The Thirteenth Skull by Rick Yancey Page A

gesture.”
    â€œMore of a mannerism,” Nueve said.
    â€œYou mean affectation.”
    Nueve shrugged.
    Cinnamon-Breath gave the wig one last violent tug, then fluffed the tight gray curls with his fingertips. He tsk-tsked at the effect.
    â€œThink I should have gone with a darker shade. All this hair underneath is making it bulge. And the color—you look like a human Q-tip. Oh well. All done but the lips.”
    â€œDon’t do the lips,” I said.
    â€œI gotta do the lips. I don’t do the lips, people are going to notice the hair. And we don’t want them noticing the hair.”
    â€œWhy would an old lady be wearing lipstick in a hospital?” I asked.
    â€œShe’s leaving the hospital, Kropp. A Southern hospital. Jeez! Now make like you’re going to kiss me.”
    â€œMake like I’m going to what?”
    â€œKiss me! Give me a smooch.”
    â€œPerhaps you should purse your lips, Alfred, as if you’re going to whistle a happy tune,” Nueve suggested.
    I pursed my lips and avoided Cinnamon-Breath’s eyes as he applied the lipstick.
    â€œNow that completes the picture!” he said.
    â€œToo red,” Nueve said.
    Cinnamon-Breath ignored him. He held a hand mirror in front of my face.
    â€œSoooo? What do you think?”
    â€œI think I look like my grandmother.”
    â€œGrandmother! Perfect! Now out of bed, quick; let’s get you dressed.”
    He pulled a flowery purple dress from the valise and laid it on the foot of the bed.
    â€œCan’t we just throw a blanket over me?” I asked.
    â€œWe could,” Nueve said. “But the transition to the car could prove difficult.”
    I sighed. The makeup guy turned his back, Nueve closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall, and I slipped the dress over my wig-covered head. I asked Cinnamon-Breath to zip me up and he laughed for some reason.
    â€œYou’re beautiful,” he said. “Grandma Kropp. Oh wait. I nearly forgot.”
    He pulled a pair of white orthopedic sneakers from the bag.
    â€œOh, no,” Nueve said. “All wrong. It should be heels.”
    â€œShe has bunions—that’s the idea,” Cinnamon-Breath said. “And if for any reason he has to run, you wanna see him try it in pumps? Oh, did I say one more thing? I have one more one-more-thing.”
    He pulled a shawl from the valise and wrapped it around my shoulders. Then he stepped back and admired his handiwork. “See why the lavender was all wrong?” he asked Nueve. “The rose goes much better with the shawl. How’s he look?”
    â€œLike an octogenarian on steroids,” said Nueve.
    â€œHow do we get past the cop?” I asked.
    â€œUh-oh,” Cinnamon-Breath said, winking at Nueve. “I guess we should have thought of that!”
    He picked up his valise and knocked twice on the door. It swung open and he stepped out of the room. After the door closed, Nueve turned to me.
    â€œDo you still have the little gift I gave you?”
    I retrieved the poisoned pen from under the pillow and slipped it into the side of my orthopedic shoe.
    â€œWhy do I need it?” I asked, following him to the door.
    He smiled without showing his teeth. “No, the question is why do you persist with stupid questions?”
    â€œA teacher told me once there’s no such thing as a stupid question.”
    â€œYour teacher is an idiot.”
    He knocked on the door.
    There was no policeman sitting outside. Bought off? Dragged into the stairwell and hit on the head by Cinnamon-Breath? I didn’t know and I didn’t dwell on it. I told myself all this clandestine crap would soon be a part of my past.
    A wheelchair sat against the wall. I plopped down; Nueve tucked his cane under his arm and wheeled me to the elevator.
    â€œSamuel’s room,” I said as Nueve reached to press the button for the first floor.
    â€œYou insist?”
    â€œI