Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) (23 page)

She tells me about Liza and Micah. About escaping and hitchhiking to Louisville before hiding in the hotel room.

“Micah has been manipulating the girl,” Gloria says. “She doesn’t know he is working for Caldwell.”

“Do you think she killed Jesse?” I braced myself for the answer.

“No,” Gloria says. “I think Caldwell took them both.”

I feel something touch my shoulder and I look back to see Gloria offering me the sketchbook.

“Later,” I tell her. “If you say Caldwell has them I believe you.”

The last time Gloria showed me a picture of Jesse in trouble, it was a picture of her dying at the hands of Martin, another one of Caldwell’s henchmen. I don’t need to see what horrific fate Caldwell has planned for her this time. I don’t think I can bear it.

“We can get her back,” I say. But it doesn’t come across as confident as I hoped.

“Yes,” she says. “We have a chance.”

Six impossible things before breakfast, Alice
. My brother used to love to make comparisons between me and the mythical Alice in Wonderland, but these days, I’m really beginning to feel like I live in Wonderland. After all, my list of impossible tasks for today alone far exceeds six.

“Son of a—,” Dr. York says. His hands come out of his lab coat and clutch his hips. His blue eyes are narrow and assessing. “When they said you refused anyone else, I didn’t imagine this was why.”

Gloria doesn’t reply. She looks like a little kid who just got into trouble—a bloody kid.

“Well I hope he— or she—looks worse,” Dr. York replies. He opens a drawer in the examination room and pulls out two latex gloves.

“He might still be unconscious,” Gloria says. It’s a delayed response, an attempt at the give-and-take of normal conversation, which admittedly Gloria isn’t predisposed for.

This truth is further demonstrated by the fact she says nothing else for the ten minutes it takes Dr. York to examine her. He spends a considerable amount of time on her cheek and right shoulder. He examines the left forearm and then asks her to lie down and checks her abdomen.

“Are you pissing blood?” he asks.

“No.”

I’ve worked with Dr. York enough to know he is setting us up for a rant, the kind he often lavishes on Jesse.

“How much damage?” I ask and I know he is secretly thrilled by this inquiry because I have given him the platform for his launch.

“A dislocated shoulder, a broken forearm and probably a rib or two. This cheek will require at least
eight
stitches and there is no telling if you’ll have nerve damage though I suspect you got lucky there. Your facial muscles seem to still be working fine. I see no droop or loss of movement. It will scar. And you’ll require plastic surgery if you ever hope to fix it entirely.

“I’m not vain,” she says, and it is a flat, unfeeling voice.

“I need to put your shoulder back into place before I can turn you around and examine your kidneys and back for damage. And I’ll need X-rays to confirm the fractures. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me who caused this? It would be my
pleasure
to file charges.”

Again she doesn’t respond.

“I can keep a secret with the best of them,” Dr. York continues, trying a new angle. “But someone is going to notice this and ask questions. You best prepare for that. Where’s Jesse?”

We must have made faces. I know I flinched at the sound of Jesse’s name and I can only imagine that Gloria too, provided some tell for the doctor to pick up on. I didn’t see it myself because I looked away and focused on the cold white door with its sharp angles jutting from a thick door frame.

His eyes widen. “Where is she?”

Gloria won’t meet his gaze.

“We don’t know,” I finally say because Dr. York looks on the verge of real panic. “They were attacked and Jesse was taken.”

Dr. York touches his chest and it’s a gesture that I never want to see an elderly person do.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” he says but all the color has gone out of his face. When he looks up at me I can’t tell if I’m seeing anger or fear. “I know you’ll find her. And bring her back. We should contact someone.”

“No,” Gloria says and she looks him dead in the eye. “No.”

Dr. York looks at his shoes. And there it is, the affection he has for her. She drives him crazy. I know because I’ve heard earful after earful on that score. Her crass tongue, her misanthropic, offhand way with people, her tendency for melodrama. But he cares about her.

He flashes me a tight smile and says. “Come with me, Ms. Jackson. Let’s put you together so you can get back out there.”

Gloria slips down off the examination table, clutching the back of the gown closed with her one good arm while the other hand hangs limp in her socket. She stops by the pile of her clothes and releases the gown long enough to hand me a cell phone, the one she retrieved from her house before I brought her here to the hospital.

“Call the first number,” Gloria says and her voice is low as she glances at the open door to confirm the doctor has stepped out. “Tell him everything I told you.”

And before I can ask her who I’m calling, she grabs the fold of her gown and disappears into the hallway.

I scroll through the phone’s history and see the number. It’s not a familiar number and it has no contact name associated with it because Gloria’s contact address book is completely empty.

I hit send and for some reason my heart speeds up. On the second ring a man answers.

“You’re late,” the voice said. The unmistakably male voice that I know immediately, having heard it for years. “Talk to me.”

“Brinkley?” I ask.

“Alice,” he says and the irritation is gone. “What’s happened?”

Jesse

I
t’s hard to keep my mouth shut as we cross the lobby past three desk clerks. I search the neutral tones and stock furniture, and eye the guests checking in. A woman carries her bags toward the elevator while a couple sits on a couch looking at a map together. None of them look like they can do a damn thing to help me.

And unless he’s invisible Caldwell isn’t here. If invisibility turns out to be his special gift, I’m never showering or sleeping again.

Liza grabs me roughly under my arm, her fingers biting into my flesh. “Don’t even think about doing something stupid.”

Heat floods my face and I shrug her off of me. Even though she’s killed someone, even though she thinks she’s tough shit with her little powers, I couldn’t care less. If Gloria saw Caldwell nearby and spent what was possibly one of her last breaths warning me, then he is my real problem.

Liza leads me to the edge of the parking lot, out into a large field beside the hotel. The field isn’t endless of course. Beyond it is a thin veil of trees revealing a neighborhood with quaint homes.

We are near the center of the grassy expanse when she stops walking.

“I’ll tell you how this works,” she says. “You have to use your power.”

“Why?” I search the dark shadows of the trees at the edge of the field and my flesh crawls. Could he be in there? Crouching behind some bush or something? The parking lot is empty except for a myriad of parked cars or maybe he isn’t here yet. After all, Gloria doesn’t do exact times.

“It opens the channel,” she says. “Are you listening?”

I quit looking around and humor her with a tight smile. “Channels open. Show my juju.”

She kneels and pulls a knife out of her boot. Just great.

“I’m guessing you plan to scramble my brains with that after you use your power on me?” I ask.

“And you said you were a slow learner.”

I give my best nonchalant shrug. I even smile. “I have my moments. Well, come on then. Let’s be stupid and do this in broad daylight.”

“This is not a joke,” she says.

“I’m staring at a tiny girl with a dull pocket knife,” I say. “I don’t feel inclined to make the first move.”

“Are you kidding?” Her knuckles go white as she twists the knife handle in her grip. The air around us smells like diesel and the cement of the parking lot. A fragrant breeze rustles the leaves in the trees. The hairs on my neck stand up.

He’s watching. He’s got to be watching. Stop
, I tell myself.
Don’t get hysterical.

“If you could just have killed me you would have done it in the hotel room. But here you are waiting for me to do something. If I don’t do it, you don’t win,” I say. “I’ll just wait it out, thanks.”
And
I’ll wait for him to show his face.

“That’s your logic?’ She replies, indignant. “I didn’t kill you in the room because he told me to wait. He wanted your friend and I wanted you. That was the deal.”

The deal.
Liza is too stupid to realize she isn’t calling the shots. She didn’t make a deal with Micah. That’s like saying she made a deal with Caldwell’s dog. Who do you think the pooch listens to?

“So why bring me out here? Why not just pull a double homicide in the room?” I ask. I keep checking my periphery for movements, a sign.

“He wanted to be alone with her. He said I should bring you outside.”

“Then he wants us outside,” I say. Why?
Why
? Because we are two sitting ducks in a field. I crouch, getting low to the ground, looking around me desperately. But I see no one.

“Get up. I won’t fall for any stupid tricks.”

“We should hide,” I say. I look at the thick trees. I have a feeling about those trees. “I know you don’t believe me, but I think this is a trap to catch us both.” BOGO, man. Instead of listening like a calm rational person. She screams like a banshee and runs at me.

I sweep my leg up and kick her in the leg at the right moment. She comes down. Then I do an aikido move, kotegaeshi, that bends the wrist to one side and I’m able to free the knife from her hand. But I don’t stop here because Brinkley told me to always take my opponents weapons first and he included a great many things in the category of weapons. A hand is a weapon, a leg, if they are kickers—and for Liza, her fingers. I saw her do that terrifying snappy thing. And I know she can use it again if she wants.

I break the first two fingers on both her hands by twisting them back. I hear the
snap
, and her furious cry. Grabbing the knife and snapping her fingers only takes seconds.

“Stop
screaming
,” I say. “And listen to me.”

“Bitch,” she says. “My fucking hands!”

She holds up the bent fingers already swelling to a grotesque size. Okay, I might have overdone it a bit.

“I couldn’t have you snapping,” I say. “Now
listen
to me.”

“I can only snap with my right hand! With my fucking middle finger! You broke three others fingers!”

“How was I supposed to know?” I say. “It’s not like you explained the parameters of your snapping abilities.”

“I’m going to kill you!” she screams and her face is so red it looks like it will explode.

Something hits me and cuts off my words. It’s like an invisible wall pushing me down, knocking me back. My feet actually leave the ground for a moment before reconnecting hard, knocking the air out of my lungs as my shoulder blades carve a space for themselves in the dirt.

Liza is on her feet, a screaming bundle of rage. The ground shakes and I realize what is happening.

“No, no. This is what he wants. He wants you to show him what you can do,” I scream but my voice doesn’t carry over her own battle cry.

The ground rises, funnels up like an anthill growing from the earth. Liza’s chest heaves with ragged breaths and she looks crazy with her wild hair and clenched fists. Isn’t she worried about witnesses? Maybe she hasn’t had her five minutes of fame, but
I
have and I hated the aftermath.

I don’t stand from the crouching position I’ve resumed even though the anthill keeps growing. I can’t decide what to do. If I run I will be exposed and Caldwell might take that opportunity to show himself and put the smack down on us. But I can’t just sit here with Liza raising hell.

“I’m sorry I broke your fingers,” I say. “But I need you to believe me. This is a trap.”

A wall of dirt hits me from behind. A whirlwind of grass and clay hits me in the face and hair. I’m spitting up dirt furiously, about to be crushed under the weight of it. I’ll suffocate.

All I can do it cover my face and feel the weight build.

Jesse
.

The sound of falling dirt fades, softens and begins to sound more like wings. With my eyes covered, the brown becomes black and I can almost imagine the black feathers stretching around me blackening out the sky.

Let me in.

He’s here, he’s here and she won’t listen.

Let me in, Jesse. Let me protect you.
In my fear I forget what it means to be sane, that it means keeping the walls up and convincing yourself what you know is real, isn’t
really
real. I told myself for a year that Gabriel wasn’t real—that I was stressed and scared and I invented him. But now, I’m scared again. The fear is back.