No, I'm just lying here because I feel like it.
My laugh came out as a hacking rasp that quickly became a soundless cry. I managed to nod. It hurt too much to talk.
“You're hemorrhaging. That's why this is black.” Her finger hovered over one of the darkest bruises but she did not touch me this time. I nodded faintly. I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, though I remembered hearing it before on ER and I knew it wasn't a good thing.
“I can't move you by myself, and it isn't safe to. We'll have to wait.”
Wait for what? Who? Adrian was going to come back.
A fine mist of sweat formed on my forehead. The fabric of my sweater felt wet and sticky on my back and under my arms. A placed her hand on my forehead, smoothing back my hair the way my mother used to when I was younger. “Why did he do this to you?”
I tried to think past the pain that veiled my thoughts. “He said I lied…on my polygraph.” The last syllable came out as a choke. Spit hit the ground beside me; it was veined with blood. I looked away. “But…he also said…he wanted to break me.” My chest hitched, sending ripples of pain down my body: a facsimile of a bitter laugh, or the beginnings of a sob. Beyond the agony, I didn't know what I was feeling. Nor did I care, particularly. “He got what he wanted…I'm definitely broken.”
I watched her watch me. Under this light, her hazel eyes looked green — as green as his, though considerably less cold. As green as his were. He was dead now. One less thing in the universe to concern myself with.
Did you lie? seemed to hover in the air like a ghost between us, making the air grow cold. To tell the truth, I was no longer sure whether I had or not. It didn't seem to matter; it certainly hadn't to Adrian.
Finally, A nodded. She pulled down my sweater, allowing me a modicum of dignity. She was trying to be gentle, but the drag of soft fabric scorched my skin like flame. My wince alerted her, made her ask, “Are you in a lot of pain?”
“Yes, goddammit!” My own voice had become a stranger's.
Unfazed, A reached into her handbag and pulled out a black case. My skin shrank in recognition. I'd seen one of those before. I flinched when she pulled out one of the needles, and then flinched from my own flinching. “No.”
She frowned at me. “This will help you relax.”
“I'm allergic.”
“To opiates. I know. This is different.”
The needle slid beneath the skin of my forearm. The room seemed to tilt. “You'll have to be hospitalized,” she was saying. “If this isn't operated on right away, you could die.”
Hope buoyed me to consciousness. If they were taking me somewhere public, like a hospital, questions would be asked. Somebody might recognize me. Milk cartons bearing pictures of my face were probably circulating around school cafeterias. Have you seen this girl?
I was just beginning to fantasize about the bust, the police having just received an anonymous tip-off from a hospital intern with a heart of gold who was too noble and good to accept the IMA's hush money. The reunion with my family. Seeing Adrian sentenced to a life in prison without parole.
“We have a fully functional operating room on the premises,” A added.
The dream shattered, like brittle glass, the pieces scattering even as I reached out with the desperation of a beggar grasping at dropped coins in a busy street. I shook my head.
Misunderstanding, she said, “He's a very nice man. Very skilled. He got his medical degree from John Hopkins. He works on the field agents who are injured while on assignment. You'll receive better treatment than at most hospitals.”
That's not the point. I'll still be a prisoner.
“You can't have it both ways.”
It was as if she'd read my thoughts. No, she was just saying that I couldn't get better without moving. She thought I was concerned about the pain. She was right, either way. I couldn't have it both ways. I never have. My life has always been full of tough choices, ever getting harder.
“Does this mean…they don't want to kill me?”
She looked at me for a long time — for so long that I wondered how the answer could be anything but “no”. Slowly, she shook her head. “Yes. At least, not yet. If he truly wanted you dead, he would have ordered Adrian to finish you.”
Those grim words hung between us until the sedative took effect. I was out —
(like a candle)
On the edge of a lake surrounded by trees, under overcast skies the color of concrete. Curls of mist rose from the still surface, though I didn't feel cold. The water seemed to stretch out forever but I could make out the lines of houses through the sheer curtain of vapor. It looked like it might rain.
I wasn't alone.
Michael was leaning against one of the trees, sharpening a knife against a wet-stone. That's when I realized I had to be dreaming. That, or I had died — and this was hell. Michael took no notice of me, but I knew instinctively that he was aware of my presence. The scraping noises stopped, and he looked up at me with his strange eyes: perfectly green and cold, like two pieces of bottle glass set in his haggard face. They perfectly mirrored the stormy sky above.
“What are you doing here?”
I took a step back, loose racks grating against my sneakers. “What are you doing here? You're…dead — aren't you?”
Michael looked up from his knife. “Do I look dead?”
I could see the muscles in his bare arms working as he continued to sharpen the blade. There were numerous scars crisscrossing his torso, of different shapes and textures. Some had nearly faded away into his tan skin, and others stood out in relief. He looked so untouchable. I was suddenly terrified — more terrified.
One of the scares was more pronounced than the others: a gaping rictus, still red and fleshy, just above his left nipple and only half-healed. It looked so painful. He stopped sharpening his knife and followed my gaze. “That one hurt the most.”
“How did you get it?”
Michael moved like a panther, so fast I wouldn't have been able to dodge even if I'd tried. I was knocked from my feet to the ground, the air crushed out of my lungs on impact. With it, went my ability to scream. I was painfully aware of his body pressed against mine, cold and hard, like stone. He leaned in. “I was weak.”
He pressed my hand to his chest, splaying my fingers over the scarred, opalescent skin, just over where his heart should have been. No heartbeat. I tried to yank my hand bank. He held on tightly — tighter, when I tried to pull away. His mouth covered mine, and he tasted cold and dead and salty, like raw fish.
“You see?” he said. “I feel nothing now.”
I screamed, scrabbling at his heartless chest.
Michael seemed to hesitate. His hand, the one holding the knife, was halfway beneath my shirt. The tip of the blade pressed into my skin and I shivered. His skin felt slack and loose, peeling away where my fingers had gouged, revealing the carmine muscles and pallid bone beneath. He was dead; he was a corpse.
The blade was warm in contrast, and that seemed wrong somehow, almost obscene: as if the metal was alive — an extension of him and his wrath.
“If you want to survive against us, you have to be cold like us.”
I didn't even have time to scream as the knife pierced my skin, past the protective shield of my ribcage, deep into the recesses of my heart.
Michael:
Compared to the humidity of the east coast, Oregon was far cooler. I pulled on my black coat as I left the PDX Airport and popped some of the pain relievers Kent had procured for me, dry. My chest was aching in the cold like a son of a bitch. But I could still fire a gun. Even with the bullet wound, I was a formidable adversary.
— Oh, Christ.
I nearly reached for the bottle of pills again. Stopped myself. At least the pain would keep me alert. I didn't want to arrive at the IMA's doorstep doped out of my mind, and I'd well exceeded the advised dosage.
I was aware of the eyes on me as I hurried through the terminals with my single carry-on item.
Some people stared at me curiously, others avoided me entirely. Perhaps they could read the death warrant in my eyes. More likely, it was the fact I kept hacking up blood. In either case, I was attracting far too much attention. I quickened my pace, and my chest tightened.
Outside the airport, the roar of the departing planes was deafening. I scanned the curb, looking for a sign with the name “Coleman.” That had been Kent's suggestion. Even though I had “died” the IMA may have released my fake name to the public in an obituary. It would not be good for Edward Collins to be seen walking around, back from the dead. Coleman was just close enough to Collins that there was no chance of my forgetting it.
There was no Coleman sign. My driver hadn't arrived yet. I cracked open the can of orange juice from the flight and glanced down at my watch. I had forty hours.
Christina:
Forty hours left.
I shot up and immediately regretted it as pain lit up and down my sides like lights on a jukebox. I fell back against the cot, clasping my hands over my stomach as though in prayer. A dios. My heart — my poor, wonderful heart — was hammering in my ears. Just a nightmare.
Not all of it. Michael was still dead. And I was an invalid. A must have brought me to the hospital. I didn't remember arriving here. I didn't remember anything except pain. I was sore beyond description, but now it was the dulled ache of healing wounds as opposed to the sharp, raw stabbing of fresh bruises and open, stinging cuts. I was wearing a loose shirt and beneath it I could feel the ridges of what proved to be neat bandages, wrapped with the precision of a surgeon.
That's when I saw him. He was sitting down in a chair behind me, on the edge of my periphery — why I hadn't seen him on my initial, cursory inspection — and he was toying with something small and metallic hanging from a chain at his neck. At my gasp of startled horror, he looked up.
“Oh, good,” he said. “You're awake. I said I'd be back, didn't I?”
I opened my mouth to scream. He crossed the room quickly, clapping one of his hands over my mouth. “I wouldn't do that.” I wanted to bite his hand, and would have if not for the distinct possibility that he would take it as an invitation to “play” — and I wouldn't survive round two.
Against the instincts to attack, scream, and hold on for dear life, I made myself to relax. Adrian raised his hand up and off my mouth. The fabric of his shirt lifted with that movement, revealing a gun holstered at his hip. He hadn't wanted me to scream, so that might mean nobody knew he was here. I tasted blood; I'd bitten right through the skin of my lower lip.
Adrian noticed me staring at his gun.
“The lesser known instrument of the surgical world.” He drew it. “Generally used as a last resort, of course.” The detachment in his voice, plus the fact that nobody had rushed in at the sight of his drawn weapon, was terrifying. His smile grew as he slipped the gun back into its holster. “So, beneath the skin of the lion beats the heart of a rabbit, hmm?”
“And what are you?” I had meant to sound brave, but my voice cracked mid-syllable. He smiled accordingly, adjusting his shirt so the gun was hidden from sight.
“I'm very good at what I do.”
I braced myself for the attack — a blow to my stomach, a quick, backhanded slap. He leaned in and deliberately licked away the bead of blood clinging to my lip. His breath was hot, metallic, and sweet. Like molten copper. Like blood. I snapped at his tongue and he pulled away.
“You are a pretty little thing, aren't you?”
I said nothing.
“But pretty things are so easily broken.” My hand looked so fragile in his, when he caught it. “Here's what's going to happen,” he said reasonably, running his thumb over my pulse. “First, you're going to tell me everything. Then you're going to beg me for your life. And perhaps, if you're very, very convincing, I might even let you live.”
“Screw you.”
His fingers tightened, past discomfort, to the threshold of pain and then beyond that, too. “No,” he said, still civil. “I don't think so.”
He's going to do it. He's going to break my wrist. I could kick him. I wasn't sure how much it would hurt, but if I aimed right, it might get him off me. And then what? You're incapacitated. I didn't care. I'd deal with that when — and if — the time came.
I poised to strike, cocking my leg back beneath the sheets. A crack resounded in the room. I stared in amazement as Adrian Callaghan collapsed on top of me — unconscious.
Chapter Fifteen
Rendezvous
Christina:
Panic overrode logic. I flailed, trying to get him off. I didn't care that he was unconscious. I just wanted his body away from mine. There was a sickeningly sweet powdery smell, like talc, clinging to his clothes and skin, which made me feel like vomiting.
Adrian was a big man, but I was desperate. I felt him start to slide and then give way. He hit the floor with a heavy thud that made the medical equipment in the cupboards rattle. A groan escaped him. I did the sensible thing: I opened my mouth again to scream.
A soft, feminine hand covered my mouth before the sound could escape. I began to thrash again — that was how Adrian had reacted, too, which meant that this person also wasn't supposed to be here. A voice as feminine as the hand whispered, “No. Please. You must be quiet. Trust me.”
A looked as though she'd aged ten years since I'd seen her last. The expression on her face was horribly familiar: I'd seen it every time I looked in a mirror. Sheer terror.
My eyes shifted from the collapsed Adrian to her disheveled appearance and back again. Had she been the one to knock him unconscious? Her tweed dress was rumpled and askew, revealing the lace-edged slip beneath. She looked like she had been in a scuffle. Her handbag dangled limply from her hand. Its contents had spilled out on the floor. Adrian had been felled by a Coach bag. If I hadn't been so sickeningly relieved, I might have laughed.
“Listen to me,” she said, in rushed, clipped tones. Her mouth was locked in a grimace, and her lipstick had bled onto her perfect teeth. “We don't have much time. I can get you out, but you must do exactly as I say. Do you understand? Nod once.”
“What — ”
She shook her head, motioning to the security camera. Right. She had angled herself in such a way that her face wouldn't be visible to the lens. Could the people watching the cameras read lips? Probably. After all, these were the same people that forced their guards to memorize the floor plan in order to navigate.
“Do you understand?” she repeated, her eyes urgent, pleading.
I brought my head down in the heaviest of nods.
A tugged me out of bed — rougher than before, but I suppose she had to keep up with appearances. I was relieved I wasn't wearing one of those flimsy hospital gowns. It was humiliating enough, being dragged around without having your butt visible.
“Follow me.”
Easier said than done. My sides ached with each step. The tide of endorphins helped some. I hardly dared believe I was going to be released from this place — alive. Unless…was this a trick of some kind? To test me? With a shaking hand, A punched in the access code. Her fear didn't seem feigned, but Adrian had managed to fool me, too. Good acting seemed to be a prerequisite.
I edged carefully around Adrian's fallen form. His chest rose and fell, and I begrudged him each breath. I suppressed the urge to stamp on his throat and end his life then and there, hurrying after A. The doors slid open and I could barely keep up with her. A's white, open-toed sandals clicked noisily on the floor and I wondered why, if she was so eager to remain unseen, she was wearing such loud shoes. Then I saw the logo on the back of the heel and rolled my eyes.
Prada. “Where are we going?”
“Out.”
Out? Out of this hallway? Or out-out? “Where?” I persisted.
“I can't tell you right now.” She glanced around nervously. “We're in serious danger.”
She's only just figured that out now? I almost laughed, but my throat was too dry. I could f
eel the pain returning now that I was coming down from my high; neurotransmitters could only go so far. “I know,” I whispered back. “You knocked Adrian Callaghan unconscious. When he wakes up, he's going to come after us and…there will be trouble.”
“No, not just us — we all are.” She spread her arm in a broad half-circle, as if to encompass the entire building of the IMA.
I was gasping now. My stitches felt about ready to pop. “Why?”
“Because Michael Boutilier is alive.”
Michael:
It didn't occur to the two grunts the IMA had posted as guards to be on the lookout for one of their own. I'd suspected as much. My killing would be strictly on a need-to-know basis for the next few days, allowing for an adequate amount of time to pass for Richardson to “discover” the “horrible news.” After all, he wouldn't want to leave his people with the impression that they could get bumped off before retirement — not with a mutiny already in the works.
The guards nodded me through. The clearance light flashed green. That meant I hadn't been declared dead yet. Good. I went through the door, keeping my head down. Nobody had stopped me but I doubted that my luck would stay this good. I had to assume that somebody had already seen me, recognized me, and made a phone call to the powers that be.
A piercing siren tore through the silence of level one. A light, surrounded by a cage of wires, suddenly started to flash. My hand tightened around my Glock 22, and I ran down the stairs, trying to ignore the fireball in my chest.
Showtime.
Christina:
“Adrian told me he was dead.”
“That's what we thought, too.” She shook her head, causing her red hair to fan out as she hustled me down the hallway. “He was growing too powerful, too ruthless, and had many enemies. When I heard he planned to take over the IMA…” She shuddered, as if the thought of a Michael-run IMA was too horrible to bear. “We were so relieved when we got a report saying that he might have drowned. I thought it was the end to all our problems. But he's alive. I don't know how, but he managed to survive — and he's coming here.”
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA) Page 17