What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 03

"That was one hot-looking bitch," he had said when I reached him after a long series of telephone calls and had e-mailed him a copy of the photograph.

"Shit," Bill said.

"I assume you haven't called the press office for comment yet," he said to me.

"I thought maybe we should wait," I said. "If I called them now they'd have all weekend to work on their response to the article. Same with Ms. Linney."

He gave me a look that merged respect and surprise.

"Guess I'm gonna have to stop thinking of you as the obit guy. Huh, Hando?"

"I like doing the obits, sir," I said.

"Yeah, right. Okay. Here's what we need to do. Pull in one fact-checker over the weekend, Rach. Somebody you trust. We'll go to the Governor's office for comment on Monday afternoon, as late as possible. Then we print it Tuesday morning. In the meantime, you, me, Hando, and the fact-checker. That's it. I'll give Gus a heads-up about it to keep him in the loop. We'll have to show him the article on Monday. He is the chief, after all. But nobody else learns about this. Okay?"

We gave him our solemn assurances, and he gave us a few suggestions for word changes that might help make our points. When he left, Rachel's face was beaming as she looked down at me.

"Can I hug you, Rick Handley?"

"Rachel, if I was standing up you wouldn't have even asked, would you?"

"Jerk."

She wrapped my head in her arms. I could easily get used to this sort of compensation package.

**********

I had finished my lessons with Inigo the previous night. Another set of outlaws had visited town, eight men with far better swordsmanship. We had fought them in the tavern. We had used the stairs, the bar, and the tables.

Three lay dead when I became conscious that Inigo's blade had fallen silent. I was facing three others another was trying to staunch the flow of blood from a gash I had cut in his arm. I looked back to locate Inigo. I feared that he was dead. I feared that his killer was about to come up behind me.

Instead, when I glanced over my shoulder, I found him sitting at a table, drinking from a whiskey bottle. He had mortally wounded his opponent.

"You son of a bitch," I screamed as my blade danced with those of the outlaws arrayed against me. "Get over here and fight!"

"You are doing magnificently, Handley," he said with a full laugh. "The greater the odds, the greater the glory."

"I don't care . . . about the fucking glory," I said, gasping out the sentences in groups of three and four words. "I care about . . . my fucking life."

"Your life." Inigo spat out the words as I heard him get to his feet. "Very well, my friend. But your life is in no danger."

It was nonetheless much easier to drive the rest of them off with Inigo by my side than it would have been by myself. After they had turned tail and run, we sat back down at the table.

"You really think I was in no danger?" I asked as he cracked open a fresh bottle and poured us both glasses.

"You, my friend, can easily beat ninety percent of the people you will face."

"Ninety percent?"

"Eighty-five," he said. "No less than eighty."

I laughed.

"You're not really boosting my confidence here, Inigo. I've probably fought eight guys in the last week. So that means I'm toast when the next one shows up."

"No, my friend. You have learned well. I have nothing more to teach you. Practice, yes. You must do that. And as far as the ninth one goes, and the tenth, and the ones beyond, I did not say that you could not beat them. I only said the first eight would be easy. You may find yourself up against a master after that."

"Or even a wizard," I said.

He smiled and inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment.

"You will give them all a good fight, Handley. You cannot ask for more than that. As for me, I must be on my way. I still have the six-fingered man to find. And you need a little rest – perhaps a little relaxation – before you continue your own journey. Farewell, my friend."

"Farewell," I said softly. He stood up, clapped me on the shoulder, and left the tavern.

"What have you learned?" Wizen asked.

"That you can learn how to fence in two weeks," I said.

He broke into laughter, something I hadn't heard from him yet.

"Only if your learning can be accelerated," he said with a significant glance across the room at his machines. "Anything else?"

"It's good to have a friend at your back," I said.

"It's also good to be able to fight on your own," Wizen said. "And now, your reward. Perhaps a little rest and relaxation?"

I had stared at him.

"That's what Inigo said."

He had just smiled and waved his hand.

I got my reward on Friday night. The rest and relaxation? That was less evident.

It was dark. My eyes told me that I was in a cavernous space. A large room, perhaps. Maybe even a cavern. My ears picked up an ominous rumbling. A thunderstorm? That was a possibility. An earthquake? I hoped not. As my eyes became accustomed to the dark, it was looking more and more like a cavern.

The rumbling was coming closer. I turned around to try to identify its source, and felt a tug on my belt.

"Bloody fool," a woman swore. "Pay attention."

She jerked me backward and two enormous boulders rolled by, one on either side of us. Before I could get a good look at her, she turned and ran toward a hole in the cavern that one of the boulders had created.

To the extent that any woman looked familiar from behind, she did. Her long brunette hair hung down her back in a practical braid. She was wearing a blue sleeveless top and a pair of brown shorts that ended about an inch-and-a-half below her crotch. They covered an excellent ass. If she hadn't been armed to the teeth – a gun slung over her back, a pair of pistols in holsters on her thighs – I would have thought that she was my relaxation.

But she had far too much energy. I followed as we leapt over a hole filled with spikes. I screamed as we slid down a slide into a tiled room.

"Mm-hmm," she murmured. She bent down to retrieve something from the floor, and I did a complete somersault right over her. It wasn't until I turned back to look at her that I noticed the spiked walls closing in.

"Shit!" I yelled. I pointed at the walls.

She just nodded calmly. "Run," she said, nodding at the opening behind me.

We ran, jumping over swords, outrunning the collapse of the floor, and avoiding two rolling blades. This was beginning to look very familiar. It wasn't until we were through, standing in a large well-lit cavern, that I realized why.

"You're . . . you're Lara Croft," I said.

That was when she drew her pistols and aimed them at me. And fired.

"Fuck!" I screamed as I ducked.

I turned to see two spiders in their death throes, each pierced by a single bullet.

"Come on," she said. Together we made it past the T-Rex, the tigers, and the other spiders. I shot two spiders myself with the pistols I found at my waist.

And then we reached the huge wooden door. We went through together, and found ourselves in Venice.

I had always wanted to visit Venice. And other than the bat-wielding thugs, the dog, and the snipers, it was just as romantic as I had always imagined it. Lara was in quite a hurry. We climbed to the third floor of the only building we could enter. To my delight it turned out to be a hotel. Lara yanked open the door to the honeymoon suite and pulled me inside after her.

"It's been a very long time," she said.

I watched her shrug off her backpack. She dropped her thigh holsters. Her shirt was next, exposing the source of the fantasies of million of young guys who, like me, came of age in the late twentieth century.

She knew it, too. She reached her hands up to cup her breasts and pinch the surprisingly small nipples between her thumbs and forefingers.

"Are you not going to undress?" she asked.

Her upper-class British accent only added to her charms. I quickly stripped off my own clothing, and watched her push her shorts and a pair of white bikini panties down her thighs. She stopped out of them and walked toward me in that peculiar video game gait that accentuated the curves of her hips and breasts.

She threw her arms around my neck and I slid mine around her waist.

"Fuck me, Rick. Put me on that bed, spread my legs, and fuck my brains out."

I didn't bother asking how she knew my name. This was a dream. I had finally gotten to the relaxation part. I still didn't think that I was going to be doing any resting though.

CHAPTER SEVEN

This chapter is dedicated to Gracie, with thanks and love.

"Hammer of Death!"

"Purveyor of Filth!"

"Oh!" Andy clutched at his chest. "You wound me to the quick, good sire."

"Yeah, right," I said. "Who rents Lara Croft, Womb Trader out of his store? Lara investigates the world of sexual slavery. I'm fairly sure that's not a regular Eidos issue. They usually have her clothed in most of their games, don't they?"

"And besides," I muttered underneath my voice, "she doesn't look anything like that."

"All right, you got me," Andy said with a smile. "Just keep it down, huh?"

"Mall security?" I asked.

"Are you kidding? Those horndogs have rented it more than anybody else. No, I just like to make sure of my clients before I rent out those ones."

"Ones?" I asked. "Plural?"

I never showed you Lara Croft, Womb Traitor? About Lara's quest to find the perfect contraceptive? By trial and error?"

"Christ," I said. "I brought back Duellum."

"And only a week late. But for you I'll waive half the late fees."

"You're a prince. Anything new?"

"Nah. Same old, same old. Me and Sara saw a kick-ass movie last night, though. Troy. Brad Pitt for her. Sword fights and battles for me. You seen it?"

"About the Trojan War? No, thank you. I had enough of that in college. A whole fucking semester on it. The Iliad, the Odyssey, the Aeneid – the works."

"I've got it for another week, dude. You're welcome to borrow it."

"Movies like that give me nightmares," I said.

"Nightmares." Andy dismissed my concerns with a scoff.

"Well, bad dreams, anyway."

"Suit yourself, dude. The place is deserted so help yourself back there."

I passed an enjoyable afternoon at Andy's. It wasn't until I got home that I noticed that he had slipped the movie into the pocket on the side of my chair. I put it on the table next to the TV so I could remember to drop it off at the video store on my way in to work on Monday.

It was almost five-thirty, so I wheeled myself into the kitchen to begin dinner. Saturday was my day to really cook, even if, as was the case on every Saturday other than that disaster with "Parkay," I was the only one who got to enjoy the results.

The knock on the door at six-thirty really pissed me off. I never liked eating in my wheelchair on Saturdays. So once I had put all the ingredients and the dishes on the kitchen counter, I usually hauled myself into one of the stationary chairs within easy reach of the stove.

I always kept the door to my apartment bolted, so answering the door meant getting back in my wheelchair. And I knew what a waste of time it was going to be. In fact, I rehearsed my answers on the way over. No, Mrs. Golding, I haven't heard the man upstairs. No, Mrs. Golding, he isn't bothering me. Maybe, Mrs. Golding, you should complain to the building manager all by yourself.

Outside my door was not Mrs. Golding, but a vision of incredible loveliness. Long, flowing hair of the finest gold, blue eyes that danced beneath impossibly long lashes, a pair of jeans that appeared to have been painted on, and a knit sweater that stretched in all the right directions.

"Are you ready?"

After another moment's gaping, I decided on honesty.

"I would have to spend three hours preparing before I could even think of getting ready for anything that involved you."

Her smile, two rows of perfect teeth that would have made the Crest people salivate, lit up the dark hallway.

"You're cute," she said.

"No, you're cute." Once again I went for the truth. "Seriously, which apartment are you looking for?"

"Seriously?" she said, a laugh in her voice as she looked at the door I was holding open. "Two-D. Rick Handley?"

I stared long enough that I was afraid I was making both of us uncomfortable.

Her face turned into a frown. I knew it was too good to last.

"She never called you, did she?" she asked. Then she started sniffing the air. "And you're already cooking dinner, aren't you? It smells heavenly."

"Heavenly," I agreed, although the scent that filled my nostrils was hers. She was a feast for the senses.

"What are you making?" She giggled again.

"Oh, the dinner. Um, spaghetti Bolognese. Uh, salad. Garlic bread."

Her eyes were dancing again as she looked down at me. With a delightful little wiggle of her eyebrows, she turned and headed down the hallway toward the window that looked out over the street. There was also a delightful little wiggle in that perfectly shaped rear end.

"You didn't even tell him," she yelled out. "Honestly!"

I couldn't hear the response, but the goddess was quick to answer.

"No, I think I'll stay here."

Mumble, mumble.

"No. You two just go on. I'm staying here."

Another pause to listen.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

She shut the window and came back down the hall. She stopped in front of me and poked me in the arm.

"What was that for?" I asked.

"You're not like one of those hemophiliacs or something, are you?"

"Uh, no."

She shook her head.

"She said to be careful. You bruise easily."

She suddenly put her hand over her mouth.

"Oh my God," she said. "You're probably expecting someone, aren't you?"

"No, actually," I answered. "And to be completely honest" – because that whole honesty thing had worked so well up to his point – "if Jennifer Garner herself knocked on the door, I'd turn her away."

She looked around and leaned toward me to whisper.

"If Jennifer Garner shows up, I'll be happy to share my dinner. That is one hot-looking babe. Can't you see me and Jennifer sucking on the same strand of spaghetti?"

I stared again. I was still staring when she stepped around me into the room and looked around at what passed for décor. Apparently satisfied that I had made no major errors, she proceeded to the stove, where she gave the sauce a stir.

"We will have so much more fun here," she said. "Between the two of us, I can't stand him."

"No," I agreed.

"I mean don't you think he's just so shallow?"

"Shallow," I said with a nod.

It was her turn to stare at me for a minute – not that I ever gave my turn up – and then she burst into laughter.

"You have absolutely no idea who I am, do you?" she asked.

"I absolutely do not." Confession was supposed to be good for the soul.

"I'm –"

"No, no, don't tell me," I said. "I'm keen to guess."

"All right. Twenty questions."

"Let's see. My only clue is that there was a guy on the street that you don't like and that you thought I wouldn't like. So it must be someone I know. Or someone you think I know. Is it Dan? It's not Dan Edwards, is it? Because if Dan Edwards put you up to this –"

"No and no," she said. "Eighteen."

"That was only one question!"

"Eighteen."

"I don't know that many guys well enough to dislike them," I said. "Well, Eric . . ."

Her eyes danced again.

"Eric Sudduth?"

"Yes. Seventeen."

"So you came with Alison and Eric?"

"Yes. Sixteen."

"So you're a friend of Alison's?"

"No. Fifteen."

I gave her a puzzled look and she decided to throw me a bone.

"If I was a friend, don't you think she would have tried to set us up before now?"

That was true.

"All right. You're not a friend of Allison's. You're Alison's movie-star, swimsuit-model sister from California."

"Wow. You're good at this."

"Seriously, how many questions do I have left?"

"Seriously, the game's over."

"No, seriously, Alison doesn't have a movie-star, swimsuit-model sister from California."

"No, seriously." She was enjoying my discomfort way too much. "Well, okay. I've never done a movie. Just TV. And I've only done the one swimsuit shoot."

"And you're really Alison's sister?"

"Six years younger. I'm Angie. We were so far apart in age growing up that we were never really that close. Which is probably why you never heard of me. I decided to come out for a visit before pre-shooting starts."

"Pre-shooting?"

"I have a small part in a new series on HBO that starts this summer."

"Cool. Have you been in anything else?"

"You remember that episode of House where the one girl dies of Meuniere's Syndrome, and then they have to figure it out to save the other girl?"

"That was you?"

"I was the dead one. Is this almost ready? I'm about to die just from the smell here."

We had a wonderful dinner. I'm sure the food was good and the wine excellent. For my part, I would have been happy with a Bolognese sandwich and a bottle of ripple as long as I could have shared them with Angie Cole.

We adjourned to the living room with our coffee, and that's when she spied the DVD lying on the table. It turned out she had always wanted to see the movie. She loved Brad Pitt, who played Achilles. She loved Eric Bana, Hector. She didn't care much for Orlando Bloom, who played Paris, the lover of Helen of Troy. That was a plus in my book.

So we watched the movie. It was well done, although it did manage to collapse the ten-year Trojan War into about two weeks, most of which was taken up with mourning. As a result of my college study, I considered myself an insufferable expert on the War, so I did my best to supply Angie with all sorts of useless details that she lapped up like a kitten.

For example, I pointed out, Helen's husband Menelaus is killed early in the movie by Hector. He is still alive at the end of the Iliad, though. In fact, in Virgil's Aeneid, which relates the whole Trojan Horse business, Menelaus disfigures Paris' brother for having dared look upon the naked Helen. Then he returns home with the naughty Helen.

The worst was the story of Patroclus. In the movie, he was the younger cousin to Achilles. In the book, he was more likely the older lover of Achilles. In the movie, he steals Achilles' armor to lead the Myrmidons into battle wearing Achilles' armor. In the book, Achilles lends him the armor because Achilles refuses to fight for King Agamemnon. In both, of course, Patroclus' death is what brings Achilles into the battle.

The movie came to an end more than three hours after it had started, and Angie was desperately in need of the ladies' room. I pointed the way back through my bedroom, and simply sat there a moment. I closed my eyes, finding the whole day just a little hard to believe.

I opened them to find myself dressed in what looked suspiciously like a leather skirt, sitting on a rough wooden stool as I sharpened my sword on a whetstone.

"Handroclus!"

A young messenger raced through a crowd of men engaged in tasks similar to mine.

I smiled to myself. Handroclus? Wasn't he the guy who pulled the thorn from the lion's foot? I didn't remember him from the Iliad. No, wait. Maybe that was Androclus. But he wasn't in the book either. I didn't see him being a big help there, in fact.

A shadow fell over my blade. I found it hard to see the edge.

"You're in my light," I growled.

The shadow didn't move. I looked up to see the messenger waiting patiently for my attention.

"Handroclus," he said again.

Oh, Christ.

"Achilles sends word that he has approved your plan. He wants to speak ere you take the field tomorrow."

This was just great. What idiocy was I planning now?

In minutes I was face-to-face with Brad Pitt. A tanned, muscled Brad Pitt, decked out head-to-toe in coconut oil.