The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle (108 page)
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Authors: Jennifer McMahon
Tags: #Fiction, #Psychological, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thrillers
“You think it’s that easy?” Her mother was there again, perched on the edge of the hospital bed. Phoebe blinked. Once. Twice.
Phoebe could read the labels and see the stitches of the seams of her mother’s clothes. Water dripped off her ma, soaking through the thin hospital blanket and sheet, making Phoebe’s feet damp. She stank of rot and cigarette smoke.
Her ma smiled at Phoebe, waxy blue lips pulling back mechanically. “You can’t run from the Dark Man, lovie,” she said. “Not once he gets inside you. Not when you’ve got something he wants.”
Phoebe reached for the call bell on the bed rail but couldn’t find it. She scrambled frantically, and just as she’d given up and was about to start screaming instead, the young nurse returned, carrying the baby, still swaddled. Phoebe glanced down at the foot of the bed. There was no one there. The covers were dry.
“Everything’s fine,” the nurse said. “She looks perfect.”
Phoebe nodded, held out her arms, pulled little Willa to her and held her tight.
But something was wrong.
This was not her child.
The hair and eyes were darker, the skin more translucent. And the smell was all wrong—this child was dank and mushroomlike. The baby started to cry. It was a high-pitched, frantic cry, strangled sounding.
“This isn’t her,” Phoebe said.
“Excuse me?” said the nurse.
“This isn’t my baby.”
“Of course it’s your baby.” The perfect blond hair was slightly askew. A wig. My God. It was someone wearing a wig. And underneath the smile, the makeup, didn’t she recognize this face?
“Becca?”
The nurse took a step back. “I’m sorry?”
“What have you done with my child?”
“I’ll go and get the doctor,” the nurse said, turning. As she walked, no—practically ran—from the room, the cuff of the left leg of her pants rose up just high enough that Phoebe could see she wasn’t wearing socks. She had on silver running shoes with black laces. And there, on her ankle, was a tattoo. Teilo’s mark.
Phoebe began to scream.
“W
hat is it, babe?” Sam asked, hurrying in, two nurses behind him.
“It’s not Willa. The nurse took her. She switched her.”
“No one took her,” one of the nurses said. “She’s been in here with you the whole time. Look at her bracelet—it says ‘Baby female Nazzaro. And see the band we’ve got around her ankle? It’s an electronic sensor—if anyone tried to leave the unit with her, an alarm would go off.”
Sam stroked Phoebe’s arm. “It’s her, Bee. It’s Willa. Maybe you were dreaming.”
“I was not dreaming,” Phoebe hissed at Sam. “Where were you?”
“I had to go down to Patient Registration. They needed a copy of our insurance card.”
How had they known? They must have been watching, waiting.
“The girl who took her had blond hair, but it was a wig. And silver sneakers. A tattoo on her ankle. I think it was Becca, Sam.”
“Pinkie?” he said, frowning, a shadow of disbelief crossing his face. “I don’t think so, Bee.”
The nurse shook her head. “We don’t have anyone working here who looks like that,” she said.
“She was here!”
“You have to be buzzed in to get on the floor,” the nurse said. “No one like that was here. I was at the nurse’s station. I would know.”
The second nurse left the room, returning quickly with the doctor.
“Please,” Phoebe said. “You have to listen. She’s got to be in the hospital, still. You can stop her. Sam, please! Go look for her. She’s got our baby!”
Sam shook his head. “She’s right here, Bee. You’ve got her in your arms.”
Phoebe looked at the squalling, pale-faced child, pushed her away. “This is not my baby!”
Sam took the baby in his arms, rocked her, which just made her squall louder.
The doctor left the room and returned with a needle. He shot something into Phoebe’s IV line.
“Please,” she said. “Just look at her. This is not the baby you delivered.”
“You need to rest now,” he told her.
She heard Sam say something in a worried voice about postpartum psychosis. A history of alcoholism and mental illness in the family. “Her mother committed suicide,” he whispered.
“No,” Phoebe moaned. “Listen—” She fought to keep her eyes open, but it was no use.
As she closed them, she saw it again, clearer this time.
There, hovering in the doorway to her room, was the Dark Man. A form made entirely of shadow, he seemed to gather light and swallow it like a black hole. It was something you could get lost inside. Something that went on forever. And there, where his face should be, she was sure she could see the flash of a smile.
I
’d like to thank:
My agent, Dan Lazar, for all he does.
My editor, Jeanette Perez, and the whole team at Harper, for helping to shape the book into what it is today, and for being so understanding and supportive when I had to put everything on hold during my mother’s illness.
My father, Donald McMahon, who talks up my books to everyone, from the oil delivery guy to strangers in the checkout line at Stop & Shop.
Alicia Partridge, for her honest feedback and clever ideas.
Kenny Klein, for sharing his knowledge of fairies, and letting me read
Through the Faerie Glass
before it was published.
And as always, Drea and Zella, who go on believing in me, no matter what.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DON’T BREATHE A WORD
. Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer McMahon. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition June 2011 ISBN 9780062079459
Version 06142013
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
In memory of my mother, Dorothy Elizabeth McMahon—my co-conspirator, my teller of tales, my blue-eyed newt.
I know we’ll meet again; you’ll be waiting one day, with a bottle of gin and a smile. We’ll climb into your old Vega, crank the radio as loud as it can go, and ride right on out into the stars.
Contents
T
HE FIRST THING SHE
does when she wakes up is check her hands. She doesn’t know how long she’s been out. Hours? Days? She’s on her back, blindfolded, arms up above her head like a diver, bound to a metal pipe. Her hands are duct taped together at the wrist—but they’re both still there.
Thank you, thank you, thank Jesus, sweet, sweet Mother Mary
, both her hands are there. She wiggles her fingers and remembers a song her mother used to sing:
Where is Thumbkin? Where is Thumbkin?
Here I am, Here I am,
How are you today, sir,
Very well, I thank you,
Run away, Run away.
Her ankles are bound together tightly—more duct tape; her feet are full of pins and needles.
She hears Neptune breathing and it sounds almost mechanical, the rasping rhythm of it: in, out, in, out. Chug, chug, puff, puff.
I think I can, I think I can
.
Neptune takes off the blindfold, and the light hurts her eyes. All she sees is a dark silhouette above her and it’s not Neptune’s face she sees inside it, but all faces: her mother’s, her father’s, Luke the baker from the donut shop, her high school boyfriend who never touched her, but liked to jerk off while she watched. She sees the stained glass face of Jesus, the eyes of the woman with no legs who used to beg for money outside of Denny’s during the breakfast rush. All these faces are spinning like a top on Neptune’s head and she has to close her eyes because if she looks too long, she’ll get dizzy and throw up.
Neptune smiles down at her, teeth bright as a crescent moon.
She tries to turn her head, but her neck aches from their struggle earlier, and she can only move a fraction of an inch before the pain brings her to a screeching halt. They seem to be in some sort of warehouse. Cold cement floor. Curved metal walls laced with electrical conduit. Boxes everywhere. Old machinery. The place smells like a country fair—rotten fruit, grease, burned sugar, hay.
“It didn’t need to be this way,” Neptune says, head shaking, clicking tongue against teeth, scolding.
Neptune walks around her in a circle, whistling. It’s almost a dance, with a little spring in each step, a little skip. Neptune’s shoes are cheap imitation leather, scratched to shit, the tread worn smooth helping them glide across the floor. All at once, Neptune freezes, eyeing her a moment longer, then quits whistling, turns, and walks away. Footsteps echo on the cement floor. The door closes with a heavy wooden thud. A bolt slides closed, a lock is snapped.
Gone. For now.
The tools are all laid out on a tray nearby: clamps, rubber tourniquet, scalpel, small saw, propane torch, metal trowel, rolls of gauze, thick surgical pads, heavy white tape. Neptune’s left these things where she can see them. It’s all part of the game.
Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.