Andrew did not argue the point. But, seeing the set expression on his face, Rita realized that she’d not moved him in the least. Indeed, had just finished confirming him in his opinion.
“Dehydration’s the big killer. What the kid needs is plenty of fluids. Water, basically, with electrolytes. Salt’ll do, but I’ll see if we can scrounge up some sugar also. I’ll set up a regimen for you, and I’ll check in every day. Okay?”
“Yes, La—ah, Mrs. Simpson.”
Rita didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Somehow, Andrew managed to make the term “Missus” sound like “Duchess.”
“Guess they’ve decided to just look the other way,” Darryl announced, as soon as he heard the bar drop across the door. “Gave me no argument at all.”
He walked over and squatted next to the prisoner. “Melissa says it’s because the Warders have heard enough to know you’re apparently some sort of demon. I think they’ve already come to that conclusion about us too. But since we seem like friendly enough demons—or at least calm, cool and collected like you—they’ve just quietly decided it’s best not to rile us any. Demons remember shit. And, who knows? If they ever get loose . . .”
Quickly, he swapped the batteries. Then, drew a photograph out of his pocket.
“It took me a while to finagle it out of her, but this is what she looks like. Why the hell she bothered to hang on to a driver’s license in the first place . . .”
He shook his head at the folly of women, and handed over the little card. Then, as the prisoner began studying the small picture filling one portion of it, Darryl shifted uncomfortably.
“Look, it’s a shitty picture of her. Those damn things always are. I think they must have some kinda exotic high-tech camera designed especially to make everybody look as bad as possible. Mine looked like Jesse James with a hangover.”
He wasn’t sure the prisoner even heard him. “I’m telling you—trust me—she’s really not bad looking.”
He was cramping the truth here, at least as far as Darryl was concerned. Stocky women in their thirties with plain faces and mouse-brown hair—okay, yeah, pretty damn good figure; especially the jugs—just weren’t to his taste. In general, Darryl’s tastes ran toward young women with blond hair, slim figures, and long legs. In particular, especially lately, toward a certain young woman in the Tower with—what else?—blond hair, a slim figure, and legs he couldn’t see but was starting to have lots of fantasies about.
Alas, she was the youngest sister of the Yeoman Warder Andrew. Who was a rough-looking customer in his own right, even leaving aside his two brothers and his uncle. The uncle especially . . . Darryl managed not to wince. Then, thinking of Melissa, he did wince.
Give peace a chance, my ass. Melissa catches me making a move . . .
Eeek.
The prisoner didn’t seem to have noticed any of Darryl’s hesitation, though. So he plowed on confidently.
“We’ll start looking for your kids, too. Make plans for them, when the time comes.”
That brought the prisoner’s eyes from the photo. “And how will you do that?” he asked.
“Well . . . I’m not sure yet. But, reading between the lines of the latest radio messages, I think—”
He paused, trying to figure out where security began and ended. Then, with a little shrug:
“I think an old buddy of mine is on his way. Not soon, of course. But when he gets here . . .” Darryl grinned evilly. “Hell on wheels, that country boy. Take it from me.”
” ‘Hell on wheels,’ ” echoed the prisoner, smiling faintly. “There are times, Darryl McCarthy, when I find myself fearing for your soul. Of course, ’tis true—as an Irishman you’re most likely damned anyway.”
Darryl jeered. “You wish!” Again, he shifted uncomfortably. “And that’s something else. I want a promise from you.”
“Aye?”
“You don’t ever go to Ireland without me coming along. In an of-fi-cial capacity, that is. I checked with Tom—he knows this stuff—and he tells me the Russkies even got a name for it. It’s called ‘political commissar.’ “