Silent is the Grave

by Candle Sutton

  He could pick her up and cart her inside and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop him.

  What could the hospital do for her, though? She didn’t have a stab wound. She hadn’t lost any blood. In fact, by all accounts she was perfectly healthy.

  And yet she wasn’t.

  They could give her fluids. Pain meds if that would help.

  Decision made.

  He cranked the key. “I’m taking you to the ER.”

  “No, Zander. Just home.” The engine was louder than her voice but he heard her words nonetheless. “Please.”

  He glanced over to find tears collecting in her eyes, which looked as gray as the fog that frequently socked in the city.

  Gray. “Your eyes are different.”

  A breath shook from her chest. “I know. Happens when God heals. Home. Please.”

  He wanted to override her, but found himself driving toward the marina. Maybe her brothers could talk sense into her.

  By the time they reached the marina, her eyes had closed again.

  If she didn’t wake easily, he was turning the car around and heading to the hospital, no matter what she’d wanted.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Elly? We’re here.”

  Her eyelids flickered then opened. After looking out the window, she adjusted the seat up and reached for the door handle.

  Yeah, right. If he let her walk in on her own, she’d probably tumble into the bay. “Hold up a sec. I’m coming around.”

  By the time he rounded to the passenger side, she had the door open and her feet hanging out, but hadn’t risen.

  “Need help getting out?”

  She shook her head. “I think I can manage.”

  Bracing her hands on the car, she slowly rose to her feet. A second passed as she stood there, swaying like a boat on the wind-chapped bay.

  This wouldn’t last long. He tensed, waiting for her to ask for help or to obviously need it.

  Her right knee buckled.

  His hands shot out, catching her around the waist. “Let’s get you inside.”

  Supporting her was slightly easier than it had been earlier, possibly because she seemed to be bearing more of her own weight. Still, he found himself half-carrying her across the parking lot.

  The limp was pronounced. In fact, it looked like she was hardly putting any weight on her right leg.

  It should’ve been him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not… your fault.” Her words came between labored breaths.

  “It was my wound.” He stopped by a bench and eased her down on it.

  She massaged the back of her thigh, her eyebrows drawing together and her face pinching. “I made my choice.”

  Plunging his hands into his pockets, he watched her fingers as they probed her leg. “Shouldn’t you be better by now? It’s been several hours.”

  “It’ll come.” Breathing seemed to be easier for her now that they weren’t moving. “The more serious it is, the longer it takes.”

  That sounded like experience. Did he even want to know?

  Probably not, but he found the question bubbling to his lips anyway. “What’s the most serious thing you’ve healed?”

  She hesitated. Debating whether or not to trust him?

  When the silence lengthened, he shrugged. “You don’t have to answer that. I was just curious.”

  “Stage four cancer.” The words softly spilled from her. “A child in the Philippines was near death but God had other plans.”

  Stage four cancer. He barely heard the words that followed.

  How in the heck had she healed that?

  More than that, what had it done to her? “How long did it take you to recover from that?”

  “Five days.” She stopped rubbing her leg and fixed a stare at him. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t talk to anyone about this, though. It isn’t always in God’s will to heal and I don’t want people to seek me out if God’s answer is no.”

  Five days. She’d dealt with the lingering effects of stage four cancer for five days.

  More than that, she’d chosen to deal with it.

  She had to be the least selfish person he’d ever met.

  Maybe she was making it all up. It was one heck of a story, that was for sure.

  In spite of how unbelievable it seemed, he had trouble doubting her. More than that, she’d given him more reasons to trust her than to believe she was a liar.

  “Zander?”

  He blinked at the sound of her voice.

  “Please tell me you won’t talk about this.”

  “Of course not.”

  Imagine the people who would hunt her down if this got out. Everyone from the desperately sick to the money-grubbers who’d seek to profit to scientists who’d want to study her like a specimen.

  “What if someone has just died? Can you help them then?”

  Wouldn’t that be something? Bringing people back from the dead?

  “I don’t know.” Curiosity laced the words. “God’s never called me to do that. He could do it, no question, but I’m not sure He’d use me to do it.”

  Probably a good thing.

  If a single stab wound could knock her back this far, he couldn’t imagine the ramifications of raising the dead.

  He hoped he’d never have to find out.

  Memories from his childhood classes at church flooded him. Angels had the ability to heal, didn’t they? And they heard from God. He remembered stories of angels delivering messages to people. Could she possibly be…?

  “Are you an angel?”

  It sounded so ridiculous out in the open.

  That was it. He’d officially lost his mind.

  She laughed. “No, I’m as human as you are.”

  “Good.” He shifted his weight slightly. “I’d, uh, have gotten really freaked out if you’d suddenly popped out wings or something.” It was so good to see her smile and hear her laugh that he didn’t mind looking stupid in the process.

  “Believe me, if I could do that, I’d be flying to the boat instead of limping along.” She eased to her feet. “I’m ready to keep going.”

  He took up position beside her and helped her to the gate, where she punched in a code. The gate clicked and she pulled it open.

  Ugh. How did she live on the water?

  Having the boards constantly shifting beneath his feet made his gut clench.

  Yet by the time they reached her boat, he found that he wasn’t noticing the rocking so much anymore.

  Maybe he’d adjust faster than he expected.

  Didn’t matter. No one would catch him spending any significant amount of time on a boat. Not today, not ever.

  He looked at the gap between the walkway and the back of the boat.

  The black water rolled, slapping the hull of the boat. It wasn’t that big of a gap, but Elly’s right leg wouldn’t support her crossing it.

  Maybe she should sit here while he boarded and got her brothers to help.

  “If you go first, then help me across, I think we can manage.”

  He whipped around to look at her in the darkness. “Do you read minds, too?”

  She laughed, but it sounded strained. “It wasn’t hard to see that you were processing how to get me on board.”

  Releasing him, she stood with her weight resting almost solely on her uninjured side. She swayed.

  Not a safe plan.

  The smallest shift and she’d probably tumble into the bay. He’d never find her in the dark.

  He quickly stepped across the inky water and reached back for her, his hands circling her waist.

  Once she’d put her right foot on board, he lifted, pulling her toward him.

  Huh. She was lighter than he’d expected.

  And felt good under his hands.

  No.

  Women. Trouble. Women. Trouble.

  How many times did he have to remind himself of that?

  Obviously at least once more.

  He guided her toward the stairs
.

  Okay. Still one hurdle left. How was she going to make it up?

  Maybe he could carry her?

  With the sharp pitch of those stairs, not likely.

  If he led, then helped her up one step at a time, maybe she’d make it.

  Or they could go in that sliding glass door. If his guess was correct, it would put them in that sitting area off the kitchen, on the same level as her bedroom.

  He nodded at the door. “In there?”

  “Up.”

  She sounded weaker than ever. “You sure?”

  “I can make it.”

  It took another five minutes to make it up the stairs, but finally they stood on the deck, the sound of Elly’s labored breathing echoing in the night.

  He wrapped his arm around her waist, trying to ignore how good it felt. “Almost there.”

  Light beckoned from the cabin but he saw no sign of movement.

  What would he do if they weren’t here? Leaving her alone in this condition felt wrong.

  “So if your brothers can hear from God, too, why aren’t they out here helping you?”

  “It… doesn’t… work that… way.” Elly sounded weaker. A lot weaker. “God… doesn’t tell… us… everything.”

  She slowed, bending over to rub the back of her leg again.

  Enough of this. Her stubbornness was going to kill her.

  He bent, his arm coming behind her knees, and straightened with her in his arms.

  Once she got over her surprise, she’d probably let him have it, but maybe he could get her inside before that happened.

  She dropped her head against his shoulder.

  Not the reaction he’d expected, but he’d take it.

  He crossed the deck, strain settling into his arms and back as he approached the cabin door. He’d probably have to set her down to open the door, but at least she didn’t have to walk far from that point.

  The door opened as he approached. Light silhouetted Josiah as he stood in the doorway.

  “I thought I heard footsteps.” If Josiah was surprised to see him carrying Elly, he didn’t show it.

  Maybe God had told him after all.

  Or maybe seeing Elly in this condition had become so commonplace that it no longer fazed him.

  Frankly, he didn’t think he could ever get used to seeing Elly like this, but that wasn’t his problem.

  Even if he kinda wished it could be.

  Josiah moved out of the way and he entered the cabin.

  A sofa waited a few feet away. He stepped up to it and awkwardly lowered Elly’s legs back to the floor. She crumpled on the sofa as soon as her feet touched down.

  “Thank you.”

  The whispered words seared his ears.

  No matter what she said, this was his fault. Completely. If he’d done his job better, none of this would have happened. “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop.” Her eyes were closed but she was obviously still cognizant. “God’s will.”

  Then sometimes God’s will stunk.

  Josiah clapped a bony hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for helping her out. You want anything? Tea or water?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” What he really wanted waited at O’Keefe’s. He seriously doubted this group of God-hearers had anything harder than tea on board. He nodded at Elly, who hadn’t moved from where she’d collapsed. “I really think you should take her to the ER.”

  “She’ll be okay, but thanks for caring. Zeke and I will keep an eye on her until she comes around. What was it this time?”

  “Knife wound.” He swallowed the bile burning his throat. “My knife wound.”

  “Ah.” Josiah’s half-nod held understanding. “Don’t blame yourself, man. I know she looks bad, but she’ll be okay. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.”

  Why wasn’t that reassuring? “Okay, then. Well, uh, I’ll head out and let you guys get back to, uh…”

  Whatever.

  No sign of a TV so frankly, he wasn’t sure what they did for relaxation in the evenings.

  Also none of his business.

  “Let her know I’ll be in touch tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure thing.” Josiah followed him to the door. “Have a nice evening.”

  Right. Because it’d been such a great day.

  He stepped into the cool evening. The wind whipping up off the bay cut through his shirt. Gurgling in his stomach reminded him that lunch had been a long time ago.

  He carefully navigated the steep steps.

  Well, O’Keefe’s had food. Not amazing food, but good enough. The pub fries were pretty tasty.

  And went well with Tequila.

  You shouldn’t drink.

  He almost tripped over the edge of the boat and into the bay.

  Elly’s voice. In his head.

  Again.

  Drinking won’t solve anything.

  Get out of my head! He stepped over the water and onto the weathered boards.

  He was losing it. That was the only explanation. Because Elly sure wasn’t reading his mind and sending him mental messages.

  Drinking might not solve anything, but it’d make him feel better.

  Maybe it’d even silence the Elly-not-Elly voice in his head, too.

  ₪ ₪ ₪

  The ringing phone pulled Zander from a deep sleep that had been way too short.

  He opened his eyes, squeezing them shut again as the early morning sunlight streaming through his mini-blinds assaulted him. “Ugh.”

  The glowing clock beside his bed screamed 6:25 in bright red numbers.

  Five minutes before his alarm was set to go off. Who would be calling him at this hour?

  Madre.

  He knew it even as he reached for his phone. It would be her because today was today. Today was the anniversary of the day everything had changed.

  It’d been exactly four years since Javier had been murdered.

  “Hi Madre.”

  “Alejandro.” Grief weighted the one word. “Are you still sleeping, mijo?”

  “I was.” He pushed himself up in bed, the pounding in his head worse than usual. Probably should’ve stopped sooner last night – or was it this morning – instead of telling himself just one more drink. At least the alcohol had numbed the Elly voice in his head, although it had done nothing to banish her from his thoughts.

  In fact, thoughts of Elly had kept him from bringing that hot blonde home with him last night. The blonde had flirted and hinted and all but thrown herself at him, yet all he could see was Elly.

  Had to be residual guilt. Hopefully seeing her well again would make the guilt go away.

  “Mijo?” Madre’s voice burst into his thoughts. “You’re coming tonight, right?”

  There was only one right answer. Especially today.

  She knew it, too. So why’d she have to hound him about it every single year?

  “I always do, don’t I?” No matter his caseload, he’d never missed the traditional Mexican dinner Madre made on the anniversary of Jave’s death.

  “I know, mijo, I know.” Her ragged breath stripped away his anger. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

  Sometimes it stunk being the only son still alive. Between Madre and his three older sisters, there were days when he felt like he could hardly breathe.

  “Madre, I need to get ready for work. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  “You be careful, you hear me? I-I can’t lose you, too.”

  Good thing she didn’t know what’d happened yesterday. And if he had his way, she’d never find out.

  “I always am, Madre. See you tonight.” He ended the call and set the phone aside, cradling his head in his hands. The throbbing would pass, especially once he forced himself out of bed and took some aspirin.

  A cold shower never hurt, either.

  Yet he didn’t move.

  If he could, he’d crawl back into bed and shut out the day. If he could, he’d forget today existed.

  If he could, he’d
go back and change the past.

  But he couldn’t do any of that.

  Throwing back the covers, he staggered to the bathroom. His stomach lurched and he barely made it to the toilet before dry-heaving. He sat beside the toilet with his back against the wall and leaned his head back.

  Tremors rocked his hands and his head felt about ready to explode.

  Jave. Why’d he have to get mixed up in gangs, anyway?

  It wasn’t like he hadn’t had a good home life. Madre and Padre had always been there. Sure, they’d worked long hours to keep food on the table, but Jave had never gone without.

  Somehow, those gangs had sunk their teeth into Jave in spite of all the good in his life.

  Which was why he had to go to work, even when he felt like giving up. There was always a Jave out there needing to be saved.

  Eleven

  “You could take the day off, kid.”

  Zander narrowed his eyes at Morgan. “I’m good.”

  Why’d they have to have this conversation every year?

  Morgan held up his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying. No one would blame you.”

  “We get anything from any of those Alma Negra members we arrested yesterday?”

  “They ain’t talking.”

  Surprise, surprise. Never made it easy, did they? “They at least say why they were after Monica?”

  “Claimed she was the kid sister of one of their buddies and they were trying to bring her home.”

  Right. That was about as likely as Jave coming back from the dead.

  “Did find something interesting, though.” Morgan’s voice broke through the morbid thought.

  Zander arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Drugs.” Morgan pulled up a few crime scene photos on his computer and spun the monitor around. “About two kilos.”

  Zander stared at the images. “What’re we looking at?”

  “Coke. A pretty pure strain, too.”

  A soft whistle slid through his teeth. “What’s the street value on something like that? Thirty grand?”

  “At least.”

  Why hadn’t Monica taken that with her? Maybe she’d meant to, but couldn’t find a way to get it out with all the cops at the scene. “But no trace of Monica.”

  Morgan shook his head.

  As expected.

  Well, maybe Elly would know. Or hear from God or something.