by Lisa Jackson
“I can’t stop that.”
“How the hell were the guns switched? How the hell was there live ammo in a prop gun?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you should! It’s your goddamned job!”
This was getting them nowhere and was a huge waste of time. “So I’ve heard. Look, Sig, what’s done is done. I can’t explain it and I can’t do anything about Lucinda Rinaldi or her lawyer. But I can try to keep my cool and I suggest you do the same.”
“But I’m innocent!” he cried and from somewhere in the back, possibly the kitchen, came a deep-throated “woof” that made Ineesha jump. Whatever was hiding back there was definitely not a Chihuahua.
“For Christ’s sake, aren’t you even worried? I mean, I almost killed a woman. Shit, shit, shit!” Over the smell of paint, Ineesha caught a whiff of alcohol.
She should never have come here.
She should have followed her attorney’s advice and kept mum about everything.
She didn’t want the cops digging around in her life as she did have a couple of old drug charges that had been dogging her for years. For the love of God, when would people quit reminding her of a couple of mistakes fifteen fucking years ago!
Her blood pressure started to elevate and she decided she’d stop by the gym on the way home. If intense exercise didn’t calm her down, then there was yoga and meditation, if, at this time of night she could get her instructor . . . Georges the Gorgeous as she silently called him . . . to help her equilibrium.
First things first though. She had to escape this death trap of paint fumes, hidden Cujos, and a big man who looked about to snap. God knows what he could do. She took a step backward and ran into a metal ladder. Jesus, this was nowhere to be.
“Look, try and calm down, Sig. This will all sort itself out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but it will.”
“How do you know?”
“Okay. You got me. I don’t.”
“Right.” He looked around for an ashtray, found an empty roller pan and frantically jabbed out his filter-tip.
“What else can we do? You’ve got a lawyer.”
“Yeah, and he’s costing me an arm and a leg. They’re all bloodsuckers!”
“Or lifesavers.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong. I got the gun that you locked in the prop closet. It was ready to go and . . . And I fired it on the set . . . and . . . Oh, Jesus, do you know how many nightmares I’ve had about Lucinda going down? She could have been killed. I could have killed her. Allie Kramer’s damned lucky she wasn’t on the set that day.” He buried his face in his hand and the dogs, now it sounded like a third, had started baying from behind the plastic, began to howl.
“Yeah, Allie was lucky,” she said and despite her show of bravado felt a deep-seated fear. She, like Sig, was under investigation. It was all so crazy. She picked her way past the paint can with a drizzle running down its side of some gawd-awful mustard color, to the front door. “Look,” she said before stepping outside, “take my advice and listen to your lawyer. Make sure he’s the best one you can find.” And then she left Sig with his Marlboros, hideous paint, and miserable dogs. She found her way to her car and slid inside.
She’d done her duty.
Now, Sig was on his own.
Scraape!
Like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, the screeching sound echoed through Cassie’s brain. What was it? Where was it coming from? Fear crawling up her spine, she sat up in bed and peered into the half-light. Was it her imagination? She strained to listen. Something had caused her to waken so sharply and she had the uneasy sensation she wasn’t alone.
Her door was cracked, a sliver of bluish incandescence filtering in and offering a weird illumination.
Still, she saw nothing.
Scraape!
She jumped. Bit back a scream.
What in God’s name was that?
The screeching sound was so close. But from where?
Heart in her throat, she tossed back the covers.
Her bare feet landed on the cool tiles of the floor. In only her hospital gown, she crossed the room and pushed the door open a little farther.
Beyond, the corridor was empty, the eerie light seeming to move, like the play of shadowy light on water, the hallway long and austere. Her pulse was deep and hard. Fear collected in her gut.
Where was everyone?
This was a hospital, wasn’t it? There should be nurses and aides, doctors and patients, even if it was late at night. The corridor seemed to stretch for miles, but she walked silently toward what appeared to be the source of the light, a brighter end of the hallway far, far away. Identical doors lined the hallway.
She tried the first.
Locked.
Frantic, she pushed on the one on the opposite side of the hallway.
It didn’t budge.
Nor did the next or the next or next.
Were there footsteps behind her?
She broke into a jog and threw a glance over her shoulder, but saw no one, just the never-ending hallway that seemed to disappear into nothing. Fear rising, she ran on, checking each doorway, knowing before she pressed on the levers, that the locks were in place.
As she ran, she felt, rather than saw, someone . . . no something . . . moving stealthily behind her, giving invisible chase.
Fear iced her blood.
She ran faster.
The air became colder until her breath was fogging with her uneven breaths, her skin prickling.
Was that a footfall?
Why couldn’t she see anyone?
Dear God, help me!
She wanted to cry out, to call for help, but she didn’t. Not when she sensed an evil presence a heartbeat away, a demon breathing his icy breath against the back of her neck.
Don’t go all paranoid. This is weird, yes, but there is nothing, not a thing following you. To prove it to herself, she glanced over her shoulder again and the corridor was as empty as before, stretching out endlessly behind her.
What kind of weird place is this?
Mercy Hospital with its bland walls and polished floors? No—that didn’t seem right, and yet the corridor had the feel, the scent of a long hospital wing in an abandoned building.
Scraape!
She broke into a sprint, the locked doors flying past, fear driving her onward.
Finally the end of the hallway loomed, a white brick wall with double doors, frosted windows reinforced with wire mesh cut into the smooth metal.
She flung herself against the wide lever and stopped short.
Over the ragged sound of her breathing she heard footsteps. With a glance over her shoulder she saw no one.
All in your mind, Cassie, just like this weird place. Paranoia settling in.
“Shut up!”
She bit her lip and threw all of her weight against the lever again. It didn’t move.
Scraape!
The sound came from the other side of the doors. Cassie’s throat turned to sand. She should leave, run back the way she’d come, seek solace in that weird room where she woke up.
She took one step backward and spied a fat button on the wall near the doors.
The release!
Before she could hit the button, the doors clanged loudly and opened inward. Quickly she stepped into a wide, windowless room with white walls and tile flooring. A mist seeped from a nearby stairwell where an exit sign pulsed red. Within the center of the room were rows of wheeled stretchers, twenty-one beds, all of which were draped and hiding what appeared to be bodies.
Is this some kind of bizarre morgue?
Heart thudding wildly, Cassie started to back up, but the swinging doors banged shut. No! She pushed on the lever, but the doors were locked tight, and though she looked desperately on the wall for a release button, there was none.
Like it or not, she was locked in.
Dear Jesus . . .
Why, oh, why had she come her
e?
But it was more than just idle curiosity that had lured her down that long hallway. She’d felt as if she were being lured to this chilled room.
Rotating slowly, anxiety tightening her muscles, she eyed the unmoving beds. Were they all occupied by the dead? Or were some alive? Were they even human? She didn’t want to find out, didn’t want to know. On quiet feet she quickly edged to the stairwell. All the while she was tense, feeling as if she were running out of time, that if she didn’t get out now, she might lose her opportunity.
She reached the stairwell and found another locked door with no release.
“Damn it,” she whispered through clenched teeth, and tried again, slamming her weight against the levers. Cold metal rattled loudly but didn’t give.
“Son of a—”
Scraape!
The horrid sound was right behind her.
She whirled.
There in the far corner the nurse in her white cap and uniform, her blue cape stark against the white walls, materialized as if from vapor. “She’s alive,” the nurse whispered in a low, raspy voice.
“Your sister is alive.”
Cassie backed up. Oh. Dear. God.
From the nurse’s earlobes, the red cross earrings glittered before turning into tiny red globules. The red drops splashed from her lobes to the shoulders of her uniform, running down her white dress, staining it red.
Shivering, Cassie swallowed hard and kept inching backward.
Scraape!
Wheels loose, one of the gurneys began rolling, hard metal casters scratching loudly against the tile. As it wheeled by, the draped body’s head and shoulders raised, the sheet sliding to the floor.
Allie’s bloodless face stared straight at her. “Cassie,” she hissed through blue lips that barely moved.
No!
“Help me . . .”
A scream echoed through the morgue.
Cassie blinked awake.
Her heart was trip-hammering. The scream she’d heard had come from her own lips. Sweating, nearly hyperventilating, she was lying on her own bed in her apartment in LA. Dear God, it was five-thirty in the morning, not quite dawn. The shadowed room slowly sharpened into view and she told herself to calm down. It was just a bad dream, a nightmare, nothing more.
But the vision had been so real and surreal.
She let out her breath slowly, her hands fisting in the sheets as she forced herself to think rationally, to not freak out, to take control and—
Scraape!
She shrieked, spinning on the bed as the sound seemed to reverberate through the walls. “What the hell?” Leaping from the mattress, she stared at the window positioned over her headboard and heard the sound again, but this time she saw the tree branch moving to scratch the glass.
Her shoulders slumped in relief.
That was all.
Nothing sinister.
Nothing evil.
Just a damned branch moving in the wind.
And the reason she was so cold? The air conditioner was working overtime, blowing cold air through the room. That was one of the problems with this place, the temperature. Always either hot or cold.
“You’re a freak show,” she muttered as she walked into the hallway and flipped the switch to turn off the cool air. Now fully awake, she made her way to the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and reached inside for a bottle of water.
Thud!
The noise came from her living room.
She dropped the bottle. “Who’s there?” she called out immediately, then closed the refrigerator door, the kitchen once again cloaked in darkness.
No response.
But she felt a presence.
“Who’s there?”
Nothing.
Her throat was dry and hot.
Stealthily she let her fingers crawl across the counter top until she found the block holding her knives. Her heart was in her throat as she withdrew a long blade and then noiselessly moved from the kitchen to the archway leading to the living area.
The apartment was still.
Without the air from the air conditioner, all Cassie could hear was the crazy knocking of her heart accompanied by her own shallow breathing. But someone was inside, she knew it.
Her fingers clamped around the knife’s hilt so tightly that they began to ache. She gazed over the counter, into the darkened living room and thought she spied movement, a darker shadow in the surrounding umbra.
She hardly dared breathe.
Where was her cell phone?
She needed to call 9-1-1.
She flashed on the cell hooked to her charger it on the night stand in her bedroom.
Too far. She’d have to pass by the living area again and now the intruder knew she was onto him.
Panic rose. Who was inside? What did he want? Why was he here?
Think, Cassie, think!
Get out. Get out, now!
If she could just get around the corner of the kitchen, to the front hall where she could hit the switch and race out the door . . . Oh, God, were those eyes staring back at her, reflecting the barest of light filtering in from the living room window? She didn’t wait to find out.
Adrenaline firing her blood, she tore around the refrigerator, her feet landing on the tile of the small entry. Clutching the butcher knife in one hand, she flipped on the lights in the foyer with the other, and opened the door.
The unlocked door. She knew she’d thrown the bolt before heading to bed. Oh, God, oh, God, oh God!
The ceiling fixtures flashed on. Bright light nearly blinded her. Holding the knife in front of her with both hands, she fell back a step onto the porch but saw no one in the apartment. No malicious figure appeared. No killer with murderous intent showed himself. For a second she thought she’d imagined it all, that her nightmare had confused her.
So here she was, standing on her porch, butcher knife in hand feeling like a complete idiot and—
She saw the eyes, peering out of the open closet door. Unblinking. Near the floor. Glaring.
Her heart stopped as she tried to imagine what it was.
An animal?
“SSSSssss,” the black creature hissed, back arching, teeth showing.
The cat?
Quick as a lightning bolt, the black fur ball shot by her.
She almost laughed. How ludicrous that she was standing on her front porch in her night shirt, a huge knife clutched in her hands, when all her fears had been about a stupid cat.
Oh, for the love of St. Peter. Really? An animal of less than twenty pounds had instilled the fear of God in her? Caused her to arm herself? Sent her into panic mode and probably shaved a year off her life?
You are crazy, Cassie!
Sagging against the doorjamb, noticing the sky lightening to the east, she was berating herself for being such a fool when she remembered that she’d locked her apartment. When she’d gone out earlier in the day, and then before she’d turned in for the night. She recalled throwing the dead bolt.
So how had the neighbor’s cat ended up inside?
Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
A new fear slithered through her as she examined the door and found no forced entry. But the cat had gotten in somehow . . .
It probably snuck in behind you when you weren’t looking, then it hid in a dark corner until the sound of the tree branch woke you up and—
Who was she kidding? The cat had not sneaked unnoticed into the apartment and the door had been locked.
She started to pull the door shut when she heard a car’s engine start about a block away from the house.
Coincidence?
Or had someone been watching?
Her throat turned to sand as the car passed on the street in front of the main house, headlights illuminating the drive for a second as it passed.
Had someone been inside her home?
Had the cat followed whoever it was inside?
If so, how did they get in?
Her mind wa
s racing, trying to figure it out, trying to stay rational, when all of her instincts were to panic. Inside the apartment again, she threw the deadbolt then placed a chair under the door knob and checked all the windows. Shut tight and latched. There was no back door, just the one entrance to her unit. So how . . . ?
Who else has a key to your place?
“No one,” she said out loud. “No—” Oh, hell.
Hadn’t she loaned a key to Allie a few months after she’d moved in? Allie had needed a place to crash when her place was being painted and Cassie had thought it was time they mended some seriously broken fences. Allie had never stayed in the apartment, nor had she bothered returning the key.
Allie?
In here?
Skulking around?
No, no, that didn’t make sense. But, if someone had abducted Allie, there was a chance that he had control of whatever possessions she had on her, which would, of course, include her key ring.
And the “borrowed” key.
CHAPTER 12
Insomnia had become Detective Rhonda Nash’s best friend. One she hated. It crawled into bed with her each night and wouldn’t let go. Even though she worked long hours, exercised her butt off whenever she had a minute, tried her best to meditate in what little free time she had, felt exhausted when she tumbled into bed, Ronnie just couldn’t fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning.
Her damned brain wouldn’t shut off. No amount of warm milk, counting sheep, deep breathing, clearing her mind, or swearing and punching her pillow could change her routine or keep insomnia at bay.
Last night had been no different from those of the past three months, she thought, as she found an open slot in the parking structure, then cut the engine of her Ford Focus. Her mind already on the day stretching before her, she grabbed her laptop, locked the car, then hurried down four flights of stairs. Emerging from the open-air building she flipped up the hood of her raincoat. A soft Oregon drizzle was falling from the heavens. As it was not yet seven in the morning, the sky was still dark, streetlights glowing, the city starting to come alive. Buses rumbled down the one-way streets while bikes sped past, tires hissing on the wet pavement as the riders cut through the few cars, trucks, and vans already moving through the west side of the Willamette River.