Page 6 of Grant
Spencer mumbled words that made no sense and struggled to keep his eyes open.
Which poison acted so quickly? And when had Spencer taken it when he’d been in Grant’s sight since he’d left Knightdale Court?
“Stay awake, Doc! Come on, stay with me. I’ll call for an ambulance.”
“Charcoal.”
“You … what?” Then the word sank in. Activated charcoal. Of course. “Where do you keep it? Bathroom?” He settled Spencer onto the sofa and went to ransack the bathroom, returning to the living room with a glass of black sludge. “Doc! Wake up and drink this crap.”
He didn’t know how he managed it, but he got the vile stuff into Spencer.
Then it was hurry up and wait, making Spencer comfortable, watching over him, and hoping his condition wouldn’t deteriorate.
“Call Cap,” he told his phone, taking Spencer’s pulse for the fifth time in as many minutes. Nothing had changed. Spencer’s heart beat strong and steady, only a little slower than Grant expected. His breaths came deep and even, and he was a loose, sprawling weight as if he was sleeping.
“Bronnley.”
“It’s Grant, Cap. The doc’s been poisoned. Drugged. I don’t know.”
“He what? How? Never mind that. I’ll be over. Did you call an ambulance?”
“He asked for charcoal. He’s sleeping. I’m keeping an eye.”
“Probably safer that way. If anything changes—”
“I’ll take him to the hospital.”
“Call me if you do.”
“Roger that.” Grant wanted to hit something. He checked Spencer’s pulse instead. Nothing had changed. As far as he could tell, the man was asleep.
Spencer had acted strange as soon as they’d sat down to dinner. Grant recalled lengthy blank stares and delays responding to questions. Spencer had blinked more, too, as if his vision was blurry. Then he’d asked if Grant felt sick and dizzy.
Had Spencer suspected the food? But what had he eaten or drunk that Grant hadn’t touched?
The answer was obvious the moment Grant entered the kitchen. An open box of chocolates sat on the counter, and four truffles were missing. The same box of chocolates Spencer had pulled from his letterbox when they’d come home. The one Grant had quizzed him about.
Grant didn’t touch the box.
He didn’t put a fist through the wall in frustration.
Instead, he poured a glass of water and returned to the living room to watch over Spencer Corel and wait for his captain.
Fritz arrived twenty minutes later, still dressed in workout clothes and trailing an aura of wrath like a shroud. “What happened? How’s the doctor?”
“Sleeping. Come in. Water?” Grant poured a glass. Fritz had to be thirsty if he’d interrupted his workout.
Fritz took the glass, drained it in one and held it out for a refill. “Tell me everything.”
“I fucked up,” Grant said.
“I asked for details, not your opinion.”
Grant ground his teeth. Fritz could be such a bastard when he put his mind to it! Fine. He’d deal.
“We stopped on the way here to buy treats.” Grant pointed to the large paper bag on the far end of the counter. “A box of chocolates was in the doc’s letterbox. He took a nap, and when he woke, he insisted on cooking dinner. And he scoffed chocolates while he did.”
Remembering Spencer in the kitchen, enjoying the opportunity to cook for two, had Grant choking on his fury. “Can you believe I even asked him about the bloody things?”
