I need to get out of here.
Taking that fantasy and shoving it out of my mind, I open my eyes and sit up. Samantha presses more buttons, sneaking glances at me. Her hands still, and she is staring at me in a way that goes beyond professional courtesy, as if trying to figure out who “Grace Smith” really is.
With little to lose I decide to take a chance. “Do you recognize me?” I ask. Her mouth tightens and she stares at me for a long moment before giving a sharp nod. Samantha turns back to her equipment quickly, almost like she wants to disavow her agreement. “Will you help me escape?”
She goes very still before slowly returning her gaze to me. She chews on her bottom lip. “I admire everything you do, but I can’t,” she says. “I’d lose my job and have to answer to the police.”
“We can make it look like I forced you,” I say. Because that’s what I’m going to do if you don’t agree.
“How?”
“Can you get ahold of a screw driver?”
"A screwdriver?" Samantha parrots back to me. I hold up my wrist and the cufflink clinks against the bedrail. She looks at it. "Oh."
"We can remove it,” I point to the big flat screws with my free hand.
"You'll still have a large metal bedrail attached to your arm."
"Better than a whole bed.” I smile, acting as though this is a totally normal conversation. Samantha stares at the screws. "Please,” I say. Samantha chews on her lip, not meeting my gaze. "If I stay here, I'll end up in prison. Don't make me give birth in prison."
Her eyes jump to mine, and she shakes her head. It is a horrible idea. A zing of fear rushes through me. No fucking way. The image of that dancing bean throbs through my mind. I'll do whatever it takes to get out of here.
Samantha takes a paper towel and wipes at my bare belly with a soft and practiced stroke. "I think there is one in the maintenance closet,” she says, her voice as gentle as her touch. “Let me see if I can get it."
She's gone only a few minutes, but they drag on as I imagine days in prison might. When the door opens, Samantha is holding a large screwdriver. She turns on the overhead lights and gets to work on the bedrail. For a reluctant accomplice, she moves fast. The bedrail comes off with a clunk and I pull it close.
"What about my IV? Can you take out the needle?"
She releases me from the saline bag then helps me stand. I'm steadier than I expected after a head injury. "Give me the screwdriver." She passes it over. "This is going to hurt, but it will provide you with cover," I say.
"What—”
Raising the metal bed rail fast, I knock her on the side of the head—she falls back onto the mattress clutching her ear and lets out a low moan.
"Give me a five minute head start and then call for help," I say. Her hand still cradling her skull she nods. "Thank you."
Screw driver in one hand, bedrail attached to the other, I open the door. The hall is empty. I follow the exit signs. A cool breeze passes over my bare back as I make it to the elevators. The doors start to open, and I duck into the stairwell.
The word FIVE is painted on the wall in giant letters. Flourescent lighting reveals that I have the space to myself. I start down, my steps echoing against the cinder block walls. Where am I going?
I lean against a wall for a moment, gathering my thoughts. I need to find my mom and get us out of here. She had her ID on her. I told her to dump it, but did she listen?
Shit.
Maybe I should just run for it. Leave her behind. Nice.
I should at least check on her. If she did manage to trash her ID maybe we can escape without this blowing up into a media frenzy…and then maybe pigs will start flying and hell will freeze over and I’ll get a job as a barista and live in a basement apartment with Mulberry and raise our child like it ain’t no thang.
I close my eyes and focus my mind on my breath and the cool, hard surface against my forehead. Breathe out anxiety and fear, breathe in calm and bravery.
No matter what, I need to check on my mother. So I’ll do that, then worry about everything else next. I open my eyes. I need to keep moving. Running around with a bed rail attached to me won't draw attention. Nope, that's totally normal.
I get to the first floor and keep going to the basement, assuming it will be the most deserted. I exit into a hallway with linoleum floors and scuffed white walls. Signs point to Radiation and other departments that benefit from being underground.
A map on the wall has egress points and I take note before trying to open office doors. I find an exam room that looks long deserted—empty cotton ball dispensers and a stool with a broken wheel make up the bulk of the decor, but there is a phone on the wall.
I dial nine, get an outside line, then dial the one number I've got memorized.
"Sydney." Robert sounds so damn satisfied to hear from me.
"Can you give me Dan's number?" I ask. "I've lost my phone."
He chuckles. "You want Dan's number? That's why you're calling me."
The HVAC unit clicks on, sending a fresh breeze over my bare back. I'm so not telling Robert Maxim my, ahem, situation. "Yes."
"You went to see your mother."
"How stalkery of you."
"You're calling from a Louisiana number. A hospital. Sydney, what have you gotten yourself into?” Again, he sounds amused, as if my exploits are those of a rascally kitten.
"If you're trying to sound like less of a stalker, you're failing."
"Let me help."
"No, thank you."
"Why not?"
"So many strings." I'm really playing this kitten thing out to the max.
"What have I ever asked of you?
"I don't have time for this, Robert. Please, just give me Dan's number."
"I do love when you say please."
I sigh. "Never mind. I'll figure it out on my own." But I don't hang up. Because I'm mostly naked, hand cuffed to a bed rail...in Louisiana...with no other numbers to dial. Shit.
"Goodbye then." Robert hangs up.
Mother-freaking shit bucket.
I return the handset and stare at the phone for a second as my mind spins. Guess I'll have to get out of this one on my own.
The little dancing bean in my belly flashes across my mind. I'm not alone. I call the hospital operator and ask to be connected to April Madden's room.
“Just a moment,” she says before patching me through.
So they have her real name. Crap.
"Hello?" Mom sounds tired.
"Hey."
“Where are you? The police were just here. They said you escaped."
"What did you tell them?"
"That those men tried to kidnap me and we fought them off."
We? “I can't speak with the police, Ma, you know that."
"I didn't tell them who you were!" She sounds insulted. "I said I met you at the event and we talked after, that you were walking me to my car." She is huffy. “I said I couldn’t remember your name. And I described you as a grown-up Annie.”
I hadn’t even told her that’s exactly how I describe my alias. I hate it when I’m so clearly reminded of our similarities.
"Did they handcuff you to your bed?” I ask.
"No." She sounds unsure.
"Well, they handcuffed me. So they either know who I am or are pretty clear that I’m dangerous.” Was it the van full of dead bodies I drove into the accident scene that tipped them off? “I need to get the fuck out of here."
"Let me talk to my bodyguard. Where are you?"
“Bodyguard?”
"Yes, of course, I have protection now."
"Where were they last night?"
“I told them I wanted to be alone.” Her voice is defensive. Because I'm being a bitch.
“Fine, they are here now?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I need help.” I tell her where I am. “I’ll wait here.”
“I’ll send her down now.”
We hang up, and I sit on the broken stool to
wait, letting my mind wander. Is there a connection between the Incels—I’m assuming those jerks were Incels—who tried to kidnap us last night and the attempts on my life? The other would-be assassins were professional. Last night’s attack was pure amateur hour. They probably came up with this plan in their basements, and the fact that they managed to even half pull it off is impressive.
If my mother had a full security detail rather than just me and the dogs, they wouldn’t have gotten as far as they did. Dead in a van. So…not so far.
I allow myself a smug smile. Glancing down at the bedrail still shackled to my wrist wipes it away. I may have beaten those amateurs, but I’m still stuck in the basement of a hospital, mostly naked, my only hope my mother’s bodyguard.
I send up a little prayer that she’s good.
My mother’s bodyguard stands in the doorway. A head taller than me, she wears a cream-colored, high-necked, ankle-length robe that flows over her arms in long, wide sleeves. Her hair is hidden by an indigo blue turban. Her eyes are cat green, and her skin maplewood brown. She smells like burnt sage.
The woman belongs in front of a crystal ball.
She shuts the door behind her, seeming to almost float into the room—that flowing robe hides a powerful and trained body.
“Hi,” I say.
She nods. “I am Veronica.”
“Nice to meet you.” I try on a smile that comes out all crooked and crazy. Can anyone say awkward?
“May I?” She gestures to my bound wrist, and I hold it out for her inspection. Thick gold bracelets bump into each other, releasing soft tones, as she touches the bedrail. Turning my wrist, she looks at the keyhole of the handcuffs, and then glances at the screwdriver in my other hand.
What weapons does she carry under that crazy robe?
She reaches into it now and pulls out a tool that fits neatly into the key hole and, after a few expert twists, the lock snaps open. Well now, isn’t that useful? Wonder if she has a lamp in there, Mary Poppins style.
My wrist free, I rub at the red mark left behind. “How is April?” I ask, not wanting to expose our familial connection.
“Your mother will heal. She has a sprained ankle and some bruised ribs. But she is strong. I believe she will make a quick recovery.”
“She told you?”
“That you are her daughter?” Veronica shakes her head. “No, but it is obvious. Very few people have eyes that shade of gray.”
Will my child have them too?
Veronica narrows her eyes at me, and I turn away. She dresses like a fortune teller, and while I don’t believe in psychics, you can’t pull off a robe like that unless you’re intuitive. And Veronica is living up to that robe, big time.
“You want to leave without speaking with the police?” Veronica asks in her oddly formal style, like English is not her first language.
“Yes, will you help?”
“Where will you go?”
“I need to pick up my dogs.”
She nods, as if my mother told her about the animals…or she’s a psychic. “Yes, but the hospital is crawling with police now. We must wait until nightfall. I have someone coming with clothing for you.”
“Who?”
“They are trustworthy, do not worry.”
I’m itching to leave. Hating that Blue, Nila, and Frank are somewhere out there, alone. I may no longer have a bed rail attached to my arm, but I am mostly naked, so clothing would be good. But… “Won’t the police eventually check down here? There must be cameras.”
“Yes,” Veronica agrees. “In the elevators, but not the stairwells. They are not sure which floor you are on but believe that you have not exited the building. Right now, there are still several exits without guards but they are working to cover them all. One of my team is leaving, wearing your wig and hospital gown now. So they will think you have left the building. We must make sure that you are not seen here. As your mother’s guard—and with the very real threats against her life—I insisted on being informed about the security of the hospital. And have used that knowledge to our advantage. We will wait here for nightfall. Your clothing and disguise will arrive soon.”
“What time is it?” I have no idea how long I was out.
“The accident was last night. You slept through to midday. The sun sets in less than two hours.”
My head feels suddenly light, and Veronica reaches out, taking my elbow and leading me to the stool. “I didn’t realize I was out for so long.” Or that I’d have to spend hours in this basement.
Blue is out there! My brain is screaming at me. But I know Veronica is right. I can’t help him by running out of here half-cocked…or half dressed.
But sitting on this broken stool for the next two hours also seems impossible. “I want to go once the clothing arrives,” I say.
Veronica shakes her head. “No.” She does not bother expounding on her reasons. Instead she goes to the sink and wets a handkerchief that seems to have materialized from inside her robes. She passes it to me. “Lay this across your neck,” she says. “It will help. You need food as well.”
Pulling a phone out, she sends off a text.
I lay the cloth across my neck. Its warmth relaxes the tension there, and I take a deep breath.
“How did you meet my mother?” I ask.
Veronica replaces the phone in her pocket before answering. “I saw the video of April’s shooting and was drawn to protect her.”
“I see.”
She smiles at me. “I am a witch.”
And I’m a demon. “A witch?”
“Yes, I practice witchcraft.”
“But you’re also a follower of the Her prophet.” Lots of religion for this one.
“Yes, there are many witches who believe in the Her prophet. She preaches much of what we’ve believed for centuries.”
“Right.” I am half naked, holed up in a hospital basement, pregnant, hiding from the police…talking to a witch. And here, I thought my life had topped out on weirdness. “And, obviously, my mom knows you're a witch…and is cool with it?”
“Obviously.”
“She has changed.”
“We all evolve.”
I laugh. “April Madden has certainly evolved.”
Veronica pulls out her phone and checks a message. “My friend is here.”
“Another witch?” I ask, almost giddy with the ridiculousness of my life.
“Yes, a member of my coven.” Veronica opens the door, and I hear footsteps in the hall. She steps back, admitting a woman almost half her height, round as a dumpling, with long, purple streaked hair, wearing a similar robe to Veronica’s, only hers is black. She carries a sack weighted with clothing and smelling of fresh bread. “Lacey, this is the young woman we are helping, Grace.”
Lacey shifts the satchel to her shoulder so that she can take my proffered hand in both of hers. “So nice to meet you.” Her voice is high and squeaky like a mouse.
“Thank you for your help.” I pull my hand free, and she rummages in the satchel, pulling out…you guessed it…a robe. This one in deep ocean blue. She passes it to me, and I finger the material—a soft cotton.
“I made you a sandwich.” She pulls out a bundle wrapped in wax paper. “I’d just pulled bread from the oven, and I used the persimmon jam from last year.” She glances at Veronica, who smiles and nods as if she remembers this jam fondly. “And almond butter. You’re not allergic to nuts are you?”
“Nope.” My mouth is watering as she hands over the package. Unwrapping it, I find thick slices of a hearty bread dripping with jam and nut butter. It smells divine, and I moan as I take a bite. “Dear God, that’s good,” I mumble through my full mouth.
Lacey grins, clutching her satchel to her chest. She looks like a child who just won a spelling bee.
“Okay,” Veronica says, getting Lacey’s attention. “Let’s go over the plan…”
I listen with half an ear as I finish off the sandwich and then slip off my hospital gown and pull t
he robe over my body. It is a bit short on me, as I’m taller than Lacey, but works about as well as any witch’s robe could. Veronica helps me with the turban—it’s a hat, rather than a long cloth that needs to be wrapped properly, but getting all my hair under it takes the two of us.
There are no mirrors in the room, but the metal cabinet shows me a blurry image of myself. And I look like one of three witches. It’s a good disguise—and a comfortable one at that.
The hours pass with Veronica dipping in and out to check on my mother. Lacey sits on the floor, insisting I keep the stool, and lays out tarot cards, whispering to herself.
“We will have success,” she tells me as she gathers the cards.
“Great.”
“But we must be careful,” she says, picking up the last card. “There is a powerful man waiting for us.”
“Maybe it’s the police?” I suggest…because, um…duh.
“No.” She shakes her head. “This is a known presence. At least to you. He does not mean you harm. But…” She chews on her lip, looking at the last card. I lean over and see a male figure in a throne with a wolf at his knee. “Next to the sun,” Lacey says, seemingly to herself.
“What’s going on?” I ask, curiosity stirring.
She looks up at me and smiles. “He does not mean you harm. But beware the Emperor’s need for control and conformity. He has ambitions, but tradition is essential for his happiness. If you are not strong, he will bend you to his will, which will leave you broken.” She smiles. “Because you do not bend well.”
“No,” I agree. “I’m more of a bend-er than a bend-ee.”
She smiles. “Yes, you are.”
Veronica returns as Lacey wraps the cards in a silk handkerchief and slips them into her pocket. The robe I’m wearing has the same pockets. They are wide and long…but not quite big enough for a lamp.
“It is time,” Veronica says. “Your mother is being released. I must attend to her, so let’s hurry.”
Relief washes over me as we step into the hall. Having the cramped, derelict room in my rearview mirror lets me breathe easier. Even if, as Lacey predicts, a controlling, traditional man waits for me in the wide world beyond.
Savage Grace (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #12) Page 14