I know the pass code to get into his garage, but I don’t want to use it. I don’t want to startle him. He’s already seemed nervous. I’d prefer he come out and get me.
I look up at his condo, but I’m looking into the sun and can’t see any indication of what’s going on up there.
At five after twelve, a mild case of panic starts to set in. I need to see him. What’s he doing? Did he forget? But how could he forget?
He’s freaking out, that’s what’s happening, he’s freaking—
The door rises, startling me. I hike my bag over my shoulder and walk inside.
At the doorway into his condo stands Christian, wearing a dirty white T-shirt, hair fallen into his dark-ringed eyes.
“Happy Halloween,” I say, but he doesn’t smile. “What’s wrong? You look like hell.”
I follow him up the stairs. “Are you okay?” I ask.
He stops in the kitchen and looks at me. “I’m fine. Just nerves, I guess. I’ve never done something like this.”
Don’t go wussing out on me now, Christian. I need you, pal.
His eyes are glassy, almost like he’s been crying. He’s pale and sweaty and shaky.
Are you fucking kidding me? He’s going south on menow? We’re just hours away.
“Let me get you some water,” I say.
“Gloves,” he says, pointing at the kitchen counter.
A pair of rubber gloves, pulled out of their wrapping and waiting for me. Smart.
“I just spent... all weekend scrubbing you out of this condo,” he says.
I snap on the rubber gloves, grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, and hand it to him. “Drink,” I say. “Do you have the flu or something?”
“I just... threw up,” he admits. “Nervous stomach, I guess. I don’t have the flu.”
“Let me take your temperature. You have a thermometer?”
“Uh... I think so. An old one.”
I head into his bathroom. It reeks of vomit. The toilet lid is still up. What a freakin’ cream puff. But what did I expect, I guess, from a guy with a titanium toothbrush and matching nose-hair trimmer?
“I’ll clean up in here a little,” I call to him. “You should lie down. Get some rest.”
Get some rest and grow a pair of testicles.
—
When I come out of the bathroom, Christian’s lying on the couch, trying to relax but not succeeding. I drop my bag down and sit next to him, putting his feet on my lap.
“We’re only getting one chance at this,” I say.
“I know that. Don’t worry. You can count on me.”
“Did you practice with the Glock?”
He nods. “I practiced. It’s fine. It’s easy to handle.”
“Okay. What time are you going?”