Mind Sweeper (5 page)

Chapter 4

Voices interrupted my sleep and I woke up slowly. Where the hell was I? I was in bed. No, I squeezed my eyes tight and opened them again, I was on a gurney in the ER. There was a curtain drawn around my bed and I was alone.

For a moment I flashed back to my twelfth birthday, spent sitting in the ER with a broken arm waiting for my mom to show up. The longer I had waited, the more pitying the stares from the nurses. How was I supposed to know where she was? After a while, Mom breezed into the hospital with her latest boyfriend, Chuck…or maybe it was Dan…in tow and scooped me up five minutes before social services was scheduled to arrive. All I had needed was one lousy traffic light to catch her and I would have been free.

My throbbing scalp put an end to my reminiscing. I gingerly reached up to touch it. Yowza, did it hurt. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to keep from throwing up. Low voices rumbled through the curtain—first came Misha’s thick accent followed by Dalton’s response.

I cleared my throat. “Guys?”

The curtain pulled back and they both crowded in next to the bed.

Misha was grinning like an idiot. “You okay, little one?”

“Yeah, I’ll live.”

Dalton attempted to smile but failed miserably. “You’ll be fine, Kyle. The doctor should be back in a few minutes.”

I tried to nod but thought better of it when my head pounded after I barely twitched. “What happened?”

Dalton spoke up. “You got hit on the head by our perp. I came running when I heard the struggle, but I didn’t catch him.”

“Byron?”

Dalton shook his head. “I found him dead in the bedroom.”

“How did I get here?”

“I brought you in your car. Since we couldn’t risk the police getting hold of the shifter’s body, I called Misha and Jean Luc on the way.”

“Mish, go help Jean Luc. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He bent down and kissed me lightly on the top of the head. “We’ll be in touch later.” Misha walked toward the door. “By the way, my shirt looks good on you, Joe, even if it’s a little too big. Take care of her.”

Dalton eyes widened, but just as quickly he recovered and his face went back into neutral position. Was there a cop class for facial expressions? Before I could ask, the doctor bustled into the room. Even in scrubs she was striking. Scandinavian Barbie. I hated her. She walked over and smiled.

“Glad to see you’re awake, Ms. McKinley. I’m Doctor Miller. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Any pain, nausea, or dizziness?”

“No.” In reality I was having all three, but did not want to risk being admitted.

She studied me closely. “Tell me the truth.”

I sighed. “My head is throbbing a little and I felt like I was going to throw up when I first woke up, but I feel better now.”

She picked up my chart and reviewed the notes. “I want to examine you for a couple of minutes if you don’t mind.”

She checked me over—blinding me with a light, asking me what day it was and listening to my heart, which made no sense since it was my head that hurt.

“Your scans came back. We saw no internal bleeds, but you may have a minor concussion. Let’s have you sit up for a while and see how you do. If it goes well, I’ll consider releasing you. But someone will need to stay with you overnight—”

Dalton interrupted. “I’ll be with her.”

I opened my mouth to protest and he held up his hands. “I’m taking the first shift, and then Misha and Jean Luc will relieve me.”

I gritted my teeth. I hated having anyone take care of me, but if I argued I wouldn’t be released.

An hour and a half later, Dalton helped me into my car. When he tried to put my seat belt on for me, I smacked his hand. I was not a child, for God’s sake. He walked around and got in the driver’s seat.

“Do you need to pick up anything on the way home?”

“Cat food. If we don’t, we’ll be risking our lives when we enter my apartment.”

He nodded and drove to the small family market two streets over from my apartment. When I reached for the car door, Dalton laid his hand on my arm. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll be five minutes tops.”

I was going to argue, but didn’t have the energy. He jumped out of the car and walked into the store. I closed my eyes for just a minute while I waited.

“Kyle!”

I jerked awake. Dalton leaned toward me, a grocery bag in hand.

“I was just resting my eyes,” I said.

“Well, the doctor said you shouldn’t go to sleep for a while. Let’s get some food in you and then we’ll get you situated on your couch.”

“Do you really have to wake me up every hour?”

“Just tonight. Doctor Miller said with the possible concussion we need to play it safe.”

“Great. Have you heard from Misha or Jean Luc yet?”

“No. Misha said they would move the body to storage. What was he talking about?”

I hesitated, deciding how much to say. “We have a facility down by the river we use to store things we don’t want the general public to see. We examine the bodies there.”

“Who examines the bodies?”

“The
who
isn’t important.”

“What does that mean?” he persisted.

“It means we have other resources I don’t want to tell you about right now.”

I glanced at him. He clenched his jaw before responding tightly, “Let’s get you home.” He pulled out of the parking lot and drove to my street. Parking in a space mercifully close to my apartment building, he turned to me.

I took a deep breath. He had just driven me home from the hospital and bought Booger some food, so the least I could do was explain why I was being so closemouthed.

“Listen. It’s one thing to bring you into the loop about our team and what we do. But in order to ensure we can keep the truth from humans, we have to rely on a network of people, some supernatural and some not. I’m not outing anyone till I get an okay.”

“I get it. So you’re telling me you have supes working throughout the city?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Amazing.”

“What, you think the supernatural community just sits around on their butts doing nothing? Most have integrated themselves into society. They work, get married, have families.”

He held his up hands in surrender. “Hold up. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just didn’t realize how widespread your network was.”

Closing my eyes for a second, I berated myself for bitchiness. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m going to shut up now.”

Dalton’s hand touched my arm ever so lightly. He watched me very carefully, like I was a cornered animal.

“Let’s get you upstairs.”

Dalton got out, snagged the grocery bag and walked around to my side of the car. He waited patiently while I slowly worked myself to a standing position. He didn’t touch me until I swayed slightly. Then he took my arm and steered me toward the building. Since he already had my keys, he unlocked the door and we stepped inside.

The stairs loomed in front of me and I squelched my whimpers. The last of my energy drained away.

He peered around the cramped lobby. “Is there an elevator?”

“No.”

“Okay. Don’t punch me for asking, but do you want me to carry you?”

“I’ll be fine. Just hang onto me.”

He wrapped his arm around my back, and we began our inchworm ascent. My neighbor Mrs. Grimaldi and her walker in 1A could move faster, but there would be no rushing. I got to the landing and took a deep breath. My vision blurred. Dalton took one look at me, dropped the bag on the floor and picked me up in his arms.

“Hey!”

“You can tell me off later, Kyle. You don’t look good, and I don’t have time for your pride right now.”

His worried scowl stopped the protest on my lips. Laying my head against his shoulder, I sighed and relaxed in his arms. When I didn’t fight him, he faltered for a second and tightened his arms around me.

“You’re going to be fine, babe,” his voice lowered to a soft tone. “We’ll be upstairs in a minute.”

Babe?
Where the hell did that come from? I was not one to bat my eyelashes and act weak in the knees to get a guy’s attention. Dalton definitely had a Sir Galahad complex. Though right now I wouldn’t argue with him. For once it felt good to have someone take care of me.

Somehow he unlocked the door with me in his arms, and I reached to flip on the light switch. Booger was perched on the arm of the couch. When he saw us, he growled. I didn’t know cats could growl. It was a scary noise, full of venom and the promise of drawing blood.

“Booger! Stop it!”

Booger jumped down and slunk to the other side of the room, never taking his eyes off of Dalton. Dalton set me on the couch carefully.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be right back.”

He headed out of my apartment and within two minutes was back with the bag he had left on the landing. Booger growled again.

“Stop it. He brought your food,” I scolded.

Swishing his puffed-up tail, the cat stomped into the kitchen.

“I’m going to feed him, and then I’ll bring you a glass of water and some Ibuprofen.”

I sat for a couple of minutes, concentrating on my breathing instead of the spinning room. Dalton was banging around the kitchen cupboards. It wasn’t long before he came back with my water and medicine. I swallowed both quickly. The local anesthetic they had used when they stitched me up had worn off, and the pain in my head had graduated from a dull throb to relentless pounding.

“The doctor said I need to feed you. I should have bought some food at the market. Will you be all right for a couple more minutes while I scrounge around your kitchen?”

Before I had a chance to answer, the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” I called out.

“Kyle, its Vinnie. Dad sent me with some food.”

Dalton raised his eyebrow at me. I nodded for him to open the door. Vinnie stepped into the room. He was a skinny preteen boy with a large Adam’s apple he had yet to grow into, and it bobbed up and down when he was nervous. Like now.

“It’s okay, Vinnie, I’m on the couch.”

Vinnie turned toward me and his eyes shot to my forehead. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine. As usual, your dad is a lifesaver. What is it this time?”

“Double order of gnocchi with marinara sauce.”

“Tell him to put it on my tab.”

“You got it.” Vinnie handed the bag to Dalton, who dug into his pocket and gave him a tip before shutting the door.

“How did he know you needed food?” Dalton held the bag out in front of him suspiciously, like it might explode.

“Vinnie’s dad, Tony, runs the restaurant down the street. He watches over me. Maybe he saw you helping me into my apartment.” Okay, I left out some minor points in this story—mainly that Tony’s grandfather was a demon and Tony had inherited his empathic ability, which he used to make his restaurant a success. He was never wrong when it came to choosing a dish for someone. As for me, he sent me food whenever he sensed something was wrong.

“I’ll be right back.” Dalton walked out of the room.

I pulled my phone out, punched in the number, and Misha answered immediately. Hitting the speaker button, I set the phone down next to me and leaned back against the couch.

“You home, little one?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s Joe?”

“He’s getting me some food. What have you found out about Byron?”

“It’s not pretty. He was tortured before he was killed, probably for information about the Erie events.”

“But he didn’t know anything. I wiped his memory,” I protested.

“You and I know that, but the killer didn’t.”

I cleared my throat to stop the lump threatening to form. “Did you find anything else?”

“Jean Luc is going through Byron’s apartment now to see if we missed anything. Do you need me to come over and give you one of my famous foot rubs?”

I chuckled. “I’m fine, Mish, honest. Do your job and I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up the phone and jumped. Dalton stood in the doorway. I wasn’t sure how long he had been there. He walked over and handed me a plate, then sat across from me and dug into his own food. The fragrances of basil and oregano wafted up from the steaming gnocchi on my plate and my stomach growled. Tony was never wrong.

“Thanks. Did you hear the call?”

“Most of it. Eat first and then we can talk about work.”

I nodded and we both ate in silence. When I finally set down my empty plate, I didn’t waste any time jumping right back into discussing the case.

“Byron was tortured for information. Wasn’t it great of me to scrub his memory?”

He shook his head. “You couldn’t have known this would happen, Kyle.”

His reassurance did little to relieve the tightness in my chest. “If I hadn’t messed with him, maybe they wouldn’t have tortured him to death.”