Angel With a Bullet

by M. C. Grant

  “What the—”

  Suddenly, I sense movement behind me and my stomach lurches again. This time it isn’t from bad air.

  My feet leave the ground, ankles gripped by a pair of strong hands, and I am propelled out the window.

  Screaming loud enough to wake the dead, I instinctively clamp on to the ledge, my fingers clawing at the wood to fight off the forward momentum. Half in, half out the window and balanced on my stomach, I kick my legs, but my attacker has a strong, unyielding grip. Sharp fingernails dig into my flesh.

  “Where is it?” a male voice barks. The voice is trying to be hard, but there is more than a touch of panic in it.

  “If you think I have anything of value—”

  He shoves harder and my aching fingers begin to weaken. But they aren’t the only things losing strength. My over-filled and under-pressure bladder gives out first.

  As hot urine pours down my legs, my attacker reacts in disgust and I kick again. This time his grip has slackened and I break free.

  Grunts of pain echo as I flail my legs wildly, connecting solid blows with anything in their way. Before he can regain the upper hand, I push back from the ledge and slide across the floor.

  Rising quickly to my feet, I discover I’m blind.

  The apartment has returned to darkness: front door closed, lights off. Before I can process the fact that I am silhouetted against the open window, he attacks.

  _____

  The rush of air warns me milliseconds before his hands reach my throat. Instinctively, I drop to the floor again, leaving murderous fingers to skim through my hair, followed by the crunch of knuckles against glass.

  My attacker roars in both pain and frustration.

  When I hit the floor, I roll, but not fast enough to escape a stunning blow to the kidneys from a sharp-toed shoe. I grunt in pain as another kick—a heel this time—slams into my chest, and lose my breath when a third digs under my rib cage, surely bruising my heart.

  When another brutal heel lands. I stop rolling and cry out. Vision blurred, eyes rolling into my skull, I fear I’m going to lose consciousness and any hope of staying alive.

  Iron fingers reach down to become entangled in my hair. I cry out again as I am yanked to my feet, legs wobbly beneath me, my lungs barely able to suck in enough oxygen to keep my brain working, never mind my muscles.

  The invisible bastard has me at his mercy with barely three words of explanation.

  His grip tightens on my scalp, twisting deeper into my hair, pulling my head back and exposing my throat. Strangely, the move reminds me of a boy I had a crush on in elementary school. While the other kids played cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, or the Three Musketeers, little Stevie Simpson and I played werewolves and vampires. I had my first hickey in fourth grade—a vampire bite—and my reputation never recovered.

  When Stevie had me by the throat, one move always threw him off. Dead weight.

  I go limp, allowing gravity to do the work. Clumps of hair rip in his hands, sending more jolts of pain into my overloaded brain, but as soon as my butt hits the floor, I pay it back by spinning in place and kicking my right foot skyward as hard as I can.

  The heel of my boot hits home to punch dangling organs deep within the body until they slam against the pelvis bone. Something meaty pops and my attacker squeals like a stuck pig.

  Releasing my hair, he staggers backwards, breath wheezing like a deflated balloon.

  With renewed strength, I get to my feet and advance.

  But I’m too cocky.

  My attacker pulls a hunting knife from behind his back and slashes the air. I jump back just in time to miss having my face sliced open like a ripe tomato, but there is nowhere left to go. The open window is at my back, and the knife-wielding psycho is bearing down.

  Lights snap on, blinding us both.

  “Dixie!”

  Sam’s voice. Terrified.

  I am barely able to catch a glimpse of her as she bursts through the door.

  My attacker stands before me, his face covered in a black woolen ski mask and eyes blazing through narrow twin slits. Blood drips from his mouth, where I must have either landed a lucky blow or made him bite his tongue when I crushed his manhood. He is off balance and in noticeable pain; his body is bent as one hand cradles an area to the left of his stomach where a kidney would be.

  My attention moves to the knife just as he jabs it directly at my face.

  Time seems to slow as the knife cuts through the air and my hands move into a position I haven’t used since the reclaim-the-night women’s defense training I underwent for a story the previous year.

  In training, you were meant to simultaneously push the knife away with one hand while the other came up behind for a scissor move that could break your attacker’s wrist.

  I was very good in training, but reality is a different test.

  I move too quickly, my hand arriving in front of the knife and missing the block completely. Before I realize what I have done, the knife pierces my exposed palm, slicing through flesh, muscle, and bone to exit the other side.

  I scream as my right hand abandons its scissor move and instead slashes out, karate-chop style, to seek my attacker’s throat.

  Surprised eyes bulge as the dull edge of my hand slams into his Adam’s apple. As he gags, he releases the knife, the blade still sticking through my left hand. He reaches for his throat, legs buckling, and then his full off-balanced weight slams against me.

  I tumble back, head smacking the windowsill, legs and arms forcing him up and away … shattering glass is followed by a scream … and he is gone.

  _____

  Through tears of pain and shock, I see Sam’s pale face, her hands outstretched.

  “I pushed him,” she says in a distant voice. “I … he went … oh, God.”

  I glance over my shoulder at the broken window, realizing my attacker continued to hurtle forward after I hit the wall.

  I turn back to Sam and hold up my bloody hand with the knife sticking through it.

  “Ouch,” I say dryly, attempting to sound brave and witty.

  Sam’s eyes are drawn to the knife and, after a moment, my comment breaks through her shock.

  She bursts into laughter, but then covers her mouth, embarrassed by her reaction.

  I attempt a grin and don’t quite make it as the pain twists my lips in a different direction, but hopefully this conveys the message that Sam has done the right thing.

  “You saved my life,” I say. “This son of a bitch meant business.”

  Sam nods and wipes at her eyes and runny nose.

  “I … I’ll get …”

  “Check on Kristy,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

  Sam pulls her eyes away from my bleeding hand and rushes to Kristy’s side. Goldilocks hasn’t budged.

  With Sam occupied, I cradle my wounded hand against my chest, clench my teeth against the throbbing pain, and carefully rise to my feet.

  Upright, I have to lean my shoulder against the wall, feeling weak. My head spins once again.

  I take several deep breaths, drawing cold air into my lungs from the broken window. On the narrow, crushed-gravel lane below, a dark form lies on the roof of a coffee brown, or possibly maroon, ’70s Chevy.

  Without warning, I lose an internal war and my stomach empties. Sour contents splash unceremoniously on the unmoving body below.

  Shivering from shock and feeling near death, I grab the phone from beside the computer with my good hand and punch in Frank’s number.

  He answers on the first ring.

  Twenty-five

  Tendrils of yellow mix with smoky gray to dance upon fleshy screens. I blink the ghosts away, head pounding with each flutter. My left hand throbs, my body aches, and my skull is a bruised hon
eydew of tender spots.

  I’m not on the floor anymore. Instead, my neck and back are cushioned with pillows. I feel the fabric with my hand. I am on the couch. The couch where Goldilocks slept through the angry bear attack.

  I open my eyes. A wilted cabbage, thick leaves flapping like loose skin, looks down at me. I wonder if I have fallen down the rabbit hole again.

  “Drink this,” says the cabbage, holding out a small glass of clear liquid.

  “Is that to make me grow or shrink?” I mumble. “I forget what comes first.”

  The cabbage looks away, its green leaves flapping at something beyond my line of sight.

  When its face returns, it begins to look familiar.

  “Wake up, kid,” says the cabbage. “You’re gonna be OK.”

  I blink again, trying to focus. The cabbage slowly fades and Frank’s concerned face blossoms into view. He looks like hell: baggy eyes, tousled hair, out-of-control eyebrows, and a dusting of gray stubble darkening his chin as though he sneezed in an ashtray.

  “Did I wake you?” My voice is hoarse.

  Frank laughs. It sounds wonderful and despite my pain, I try to join in. My own laugh is weak and broken, but still, it’s good to be alive.

  “Can’t leave you alone for a second,” he says. “What the hell happened?”

  “Ask the idiot who dove out the window.”

  “The window?”

  “Yeah. Dumb move. No fire escape on that side.”

  Frank’s brow knits in a frown.

  “You sure he went out the window?”

  “You didn’t see the body? He landed on top of a car in the alley. An old Chevy, I think. Made a real mess of the roof.”

  Frank moves to the broken window and peers out. I follow him with my eyes. Everything else hurts too much.

  “Nobody down there, Dix,” he says. “No dented car, either.”

  “You sure?”

  Frank’s mouth twitches. “I’ve had some practice spotting these things.”

  “I thought he was dead. Bastard stabbed me in the—”

  I hold up my left hand. The knife is gone and my hand is wrapped in a thick white bandage. I can’t move my fingers.

  “That’s just a patch job,” says a woman’s voice from the kitchenette.

  I turn my head to see a broad-shouldered woman in her early fifties with a tanned, oval face that, although we all need a little help, doesn’t require much makeup to be pretty. She is wearing a loose-fitting jogging outfit in a cheerful shade of purple. It’s the kind of thing you throw on when you need to dash to the corner shop for a chocolate bar before your favorite TV show starts. A matching lavender scrunchie keeps shoulder-length hazelnut hair pulled back from her face. With her hair down, she probably looks younger.

  Sitting beside her on the kitchen counter is a small leather doctor’s bag. It’s monogrammed in silver.

  “Dix, meet Ruth,” Frank says. “Ruth was kind enough to come over when I called. You had a knife sticking through your hand.”

  “Yeah,” I say dryly. “I noticed that.”

  Ruth steps forward so I don’t have to crane my neck so far, and I suddenly recall where I know her name from.

  “You’re the coroner!” I say.

  Ruth smiles and nods.

  “Frank’s mentioned you,” I add.

  Ruth’s smile grows brighter. “I cleaned and stitched the wound. You’re fortunate. The knife was sharp and the blade went through the flesh without obstruction.”

  “And that’s good?”

  Ruth’s chuckle is low and husky, like I imagine Marlene Dietrich’s would be after a night smoking cheap German cigarettes and drinking twelve-year-old cognac.

  “It means I can’t see any reason for permanent damage. The knife appears to have sliced nicely between the metacarpus bones, which in itself is a minor miracle. The damaged muscle is very good at self-repair, given time. It’s more difficult, however, to see tendons and nerves without really getting in there. I fabricated a splint to prevent you moving your fingers until you can get to the hospital and see a specialist. All in all, I would say you’re a very lucky woman.”

  “Yeah, I feel it.” My eyes drift to her medical bag again. “You don’t happen to have anything in there for pain, do you?”

  “Oh, I never thought of that,” she says. “My regular clients never ask.”

  I stare at her open-mouthed. “That’s because they’re dead!”

  Both Ruth and Frank burst out laughing.

  “Oh, you guys are hilarious,” I say. “What do you do for an encore? Sonny and Cher songs?”

  “Nope,” Ruth replies with a wink. “We’re into line dancing.”

  My lips curl into a less than congenial sneer but soften again when Ruth brings over a small container of Percocet.

  “Go easy on these,” she says as I pop two. “They can be addictive.”

  I swallow, not caring if they’re laced with heroin, just so long as they take the edge off the pain.

  I close my eyes for a few moments to allow the drugs time to dissolve into my bloodstream. When I open them again, I ask, “How’s Kristy?”

  “She’s fine,” says Frank. “I carried her next door to her bed. Sam’s with her.”

  “Was she injured?” I ask.

  “No,” Ruth joins in. “Her pulse is fine, but she’s in a deep sleep. Possibly drug-induced. I couldn’t wake her.”

  “It was some kind of gas,” I say. “There’s a small tank attached to a hose outside the window.”

  Frank returns to the broken window and looks outside again. “I don’t see it.”

  “Shit!” I try to sit up. And fail. “Is Diego’s painting still around? I dropped it in the lobby.”

  “I’ll check later.”

  “Who in hell was I fighting, Frank?” I ask angrily. “Spider-Man? It’s a two-story drop out that window. There was no way he was getting up and walking away. I saw him lying on that car after the fall. Hell, I puked on him, and he didn’t budge.”

  “We’ll find out, kid.” Frank returns to the couch and sits on its edge. He takes my uninjured hand in his. “But for now, get some rest.”

  I want to argue with him, but the Percocet is kicking in and my eyelids are heavy. I decide to let them rest, just for a little while.

  _____

  When I open my eyes again, it’s morning.

  A proud, red-breasted robin sits on the ledge of my broken window and chirps its delight at the absence of rain and an unexpectedly clear, fog-free sky. I would have chirped, too, but the Percocet has worn off and I am feeling too damn grumpy.

  I grope around for the prescription bottle, pop the cap one-handed, and swallow two pills dry.

  When I get to my feet, the robin takes flight. I can’t blame it; I must look a fright.

  Carefully, I stretch my muscles. Knots the size of Frank’s fists lodge in my shoulders, legs, and back. I bend from the waist, touch my toes, and all the blood in my body rushes to my brain in a dizzying flood.

  I must have blacked out. When I open my eyes again, I am back on the couch. But at least I’m sitting up. I stand again, wait a few breaths, and then head toward my bedroom. I unbutton my jeans as I go, desperate for a shower and fresh clothes.

  I have just pulled my T-shirt over my head when—

  “Hope you don’t mind, Dix, but there was nowhere else to sleep.”

  I don’t scream. I think about it, but my brain doesn’t seem capable of even the basest instincts.

  “Jeez, Frank!” I clutch my heart and awkwardly pull my t-shirt back down. “You trying to finish the bastard’s job from last night?”

  Frank’s mouth twitches. “You know, maybe it’s the light, but you don’t look a thing like Whitney Houston.”
>
  “Hmmm, and you’re Kevin Costner, I suppose?”

  “Practically twins.”

  Frank throws his legs over the side of my bed and stretches his arms. He is still fully dressed in his wrinkled suit and tired trench coat. His thin, unkempt hair looks the same post-sleep as it does pre.

  “You could have taken your coat off you know? I do wash the sheets.”

  Frank stands up. “That would be like asking Batman to remove his cape.”

  I grin. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind slinging your bat-hook somewhere else, I desperately need a shower.”

  “No problem, you got anything to eat? I’m starved.”

  I glance over at Bubbles, the oldest goldfish in the world, swimming happily in her bowl.

  “Anything that doesn’t move, you can eat,” I offer. Bubbles looks relieved.

  Frank plods out of the room.

  Grabbing a fresh towel, I head to the bathroom, strip, and step into the tub to shower. Before I can turn on the water, there’s a knock on the door.

  “What?” I call out.

  “Got a present for you,” Frank calls back.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “Nope.”

  I step out of the tub, wrap a towel around myself and open the door a crack.

  Frank holds out an empty plastic grocery bag and a thick elastic band.

  “Nice. Make it yourself?”

  “It’s for your hand,” he says. “You don’t want the bandage getting wet before you see the specialist.”

  I grab the bag and elastic with my good hand.

  “I’ll cherish it,” I say and close the door.

  _____

  After dressing in clean clothes and popping two more Percocet, I feel almost human until I look in the mirror. I don’t need concealer; I need to book myself into the local autobody shop for major reconstruction. After doing my best with what I have on hand, the final ingredient necessary for complete transformation is coffee.

  I exit the bedroom to the sound of Frank’s laughter as he talks on the phone.

  I flash him a goofy face and enter the kitchenette to the blessed aroma of fresh-perked No Sweat Peruvian. Expecting the worst—based on my experience with men who could only make coffee if you left instructions in the form of a Bil Keane Family Circus comic strip—I pour myself a small splash in a mug and taste.