Running down the hall to the stairs, Callie stopped, pulled her hand from mine, bent, and vomited. I tugged her back into motion and we raced down the stairs, leaving through the back door. She stopped and, bending, threw up again.Glancing up and down the alley, I waited for her to finish heaving, then took her icy hand and led her away.“He’s dead!” she exclaimed.Waving down a cab, I said, “Not now. We’ll talk about it when we’re back at the hotel.”Three cabs later, we entered the hotel. In our room, I poured Callie a glass of white wine, thinking it might be good for shock.She drank, then choked, the glass tumbling to the floor. “You’re bleeding! You’ve been shot!”In the rush of action and adrenalin, I’d forgotten. Taking the blood-soaked shirt off, I checked my bicep. The bullet had creased the inside of my upper arm; nothing serious. Antibiotic cream and a butterfly bandage could handle it. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”“Nothing?” she exclaimed, standing. “You’re bleeding!” She. Anyway, we've been kind of looking on our own and we found a house that is listed with your agency out in North Spokane." Another pause. "Well it's at..." He read from the sheet, "twenty-one nineteen Westbrook Lane." A pause. "Yes, Westbrook Lane." He rolled his eyes upward for a moment. "Why sure, I'll hold."He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "She's going to get the file on that house," he told me. "Who is this bitch anyway?" Maybe I'll tell you someday," I said cryptically.He shrugged and went back to waiting. A minute or so passed. Finally he began to listen again. "Yes, that's right," he told Anita. "My wife and I would like to take a look at that house as soon as possible. Is there any chance you could show it to us, say today about one o'clock?"He nodded, completely into the drama he was participating in. "Very good," he said and then listened some more. "No no, we know where it's at. How about we meet you there?" He listened some more. "That's right, one o'clock. See you.
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