temper, but he’d never been physical before. Julian chalked it up to stress and a sincere concern for the Holy Father.

  “He played us, that’s how.” Rage made the cardinal’s voice tremble. “I need a viable DNA sample. Where’s Slash now?”

  “That’s the thing. We don’t know, sir. We lost him and his fiancée just outside of Genoa. But we have someone watching his relatives, in case he shows up there.”

  “Where is there?”

  “Sperlonga. He has a couple of cousins and a grandmother he’s quite fond of who live there.”

  “What about his parents?”

  “His mother and stepfather live in London. Obviously we have the listening devices in Father Armando’s office, as well as in his home. If he shows up there, we’ll know. Most importantly, he hasn’t left Italy. Our contacts at the Foreign Office will let us know if we does.”

  “Good. Find him. If he shows, I want you to get the word out that his DNA needs to be secured at whatever cost it takes.”

  “Wha
tever cost?”

  Father Lazo leaned forward, his eyes hard. “You heard me. Get me a DNA sample however you can. This is a matter of extreme importance to the church. Is that understood?”

  Father Koenhein lowered his gaze. He would do whatever necessary to protect the church. It was his God-given reason for being on Earth. “Yes, Your Eminence. I understand.”

  “Good. Don’t fail me this time.”

  “I won’t, sir. You have my word on that.”

  Lexi

  I had a splitting headache. The lights seemed abnormally bright and it took me a minute to get my bearings. Classic symptoms of a concussion. I was lying on my back and could see a white ceiling. I blinked a couple of times and heard whispering nearby. Whatever they were saying, I didn’t understand it.

  “Slash?” I croaked.

  “Cara, you’re awake.” Slash’s face swam into view as he took my hand. I felt the softness of bandages. Were those on his hand or mine? “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay. My head hurts a bit.” I didn’t want him to worry, but I was actually suffering from a Wookie-sized headache. I blinked several more times until things came into better focus. “Where am I?”

  “A hospital in Salerno. You got knocked out by the blast.”

  “The blast.” Memories flooded back. I struggled to sit up, but the effort triggered more pain in my head. “Ouch. Did anyone get hurt?”

  “No, thank God. It was a true miracle.”

  “What about the policeman? The one who helped me get the manhole cover off.”

  “He’s fine. How did you happen to see the fire?”

  I blinked and got my memories in order. “I was waiting in line to get water and I dropped my money. When I bent down to get it, I spotted the flames underneath the food stand. I tried to warn everyone what was going on, but given my fluency in Italian, it was faster to remove the tank from the fire. But it got stuck and there were grease splats on the tank, so I knew it would keep burning even if I removed it.”

  “You did good, cara. You saved many lives today, including those of a lot of children.”

  “Not me. We saved lives,” I corrected him. “If I recall correctly, you were the one holding the tank.”

  He perched on the side of the bed and held his hand to my cheek. I leaned into his hand, which had a sizeable bandage across his palm and some sort of ointment glistening on his wrists and forearms.

  I pulled back. “Oh, Slash, how are your hands? How badly are they hurt?”

  I looked down, realizing both of mine were bandaged, too. Thankfully my fingers were free, so I wiggled them and didn’t feel any pain. Another miracle, I guess.

  “Not badly. Surface burns only. They will heal.”

  “What about your head? Did you get knocked out, too?”

  “No. I didn’t lose consciousness. But seeing you lying there, out cold, took another ten years off my life. At this rate, I have about a year left.”

  “Don’t joke about that.” I frowned, wincing from the effort. His comment did, however, make me realize I needed to add a bombs/explosions column to my Little Black Cloud Spreadsheet—the same spreadsheet that proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I was a trouble magnet. It was clear to me that I absolutely never wanted to make another entry under the explosion column again.

  “I’m not dying anytime soon. You won’t get out of marrying me that easily.” He smiled against my lips.

  I suddenly gasped in panic. “Oh, Slash, my engagement ring? Do I still have it? I can’t feel it on my finger.”

  “It’s not on your finger.” He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. “But it’s safe and sound.”

  I exhaled. “And this is exactly why I don’t wear jewelry.”

  “Because you’re busy diffusing potential bombs?”

  I pursed my lips. “No. Because this kind of stuff happens to me all the time.”

  “True.” He smiled and returned the ring to his pocket, then picked up my floppy hat from a small table. It was a bit smashed on one side and the ribbon had come a bit loose, but it was still wearable. “My badass woman. You were amazing, cara. Cool under pressure. Always thinking, never panicking. You saved lives.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you. You looked a lot like Superman, standing there with sunglasses and no shirt, holding a ticking time bomb while people screamed and ran in the opposite direction.”

  “That was quick thinking about the manhole. I was out of ideas.”

  “I happened to spot it on my way back to you. Thankfully it all worked out.” I wiggled my fingers again. “When can I get out of here?”

  “As soon as you’re debriefed by the police and cleared by the doctors. You will need to take it easy for the next twenty-four hours. I’ve already spoken to the police, so it’s a matter of them completing their investigation to confirm it was an accident and not a terrorist incident. The policeman that helped us corroborated our story, as did the owner of the food stand. But they had to check us both out, and it took a bit longer than expected once they figured out who I was.”

  “Oh, no. Any trouble?”

  “No. I had to check in with the director, of course, but all’s well on that front. Italian-American relations are secure, and perhaps a little better. Oh, and Finn called to find out what the hell was going on. Gray saw an intelligence report and called him. I gave him a sanitized accounting of the events, and told him he could pass it on to Gray and the others. He says he’s not giving you any more time off if you’re going to spend it saving the world.”

  I rolled my eyes, but it hurt. “Ha, ha.”

  “When you’re released, we’ll head back to the hotel,” he said. “I was able to secure the same room here in Salerno for another night. Are you sure nothing else hurts? Now that you’re awake, they can give you additional pain medication for your burns. Trust me, it’s worth taking.”

  I touched my fingertips to the knot at the back of my head. I folded my palms and felt the skin sting. It was painful, but manageable. “Other than the lump on my head, the splitting headache and medium-rare hands, I’m fine. But I’ll need new clothes before I can leave the hospital. My jeans and T-shirt are a complete loss and I am not wearing a hospital gown in public. Especially when I can never figure out whether the opening goes in the front or the back.”

  “It’s good to see your sense of humor hasn’t been injured.” He walked over to a chair, picked up a white plastic bag and pulled out a plain white cotton sundress.

  “That’s nice,” I said, eyeing it. “But it’s white. You know white and I don’t go together.”

  “It’s all I could find in the gift shop downstairs. One size fits all.”

  “Thank you. It’ll work until I can get to my other clothes.” I noticed he wore a tacky white T-shirt with the photos of the saint candidates on it. “I see you have a new shirt, too.”

  He looked down as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing. “I bought it at the same place as yours. Not much of a selection.”

  I smiled as he sat on the bed again, leaning back against the headboard and putting his stockinged feet on the bed, next to mine. He put an arm around me and I rested my head against his shoulder.

  “I guess we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to go to Gaeta,” I said.

  “That’s okay,” Slash said. “Another day won’t hurt. We’ll wait until you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready to get out of here this moment. I hate hospitals.”

  “The logical solution to that problem is to stop engaging in dangerous activities like helping little old Italian ladies with runaway carts and playing with flaming propane tanks.”

  “Hilarious. Just get me out of here.”

  Slash pressed a kiss against my temple. “I’m working on it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Lexi

  When we fi
nally got back to the hotel, Slash ordered chicken soup for me and grilled caponata salad with flatbread for himself to be delivered to our room. I was actually happy to be back at the hotel, in spite of the circumstances. One night and I’d already become attached to the place where we’d been the closest since this mess had started. We ate quietly at the table on the balcony. Afterward Slash wanted me to sleep, but I was too restless, so we watched old movies on television with English subtitles, for my benefit, until we both fell asleep.

  When I awoke in the morning, the television was off and Slash was gone. The balcony was open and the sounds of the water hitting the shore and people talking from the beach below could be heard. I sat up. My head felt significantly better than yesterday, but my hands were hurting. A quick glance confirmed Slash’s clothes and laptop were still here, so I assumed he’d gone out for fresh air or food. I unwound the bandages from my hands. The burns were tender and raw, but not nearly as bad as I expected. I took a careful shower and when I came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around me, Slash was back with coffee and fette biscottate. He’d dressed in light tan slacks and a short-sleeved white polo shirt. Both he and the coffee smelled heavenly.

  He immediately took my hands and turned them over, examining the burns. “How do they feel?”

  “Sore, but I’m sure your burns are much worse.”

  “Mine are okay. I washed and dressed them this morning. They’ll heal.” He pressed a gentle kiss against the side of both my hands. “I should warn you, however, the burns may leave some scars.”

  Scars I could live with. “I’m not one for appearances, anyway. As long as everything is in working order, I’m good.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Let’s get the ointment and bandages on your hands and eat something. How’s the head?”

  “Still attached to my body, thank God. The headache is gone, too. Good thing I have such a hard head.”