by G S Fortis
Paige looks at me, relief overtaking her. Her eyes well up. Then she smacks me. “God damn it, Darcy! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Geez, sorry.”
I try to lean up and feel a dull pain in my shoulder. My arm sits in a sling, with a bandage that wraps around my chest. A red stain blossoms through the gauze that covers my gunshot wound. Instead of my pantsuit, I’m wearing teal nurse scrubs. My feet are bandaged, and I can only imagine how torn up my soles are from running down the fire escape.
“Okay, where am I?”
“Hollydale Homes,” the doctor says as he walks in.
He’s African American, probably in his sixties, with a thick white beard that frames his cheerful smile. He peers at me through square-framed spectacles that perch on his nose. Father Ramon trails behind him and stands at the door.
“Hollydale Homes?” I repeat. The name is familiar. It’s a nursing home in Silver Lake and was in the news recently for… something I can’t quite remember. My memory is usually reliable, so this is going to bug me.
“That’s right,” the doctor says, pulling up a stool and taking a seat at my bedside. It’s not uncommon for nursing homes to have a medical staff on premises full-time.
“Darcy, this is Dr. Savell,” Father Ramon says. “He’s the only doctor I could trust and who I knew would be available at this hour.”
That’s smart thinking on Father Ramon’s part. Bringing me here was a lot safer than taking me to a crowded hospital.
Dr. Savell maneuvers my injured arm, rotating it through the normal movements. “You’re lucky. There are a lot of joints and bones in this region.”
“It’s doesn’t hurt that bad,” I say, proud of my toughness.
“That’s probably the morphine,” he says, peering over his glasses.
When he tweaks my arm a bit too far, I flinch, pulling it back. He ignores my discomfort and grabs my hand. “That’s odd,” he says as he continues to articulate the entirety of my arm, hand, and fingers.
“What’s odd?”
Not answering, he removes the IV from my arm. With practiced care and experience, he bandages the puncture. Then he pulls out a blood-pressure gauge and stethoscope. The cuff inflates around my arm and takes the reading. I glance at Paige, who watches with a worried expression. Dr. Savell removes the stethoscope and leans back with a discouraged look.
“What’s wrong?”
His eyes stay low as if he’s pondering his own diagnosis. “Nothing,” he says, sounding mildly shocked. “And that’s what’s so peculiar. You were shot in the shoulder, and when you came in, I was sure you had suffered nerve damage. But now it seems you didn’t. You lost a lot of blood, so your pressure should be low. But it’s normal.” Finally, he looks up at me. “Is this because of the demon?”
I look at Father Ramon. “We can trust him,” he says.
Dr. Savell smiles. “I’ve been helping Father Ramon for—what? Five years now? I’ve treated many of the people he’s cured.” He looks me over. “But I’ve never seen anyone like you before.” From his coat pocket, he pulls out an ophthalmoscope. “May I?”
I nod, and he proceeds to examine my eyes. “Very, very interesting.” His process is analytical. Direct. Fearless. “So it’s still in there?”
“Yes.”
“Have you always been able to heal this quickly?”
I exchange a look with Paige. She sits next to me and takes hold of my hand. She squeezes mine gently as if to reassure me.
I finally answer. “I think I noticed it the first time about a year ago. I was biking to work when my foot slipped off my pedal and smashed into my leg. It tore a gash right into my shin. By the time I got to work, I had blood dripping all the way down into my boot. It was deep. I thought for sure it was going to scar. It didn’t.”
“How long did it take to heal?” Dr. Savell asks.
“It was gone the next day. No scar.”
“It’s been ten years, Dr. Savell,” Paige says, taking over. “Ten years, and she’s not any closer to getting rid of this… demon… than she was when it first possessed her. Over the years, little by little, it’s taking more and more control of her body. She’s getting colder even on warmer days. The attacks happen more frequently.” As Paige speaks, I cast a guilty look at Father Ramon. “Twice in the past month. And now it’s healing her body.”
Dr. Savell turns to me. Despite my best efforts to remain impassive and indifferent, there’s no stopping the tears welling up in my eyes. My stupid ugly yellow eyes.
“She’s afraid of what this means,” Paige continues then turns to Father Ramon. “I know you’ve been trying to help her—we all have. But she’s afraid this means it’s here to stay.”
And there it is—the bitter, cold truth. The dread I’ve only revealed to my best friend. The thing I’m afraid to speak of for fear of making it real.
“That’s why we need to find…” She glances cautiously at Dr. Savell. “This name, no matter what. No matter where.”
Father Ramon steps forward. “I’m sorry, Darcy. I didn’t realize.”
I try to offer a reassuring smile. “I have to find Santa Muerte.”
Father Ramon shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous. You don’t know what this might do to you. There are other ways to find the name.”
I place my hand over my chest. Where my heart is. Where Dudley lives. “I don’t know what this will do to me if I can’t get rid of it soon.”
Dr. Savell rises, breaking the tension in the room. He pulls a bottle of pills off a shelf. “Pain killers,” he says, handing it to me.
“Codeine? Oxycodone?” I wipe my eyes, trying to rein in the emotional moment with humor.
“Tylenol.”
I pocket the pills and mutter, “Thanks.”
“You said you’ve had two recent episodes? How are you managing them?”
“Um, Xanax and Klonopin.”
“Uh-huh,” he mutters. “Prescription?”
I shrug guiltily. “I know a guy.”
He grimaces and pulls out a pen and prescription pad. “Dosage?”
“Half a mill of the Klonopin twice a day. Six for the Xanax to mitigate the episode.”
He scribbles on the pad then tears off two sheets for me. “Congratulations. You’re now my patient.”
When I stand, the pain in my feet reminds me that I’m not entirely healed. Since I dumped my footwear during this evening’s earlier chase, Dr. Savell provides me with a pair of the ugliest shoes I have ever seen—Crocs, men’s size ten to accommodate the bandages wrapped around my feet. With our prior outfits either covered in blood or full of bullet holes, Paige and I are stuck wearing the nurse scrubs. And since I’m freezing, Dr. Savell digs up an old hoodie with the logo of a men’s erectile-dysfunction medication printed on the breast—a gift from a pharmaceutical rep.
Now I remember why I’ve heard of Hollydale Homes. The local news featured this facility as it was covering a report on the surge of STDs in nursing homes. This city is so weird.
Dr. Savell escorts us through the halls of Hollydale. The building is Spanish Colonial, with various apartments and activity rooms throughout. When we walk outside, I get a sense of its large scale. The complex is perched on the side of the main hill that rises above Silver Lake.
“Now that you’re my patient,” Dr. Savell says before we leave, “if you need anything, please call me.” He pulls out a business card and hands it to me. When I try to take it, he holds fast. “I mean it. I don’t care if it’s medical, paranormal, both, or neither. You call me.”
I take the card, feeling admonished but also relieved to have someone else in my corner. When Dr. Savell leaves, Father Ramon turns to us and takes a moment to look at my wounded arm in its sling.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you tell me about the demon?”
“You’ve already done so much for me,” I say. “I didn’t want you to worry about me.”
“I’m worried about you even more now.” He chuckles in mild exasperation. “I don’t want you working on this case for Carmen anymore or chasing after Santa Muerte. I want you to promise me.”
I don’t say anything.
“Promise me, Darcy. Promise me this, and I promise you that we will find this demon’s name.” He locks me in his gaze, and I can’t look away.
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
“You promise?”
“Yes,” I say impatiently. “I promise.”
“Okay. Now, remember, I’m a priest. A promise to me is a promise to God.”
“I know.”
Father Ramon seems satisfied. He offers us a ride home, but we decline. Paige pulls out her phone and calls for a rideshare. We say goodbye to Father Ramon, and I make another promise to visit him soon so we can resume the search for Dudley’s true name.
As we watch him drive away, Paige asks me, “Did you just lie to a priest?”
“Yep.”
“You are so going to hell,” she says then winces in regret. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that literally.”
On any other occasion, I might actually take that personally, but not tonight. I have other things on my mind. As our rideshare pulls up in a Ford Escape, I know we’ve already wasted too much time tonight. The person who kidnapped Elizabeth and is working with Santa Muerte is the same person who tried to kill me tonight. With my good arm, I drag Paige inside the car.
“Hey!” she says. “What’s the hurry?”
We slide into the back seat, and I tell our driver we have a destination change.
“Where to?” our driver, Ted, asks.
“Pasadena.” I turn to Paige. “We’re going to see Carmen.”
Chapter 23
____◊____
TED DRIVES US THROUGH the late-night streets of LA. The fog has rolled in, so the city lights are diffused in a soft glow as we drive along Los Feliz Boulevard.
“Why are we going to see Carmen?” Paige asks, confused. “And why in the middle of the night?”
Struggling against the pain of my shoulder, I pull out my phone then dial and place a call.
“You remember what David said,” Paige says. “She’s dangerous. The last thing we need to do is go back there.”
The phone rings then ultimately goes to voicemail. “She’s not answering,” I say, hanging up. “Shit.”
“Darcy! What’s going on?”
“I know who kidnapped Elizabeth.”
Ted finally looks in his rearview mirror.
“What? Who?” Paige asks.
“The same person who tried to kill us tonight. Leona.”
Ted casts another glance our way.
“That was Leona?” Paige exclaims.
“At first, I thought it was Hugo,” I continue. “He always wears cowboy boots. And the person chasing us was definitely not wearing cowboy boots.”
Paige squints at me like I’m insane. “Most people don’t wear cowboy boots!”
“Yes, but when they were chasing us, didn’t you hear the sound of their hard-sole shoes on the floor?”
Ted finally pipes up. “Okay, is this some immersive theater thing? Are you two actresses? Because I’m not paying for the show.”
Paige ignores him. “No. I was too busy running for my life to notice their shoes.”
“Leona wears hard-sole shoes. High heels or saddle shoes. I noticed that when I met her. And I heard that same sound when we were being chased.”
“Okay, someone with hard-soled shoes was chasing us.”
“Not just someone—a woman. The person chasing us had a woman’s figure—a woman’s stance. And I looked up when she was shooting at us from the fire escape.”
Ted interjects, “This isn’t very convincing. You guys need to work on your bit.”
“And you saw Leona?” Paige asks.
“Well, no.” I recall what I saw moments before the muzzle flash forced me to look away. “I couldn’t make out the face, but… I saw long black hair hanging down from under the hat. It had to be Leona.”
Paige shakes her head, and I have to admit it’s pretty thin evidence. “But why, then?” she asks.
“She’s the one executing the power move. Leona wants the most valuable thing Carmen has—her empire. It wasn’t the Russians. It wasn’t some rival cartel. It was the person right next to her. Leona. She’s the one who kidnapped Elizabeth.”
Paige considers. “That’s a gutsy move.”
“Leona knows Carmen can’t go to the police.”
Ted cranes his neck to address us. “Why can’t Carmen go to the police?”
I indulge him. “Carmen is the head of a major drug cartel here in Los Angeles. Calling the police would jeopardize her entire operation. She’d be arrested before anyone bothered to look for Elizabeth.” I turn back to Paige. “And Leona knows that.”
“Damn,” Ted says.
“And we’re just going to walk right into Carmen’s house, knowing that Leona tried to kill us and could very well be there right now?”
“I have to warn her.”
Paige squirms in her seat. “Maybe we should call the police. Maybe we should call David.”
I shake my head. “We won’t have to. If I’m right, the cops are already there.”
* * *
Ted slows down just enough so Paige and I can exit the vehicle. Then he peels out and disappears around a corner. The street is quiet, but since the recent shooting incident and my conversation with David, I’m now looking for anything remotely suspicious. I’m not surprised when I see a panel van parked a few yards away.
“Follow me,” I tell Paige and do my best to march gingerly on wounded feet in the oversized Crocs.
I knock on the passenger door. The van rocks slightly as someone inside makes his way to the door. Moments later, the window rolls down. A man inside is dressed as an electrician, but I know he’s a cop.
“Do you know what time it is?” I ask.
He sneers at me through his bushy goatee then looks at his watch. “What do you want?”
“David told you to keep an eye out for me, yes?”
He looks me up and down, no doubt taking in my Crocs, scrubs, and bloody arm in a sling. “You must be Darcy,” he says nonchalantly.
I nod, not sure if he figured this out because of my spunky reputation or because of the disastrous spectacle before him. “I wanted to let you guys know I’m going in to talk to Carmen.”
Goatee looks around. “You do understand the concept of being undercover, right?”
“I’m not attracting any more attention than you are with this unmarked kidnapping van. Seriously, do you guys think you’re being inconspicuous?”
He rolls his eyes. “God damn it, what do you want?”
“I thought I’d offer to wear a wire if you guys want.”
“Snyder was right. You’re a smart-ass,” he says, rolling the window back up and ending our conversation.
“Well, I guess it’s comforting to know the police are here,” Paige remarks.
“Yeah. Gives me the warm and fuzzies.”
We walk toward Carmen’s house. “How many cops did you see in there?” Paige asks.
“Two more.”
We come up to Carmen’s gate, and I’m about to buzz when I notice that it is unlatched. I open the door. “This isn’t good.”
Paige nods at the van. “Should we ask for backup?”
I’m already limping through the gate. “I’m sure they’ll come if we need help.”
We approach the porch and see that most of the lights are on in the house. There’s no movement from inside. It’s still and peaceful and altogether disconcerting—too quiet even for a Los Angeles suburb this far away from any major thoroughfares.
We walk up the wood steps to the front door. As I continue to scan the area for danger, Paige grabs my hand. “Look.”
The front door is ajar. Drawn on th
e door in crude red paint is the all-too-familiar sigil of Santa Muerte. The same symbol from the temple. The same symbol from Hugo’s tattoo.
“Shit,” I say. “This can’t be good.”
I try the handle, and the door opens. Paige reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a handgun—a black semiautomatic subcompact. I’m momentarily stunned. “What are you doing with a gun?” I say in a decibel level somewhere between a loud whisper and a quiet shout.
“I bought it.”
“When?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Paige takes a step toward the door.
I stop her with my arm. “When?”
She sighs. “Two years ago.”
We moved in together two years ago. Apparently, Paige bought a gun when we decided to be roommates. She bought it in case she would ever need to use it… on me.
I let go of her arm. I can’t blame her really. I just wish she had told me.
“You know how to use that thing, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. I watched a video on YouTube.”
“That’s comforting.”
Paige smirks. “Yeah. Now you know how it feels.”
I step through the doorway with Paige at my heels. It’s eerily quiet in here, too. Nothing is out of place. Everything is as it always is. Except no one’s here. I begin to worry we’re just breaking and entering.
Then I smell smoke. Following the scent, we walk through the living room and into the kitchen. On the stove is a smoking pot on a burning flame. I hurry over to the range and turn off the burner. The inside of the pot is completely dry, like someone was trying to boil water hours ago and it evaporated.
With my good hand, I move the pot off the hot burner. On the kitchen counter is a selection of raw chicken and vegetables. Some are half-cut. I touch the chicken.
“Gross,” Paige mutters.
“It’s warm,” I whisper. “It’s been out for hours.”
The back door opens, and Leona walks in holding an arrangement of cut flowers. She’s unarmed, so I feel confident we have the drop on her.
“Leona!” I call out.
She looks up at us. I’m starting to walk toward her when it all goes suddenly wrong. Leona’s expression turns to one of horror. The flowers explode against her chest. Blood sprays out, and she falls backward out of the door.