BURNING INTUITION (Intuition Series Book 2)

by Makenzi Fisk

  Erin nodded.

  “At least then I could distract myself with a good lezzie book on my computer tablet.”

  “You can download another one to cleanse your mind when we get back. I hear your favorite author has published a new one. Something about two musicians falling in love.”

  “Nothing can top the pirate wench in the novel I read outside the prison.” Allie felt the heavy weight on her body begin to lift. Distraction was always effective. “Keep talking and maybe I’ll get rid of this headache.”

  “And what about the pirate captain? She was hot.” The corner of Erin’s eyebrow lifted.

  “You read it too!” Allie allowed herself to smile. “I thought you said, and I quote, lesbian romances are mindless drivel.”

  “Well, it was there, and I had time, and I kind of got into the story…”

  Allie patted her knee. “Admit it.”

  “Okay, I liked it,” Erin grumbled.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.” An image of her cat flashed through her mind. Rachel was up to something, and the dog was fully complicit. A dark shadow sliced through the images. “We need to get home. Now.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Derek rubbed his jaw. The spot where he’d bit down on the rusty nail in his sandwich still hurt. His tongue constantly caught on a jagged edge in the middle of his molar. He’d probably cracked it.

  It wasn’t as if he could just pop over and see his regular dentist. He was in prison. In prison, you had to file a request and wait. And wait some more.

  What difference did it make anyhow? He couldn’t eat much. Since he’d mangled his tooth, he’d discovered worse things in his food. A rat’s tail, a shred of what looked like someone’s underwear, and so many fingernail clippings he’d lost count. He didn’t want to imagine what was in his soup.

  He stood to pace and tucked his thumb through a belt loop. He’d lost so much weight that his pants hung from his hips but the guards wouldn’t give him a goddamn belt. You might hang yourself, they said. As if he needed to do that to end his life. If he wanted to commit suicide, all he had to do was eat what was on his plate.

  There were two things that encouraged him to live. The hope that he could somehow be with his wife and daughter, and breakfast. Badger, a.k.a. Ethan Lewis, didn’t have any buddies on breakfast detail. No one to piss in his soup, no one to contaminate his food, and no one to threaten him when they brought his meals.

  Derek waited like a kid at Christmas for that blessed sound in the morning. Santa and his sleigh. The uncontaminated food cart rattling from cell to cell. Steve, the breakfast guy, actually said hello when he dropped off his scrambled eggs. He didn’t shove his tray through the slot so everything spilled on the floor. He delivered the coffee still hot. If Derek ever got out of this place, he would send Steve a carton of cigarettes.

  “Inmate Peterson.”

  Derek froze mid-stride when his name boomed through the cell’s intercom. He looked at the camera mounted on the wall. Had he done something wrong?

  “Prepare for transport.”

  Transport. What did that mean? Was he going back into general population? What the hell was going on? Was he coming back? He grabbed the photo of Lily and the drawing she’d made for him, shoved them in his sagging shirt pocket and stood by the door. With his wrists through the slot, he waited.

  A guard sauntered down the hall. He spun a set of handcuffs on his fingers. “It’s your lucky day.” He snapped them around Derek’s wrists.

  Lucky? How?

  “Yeah, usually it takes a lot longer to get into the dentist but there’s a new doc and he’s chomping at the bit to pull some teeth.” He smirked at Derek. “You ready for that?”

  Was he? He’d pull out the damn tooth himself if he had a pair of pliers. The dentist. Derek’s tooth throbbed at the welcome news. He practically skipped on his way to the medical wing.

  He didn’t even turn his head when some dirt bag mopping the floor hissed at him. Today, he didn’t care what Badger gonna do. He was getting this tooth pulled. No more cutting his tongue. No more jaw pain.

  He still had his breakfasts. He would survive. Badger could go to hell.

  The dental suite was quiet. Goosebumps rose on Derek’s skin when the guard slammed the door behind him. There was no dentist. He was still handcuffed. Something was wrong.

  “Hey!” He called out but the guard was gone. He pressed his cheek to the glass window in the reinforced door. “Where’s the dentist?”

  He whirled at the scraping of steel behind him. Ethan Lewis. In one hand Badger held something shiny, a dental tool of some kind. All that mattered was the point at the end.

  “Ethan.” Derek deliberately used the inmate’s real name. There was no sense in stroking his ego. He backed off and the other inmate sneered.

  Which knee was the damaged one? He couldn’t remember. Maybe if Ethan took a step, he’d be able to tell.

  “Don’t fucking call me that. My name’s Badger.”

  Derek sidestepped when the weapon buzzed the air beside his ear. He backed off another step and circled to the right.

  Ethan hopped to close the distance. Right. It was the right knee. He held the tool in front of him like a knife.

  “You want to do a remake of West Side Story, right here?” Derek circled again. Maybe there was another tool where Ethan had gotten that one. He chanced a quick look at the instrument tray beside the dentist’s chair. Empty. Only one had been left out, just for Ethan.

  Derek had been so excited about seeing the dentist, he didn’t pay attention to the guard that brought him. Was it the same one who’d trapped him in the stairwell? How much did an inmate pay to buy a guard? Probably a lot. On the streets, he never forgot a face. In here, his instincts were shot.

  “I don’t know what movie you’re talking about.” Ethan tossed the weapon to his other hand and took a swipe at Derek.

  “It’s not a movie, you uncultured loser.”

  “Whatever.” Ethan spit on the floor. “How about we make our own movie right here? Pig dies in Oak Park Heights.”

  Derek clenched his fists. This dirt bag sure liked the sound of his own voice. He needed to shut up.

  Ethan tossed the weapon back to the first hand and bared his teeth. “You’re gonna die.”

  He sounded just like the asshole that had delivered his sandwich with metal shavings yesterday. Derek turned sideways and kicked out as hard as he could. This time he wasn’t aiming for Ethan’s knee, but Ethan hopped to protect it anyways.

  The sole of Derek’s running shoe connected with Ethan’s right hand and the weapon clattered to the floor. Ethan dove for it but Derek was ready. He leapt on him and wrapped his cuffed wrists around Ethan’s neck. They tumbled to the floor and Derek increased the pressure until Ethan whimpered like a child.

  Keys rattled in the door behind him. Guards.

  “Stop. Don’t make me hurt you.” Derek eased off.

  Ethan twisted from his arms and reached for the weapon. His fingers were inches away.

  Derek kicked him in the head and wrapped his thighs around his chest. He squeezed until Ethan’s face was purple.

  The lock turned and the door swung open.

  Two new guards stood open-mouthed. “What the hell?” They backed away and one thumbed the mike on his radio.

  In twenty seconds, the room would be crawling with the Emergency Response Team.

  Derek would be boarded again. He let go and rolled over.

  Ethan gasped for air, his hands to his throat where the cuffs had abraded his skin. He glanced at the open doorway and back at Derek.

  They could both hear the call for E.R.T. They both knew it was a matter of seconds. Derek shook his head. Don’t.

  Ethan snarled and came at him one last time. His fingers clawed Derek’s vulnerable eyes. Derek clenched them tight and whipped his head away. Pain tore at the side of his head. He kicked out blindly. His elbows skidded on something warm and slippery. Something wet. He opened
his eyes.

  Ethan leaned over him and spit out a chunk of bloody tissue. His eyes were as wild as a lunatic’s.

  Blood poured down the side of Derek’s neck. His ear. The insane bastard had bitten his ear. He aimed his heel at Ethan’s face and made sure it connected dead center.

  Ethan’s nose twisted sideways and he crashed backward, motionless.

  An army of boots thundered in the hall. The cavalry was here. Derek pressed his hand to his head and slumped to the floor. If he didn’t get out of here soon, there was no question. He’d be dead.

  CHAPTER 28

  My shoulders are square, my back straight, and I have a smile on my face. I’m just here to visit my friend. At least that’s what it’ll look like if a nosy neighbor spies me from their window. I saunter into the bitch cop’s back yard and up onto the step. I rap my knuckles on the screen door, but I don’t expect an answer. All the while, I take in everything around me. The step’s busted, the house looks like shit, but whoa, what do we have here?

  I back off the step and inspect the electric meter. A wire feeds over to a gray plastic box screwed into the siding. Wires snake out the bottom, form a perfect loop and continue to a second box. What the hell is that? I’m always watching for security systems but I’ve never seen one like this before. It’s not like they would be nice enough to put a label on it.

  I can’t get into the box without a screwdriver but I can fuck it up. With the tip of my knife, I pry one of the staples from the siding and tug on the wire. It holds firm. Beside the step is a wooden handle from a broom or a mop. That will work. I insert it through the loop and twist it like a garrote around the cop’s throat. In three turns, the wires tear loose from the bottom of the panel and the red light goes out. My heart skips a beat every time something dies. This counts.

  With one ear to the wall, I hold my breath and listen. No alarm bells clang. The house is silent as death. I toss the handle into the grass on my way back up the step and shove my knife through the space between the latch and the striker plate. With my skill, it’s open in seconds. I step in and close the door behind me.

  This is only a crappy old house. How could it be the command center for a police operation? A shiny coffee machine on the kitchen counter looks like a friggin’ space ship. Who likes coffee that much? Cops do. Officer Erin Ericsson lives here.

  My gut tilts sideways. I stab my knife into the table, scraping the finish all the way to the edge. I kick a chair over for good measure and stomp it until leg cracks. Sit on that, bitch.

  Something skitters across the hallway and I hug the wall in the corner. Is someone else in here? I hadn’t considered that. I grip the handle of my knife and peek around the doorframe. There’s a gray flash at the end of the hall. A cat. Or a rabbit. It’s moving so fast it’s hard to tell.

  I step out and squat, knife held loosely in my hand. I never skinned a cat before. My grandfather knew better than to let me have a pet, no matter how many times I asked.

  “Here kitty.”

  Toenails scrabble across hardwood and a black nose peeps out from the doorway. What happened to the gray flash? Is it a dog? I try again.

  “Here doggie.”

  The corner of an ear twitches above the nose.

  “Come and get some candy.” I hold my hand out but he knows as well as I do that there’s nothing in it. The nose disappears back into the room.

  “Fe Fi Fo Fum.”

  In five giant steps, I’m down the hallway and pounce into the bedroom. Nothing. On my knees, I check under the bed. Where the hell did he go? I crawl over and yank open the closet. Clothes hang in perfect military lines but there is no stupid dog. No longer a giant, now I feel like Elmer Fudd looking for Bugs Bunny. I don’t like being made fun of. Toenails scamper across hardwood. He’s a wascally wabbit, but I’ll catch him.

  Back on my feet, I’m ready to leave when I spot it. A notebook with Morley Falls PD embossed on the front cover. It’s hers. She had it on her the last time I saw her. Making friggin’ notes about my life. It’s none of her business. What did she write about me? I flip through pages but it’s like she writes in Egyptian and I can’t read more than two or three words at a time. It’s worse than a doctor’s handwriting. I don’t even see my name anywhere. There’s a lot of initials and numbers and dates and times. How is anyone supposed to read this?

  I rip out a fistful of pages and throw them into the air like snowflakes. I slice through the bedspread and stab the pillow until I’m exhausted. It’s more work than you’d think, and not really worth the effort. I empty the dresser drawers instead. Ain’t nothing here I want.

  I step to the bathroom and check the medicine cabinet. On the corner by Nina’s house, there’s always someone looking for drugs. Maybe there’s something I can sell. I dump everything from the shelves into the sink and sift through the containers. There are things for chapped lips and removing nail polish. Another bottle holds headache pills. The same crap you can pick up in any convenience store. Useless. I plug the drain with toilet paper and leave the water running. That’s the penalty.

  The bedroom upstairs is worse than the first. Clothes are jumbled into a laundry basket and the closet is a mess. There is no dog, cat or rabbit in here either.

  The last room has the door closed. That must mean something. Bonus. The command center. Computer equipment clutters one whole end of an L-shaped desk with three big monitors lined up. Coils of cable tangle behind half a dozen towers in a row. Red and green lights flash randomly from everything. This setup could land the space shuttle.

  I shove a monitor and it dangles off the edge of the desk, saved by its safety net of attached wires. One shoe in the air, I aim a kick at the screen but the room’s too small for acrobatics.

  I’ve got one foot in the air and don’t even see it coming. The gray furry flash zips past and my pant leg twists like I’ve been hit by the Tasmanian Devil. It’s enough to screw with my balance and I land on the floor by the office chair, left arm crumpled beneath me.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Did I bust my goddamn shoulder? I use up every single cuss word I know by the time I wrestle my way back to my feet. It’s a good thing I’m right-handed. I’ll make him pay.

  “Here wabbit.” There’s an answering thump in the kitchen. “Gotcha.” There is no way I’m letting him past me. He’s trapped. I cartoon strut to the entrance, knife gripped hard in my good hand. The kitchen is empty. How can that be? Over my shoulder the hallway is silent. I swivel back. I’m sure he’s in here. In the middle of the room, I turn in a circle, knife held out. “Come out. I want to make myself a pair of slippers.”

  The house is so quiet I can hear the water running in the bathroom sink. I’ll stand stock-still to wait him out. The digital clock on the stove changes. One minute. Two. There is the slightest sound from below, like an animal shifting its weight. Without making a sound, I reach for the handle.

  Ping!

  I jump like a scared deer and instantly hate myself. On the floor at my feet a metal screw rolls to a stop. I look around, look up. Who threw that? I spin around to the hallway. A puddle of water has already spread across from the bathroom. There are no wet tracks running through it. I circle to the back door. It’s still closed.

  Plunk!

  Something bounces off my head and I whirl around. Who is messing with me? Where are they hiding? I look back at the bottom cabinet. Someone small. I kick the door and am rewarded with the shuffling of tiny feet.

  Found you.

  I flick the door open with my knife and it bounces back on its hinges. I bat aside a box of cereal, two jars of peanut butter.

  Scheisse!

  Sharp spikes pierce my skin and I snatch my hand back. Droplets of blood ooze from two punctures and I stare like a thirsty vampire. My heart pounds in my ears. The color is darker than I remembered. I imagine it sprayed across the wall. Flooding from the bathroom sink like a gushing wound.

  My stomach gurgles and there’s a low hum in my thro
at. How long have I been crouched here staring at the blood? I wipe my hand on the cereal box and dump it on its side. What the hell hit me? The cabinet is empty. A ragged hole in the back is not big enough for a dog. Was it a rattler? I saw that movie about snakes. I’m not sticking my fingers in there.

  Two more drops of blood seep through the cut and drizzle down the side of my hand. Did something really bite me? A snake? Ridiculous. Could I have just scratched myself on a nail? I’m losing my mind. My throat’s dry. My shoulder aches. The lack of sleep for the past few days has caught up with me. I need a drink.

  Bloody thumb in my mouth, I open the fridge. On the middle shelf are three bottles that might be beer. I slide my knife onto the counter and pick one up. On the label, above a picture of a fish, it says Raspberry Cream Ale. The alcohol content is a whopping seven percent. Raspberry fish beer sounds weird but seven percent alcohol sounds great.

  My left shoulder is gorked so I sandwich the bottle between the countertop and my belly to twist off the cap. It does taste like raspberry. I was hoping it would taste like Budweiser. This is pussy beer, but it’s pussy beer with a kick. One by one, I place the other two bottles by the door. Nina will like them if they taste fruity.

  I consider the fact that I’m hung over and I haven’t slept much lately, but I’m sure I didn’t dream the friggin’ Tasmanian Devil. My messed up shoulder is proof. And what about the creature with the big ears? Did I hallucinate that? Maybe I did. It’s obvious there is no dog here. Just me and the devil.

  The clock says I’ve already been in here three quarters of an hour. I haven’t done half of what I wanted. I wanted to burn this shit down, but it’s time to get out. Who knows when the bitch cop will be back? With my good arm, I scoop my beer off the floor and tuck it close.

  Thump! Screeek!

  The noise shoots spikes of excitement through my system. The devil is back. I’ll kill him. I leap around, ready to stomp the life out of whatever awaits me. The kitchen is empty.