The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller (20 page)

Random images often invade my dreams. Some I can identify, others are elusive. Dark, formless, and gritty, they slip through the folds of my inner consciousness; most leave as quickly as they come, but the ones that stay with me seem so real…I can feel them, smell them, sense their emotional charge. It’s as if they speak to me in a language that doesn’t use words.

I’ve had these dreams since I was a kid. Don’t know why. Don’t understand them.

The dream about the woods is the most frequent, the most vivid, the most disturbing. I’m flying through a forest face down. Rain is falling hard, loud claps of thunder slapping at the air, water filtering though the trees and soaking my body. As I continue, I realize there is blood—lots of it—dripping onto the forest floor, covering the dead, wet leaves. The farther along I move, the more the blood seems to pour, until finally, the ground beneath me is a rich velvety red.

Am I bleeding to death?

In the distance, I hear a voice, like someone singing. It echoes through the trees. Haunts me. Sounds like a little girl or—I’m not sure who it is. I can barely make out the words:

Never fades

Never lies

Never dies

Then I am standing in the middle of a clearing, with a little boy blocking my way. He smiles and motions for me to follow him, turns to head deeper into the woods. His back is horribly disfigured: gnarled flesh with two gaping wounds from shoulder to waist. I ask him what happened, and he tells me he was once an angel, but someone ripped the wings from his body.

And then the dream jumps again, and we are standing together on a bridge, overlooking a stream. He stares at the water, his expression sad and troubled. I look too; and as I do, something powerful shoves me forward. I burst through the railing. Everything is happening in slow motion as I sail through air, pieces of wood flying all around me. I see the bridge above me. The little boy is no longer there; instead, watching me, laughing, is my mother.

I begin my downward spiral.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I threw my hands up to my face, ran my palms over it, and felt something wet. I checked my face in the rearview mirror. There was a gash above my eye, no more than a half-inch long; but there’s no such thing as a small cut in my world. For the first time since childhood, I was broken open, my blood betraying me. I felt it trickling down the side of my head and neck now, faster, faster. How long before I bled to death? Minutes? Seconds?

I heard a wild scream, and for a split second, thought it came from me.

No, no…it’s the sound of sirens in the distance, coming closer,
getting louder. Help on the way.

Soon firemen and paramedics were sliding down into the ditch. They pulled the doors open. One group began loading CJ on a stretcher. Another reached for me. I had my hand pressed tightly against the wound; I could feel my palm full of blood, and my shirt was wet. “I’m a Type Three VWD!” I said to the nearest paramedic.

He yelled up the hill with urgency, “Get me some Desmopressin! We’ve got a bleeder here!”

By the time they got us to the E.R., they’d managed to slow the bleeding but couldn’t make it stop completely. Desmopressin has its limitations for certain people; apparently, I’m one of them. Next line of defense: Factor Concentrate, a stronger agent that would hopefully shut down the flow.

After several minutes, it did. They closed the wound, then took me to radiology to check for internal bleeding. Thankfully, everything came up negative. I was out of the woods. Such a tiny hole, and yet so dangerous.

A tiny hole that could kill me.

Luckily, I hadn’t lost enough blood to cause any serious problems, but it was a reminder of just how fragile I was, how vulnerable.

After checking my vitals to be sure I was stable, they parked me in the waiting room. I sat there wringing my hands, worrying about CJ, and trying to process the past few hours. Someone had just tried to kill us.

But who, damn it?

I wasn’t sure—all I did know was this wouldn’t be the last of it. Whoever was coming after us would continue until the job was done, until we were out of the picture.

I buried my head in my hands for a moment, then I heard my name. Looked up and saw the doctor gazing down at me, his expression one of concern. Just over his shoulder, I spotted the last person I wanted to see right now: Baker heading toward us at a rapid clip, his
expression revealing not a trace of concern, only that suspicious glare I was growing accustomed to.

“Mr. Bannister?” the doctor repeated.

I took my attention away from Baker and gave it to the doctor.

“Your friend’s going to be okay,” he said. “A pretty severe concussion and a nasty laceration on the side of her head, but all in all, she came out of it pretty well.”

“Thank God,” I said, standing up. “Any idea when she’ll be released?”

“I want to keep her overnight for observation, but she won’t have it.”

I grinned a little, not a bit surprised. I thought it might take more than a whack on her head to curb CJ’s stubborn streak.

“We’ll have her out of here in a while,” he assured, then left me there with Baker, who was studying me with crossed arms and conspicuous contempt.

“Well, well, well,” Baker said. “Murder scenes. Hit and runs. You sure do get around, partner.”

“Partner?” I replied. “Gosh, and we haven’t even been on our first date.”

“You’re funny,” he said, “but no time to joke, son. Looks like you got yourself in the middle of another mess.”

“I assure you it wasn’t intentional.”

“So you say…” he replied, nodding. “Curious, though, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Barely here a week, and already you’ve had more excitement than most folks around here get in a lifetime. Kind of funny.”

“Hilarious,” I said. I was tired and my head hurt.

“Care to tell me what happened, son?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “With all due respect, sheriff, isn’t it your
job to figure that out?”

“Wasn’t asking you to solve the crime,” he said, almost snarling at me. “I think you
know
what I meant.”

“I do, but in all honesty, it’s been a rough evening, and you’ve given me plenty of reason to get defensive.”

“And you’ve given
me
plenty of reason to be suspicious.”

I dug my hands in my pockets and gave him the benefit of full eye contact. “Are you accusing me of something, sheriff?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“Then what
are
you saying? If you think I’ve committed some sort of crime, I’d like to know what it is.”

“Just that things have gone sort of…awry…since you came here, and it’s my job to figure out why.”

“So let me make sure I understand you correctly: you seriously think I’m somehow the cause of all this?”

A vague nod, keeping eye contact, “Could be. In some manner.”

“Can you define
in some manner
for me?”

“If I knew that, I’d have this all figured out, now, wouldn’t I?”

I moved in closer so we were face to face, gave him a burning glare. “You’re playing games with me, sheriff, and I don’t like it.”

Keeping his eyes locked on mine, over-pronouncing each word now, “I’m doing my job, son, and whether or not you like it really isn’t my concern. And since it
is
my job, I’m just gonna go ahead and keep on doing it. If that’s okay with you.”

“It’s not the
doing your job
part I have a problem with; it’s the part where you harass innocent citizens.”

His lips spread into a smile, but it was cutting and unpleasant. “I did a little checking on you. Quite a colorful past.”

I said nothing.

“A nasty drug overdose.” He pursed his lips and shook his head with mock dismay. “Shame, shame, shame.”

I did my best to conceal my surprise, but what I really wanted to do was smack the stupid-assed grin off his face.

Just then, the ER door swung open and an orderly pushed CJ out in a wheelchair.

“Hey,” I said, “how are you doing?”

She rubbed the side of her head and frowned. “You know, I think I’ve been better. Hey, Sheriff.”

“Ms. Norris.”

CJ looked from Baker’s face to mine, and I could tell she sensed the tension. “God, I hate hospitals,” she said to me. “Can we get out of here?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, then nodded to the orderly; he began to push the wheelchair toward the exit.

Baker stood like a stone statue, eyes trained on me. “Son, you’re not going anywhere until I get a statement.”

I heaved a sigh, then looked at CJ and said, “I’ll just be a minute.”

It was more like fifteen. When we finally got into the car, CJ said, “What the hell was that about? It looked like you were about to clock the sheriff.”

She had no idea.

“Long story. Tell you about it later. For now, let’s get you home and into bed.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

I had no intention of leaving CJ alone. She had a head injury, and it was abundantly clear that neither of us was safe. There’s strength in numbers, and in my way of thinking, we were better off together than apart. After stopping at the motel and gathering up my belongings, we headed to her place. I put her to bed and settled myself on her couch.

I was lying upright and writing
shelter shelter shelter .
At number twenty-two, I glanced up and found CJ standing in the doorway, staring at me, the moonlight catching part of her face.

I turned the notebook over a little too quickly.

“What are you doing?”

I forced my voice to sound casual. “Just writing some things down, trying to make sense of everything. Why aren’t you in bed? You should be sleeping.”

“Can’t,” she said, still staring at the pad in my lap.

“What’s wrong?”

“Somebody tried to kill us tonight, that’s what’s wrong.” She came over, sat by my feet, moved a lock of hair away from her face. The bruise on her forehead looked nasty. She said, “I have a feeling you know what this is all about. Wanna tell me?”

I paused a moment, thinking before speaking, and then, “Someone wants me dead.”

“I figured that after our little game of demolition derby.”

“No, before tonight, even. Someone’s been trying to rattle my cage ever since I got into town.”

“Rattle it? How?”

I reached down into my bag and pulled out the note. “Somebody stuck this under the door of my motel room.”

She read it, pursed her mouth, and then, “Who do you think did it? And what exactly were they hoping to accomplish?”

“To mess with my head, I’m guessing. I’ve been doing a lot of digging lately. Someone wants me to stop.”

“And they thought this would do it?”

“That’s just part of it.” I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Someone came into my room while I was sleeping the other day. And left me another message.”

She held out her hand. “Let me see it.”

“I can’t. They wrote it on the bathroom mirror.”

“The mirror,” she repeated, as if doing so would help her understand better. “What did it say?”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “You spy, now you die.”

She stood up, starting pacing, then stopped and turned toward me. “Why didn’t you tell me about all this?”

“Because I didn’t want to scare you. But after tonight, I knew I had no choice.”

“You should have told me.”

“Okay.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “No. You
really
should have.”

“
Okay,
” I said.

She stared at me for a moment, came back to the couch, sat down, then stared at the floor instead. She whispered, “Jesus Christ.”