Page 65 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
“Wrong. Because I’m the only person who’s ever honest with you,” the doctor declared.
That definitely sounded like a pending lecture. Xander watched the neighbor’s beagle stare at him through a small hole in the back fence, fifty yards away. The dog was growling and trembling, and Xander had half a mind to get up from his chair and really give the dumb beast something to tremble about. “Don’t want to hear it, Doc.”
“I know you don’t want to hear it, Alexander, but the truth might do you a bit of good.”
Bartleby stood from the chair, stretched his arms overhead, rolled his neck back and forth.
Then he turned and stared down at Xander, his balding head crowned by a corona of stars.
“But first, a question.”
Xander braced himself.
“Are you in love with Morgan?”
He drained the last of the bottle of very fine scotch he’d been drinking for the last hour as they sat looking at the gathering storm and swallowed around the searing lump in his throat. “You’ve bee
n watching too many soap operas.”
“Well,” Bartleby persisted after a moment when Xander said nothing more, “are you?”
“You’re a pushy bastard, you know that?” Xander grumbled and climbed to his feet. He tossed the empty scotch bottle at the back fence and was gratified to hear the beagle go yelping off into the night when it shattered against the wood.
“And you’re avoiding the question.” The doctor peered up at him through his spectacles and adjusted his bow tie. “Not that I blame you, mind you, but I think if you get some clarity on this issue it will make things easier for everyone involved.”
“Clarity,” he repeated disdainfully, drawing the three syllables out. “Now I know you’ve been watching too many soap operas.”
“My point is,” continued Bartleby, undeterred by Xander’s sarcasm, “that you can’t decide what you’re going to do until you are clear on what exactly it is you feel for this female of yours.”
“Mark,” Xander corrected, hard. “Job. Pigeon.”
“Mmmhmmm,” said the doctor.
“And there is no decision regarding what I’m going to do. I’m going to...”
What? He was going to what?
Bartleby raised his eyebrows, waiting. Xander made a cutting motion across his throat with a hand.
“Please,” scoffed the doctor. “You’re not going to hurt a hair on her head.”
“I don’t even want to hear your theory on why that might be.”
“Because you’re in love with her! Even your Blood knows you’re in love with her! Why don’t you just admit it!”
Xander sighed and massaged his temples. “You’re fired.”
“Again?”
It was a running joke between them. Xander had fired Bartleby at least three dozen times over the last twenty years. It never stuck. The old man had grown on him like a barnacle.
In what he hoped would be the final period in the sentence of this unwanted conversation, Xander turned and made his way back toward the house. A breeze rustled through the trees along the fence, a rumble of thunder rattled the windows. Just as he lifted his hand to open the back door, Bartleby said, “She asked me not to give her any more drugs.”
Xander spun around, shocked. “What? I thought you said it helped her. I thought you said she was in pain—”
“She is. And will be for the next two days.” He tipped his head back and looked at Xander through his bifocals. “But she said she didn’t want you to have any more excuses.”
Xander’s chest tightened. His lungs refused to expand or contract. His voice came low and wary. “Excuses for what?”
