Asylum

Chapter 18: And Now, For Something Completely Different ...

Sunday early afternoon

"Can I roll the window down?"

"The driver has the air-conditioning on; are you still hot?"

I shivered. "No. It's just that I hate air-conditioning."

Marshall, seated across from us in the back of the limo, laughed. "This is Miami, Lex. You'd better get used to it."

"Yeah, but it's Miami in early March, not mid-August. I just like the fresh air."

"Well, I can't guarantee how fresh it is, but ..." Ivan gestured his acceptance to his bodyguard, and Marshall tapped on the tinted glass separating the passenger compartment from the front seat. The partition slid down a few inches and I could hear the strains of upbeat salsa music and what I could have sworn was actual laughter coming from the passenger seat Mateo currently occupied.

"Can you kill the A/C back here?" Marshall requested. Mateo twisted around a bit in surprise and met my eyes for a fraction of a second before the glass rose up to snug back into place. The vents stopped pumping out their stale, recycled air, and I pushed the button on my door to lower the tinted glass.

"Just a little bit," Ivan cautioned, squeezing my fingers where they rested, entwined, on the smooth seat leather. He reached out to his door's controls and cracked that window a couple of inches, too. "I'm trying more for incognito on this trip than in flagrante."

With a wide grin I lowered the window on my door to match his, then turned my head to catch the slight breeze coming into the car.

I sighed. There was always something magical about flying south in the winter. New York might be frigid, drizzly, and gray, still bound fast in the frozen grip of the season, but in a few short hours, palm trees dotted every horizon and the salt tang of the sea washed over my face on warm, gentle breezes. The soft breath of the ocean blew away the cobwebs that still shrouded my brain even after sleeping for almost the entire flight.

A muffled but uproarious laugh penetrated the privacy glass. I stared at the tinted pane over Marshall's shoulder. "I swear I have never heard Mateo laugh before today, and now the front seat sounds like a comedy club," I marveled.

The dark-skinned bodyguard shrugged. "He's home," he said simply, as though no other explanation were needed.

Home. I was abashed to realize that, as much as I had been around Ivan's security team now, I had never wondered where they hailed from, or really, anything about them. If they missed Miami or found New York to be a welcome change. If they had left behind friends or lovers, favorite haunts or hobbies or teams. If they resented being uprooted with their boss, or just regarded it as part of the job.

"What about you?" I asked, beginning to remedy my ignorance and lack of interest. "Are you from Miami, too?"

Marshall shook his head. "Baltimore."

I furrowed my brows. "I don't know if I've ever met anyone from Baltimore before."

"That's because it's so nice, nobody wants to leave."

I smiled, not sure if he was teasing me or was genuinely that enthusiastic about his hometown. "So how did you come to be a bodyguard in Miami?" I asked.

"That's a long story," Ivan interjected.

I turned to regard his profile, but he said nothing more; if he hadn't just spoken, I would have thought him completely absorbed by the rapidly passing scenery.

"Another time," Marshall promised vaguely.

I supposed I would wallow in ignorance for a while longer. I smiled at the polite brush-off and turned to study the large green and white signs peppering the lightly busy highway.

"Are we going straight to the pier?" I murmured to the lovely man on the seat next to me.

"Not until tomorrow morning; we're going to the house first."

Not "home" or "my house," but "the house"; Ivan clearly didn't consider Miami to be home either. I watched him in silence as he continued to look out the window – pensive, anxious even – then leaned over a couple of inches to touch my chin to his shoulder.

"Do you regret bringing me?" I asked quietly.

Ivan released my fingers and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "I regret a lot of things," he told me, his gaze turning back to the subtropical vegetation. "But I have no regrets when it comes to you."

Not yet, I thought inadvertently. I rested my head on his broad shoulder and tried to think of nothing.

Unfortunately, my brain didn't work that way. I was musing about what I would do if DiMarco tried to contact me while I was in Miami – Why would he? The weekly report was in the mailbox waiting for Monday pick-up as usual. – when the limo rolled onto a bridge, slowing to pass through a tollbooth on what had to be a tiny manmade island.

"What body of water is this?" I asked as I sat straighter in my seat and craned to get a better view through the side windows.

"Biscayne Bay," answered Ivan. "We're crossing over the Broad Causeway."

Once through the toll gate and off the landscaped emerald carpet of the toll collector's rectangular outpost, we skimmed over a larger section of the bay before driving onto a small, populated island. Then a short bridge, another island, another short bridge, and finally we pulled onto a lush stretch of land marked by a sign welcoming us to Miami Beach.

Ivan pointed out his window on the left at a collection of large but short buildings. "The shopping mall," he identified the cluster. "We'll come back here to get you some suitable clothes after we change cars at the house."

"And shower," I added.

He looked like he might protest until I pushed up a sleeve of my lightweight sweater, revealing the stark graphics of my temporary tattoos.

"Okay," he agreed. "And shower."

The limo turned left down a palm-lined boulevard, passing enormous hotels and luxury condominiums after leaving the shops behind. The place was a tourist mecca.

"Huh," I commented, just the tiniest bit disappointed but trying not to show it. "I didn't really picture you living in a place like this."

"I don't," Ivan assured me.

I turned to look out the other side of the car and caught a glimpse of Marshall's grinning face. "What are you so pleased about?" I asked suspiciously.

If anything, his sparkling white smile got even wider. "Nothing," he lied, then changed his answer to, "You'll see."

As we turned left again to leave the island's main drag, the residential behemoths abruptly gave way to smaller, single-family houses. Of course, they were smaller only in comparison to the high-rises; each house was a mansion in its own right. Separated and screened by high, thick walls of dense, luxuriant vegetation, each was an oasis unto itself.

After another turn, the car finally crunched into the driveway of one of the palatial residences and purred to a stop. Aside from the exuberantly lush gardens, I couldn't see much of the property from the windows of the backseat; I reached out for my door handle, eager to get out for a better look.

Both Ivan and Marshall reached out to stop me. I looked at them in surprise.

"We wait here," Ivan told me firmly. "Mateo will let us know when it's safe to get out."

Right on cue, I heard the front passenger door open and then close as the hulking Cuban-American bodyguard made his way up the pristine pavers of the drive and disappeared into the foliage.

"Copy," Marshall said suddenly into the transmitter at his wrist. The usually jovial man was all business now.

"I guess we're not in Kansas anymore," I muttered.

Ivan did not respond, but watched Marshall intently. The security guard was clearly focused on the receiver nestled in his ear, a new tension infusing his heavily muscled frame. I could feel my own nerves start to scream in response to the controlled anxiety of the two men in the car with me.

"We haven't been at the house for two months," Ivan said evenly, his voice pitched low for my ears alone. "Hopefully, no one else has either."