Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) (3 page)

Ally

J
esse’s legs protrude from under the tree as if pantomiming a bizarre Wicked Witch of the West scene. It’s the shrill cry piercing my ears that sharpens my focus and it breaks the spell of the polka dotted legs lying so still in the mud.

I whirl to find several mothers clutching their children. Regina is closest to me. She stares at the tree in horror. Her hands are cupped over her mouth and her eyes are rimmed with tears.

“Regina,” I say softly. I get very close to her so she is forced to look away from the tree. “Will you help me?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Regina,” I say, sharply. “What is my name?”

“Alice Gilligan.”

Close enough. “And why am I here?”

“To assist—”

“Exactly,” I cut her off. “I am here to assist. So will you
assist
me? We need to move everyone inside. Will you help me get everyone inside so I can work?”

“Is she—is—”

“Jesse is very good at her job.” I’m calm. I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Julia will be fine. Regina,
look
at
me
.”

She does.

I have to be firm with her. “Take everyone inside and stay there until I tell you otherwise.”

When I worry she won’t respond again, I clap my hands in front of her face a couple of times. It does the trick. Her eyes focus and turn toward her daughter’s guests for the first time. I help her with the words.

“We need everyone to go inside, please,” I say. “We need to make room for the emergency crews. Go inside. Go on.”

Everyone is slow, sluggish with shock but they begin to move. The children and many of the mothers are still crying, but at least they’re moving. As they funnel through the sliding glass doors, I pull out my phone and call 911. Julia, though probably alive, will still need medical care. Jesse only has the ability to heal herself, not others. Then I call the fire department so they can come and cut up the tree. The firefighter asks me to repeat myself twice before accepting that a tree fell
on
a person.

Then I’m alone. Waiting. I look at my clock: 3:58PM. I move closer to Jesse and Julia. I look at those legs sticking out from under the tree and say my silent prayers to myself—my reassurances.
She is not dead. She will wake up. It’s okay, Ally. She is safe.

I’ve seen her dead so many times you would think I have no fear of her dying.

You’d be wrong.

I crouch beside her as a piercing siren cuts the day in half. It’s very close and the wail forces me to cover my ears. Once it falls quiet again, I place one hand on Jesse’s calf and find it damp and cold.

A small terror rises inside me and I say my silent prayers again. And again.

Firefighters erupt from the side fence. They flood the yard in their yellow jumpsuits. One is carrying a chainsaw. Another, something that looks like a jack. I give a little wave to draw them over. They come at a run.

“This is authorized replacement #60432,” I tell them. “There is a little girl under there with the agent.”

“Stand back, please,” the one carrying the chainsaw says. He’s young with a scruffy jaw. I oblige.

I’m relieved that he starts farther down on the tree. The sound of the saw eating wood, its high-pitched whine of hunger, still makes me nervous, but at least I know they will not miss and cut flesh.

The heavy trunk falls away and only a considerably smaller piece of wood lies on top of Jesse and Julia. The firefighters shout orders to each other over the noise. They say
the bodies
.

The bodies.

I keep my anger under control.

The paramedics arrive while the firefighters are still removing the tree. I wave them over and they come running. It’s a man and a woman. The man carries a large bag, the woman a stretcher.

“This is authorized replacement #60432,” I repeat. “There is a death replacement agent and a little girl, four years old.”

“Do you suspect head trauma?” the man asks.

My heart swells with gratitude. He’s considering Jesse’s health as much as Julia’s. Unfortunately, you’d be surprised how often Jesse’s well-being is overlooked. People equate NRD with invincibility. But Jesse is not invincible—despite what she might think.

Her NRD has its limits.

For people with NRD, once they die, their brain starts sending a bombardment of electro-impulses through the body to wake them up, not unlike a hypnic jerk some people feel when falling asleep. When they wake up they get a metabolic boost which allows them to heal the damage accrued in a death. Neurologists aren’t sure why this happens, or how a person develops NRD. There appears to be a heredity link because it runs in families.

Because it is neurological and controlled by the brain, Jesse needs her brain in order to wake up from a death replacement. No brain equals no pulsing. Hence why the paramedic is inquiring about head trauma.

“It is possible,” I admit. I let my gratitude for his concern show. “They were hit from behind. I think spinal trauma is more likely. But the trunk could have clipped the back of her skull.”

“I’ll get a second stretcher,” the female paramedic says. She jogs back to the fence line and disappears.

“Free,” a firefighter calls and I turn to see them lift the trunk off of Jess.

And I see something.

It’s quick. So quick that I’m not sure I saw it at all.

Jesse lies on her stomach. She is propped over the little girl, shielding her from much of the tree. Julia has a large scratch across her cheek, presumably from bark, but for the most part she looks unharmed. Jesse’s back doesn’t look quite right, but I don’t know what’s wrong with it. That is the extent of my medical knowledge.

It isn’t the injuries that bother me. It is what I see for the briefest of moments.

Covering Jesse and Julia is a thin layer of—what is that?

Light
?

A purple shade of light is pulsing an inch or so around them. If the firefighters see it through their face shields, they show no sign of recognition. And by the time the paramedic kneels beside her to inspect the damage, the light has faded away.

“No spinal trauma,” the male paramedic says. “In fact there doesn’t seem to be much damage at all. Her shoulder might be dislocated.”

Clearly, he didn’t see the odd purple light.

“Is she dead?”

The paramedic humors me with a soft frown. “Yes, unfortunately.”

But why would she die if there is no damage, no trauma.

Julia cries. It is the slow, growing sort of cry. The kind sleepy children are prone to. The paramedic inspects her enough to determine it’s safe to move her and then lifts her free from Jesse’s embrace.

“Mommy!” she sobs more loudly. She is quite pitiful in her muddy and torn party dress. Her cute wool coat askew on her shoulders and her little fists pressed against her closed eyes. “Mommy!”

“Is she okay?” I ask the paramedic as the woman appears with the second stretcher.

“Not a scratch on her,” he says. His amazement is apparent. “You know direct force replacements are very difficult to pull off.”

So he knows something about death replacing.

“Jesse is very good,” I say. I text Kirk, our mortician, and tell him to meet me at the hospital.

“She must be,” he agrees.

He puts something on a clean cotton ball and dabs at Julia’s cheek while cooing sweet words. I motion to the glass door where Regina stands watching. I mouth the words
Come on out
to accompany my wave.

She doesn’t have to be told twice.

And when Julia sees her mother she cries louder.

Regina can’t wait. She is running across the yard crying, her arms out to scoop up her little girl. The paramedic doesn’t want to release her, but Julia’s upstretched arms cannot be denied. Regina pulls her up, then sinks to her knees still clutching the child close.

They sob with abandon as Regina rocks her daughter back and forth.

The paramedics unceremoniously inspect Jesse’s head for damage and when none is found, pronounce that she will survive. They load Jesse onto the stretcher and I follow them through the backyard to the ambulance.

I cast one last look over my shoulder at the mother holding her daughter and crying. And I wish that Jesse could see this part—what it was all for.

Once we arrive at the hospital and the female paramedic helps me from the back of the ambulance, I watch them carry Jesse inside. She’s taken to a hospital room in the general wing, where all non-emergencies go.

Now I have no choice but to wait.

Sitting in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs, I use my phone to check the database for an estimate of her “death-time” or DT. There is a database online constructed by death replacement agents, handlers, and assistants like me. Each death is logged, as well as recovery time. Overall, it gives a good sense of what sort of time will be needed for recovery. For example, a fire typically takes three days. It’s one of the worst replacements. A strangling, or suffocation, is only a couple of hours.

I’m having a hard time finding an entry for
death by fallen tree.
I try a couple of others: blunt force trauma, eighteen hours. Spinal damage, nine hours. Crushing, twelve hours. I’ll make an entry myself once this is over, but being the first to log a death doesn’t help me with timing her post replacement care.

Dr. York, her primary care physician, enters the room and takes her away. It is protocol to make sure some significant damage hasn’t occurred during the replacement. He’s gone for almost an hour when he brings her back. Dr. Stanley York is a good guy. He is completely bald on top, with his small patch of snow-white hair covering his ears and the back of his head. The white serves to dramatize his bright blue eyes and thin smile.

Jesse has been cut out of her clown suit and is wearing a hospital gown. Someone cleaned the mud from her face and fingers.

“I don’t see anything,” he says. “No tree limbs to remove or anything of the sort.” He pulls a piece of butterscotch from his pocket and pushes it into my hand. “I will have to look again once she
reboots
.”

“She isn’t a cyborg, Dr. York,” I say. I put the butterscotch in my mouth because to not do so would be an insult.

“How are you, Alice?” he asks. “Are you getting enough sleep? Fluids? Are you eating well?”

I smile. “Yes, thank you for your concern.”

He grins. “She isn’t working you too hard, is she?”

“No,” I say. “You?”

He casts a look at Jesse and smiles. “Not this week.”

He is about to say something more when my phone rings. The number is blocked.

“I need to take this.” Saying no more, Dr. York exits with a little wave.

I take Jesse’s cold hand into mine before answering the phone. “Hello.”

“We need to meet,” a deep male voice says.

I trace the edge of her cold, soft finger with my warm one. “I’m at the hospital right now.”

“I know. Can you meet me in the cafeteria?”

I look at Jesse’s placid face. I feel her cold stiff hand in mine and the terror is still there.
This isn’t real,
I tell myself.
It isn’t like before.

Eight years ago, Jesse died for the first time.

It was a barn fire and her step-father died with her. I didn’t know about Jesse’s NRD and had no idea she survived. Her mother never told me and for years—
years
—I thought she was really dead. I thought I’d lost my best friend and first love in a pyre of ash. I can’t describe the emptiness of those years. Countless months of moving as if I were programmed. There wasn’t a day I didn’t think about her. I suffered the kind of grief that someone can’t possibly understand unless they’ve lost someone they love. The way the mind keeps remembering and grieving again and again. It isn’t a brush with death, painful panic that can be relieved with a phone call or an embrace. It was the kind of grief that stayed with me, day and night. The kind that has no remedy, coloring everything.
Consuming
, everything.

Then I found out she was alive. She was
alive
. It took me almost a year to find her, but when I did, oh my God— when I walked into her office and saw her alive and smiling—

It took everything I had not to kiss her. Not to slap her. Shake her. To cry like a mad person or squeeze her to death again and again.

Now that I know the truth of her condition, I’m supposed to be able to let go of this fear—that she will never wake up. The fear that she died at seventeen and everything that has happened since has just been a mad illusion of my grieving mind.

But I can’t. God help me, I can’t. Every death replacement, every threat, tastes like the grief I carried around for four long years.

“I’ll be right there.” I tell him, and he hangs up without saying goodbye.