An Interlude in Nausea - The Wheelman

KATIE THOUGHT BACK ON HER VISIT TO MORRELL PARK. It could have been handled better. Michael would definitely not have approved. Neither would Patrick.

Then again, Patrick was probably no longer alive, so what did it matter?

Unless that was him calling. And he was hiding out somewhere.

There was only one way to find out. Katie pulled her rented car over to the side of Grant Avenue and dialed Henry. On her public cell, not the emergency one. Her stomach did flip-flops, but she kept it together by breathing oxygen. Oxygen dispelled the nausea, if she tried hard enough.

“Hello?”

“Did you call me about twenty minutes ago?”

“No. But wait—don’t go. Let me get rid of this other line.”

Click.

Shit. Katie didn’t know what she was hoping to hear. That Henry had called, or that he hadn’t. If he really hadn’t, Patrick was somewhere. But then why didn’t he leave a message?

Because the stubborn bastard never left a message. It was against his religion.

Katie felt her stomach roil again, and she concentrated on breathing.

The line clicked back.

“Katie, where are you?”

She ignored the question. “Someone called me twenty minutes ago. On the other line. Only two people have that number. You and Patrick.”

“So then he’s fine. Tell me where you are, and I’ll send a car for you.”

“No. Help me think. Where would Patrick be?”

“I’m no good thinking over the phone,” he said. “You know that.”

“What good are you at all?”

Damnit, Patrick. Call again. Let me know what’s going on. Tell me I just didn’t pistol-whip a Russian gangster for no good reason.

“Look, girlie. I’ve had enough abuse for one morning. You know where I am. You want me to help you figure this out, stop by. And let me just add that since you’ve gotten knocked up, you’ve been nothing but moody.”

“Fuck you,” Katie said.

The line was silent.

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” she added.