For the second time that day, I returned to consciousness in the pitch black dark of an underground tunnel. This time, I managed the job much more gracefully than I had before, since I was becoming somewhat of an expert at it. I didn’t dry heave or panic. Instead, I woke with this sense of fatal resignation, like I knew my luck had run out, and any moment, I’d be accosted by perky co-eds in Barney costumes. People thought devils with pitchforks were bad, but I’d take that over the Barney theme song sung by peppy cheerleader types any day.
Strangely, getting knocked out a second time seemed to have negated all of my fear. I’d been hovering inches away from panic before, but now? Now I was pissed. I lay there motionless for a moment as my senses returned to me, and then I spoke aloud.
“Really?”
No one answered, which wasn’t such a surprise since I was alone. Unless you counted Jehovah, ever present, but even He didn’t have comments. I fully intended to have a lengthier conversation with him about what had happened sometime in the future. Perhaps I’d draft Aunt Rose for the job. She was simultaneously the most devout person I knew and the one who most liked to debate with the divine. Then again, I really didn’t need commentary to tell me where I’d gone wrong. I got it already. I needed to be better about trusting my partners, even if that meant they knew all about my shaky mental ground and the aliens that had caused it. Because sitting there in the dark, a new theory occurred to me. It didn’t have to be either/or. I could be cracking up and aliens could be real. Hiding from those potentialities hadn’t done me any good—in fact, it had directly led to my current situation, lost in the dark, hurt and scared. If Hardwicke had been here, if I’d trusted him with what was happening regardless of how weird it would sound, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.
I lay there motionless for a few moments simply because I anticipated how much moving would hurt. Every inhalation felt like a knife stabbing me in the shoulder. At the least, I’d dislocated it. Hopefully it wasn’t broken, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. I tried to, since breathing hurt, but eventually had to give up.
My first attempt to sit up sent lasers of pain through my arm and was quickly aborted. A quick tactile examination confirmed what I already knew—the shoulder was out of place and would need to be put back before I could move on. I didn’t know which way I’d go once I was mobile again, but I’d cross that tunnel when I came to it.
I decided to roll over and try to force the shoulder in. I’d dislocated it once before during a scuffle with a gangbanger who was eventually found guilty of five counts of first degree murder. Hardwicke had been my partner at the time, and he’d popped that sucker back into place with a single strike of the heel of his hand. He’d done it so fast that it had barely hurt at all. I wished he was here right now, but no amount of wishing would make my arm better. The hand had gone completely numb, and I began to worry that I’d suffer permanent damage if I didn’t handle it right away.
So, without taking any time to think about the wisdom of this course of action, I rolled over hard, raising my body just enough to slam that shoulder into the ground. The injured joint moved, but not enough. An enormous wave of pain overtook me, and the damned thing was still out of its socket. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I rocked back and forth, spitting out some very bad words, until it subsided. Then I had to try again. Now, I knew what I was in for, and I strongly considered leaving it out of place while I tried to find my way out. But I knew I might fall again, and the thought of taking another tumble with a dislocated arm—even if I wrapped it up securely using a pile of bandages I might find conveniently piled in the middle of the drainage tunnels—did not appeal to me at all.
BAM!
This time, the joint snapped into place with the sickening scrape of bone against bone. The pain didn’t miraculously disappear the moment it snapped into position, but it became much more bearable. After a few moments, I was able to sit up and wipe the sweat and tears off my face. Although it felt more like I smeared them around rather than removing them. Good thing I had no light.
As tempting as it was to try my cell again, I knew that my fall had only put me deeper into the earth, further compromising my reception. So I had to resist the urge. As I was thinking this through, I realized I was sitting on something and reached down gingerly to pull it out from under my ass, intending to take a look, rest a minute, and then move on. My fingers closed on the object and pulled it free. I’d expected some garbage of one sort or another. Maybe even the carcass of a dead animal trapped in the tunnels like I was. But I didn’t expect the familiar shape of a matchbook.
My heart leapt with excitement, but I forced myself to remain calm. The book might be empty. It might only have one match left. The matches might have gotten wet, or be so old that they didn’t strike any more. But when I opened the book, I felt the tips of one…two…three…four matches left in the book. I would have kissed the thing if I hadn’t just picked it up off the floor of a drainage pipe. Instead, I took a moment to compose myself, shaking out my left hand, trying to encourage blood flow. It wouldn’t do to drop one of my precious matches because my hand was still numb after the injury.
Once I felt ready, I took one of the matches from the book. I barely dared to breathe as I held it against the strike pad. Nothing happened after the first strike. Or the second. I let out a little whimper then, because I needed this. I needed some ray of hope after everything that had happened. I needed to hear a search party or see the flicker of flame from a match. Then I’d be able to go on.
On the third strike, I saw a spark.
I practically squealed in delight, but once again, I calmed myself. The match bent on the fourth strike, so I carefully placed it on my knee so I wouldn’t lose track of it. It might still be useful. Then I hunched over the book in preparation for trying the second precious match, ready to strike it, hoping to block any draft. Hoping that there was a draft in the first place, because a draft meant fresh air, which meant I was close to an exit, which meant I wouldn’t die underground with a snake monster.
It sputtered and lit. The flame flared into bright, glaring light, blinding me. I could feel the heat of it in my face, and when I managed to open my eyes, I saw the flame streaming toward me as if drawn in by my need. I started to look around hurriedly, because my fingers had already started to burn, but then I realized—
The flame should have been upright. Or, at the least, it should be pointing away from me when I breathed on it. If it leaned toward me, that could only mean one thing.
A draft.
The flame guttered and went out, but I didn’t care. Fresh air meant one thing. A way out. I’d been thinking about it only moments before, but its presence still took me by surprise. I hadn’t expected it, not with the way my luck had gone so far. And it was behind me, and close enough to pull on my matches. Besides, didn’t the presence of the matchbook indicate that I must be close to civilization somehow? I turned to look, but my eyes couldn’t make out anything now that the match was out.
I decided to make my way to the next intersection and light another match to see which way to go if I couldn’t see light. The suspense nearly killed me as I made my way there with painstaking care, not wanting to miss the one offshoot tunnel that might take me out into the surface world again. Finally, I made the intersection, and looked around with a flare of hope that quickly died. No light. No surface. No way out.
But I couldn’t give up, not when I was so close. Another match. The guttering flame led me off to the left. It took me about five minutes and my last remaining match before I saw dim, wavering light filtering down from the surface. In the greater scheme of things, five minutes is nothing, but it felt like hours. I surged toward the light, ignoring the relieved tears that crawled down my face and the continued deep-seated ache of my injured shoulder. When I finally reached open air, I took a long, shaky gulp of it, trying not to fall apart. Instead, I fell down to the ground in mingled relief and exhaustion. Of course, I immediately regretted it, be
cause it hurt like hell, but the sentiment remained the same.
After a few moments of relieved yet painful relaxation on the ground, I fished out my phone. Considering my low battery, I’d need to talk fast, so I struggled to my feet in order to get a better feel for my surroundings and tell my potential rescuers where to search for me. I’d emerged in a culvert very similar in appearance to the one I’d gone in, although this one didn’t have the cracked concrete entrance and was quite a bit smaller in diameter than the other. That wasn’t going to help much in terms of directions.
I’d have to climb the slope, which was tough after all I’d put my body through. Once I made my painful way upwards, I saw a road about a mile off in the distance in one direction, and the airfield tower a couple of miles away in the other. I’d gone further than I’d thought.
I began to trudge toward the road with my phone in hand. Although I knew I should feel relieved, mostly I was numb. After all this time, I was stuck in the middle of another inexplicable crime. Faced with the presence of what just might be another alien. It should have made me relieved, or angry, or something. But I couldn’t muster up the strength to feel anything at all.
Once I reached the road, I plopped down onto one of the wooden posts that anchored the guard rail to the side of the pavement. My fingers shook as I dialed 911 on my cell. I didn’t intend to move until somebody came to pick me up, and even then, they might have to roll me into the car. I was taking a rest. I’d earned it.
CHAPTER 14
Dr. Vernhagen was blond, built, and young enough to be a child of my loins. He probed at my shoulder with gentle fingers while I tried to maintain a safe line of maternal thoughts, but I couldn’t keep the loins out of my head. I might not be a perv, but it had been a long time since an attractive man had touched me, and I felt bad for liking it. Like an accidental cradle robber. I preferred my cougars in zoos.
My virtuous thoughts must have done something funny to my face, because the doctor stopped his probing and gave me a piercing gaze with those obscenely blue eyes. Really, the guy seemed too good to be true, and I started wondering what his inevitable downfall would be. I’d dated a few perfect guys. They’d turned out not to be so perfect after all; one picked his nose and ate the boogers when he thought no one was looking, and another bit his toenails. Loudly. Probably Dr. Vernhagen with his beautiful eyes and straight teeth and medical degree had a secret drawback too. Pencil dick was my bet.
Now I snorted. He looked at me like I’d lost my marbles, and I couldn’t exactly argue that point.
“Something is going on in that head of yours,” he said. “And I’m willing to bet it has nothing to do with getting lost in a sewer and banging yourself up.”
“Yeah…”
My cheeks went red. I’d gone from forcefully thinking virtuous thoughts about this young man to estimating the size of his penis in less than five minutes. Perhaps I could blame it on my head. I had a lump above my right ear but couldn’t remember exactly when I’d hit it.
I collected myself with effort and tried again. “Yeah,” I said, “my head’s all over the place. But you think there’s no concussion? Brain damage? I feel really weird.”
“How?”
“Oh…well. My mind’s all over the place. I should be thinking about what happened, trying to figure out who’s responsible. It’s my job, you know. But instead, I’m thinking about…uh…all kinds of ridiculous stuff.”
He patted me on the non-injured shoulder. “No need to worry. That’s a fairly normal phenomenon. Bodies bleed off stress in a variety of ways. At least you’re not laughing hysterically; I hate that.”
“I bet. So I’m okay, then? Are you sure?”
“I do think you might have a mild concussion, and that arm’s going to hurt like heck later on, so we’ll give you some painkillers. Nothing too extreme, but I want you to take them if you’re having trouble sleeping. The best thing for your body—and your head—right now is rest. No reading. No television. No bright lights. Just quiet and dark.”
“So I can go?” I asked with cautious optimism.
“Give me a minute to write out that prescription, and you’re cleared to leave. Do you have a ride? I don’t want you driving tonight, and if you notice any dizziness or unsteadiness, you need to see your physician immediately. We don’t want you veering off the road or waving a gun around when you can’t see straight.”
“I don’t wave guns around. Not even at political rallies, even though most politicians probably deserve a bullet or two.”
He frowned, clearly not getting the joke. Hell, from the look on his face, he didn’t even realize that there’d been a joke in the first place. Clearly, he’d missed out the day they gave out senses of humor. Given the choice, I’d take a microdick over no sense of humor any day.
I sighed. “Yeah, so I called a friend to come pick me up. I’m not sure if she’s here yet.”
“Good,” he said, looking relieved. My jokes had made him uncomfortable. He probably dated gorgeous girls with the personality of the average carrot. And maybe the spray tan to match. He didn’t know what to do with a woman like me, and with every passing moment, that felt more like a compliment. “The nurse will be in momentarily with that prescription.”
“Thank you,” I said, happy that the whole thing was over.
#
But of course it wasn’t. The whole prescription process and paperwork completion took a half hour to complete, and when I finally left my tiny cubicle in the emergency department, I was intercepted by a uniformed officer in the hallway en route to the lobby. Scorsone took any threats to his people personally, or at least he always had. I was pleased to see that this hadn’t changed. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised by that, although with his recent attitude adjustment, I guess doubting him wasn’t too far off point.
The uniform was familiar, but it took me a moment to place him. Lashawn Burgess had been the responding officer when my Aunt Rose’s house had gotten busted into last winter. He’d impressed me with his poise that night, especially in the face of my agitated, foul mouthed aunt. At least if I had to be intercepted before I could get home to my bathtub, bar, and bed, it would be by someone I liked. Based on the concerned expression on his face, he remembered me too. Either that, or he hadn’t been on the beat long enough to get jaded about it. I wasn’t sure which one to believe or to wish for.
“Detective Vorkink,” he said, reaching out one of his massive paws to shake mine with surprising gentleness. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Me too.”
He grinned, his teeth a perfect white in his dark-skinned face. I couldn’t keep from flashing my teeth in return even though I was about ready to fall over from exhaustion. He just had that kind of smile. But it quickly vanished under a mask of professional concern. He tried, anyway, but I could see through it easily. I’d had plenty of experience, after all.
“I understand you told the paramedics that you didn’t see your assailant, but Sergeant Scorsone wanted me to check in with you again before you turn in for the night,” he said. “I think he’s hoping you might have remembered something?”
“If I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t sit on that information. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I snapped and immediately regretted it. I liked Burgess and had no reason to take my frustration out on him. But I couldn’t understand why my superior hadn’t shown up himself, if he wanted someone to ask stupid questions. Maybe those questions were just an excuse to check in on me, but if so, why hadn’t he done it himself? Months earlier, he would have been first on scene if I’d gotten hurt, and vice versa.
As true as all of this was, it gave me no justification for snapping at Burgess. Pinching the bridge of my nose did nothing to stave off my growing headache, but I tried it anyway. “That was uncalled for. I’m really sorry. I’m not at my best right now.”
He snorted. “I wonder why. I’m always at my best when I’m knocked unconscious and left alone
in a darkened sewer.”
“Drainage tunnel. It was shit-free.”
“Oh, and that’s much better.”
“Isn’t it? I make a regular appointment to get knocked unconscious and left in drainage tunnels. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Yep. I make a point of it every Tuesday.”
We smiled at each other again. Mine was still weary, but the banter had done its job anyway. I felt a bit more like myself. Besides, I liked this kid. Of course, he wasn’t much of a kid; I would have pegged him somewhere around his early 30s to my early 40s, but at some point, everyone not in the AARP had started to look childish to my jaded, aged self.
“You don’t remember anything else, then, do you?” he persisted. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask.”
I took a deep breath against the surge of annoyance that statement brought up. “Of course you do. You want to make a good impression on the Sergeant; I get that. But I’m afraid I don’t remember anything more than what I told the guys who picked me up. Are they searching the tunnels?”
“Yeah, but it’s slow going. We’ve got to get some of the Water Management guys out there to help us navigate the place. Apparently, the old underground city infrastructure sank into the swamp, so they just built on top of it. It’s like a maze down there. I’m surprised you managed to find your way out without a map.” He paused and then hung his head. “That was a terrible thing to say. I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t thought of myself, believe me. No harm done.”
“You got a ride?” he asked. “I can drop you home if you need one.”
“I called a friend. She’s probably waiting for me, but if not, I’ll take you up on it and save her the trip.”
“That’s a deal.”
We walked together toward the lobby. He opened every door between the various hospital hallways to allow me to go through. Most of the time, that kind of behavior would strike me as a douche move, but Burgess managed just the right amount of politeness to avoid being a kiss ass.
Unidentified Flying Suspect (Illegal Alien Book 2) Page 8