One Kick: A Novel

by Chelsea Cain

  She was thirsty. Her head felt funny.

  “Bishop saved your life,” the detective said.

  “No,” Kick said through her fog.

  “He told us everything,” the detective said. “The body,” he continued. “The hidden room. The fact that someone was using the house to hide abducted kids.”

  Kick made a noncommittal noise.

  “Unfortunately,” the detective continued, “any evidence, including the corpse, is now charcoal. But we can name the people who lived in this house as persons of interest. The media will pick it up. Might lead somewhere.”

  A thought formed in Kick’s rubbery brain, and she pushed it to the surface. “The dog,” she said.

  The detective’s eyebrows knitted.

  “Bishop . . . killed . . . Lassie.” No, that wasn’t right. Her head throbbed. “A collie. He killed a collie.”

  “A three-legged collie?” the detective asked.

  Kick looked at him uncertainly.

  “Turn around,” the detective said.

  Kick looked over her shoulder. A three-legged collie sat at the edge of the yard, nose in the air, alert and definitely alive.

  “First responders found her loose in the yard,” the detective said, “barking at the fire. Looks like she busted loose from her collar. The people across the street say she lives there.” He nodded at the house next door. “But they’re not at home. Animal Control is around here somewhere. They haven’t been able to catch her yet. She’s fast for being an amputee.”

  This didn’t make sense. “Maybe he killed a different three-legged collie,” Kick said.

  The detective scratched the back of his neck and looked at her funny. “Sometimes,” he said, “a blow to the head can cause this kind of stuff.”

  She had not imagined it. She did not imagine dead dogs. She tried to stand.

  “I’m not sure you should be doing that,” the detective said.

  Kick braced herself on his shoulder and forced three words through her gritted teeth. “Where. Is. He?”

  • • •

  The detective was gone. The ponytailed paramedic was back. Kick, fueled by adrenaline, weaved around patrol cars and in between fire hoses, searching in the direction the detective had pointed her in, as the paramedic tripped along behind her. She could see the satellite dishes of news vans over the other side of the front hedge. But no cameras. The press was being kept at a distance. She found Bishop perched on the back bumper of an ambulance, shirtless, and bathed in the headlights of a nearby fire truck. Kick stomped toward him in her socks, wondering if he’d even bothered to check on her or if he’d just left her there, unconscious in the yard. He had the nerve to smile when he saw her, half his face blackened with soot, blood in his ear.

  Kick slapped him across the face as hard as she could.

  The force of the blow knocked Bishop sideways, revealing a startled paramedic behind him, a blood-tipped scalpel in her latex-gloved hand. A suturing kit was open at her side: a syringe, a hemostat, forceps, gauze, sutures, and all the bloody slivers of wood that the paramedic had already extracted from Bishop’s back. “Oh,” Kick said.

  Bishop grimaced and sat back up.

  Someone grabbed Kick from behind, pinning her arms, which was okay with Kick because she wasn’t sure she could stand much longer on her own.

  “I’m fine,” Bishop said. “Let her go.”

  Kick barely managed to stay upright when the ponytailed paramedic released her. “We’ve been pulling wood out of him for an hour,” the paramedic said. Kick could see his wounds now, a dozen of them, many already cleaned and sutured. A few splinters, the size of toothpicks, were still visible under his skin.

  Bishop’s paramedic used a gauze pad to wipe up the blood from the wound her scalpel had unexpectedly inflicted. “Sorry,” she said.

  “My fault,” Bishop said, with a look at Kick that said otherwise. “I shouldn’t have moved when you had a scalpel in my back.”

  “When I want you stabbed, you’ll know it,” Kick told him.

  “You have some anger issues,” Bishop said. “You know that, right?” His forearms had scratches on them, like he’d fought a cat and lost.

  The ponytailed paramedic was still hovering next to Kick. Too close. Crowding her.

  “She’s suffered a concussion,” the paramedic said to Bishop. “She’s agitated.”

  “She’s always like that,” Bishop said. His abdominal muscles tensed and the paramedic in the ambulance dropped a four-inch splinter on the tray.

  Kick refused to be distracted. She jabbed a finger in Bishop’s face accusingly. “You didn’t kill the dog,” she said.

  Bishop’s cheek was red where she’d slapped him. He looked at her with bewilderment. “You’re angry I didn’t kill a dog?” he asked.

  She saw the paramedics exchange a look, like she might need to be subdued.

  “I don’t like being lied to,” Kick said, clarifying.

  She caught a sudden, strong whiff of vomit and had the vague sense that it was in her hair. She didn’t remember throwing up. She needed a shower. “Where’s my backpack?” she asked Bishop, searching the ground around his feet.

  Bishop took a moment to answer. Then, with what she thought might be just a hint of merriment, he directed her gaze to the burning house.

  Kick pivoted toward the two stories of flames. She shook her head emphatically, refusing to believe it. He’d picked the backpack up after she dropped it. She remembered. “No,” she insisted. Emotion welled in her throat. She had to choke it back to keep it down. She looked at Bishop pleadingly. “You had it.”

  The paramedic behind Bishop threaded a black suture through his skin like she was sewing up a Thanksgiving turkey. He barely registered it. “I must have dropped it while I was trying to save our lives,” he said evenly. He turned his forearm up, displaying the cat scratches. “Thanks for these, by the way.”

  Kick looked at her hands. One of her nails was broken. Those last minutes in the house were hazy, but whatever she had done, he had it coming. She turned her face back to the flames. Part of the skeletal second floor had caved in on itself. They’re letting her burn herself out. By morning “she” would be reduced to ten feet of cremated rubble. Kick could feel the grit of ash in her eyes, on her eyelashes. Her beautiful Glock. No gun could survive that kind of sustained heat. It was lost.

  “Are you crying?” Bishop asked incredulously. “Because that very expensive automobile we drove here in is now a burned-out metal husk, so if anyone should be crying, it’s me.”

  “It’s the smoke,” Kick snapped at him. It took a moment for what he’d said to sink in. The Tesla? She had left her composition book in the Tesla. “My worry book,” she whispered. She wouldn’t know what to worry about now.

  “Seriously?” Bishop said.

  Kick wiped the ash out of her eyes with the blanket. She was going down the worry maze, letting herself get overcome by negative thinking.

  “Am I free to go?” she asked the ponytailed paramedic. “Or do I need to give a statement first?”

  “You already gave a statement,” the paramedic said hesitantly. “To Detective Alva.”

  “Good,” Kick said, trying to seem as if she remembered that. “Then can someone call me a cab?”

  The ponytailed paramedic was starting to look a little alarmed. “Your mother’s coming. I called her. Remember?”

  Kick coughed and vomit burned the back of her throat. The paramedic was talking to Bishop now, a hand worrying one of her turtle earrings. “We always look for ‘Mom’ in the person’s cell phone contacts in a situation like this,” she was saying. “I’ve already explained this to her,” she said. “She keeps forgetting. It’s the concussion.”

  Not her mother. Anyone but her mother. “No,” Kick said.

  “She needs to be monitored throu
gh the night,” the paramedic continued. Maybe the earrings weren’t turtles. Maybe they were tortoises. Kick didn’t know the difference. The other paramedic’s elbow went up and down as she threaded another suture into Bishop’s shoulder blade. Kick must have looked stricken, because the paramedic with the ponytail gave Kick’s arm a reassuring pat. “Your mother will be here within the hour,” she said.

  “No,” Kick said again. Her brain felt soft and thick, like ice cream.

  “It’s either that or we admit you to the hospital,” the paramedic said.

  “I said no hospital,” Bishop said. “No media. No paperwork.”

  The ponytailed paramedic gave Kick a nervous glance and leaned a few inches closer toward Bishop. “Do you know who ‘Beth’ is?” she asked him.

  Kick didn’t know why the paramedic kept bring Beth up. Beth was dead.

  “She kept asking for her when she was coming to,” the paramedic continued.

  Everything was wavy, like Kick was looking at it from the surface of a rippling pond.

  Bishop rubbed his face with his hands and sighed. His gray eyes looked blurry. The paramedic behind him tied off a suture. “Fuck,” Bishop said to no one in particular. He looked at Kick, studying her again, like he was trying to get to the bottom of her. She’d seen that look on cops and therapists. His eyebrow lifted. “You’re crazier than I thought,” he said.

  “I have dirt in my mouth.” It was the last thing Kick remembered saying before losing consciousness.

  10

  THE CEILING WAS FAR away, with exposed wooden beams that came together at unnatural angles. Kick started to sit up, but a pair of hands on her shoulders stopped her. Bishop was standing over her, wearing a red robe.

  What the hell?

  “Don’t freak out,” he said.

  “Where am I?” Kick asked.

  “At my house,” Bishop said.

  She was in a bed. Kick started to sit up again.

  “In the guest room,” he clarified. His hands were on her shoulders again. “You suffered a concussion. I’m supposed to wake you up every hour to make sure you’re not dead. You’re not dead, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to shine this light in your eyes,” Bishop said. “The last time I did this you tried to kick me in the teeth, and I’d rather you didn’t do that again because I’m tired and my reflexes are slow.”

  He held a penlight up and hesitated. “Okay?” he said.

  “Okay,” Kick whispered hoarsely.

  Bishop turned on the light and Kick winced as he shined it in each of her eyes.

  “Your pupils look good,” he said, switching off the light. He dropped the penlight in his robe pocket, sat down in a chair next to her bed, and picked up a book that was open on the armrest. “Go to sleep,” he said, not looking up from the book. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  • • •

  “Where am I?” Kick asked.

  “My house, in a guest room,” Bishop said. “You suffered a concussion. I’m supposed to wake you up every few hours to make sure you’re lucid. Are you lucid, Kick?”

  “No,” she said.

  Bishop held up a thick silver pen. “This is a penlight,” he said. “I’m going to turn it on and shine it in both your eyes. Don’t kick me.”

  “Why would I—” Kick winced as the light met her pupils.

  “Good,” Bishop said. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  • • •

  Kick opened her eyes and looked around.

  “You’re at my house,” Bishop said. “You suffered a concussion. How do you feel?”

  “Like some asshole keeps waking me up,” Kick said.

  “Look at me,” Bishop said. He held up a penlight. “This is a—”

  “I know,” Kick said.

  Bishop shined the light in both her pupils.

  “Okay,” Bishop said, clicking the light off. He turned around and started walking away, and Kick sat up on her elbows.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “It’s morning,” Bishop said over his shoulder. “Congratulations, you lived through the night.”

  The moment Bishop closed the door, Kick sat up and threw off the covers. She was wearing pajamas. They were white with tiny yellow flowers—pants and a short-sleeved top with a scalloped neckline. They were not hers. Waking up in someone else’s clothes was definitely an item for the Worry Book, but at the moment Kick was more concerned with the fact that she had found herself in someone else’s house. She touched a tender spot over her forehead and winced. She remembered the feeling of heat, waking up in the grass, faces, fragments. The knot on her head was the size of a grape. The last thing she remembered was . . . She grabbed a handful of her hair and smelled it. No vomit. Just a musky-scented shampoo. She looked at her hands. They were clean. No blue powder. No dirt. Even the remnants of her blue nail polish were gone. She wiggled her fingers. Her right hand felt stiff.

  She did not remember bathing. She did not remember changing her clothes.

  But she couldn’t go down that road. That road led to the Worry Maze.

  Kick wished she had a throwing star, a fishing knife, anything.

  “Ha!” Kick said.

  She sounded like a lunatic, but sometimes if she made herself laugh it would calm her down. Laughing lowered cortisol levels, released endorphins, and boosted oxygen levels in the blood. It was science.

  She tried again. “Ha!”

  It wasn’t working. Her cortisol levels felt about the same. She swung her legs off the bed, got on the floor, and did a hundred sit-ups.

  Her head felt like it was going to explode, but her brain was better. Her heart rate was up. She felt the warm burn of her muscles working.

  She was ready.

  Bishop had said she was in a guest room. Looking around, it made sense. The king-size bed and clinical design screamed expensive hotel room. She spotted her phone on the bedside table and reached for it. The screen was dark, the battery dead. She didn’t see a charger. There was no landline in the room.

  She hadn’t talked to James since the night before. He was probably frantic by now. She had to find a phone.

  Kick tucked her own phone into the waistband of her pajama pants and crossed to the door. It was unlocked. She cracked it and listened. She could hear what sounded like the faint cry of seagulls.

  The door opened onto a hallway that extended in both directions. No sign of Bishop. The floors were wood, no rugs. Kick flexed her knees deeply, sank into them, and followed the hall left, breathing along with her movement. With no weapon, silence was her main advantage. It was Bishop’s turn to be startled by her. She passed closed doors, focusing on staying in the open hall, where she could see what was in front of her. She stepped with her toes first and rolled her weight back to her heels, ready to adjust to any floor creak.

  The hallway led to a light-filled room roughly the size of a high school gymnasium and decorated with mission-style furniture. One wall was almost entirely glass. Beyond it, Kick saw a wedge of stone shoreline and an expanse of dark-blue water with white gulls circling above it. Morning mist cloaked the opposite shore of evergreens, tiny homes, and docks.

  Kick recognized the silhouette of a Washington State ferry in the distance, about the size of a shoe box. Across the water, to the north, a faint city skyline was visible, the red light on top of the Space Needle blinking bleakly in the mist.

  She was on an island in Puget Sound.

  Kick twirled around, certain that she’d heard a noise behind her. But she was alone. The glass wall made her feel like a bug in a jar. She quickened her steps as she circled the perimeter, looking for a phone somewhere in all that gleaming wood, leather, and strong, masculine lines. Folded Pendleton blankets draped the backs of all the chairs. It was all very put together, like the g
uest room. There were fresh flowers, in three bouquets so big that they looked like they’d be more at home in a hotel lobby. Nothing was out of place. It gave Kick the creeps. She had as much chance of finding a landline here as she did finding a stain on the carpet. She didn’t see any personal touches. Even the art on the walls felt like some interior designer’s bulk order. She scanned outlets, hoping for a phone charger, but saw none. A blocky oak cabinet with hammered bronze pulls looked promising, but every drawer she checked was empty. Not just empty—clean, as if each drawer had been recently wiped out by a diligent housekeeper.

  There were no books in the room, no magazines, no half-empty glasses sitting on the coffee table, no coasters, or upholstery stains or any other indications of actual habitation.

  It was like a set, like it was all staged.

  The light changed—maybe the mist shifted. Kick’s attention returned to a series of framed images she’d just passed. They were so uniform and evenly hung, each matted and framed, that she had assumed they were more designer-bought art. She hadn’t even looked at the images themselves. But now the glare off the glass was gone, and she was drawn back to them.

  The dozen or so images looked to actually be enlarged snapshots. Kick glanced from one image to the next. Most of the photographs appeared to be of the same two dark-haired boys, at the beach, next posing with a birthday cake, at a park.

  They had the same narrow gray eyes and large ears: brothers. One was older by a year or two. He smiled more than the other. The photographs went along more or less chronologically, the boys aging until they were roughly eight and ten years old. Then the younger boy dropped off. He disappeared. It was just the older boy after that, pictured alone, at age twelve, at age fourteen, going about the business of growing up.

  What had happened to the other boy?

  “The kid’s alive,” Bishop said from behind her. Kick spun around, bringing her elbows in and planting her feet, ready to defend herself. Bishop strolled barefoot toward her, wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt with a stretched-out neck, his dark hair wet from a shower, his arms marked with her scratches. Kick expected him to question her, but he barely gave her a glance. He certainly didn’t look surprised to find her out of bed, wearing a stranger’s pajamas, standing in his living room. He swept a remote off an end table, aimed it at the sofa, and pressed a button. Kick let her fight stance ease as an enormous flat-screen TV elevated from behind the sofa. She was about to question him when a KING-TV breaking news logo appeared on the screen, followed by a photograph of Mia Turner. Stamped diagonally across the photo was a single word: Found.