Cited to Death

by Meg Perry

  I rolled to my side and sat up. Blood was streaming down my face, my jaw felt out of place, and my eyes were rapidly swelling. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called 911.

  It didn't take long for the UCLA police and EMTs to get to me. As soon as I told the cop what had happened, he took off in the direction I thought my assailants had run. The EMTs picked me up off the ground and set me on the back of the ambulance. They made me answer some questions - name, rank, and serial number, who was the president, what day was it, that kind of thing. Then they started mopping up the blood. I had a fat lip, cuts on both cheekbones and above my left eye, a bloody nose, and a pair of rapidly developing black eyes. They thought I should get an X-ray of my jaw, but I didn’t want to go to the hospital. The EMTs put a couple of butterfly bandages on my face and gave me two ice packs. I needed three, but I only had two hands. By the time they'd accomplished all that, the cop was back.

  "Are you an employee of the university, sir?”

  I nodded. “Lib’ry.” Oh, it hurt to talk.

  “Okay. What happened here?"

  I steeled myself to try to form words. "Mugged." It came out more like "mm-ugggd."

  "Mugged? By who?"

  I shrugged and held up two fingers.

  "Two? Men?"

  "Mmm hmm."

  "Did you get a look at them?"

  "Unh unh. Ski masks." It came out "ssski musk."

  "Ski masks. What else were they wearing?"

  "Black. Gloves." Gluffs.

  "Could you see any identifying characteristics? Race, height, weight?"

  "Bod’ whi’. Saw arms." I indicated the space right above my wrists.

  "Okay. What size guys were they?"

  "Big. One daller, one shorder but...beefy." Bff-i.

  "Which direction did they go?"

  I pointed to the east. “Off campus."

  The cop grimaced and got on his radio. One of the EMTs got in front of me and ran me through some neurological tests - follow his finger with my eyes, touch his finger then my nose, reflexes. The other was trying to mop up some of the blood. “Sir, when was your last tetanus shot?”

  I shrugged. He started preparing one.

  The cop returned. "Did they take anything?"

  "Unh unh."

  "They just beat you up."

  "Mmm hmm."

  The cop paused, regarding me for a second. "Any idea who's got it in for you?"

  "Unh unh." That wasn't entirely correct, but I wasn't going to go through the whole story again. It would be easier to tell Kevin’s partner Tim about it.

  Tim and Kevin were the next to arrive. Tim and the university cop talked off to the side for a few minutes; Kevin sat down beside me on the ambulance bumper. The EMT gave me the tetanus shot and two new ice packs; Kevin took one and held it on my jaw, gently. His voice was soft. "You gonna live?"

  "Mmm hmm." I looked over at him. ""M okay."

  Kevin's eyes got damp. "You don't look okay, I gotta tell ya."

  "D'anks so mush."

  He laughed, sniffed and wiped his nose. "Dad's gonna kill me."

  "F'r whu’?"

  "Not keeping an eye on you. Letting this happen." He bit his lip. "I'm the big brother. I'm supposed to watch out for you."

  I tried to make a face at him; I'm sure it looked suitably disgusted. And disgusting. "Not y'r day to wa’zh me."

  He shook his head and put his arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him, grateful to be able to lean on something. "Gonna fi’d back."

  "How's that?"

  "This's psychological war. Godda get me a psychologis’."

  Kevin's gaze shot over to me. "Oh yeah? You got one in mind?"

  "Mmm hmm."

  Kevin grinned. "I like that."

  Tim finished up with the uni cop and came over. His expression was grim. "Are you okay?"

  "Mmm hmm. More 'r less."

  Tim looked from me to Kevin and back, shaking his head. "Okay. Here's what I got from Officer Taylor. Two guys jumped you, wearing black and ski masks, beat you up and ran off without taking anything. Both white, one taller than you and one shorter, the shorter one a beefy guy. That sound right?"

  "'Zackly."

  "Okay, good. Did you notice them before they jumped you?"

  "Unh unh. Not payin’ ‘denshun."

  "And you're sure they didn't take anything."

  "Unh unh. Dropped my bag, id's ri’d there."

  Tim picked up my bag and brought it over. "Huh, your laptop's still here. Still got your phone? Your wallet?"

  "In my dacked."

  Tim checked to make sure. "Okay. So you think this must be related to all the other stuff that's been happening?"

  "Mus' be, righ’?"

  "Yeah, that would be my thought." Tim closed his notebook and slapped it against his thigh, thinking. "I think our best bet is to find out who's been sabotaging your computer. That may lead us to everyone else. I'm going to have a talk with the computer crimes detective tomorrow."

  "Inside job."

  "Yeah, most likely. Who's been in your office?"

  "Just ID guy. Andy Mi’shell. Bud dey can condrol nedwork remodely. Could be anybody."

  "Right. But I’ll take a look at this Andy first."

  I sighed. All of a sudden I was exhausted. "Sounds good."

  "Okay." Tim turned to the EMTs. "You guys all done?"

  "Yep. If he’s not going to let us transport him." The EMT who'd bandaged my face handed me a sheet of paper. "I need you to sign this, that we recommended transport and you refused.” I signed. He handed me another sheet of paper. “Here are instructions. Be sure to read them. If you have any change in consciousness, any blurred vision..."

  "Yeah, yeah, I'll come in." I stood up, with Kevin still propping me, and looked at Tim. "You guys dakin’ me home?"

  "Yeah. We'll drive you down to Pete's on the way to the station. Did you call him?"

  "Unh unh."

  "Well." Kevin raised his eyebrows. "He's in for an unpleasant surprise."

  We pulled up at the townhouse about 15 minutes later. I could barely see out of my left eye. Kevin dug through my bag and handed me my keys, and I opened the door. Pete wasn't in bed, as I had hoped; he was up, on the sofa, surrounded by books and papers. When he saw us he stood up, then his jaw dropped when he saw my face.

  "Oh my God! Oh my God. What the hell happened to you?"

  My jaw was really throbbing. It was actually getting harder to talk, not easier. "God 'ugged."

  Kevin jumped in. "He was assaulted walking to the bus stop from the library. Two guys, one held him and the other one hit him. They didn't steal anything. You got an ice pack?"

  Pete stared at me for a second then went into action. "Yeah, yeah. Two of them, I'd say." He ran up the stairs to the fridge and came right back with two bags of frozen peas and two dish towels. I sank down onto the love seat. My head hurt, and it was getting harder to move, period. By tomorrow morning, I'd be a wreck.

  Pete moved pillows around so I could lean back, then wrapped the peas in the towels and gently applied them to both sides of my face. I winced. "Sorry, hon. Sorry."

  Some distant corner of my brain registered the word “hon,” but I couldn't do anything with it right then.

  Pete turned back to Kevin. "They didn't catch them?"

  "No. They got off campus too fast. And they were wearing black and ski masks, so Jamie couldn't get a good description. Patrol is looking for them, but they haven't found anything yet."

  Pete shook his head. "Un-fucking-believable. What is this? Sending a message? Like burning up your apartment wasn't enough? Who’s doing this? And why?"

  "It's got to be related to this dying request thing he's trying to solve. The timing is right. He's got to be getting close to something, but what? Even he doesn't know."

  Kevin and Pete continued to dissect it out. My head was killing me. I needed Kevin to leave, or at least to be quiet. I tried to get their attention, and finally threw a pillow at Pete. It
missed, but it landed between them, so they both turned to look at me.

  I pointed at Kevin. "Oud." I pointed at Pete. "Drugs."

  Kevin rolled his eyes, but agreed. "Okay, okay. I'll call you tomorrow. You're staying home, right?"

  I gave him a thumbs up.

  "All right." He turned to Pete. "Call me if you need me."

  "Right." Pete watched Kevin get in his car, then locked the door and turned back to me. "One pain pill, coming up."

  Since I hadn't gone to the ER, I didn't have a prescription for anything. Fortunately, Pete had some leftover oxycodone from when he'd had his wisdom teeth out several months ago. He brought me one and a glass of water with a straw, and I managed to get it down. Pete took a critical look at me, surveying the damage more dispassionately. "How'd you manage not to get blood on your jacket?"

  "Dunno."

  "Well, that was good. I'll try to get the blood out of your shirt, but it may be history."

  "'S okay."

  "Can you sit up? I'll get this off of you."

  I sat up and scooted forward a bit, and Pete gently unbuttoned my shirt and pushed it back off my shoulders. He tossed it to the floor, turned back to me and gasped.

  "Whuh?"

  He was looking at my arms. "You've got bruises coming up where the guy gripped your arms to hold you."

  I looked down, but I couldn't see anything. My face was getting so swollen it was hard to see at all. I pointed at my shirt, which Pete had tossed on the floor. "My only dress shird."

  "Well, you won't be going anywhere for a couple of days. And you can go back to work in polo shirts. No one will care."

  My face and head were starting to hurt. "Need more ice."

  "Right." Pete put the bags of peas back in the freezer and came back with two bags of corn. I laid back on the sofa so that I didn't have to hold the ice. Pete arranged the bags over the dish towels. "How's that?"

  "Mmm hmm."

  "Okay. I'm going to put your shirt to soak." He went off for a few minutes. The oxycodone was starting to kick in a little. My head was throbbing a bit less than it had been. The ice was numbing my face. I probably could have fallen asleep right there, but Pete came back and patted me on the leg. "You've still got a lot of blood on you, down your neck and under your collar area, some down onto your chest. And in your hair. We need to get you cleaned up."

  "'Kay."

  "That ice has been on for ten minutes. Ten more minutes, and we'll get you into the shower. That'll be the easiest way to approach it."

  "'Kay."

  He went off to do something else. I just laid there. My head was too fuzzy to think about anything. After a while, I couldn't tell how long, Pete came back.

  "Okay. The corn is melted. Do you think you can sit up?"

  I took the bags of corn from my face and handed them to him. He took them back to the freezer, and I tried to sit up. I didn't get very far. Pete came back and slid his arm around my ribs, helping to lift me to a seated position. I grunted. My ribs and abs were getting sorer.

  "Okay?" Pete rubbed my back a little.

  "Mmm hmm." I didn't want to do or say anything that would slow my progress in getting into bed.

  "Okay. Let's get your t-shirt off. I think we might as well scrap this, right? You've got more of these."

  "I's bluddy?"

  "Oh yeah. It's bloody." He started lifting it from the bottom and eased my arms out of it, then lifted it over my head and showed it to me. The white t-shirt was now striped brownish-red at the top and halfway down the chest. "Ugh. Doss id."

  Pete tossed it across the room, then knelt down and took off my shoes. "Okay. Can you stand up?"

  "Mmm hmm. You help."

  "Oh yeah." Pete stood up, gripped my arms just above my elbows, and lifted as I stood. I got to my feet and swayed. The oxycodone was starting to do its thing.

  "Okay, good. Just stand here for a second." Pete looked at my chest and abdomen. "Oh, honey. You're bruised all over. He punched you in the ribs and belly?"

  "Mmm hmm."

  Pete growled. "Son of a bitch." He wrapped his arms around me and held me for a minute, standing there. "We'll get them, babe. We'll get them."

  "Mmm hmm."

  He stepped back from me, still holding my shoulders. "Think you can walk upstairs?"

  "Mmm hmm. Godda."

  He smiled. "Okay, tough guy. Let's go, then." He slid his left arm around my waist and we started walking slowly. I managed to get to the stairs, but by the time I got there I was groaning out loud.

  "I know, honey. Let's get you undressed, and we can get in the shower."

  Pete gripped my belt on either side of my hips and half-pushed, half-dragged me up the stairs. We got to the master bedroom, and he propped me against the wall for a minute to get positioned, then maneuvered me in and set me down on the toilet lid. "See how far you can make it towards getting your pants off." Then he proceeded to strip down in front of me.

  I'd have to be dead three days to not appreciate the sight of Pete taking his clothes off. Unfortunately, at the moment, I couldn't do much to express my appreciation. I tried, though. "Mmmm hmmmm."

  He looked at me and laughed. "You're insatiable, you know that?"

  I made a sound of some sort. He laughed again and reached out. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

  I stood up and leaned on him while he got my pants down and I kicked them away. Then he helped me into the shower and turned it on. The water felt great, as long as it didn't get near my face. Pete washed the rest of the blood from my neck, shoulders and chest, then did a quick wash of the rest of me and of himself. He sat me down to work the shampoo through my hair. It really stung when we rinsed it out, hitting the cuts on my face. I was dizzy and still in pain, although my jaw and head had settled down to a dull throb. In spite of that, my close proximity to Pete resulted in a physical response. Not as vigorous as it would have been under normal circumstances, for sure, but a definite sign that I wasn't quite dead yet.

  But I wasn't able to do anything about it, and by the time we were out of the shower and dried off, I was too buzzed on the oxycodone to maintain my interest, so to speak.

  Pete got me situated in bed, then helped me into a pair of my new pajama pants. It was easier lying down. Then he slid in beside me. "How ya doin'?"

  "Mmm hmm." I tried to smile at him. "Da'ks."

  "You're welcome." He kissed me on the forehead. "Think you can sleep?"

  "Ma'be. Gon' dry."

  "Okay. Me too." He turned out the light. "Wake me up if you need anything."

  "Mmm hmm."

  Pete stretched out beside me, touching just enough to provide warmth. His breathing evened out and slowed down into his sleep pattern pretty quickly. I wasn't sure if I could fall asleep or not, in spite of the drug effects. But I was still wondering about it when I did slide into dreamland.

  I was dreaming that I was watching Pete get a tattoo when something woke me up. Pete's arm was draped over my chest but he was awake too. A very slight tinkling sound followed. It sounded an awful lot like broken glass being brushed away.

  Pete breathed "shhhh" into my ear. Then another broken glass sound. Pete whispered, "Shotgun under bed. Loaded. Not chambered. Safety on." Then he rolled away, to a standing position, and silently slid his bedside table drawer open. He lifted out his old service weapon and laid it on the top of the table. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants, picked the gun back up, and eased the bedroom door open. I rolled stiffly to the side of the bed. Every movement was hurting, but my adrenalin was flowing so fast that the pain didn’t fully reach my conscious thoughts. I crouched to the floor, holding on to the bed. The shotgun was within reach, and I lifted it - then stood. I couldn't hear anything from downstairs. Pete was still standing with the bedroom door cracked. He waved me over. "Stay behind me. Silent. Stay out of the light." I nodded. He opened the bedroom door all the way and stepped out into the hallway.

  Pete crept down the stairs and stopped at the next to last ste
p before the landing. I followed him, staying about two steps behind. He quickly looked around the wall. Now I could hear movement. It sounded like only one person, but I wasn't sure. The switch to turn on the living room ceiling light was on the opposite side of the wall from us. Pete leaned back to me and breathed into my ear again. "When I say, rack the gun. Then I'll turn on the light." I nodded. He edged around the wall and motioned me over to the kitchen counter, where I could look down into the living room. Now I could see a little by the street light that was filtering into the living room through the hole in the living room window. There was only one guy. He was going through the papers on the ottoman, holding a small flashlight in his teeth as he examined each one. I smiled grimly to myself. If he was looking for the Welsh article, he was out of luck. I’d never printed it out.