Hidden Steel (2 page)

Mickey dared to look into those cold black eyes. “Can I?” she said. “Save myself?”

The woman’s lips curved in smile made stark by the deep red of her lipstick. “You can certainly save yourself some trouble. How much? That would be up to you.”

The skin tightened across Mickey’s spine and arms and lower belly; an instant of disorienting panic gripped her so tightly she couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
Who am I who is she
what
am I who is Naia
…

The woman smiled.

Instincts.
They were all Mickey had. She’d trust them. She’d damn well
cling
to them.

“Really,” she said. “Just woke up … small bladder … how about that bathroom?”

With a flicker of irritation, the woman leaned back in the chair and crossed her stocking-covered legs. “I don’t understand your reluctance. Naia is still at liberty only because we’re playing her like a plump little fish. As I said, your silence won’t save her.”

Mickey hid her instant skepticism, looking at her bare toes, wiggling them slightly. If they were so sure about Naia, why play her? Why would they need any additional information from Mickey?

Perhaps the woman read Mickey’s mind … or maybe she’d just done this too many times before. “We do, however, need to follow up on the damage Naia has caused us—and since it isn’t convenient for us to reveal our knowledge of her activities just yet, you will be our source. It’s only fair, don’t you think, since you corrupted her in the first place?”

Corrupted her to do what? And who
was
Naia? Sister, friend … or some clueless mark of whom Mickey had taken advantage?

She winced at the thought, and hoped—hoped hard—it wasn’t that last. And then thought …
if it bothers me to consider it now, would I have done it?
Surely her personality had remained intact.

Except she immediately recalled the head injury cases she’d heard of, people who’d had to relearn themselves—and the frustration of their family members as they turned out to have new personalities along the way. New likes, new dislikes, new responses.

Damn. Self-doubt … this wasn’t the time or place. Whoever this woman was, she had the money and backing to employ her own unscrupulous doctor, and access to the building Mickey found herself in. And one look at the woman’s eyes let Mickey know she was used to getting her own way.

In fact, aside from that mild frustration, she didn’t seem particularly upset with Mickey’s reticence. She simply regarded her captive with a raised eyebrow. “You do realize, I hope, that the good doctor is hardly here just to hold your hand? His primary purpose was to help us acquire you—and then to make sure I get the information I want. He has a creative collection of chemicals to help you feel talkative—but he did suggest that, given your recent reaction, it might help avoid scrambling your brain for good if I simply talked to you first. So far, I don’t find this approach very rewarding.”

And if Mickey talked? If she admitted she was of no use to the woman at all? What were her chances then?

Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears, a whisper fighting its way out to be heard. “And hey,” she said, somehow finding the strength to lift her gaze back to meet those cold black eyes. “How about that bathroom?”

* * * * *

“I’m not an orderly!” the doctor insisted, standing just inside the doorway, offended and not trying to hide it.

“And I don’t want her exposed to anyone else on staff now that she’s awake.” The woman didn’t bother to get angry … mostly, Mickey realized, because she truly didn’t care. “Don’t waste my time arguing. Take her to the bathroom, or clean up after her when she wets herself. Your choice.” And she looked over at Mickey to say, “This is my gift to you, Jane A.
Dreidler
. Time. Think over our discussion. When I come back, it’ll be your last opportunity to preserve your mind, such as it is.”

Oh, ha ha. Clever.
And if she only knew …

Disgruntled and still a little disbelieving, the doctor fished in the pocket of his white lab coat. No name over the pocket of that one, nope. Still … he had the key. She waited expectantly as he came in to free the cuff from the cot frame, and then helped her to her feet when she found herself wobbly.

More wobbly than she’d expected. Not a good thing when those instincts she now relied on so heavily screamed for escape. Escape
before
that woman came back for another chat. When the doctor took her elbow in a supportive hold, she didn’t hide her flinch … but she accepted his help, shuffling like a little old woman.

Then again, maybe she
was
a little old woman.

No, she knew that much. Her skin wasn’t old. It didn’t tell her much, but she wasn’t elderly. Her voice told her she spoke English as her native language. If she had a regional accent she couldn’t detect it, but she didn’t set much store in that. Who heard an accent in their own speech? Maybe she’d find a mirror in the bathroom. …

She’d been here at least once before, but it was no more than a hazy memory; she’d barely been awake, and she’d had two people at her side—both of them big and husky and male. She thought they’d left her alone in the bathroom stall. She
hoped
. Then again, if that had been her first self-powered visit to any facilities, no doubt other arrangements had been made before that point. Maybe she’d been wearing adult diapers for days.

She certainly wasn’t wearing any undergarments
now
. Just this damn drafty gown.

She hesitated in the doorway, looking both directions down a hallway that could have been in any low-rent corporate building. Stained carpet of a variegated dark blue, off-white walls, fluorescent panels set into more of the sound-dampening tile. No noise to speak of—as far as Mickey could tell, she and the doctor were the only ones occupying this area. Her room was in the middle of the hall; there were exit stairs at one end of the hall and a corner at the other.

The doctor gave her an impatient nudge, directing her away from the exit. Mickey stumbled when they reached the carpet, but straightened herself out and offered up a good impression of a woman moving upright. Each step she took seemed like an opportunity wasted—another step in which she hadn’t escaped. Hadn’t even thought of a way to escape. Really, couldn’t think of anything other than getting closer to the bathroom.

To her dismay, the doctor followed her right through the door marked
Ladies
. At her incredulous expression, he said, “The stall is privacy enough. Did you really think I’d leave you alone in here?”

Mickey glanced around the room—bad linoleum floors, pale yellow tile on the smooth walls, an empty towel dispenser beside them and … and nothing. Just a row of three stalls, one with a missing door. “Just what kind of trouble do you think I could get into?”

He remained unmoved. “I haven’t the faintest idea, but I’m not taking the responsibility for it.”

Mickey made a face at him. She checked the first stall, gave thanks for the presence of toilet paper, and made use of the facilities without giving his presence much additional thought. If he wanted to listen to her pee, then let him.

And still she hadn’t come up with any great escape. Nothing clever, nothing diabolical. Maybe she just wasn’t any good at this even when she had her memories intact. Maybe that’s why she’d been caught.

Whatever she’d been doing.

Whoever she was.

She emerged from the stall to give the doctor a sweetly insincere smile, and went to wash her hands as he all but tapped his foot in impatience. And there. A mirror. Her chance to learn just a little more about herself without revealing how little she knew.

Whoa.

Hard to sort those first impressions.
Too pale, face strained and unwell. Lanky, dirty hair, falling around her shoulders. Collarbones too sharp, a thin look accented by the oversized gown.

 But otherwise, she was the girl next door. Caramel brown hair, very straight, cut in layers to curve around her cheeks and a jaw on the long, sharp side. Tiny little smile parentheses at the corners of her mouth. A faint mole, not next to that mouth, but right on the plump curve of her lower lip. Eyes blue enough to grab her attention even though she knew it was her own reflection.

“Forget what you look like?” the doctor asked, all sarcasm.

Mickey cast him a little wrinkle-nosed
ha ha
expression and turned the water on; the loose handcuff clattered around the sink until she caught it up, shoving her fingers through so it rested above her knuckles like …

Like a pair of brass knuckles.

Ooh.

But it had to be done here. Here, where no one would see them. Or find the good doctor.

Mickey hesitated, testing the thought.
Reality check. Just where does this fit on the scale of stupid?

And a little voice answered,
How stupid would it be if you didn’t even try?

Mickey ducked her head, splashing water on a face that hadn’t been washed in far too long. No soap here, but the cool water chased away a remaining cobweb or two. And then, somehow before she’d even thought it through, she clutched her hand to her eye and made a startled noise.

“What—?” the doctor said, moving closer. Responding automatically to his years of training.

“Something in my eye,” Mickey said, and frantically splashed more water at her face.

He huffed with impatience, moving close enough to take her head in his hands and lift it with a casually proprietary air that removed any trace of regret she might have been harboring for what she hoped would happen next.

For what
did
happen next. Because as the doctor planted a thumb and finger to force her watery eye open, Mickey brought up her cuffed hand in a swift, precise punch that had more than desperation behind it.

Training.
I know how to hit people.

Her blow landed right on the bridge of his nose; she felt the give of it—and heard the crunch. The doctor cried out in astonished agony and clapped his hands over his nose; blood flowed freely from beneath them, dripping off his chin and onto the lab coat and turquoise scrubs. He staggered backward, cast her one disbelieving look, and turned to bolt.

She reached the door before him, and she turned him casually over her hip to land hard on the cold, dirty tile.

He was a slight man, no bigger than she. He was no athlete. And still, she found herself startled when he looked up at her in fear, his hands leaving bloody tracks on the floor as he scooted back away from her.

“Oh, relax,” she snapped, not happy to have even this unscrupulous and harmful person look at her in such a way. “I’m not going to hurt you. I mean, not
really
.” But he froze as she dropped down over his legs, knees digging painfully into his thighs while she swiftly searched the lab coat pockets and found the handcuff key with one hand, the other cocked to do damage.

“My
nose
,” he said, disbelief evident, all signs of fight lost in his pain. “You broke my—”

“Shut up,” she growled. She backed off slightly, releasing the remaining cuff and rubbing her fingers where the improvised weapon had cut into skin. “And take off those scrubs.” He hesitated, and she whirled the cuffs in a not-so-idle threat, nerves and muscles buoyed by sudden adrenaline. “You’re just aching for a swirly, right?”

In moments he was down to boxers and white socks, and she wasted no time cuffing him to the plumbing. It took only a moment to slip into the scrubs, still—
ugh
—warm from his body heat. They smelled like him, too, and having his scent close to her skin made her feel even dirtier than before. She jammed her feet in his sneakers—they were too big, but better than going without. She managed to tighten the laces enough to keep the shoes from flopping around. She gave him a quick, critical squint of a look, ignoring his flinch, and then took up the hospital gown. The thin, old material ripped easily even in hands growing trembly—the adrenaline rush hadn’t lasted nearly long enough. She jammed the pieces in his mouth and wrapped the ties tightly around the gag, avoiding his gaze. It was his own fault.

It’s just that she was used to helping people, not hurting them.

Wasn’t she?

As a final touch she dropped the lab coat over him, a strange little touch of modesty.

And then she stuck her head out the door, saw no one and nothing between her and the exit door, and ran.

* * * * *

She ran with her luck, and expected it to run out at any moment. Expected to hear a shout of alarm, to feel a rough snatch at her arm. She found the best combination of stealth and speed she could as she hit the stairs and headed down, but every step brought her closer to stumbling in those big sneakers and every moment drained what little energy she had. The spray-painted letters beside each door told her she’d started on the fourth floor; by the time she reached the first, those letters swam in her vision, a fey enticement to freedom. She flattened herself up against the wall to catch her breath, but only waited until she’d quieted it enough so it didn’t roar in her ears—or anyone else’s.

She pushed on the heavy door bar with trembling hands and excruciating care, trying to ease past the
clunk
when the latch engaged, and peered out into a hallway that mirrored the one she’d just escaped from.

This time, she heard voices.

She let the door close.

The stairwell promised one more level down. The basement. Surely they wouldn’t be in the basement, and even if she couldn’t find an exit, she could get a better handle on the building layout.

Unless she stayed here, crept out to where she could hear, and tried to understand more about the odd situation into which she’d woken.

Mickey looked at her shaking hands, and down at her wobbly knees and the oversized sneakers. Her heartbeat came fast and thready and the grey mist edged in around her thoughts and her vision. Could she even remember what she heard, if she wasn’t caught?