Resurrection

by Sara Reinke

  * * *

  Paul raced for the emergency stairwell and rushed down, taking the steps three at a stride. The hospital laundry and building services were all located in the basement. The air was thick and humid with steam from the laundry presses and boilers. Pipes and conduits twisted and wound their way throughout the level, and unused equipment, such as beds, IV stands and wheelchairs were stacked in the corridors for storage.

  He passed the laundry on the way to the basement elevators. To his dismay, he found the doors closed and locked, with a cheery little sign posted in the window, the kind with a clock face and moveable plastic hands. Be back in ten minutes! it promised.

  “Damn it!” Paul said. He’d hoped to send the laundry workers to the hospital’s security office for back-up.

  He hurried to the elevators, but it was too late. He could see the digital numbers counting up again as the elevator car began its ascent toward the upper floors. The only sound he heard was the hissing of steam and the clattering of electrical equipment.

  “Vicki!” Paul cried out, looking all around him. God, where do I begin? he thought helplessly. This place is a goddamn maze! “Jobeth Montgomery! Vicki! Where are you?”

  He began to move slowly, carefully, keeping the nine millimeter leveled before him. He kept his eyes wide, his breath nearly stilled, his finger poised against the trigger. He crept along, ducking around low-hanging ventilation ducts and plumbing, keeping his gaze constantly sweeping around him for any hint of movement.

  “Vicki!” he shouted again, his voice bouncing off the pipes. “Vicki, can you hear me? It’s Paul―I’m coming for you. I’ve got thirty armed officers down here and we’re sweeping the floor!”

  That was a lie, of course. Even if his entire surveillance team backed him up, there wouldn’t be half that number combing the basement. Combing? Hell, he didn’t even know if they were on their way. But the Watcher didn’t know that; hopefully never would.

  The further he delved into the hospital’s basement, the more disoriented he became. He found himself jumping at every shadow; even the most innocuous sounds had him whirling about, eyes flown wide, pistol trained and at the ready.

  At last, he turned a corner, and saw Vicki in front of him. She sat in a folding chair, with her hands bound behind her, her ankles lashed together. She wore only her bra and panties, and a rough gag secured with surgical tape. She stared at Paul, her eyes enormous with terror. She began to wriggle furiously against her bonds, crying out to him in a muffled voice around the gag.

  “Vicki!” he cried, darting for her. He fell to his knees before her, touching her face. “I’m here,” he whispered, his eyes flooding with tears. “I’m here, baby.”

  She mewled around the gag as he leaned over, reaching behind her. More surgical tape had been used to bind her, drawn in thick, overlapping layers against her skin. He struggled to rip it free. “I’m trying,” he told her. Her mewling grew more insistent, shriller, and she began to shrug her shoulders against him insistently, rocking the chair with the effort. “I’m trying, damn it!” he said again. “Just give me a―”

  Something hard plowed into the back of his head, and he realized too late what he’d forgotten. He’d panicked at the sight of his wife, helpless and trussed; his instincts as a police officer abandoned for those of a frantic husband. He’d forgotten the man who had done this to Vicki―the man who’d been watching Paul’s every desperate effort.

  As his consciousness waned, Paul slumped to the floor. He could hear Vicki crying out his name around her gag, her muffled voice thick with tears. He saw the fuzzy image of a man dressed in white leaning over, picking up Paul’s fallen pistol, the gun Paul had taken away from Pierson.

  “Why, thank you kindly, Detective Frances,” the man in white said to him, his voice oddly cheerful. “I appreciate the gift.”

  Paul saw a blur of motion and then the man kicked him in the face, stomping heavily with a thick, rubber-soled shoe. The impact slammed whatever wits Paul had left from him, and he fainted.

  * * *

  “Damn it!” Jay exclaimed, as the line with Paul went dead. The last thing he’d said had been, “You stay where you are, you and Emma both,” and then he’d abruptly hung up before Jay could get another word in edgewise.

  Jay limped into the hospital bedroom, keeping his shoulder pressed against the wall to steady himself. He went to the bedside closet and opened the door, hoping to find clothes inside. He had no idea what happened to the clothes he’d worn when admitted to the hospital. They had been soaked with Marie’s blood, and had probably either been taken as evidence or destroyed. He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief that Jo or Paul had grabbed some sweat pants and a t-shirt for him. They were neatly folded and stowed away on a shelf in the closet.

  “Emma, I want you to take Mr. Cuddles and go in the bathroom,” he said as he clumsily stepped into his pants. “Lock the door behind you and wait for me.” He handed her his cell phone. “I want you to press the nine button and hold it until you hear someone answer from 911. Tell them you are Detective Paul Frances’ niece, and that he’s here at the hospital. He’s in trouble and he needs help. Can you do that?”

  Emma nodded, clutching the phone in one hand and Mr. Cuddles in the other. Her eyes still gleamed with frightened tears. “Where are you going, Daddy?”

  Jay shrugged his hospital gown off and pulled the t-shirt over his head. “Downstairs somewhere. Wherever Paul and Jo went. I’ve got to find them.”

  “But the bad man is down there,” Emma whispered.

  “I know,” Jay said. “I can’t let him hurt Jo or Uncle Paul, lamb.”

  “He wants you to follow them,” Emma said. “He thinks if you go, he’ll get to see it again, what you can do.”

  Jay knelt in front of her, cradling her face between his hands. He didn’t understand how she could know the things she knew. She still insisted his mother told her somehow from beyond the grave.At first, he’d found the idea preposterous. And yet, he found himself at a loss to explain it otherwise ― and more and more desperate to understand. “Emma, how does Grandma talk to you?”

  “In my dreams sometimes,” she replied. “And sometimes, just in my head, I can hear her voice, or she shows me things.”

  “Can she show you where Uncle Paul is?” Jay said. “Can you ask her that, Emma?”

  Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I’m asking my daughter to talk to my dead mother, he thought. If it hadn’t been for what Emma said earlier that morning…

  Grandma said that’s why I could talk to her, because of what happened. Because at the funeral home, after she’d died, you touched ―

  But there’s no way Emma can remember that, he thought. She was just a baby, and there’s no way she could know about what happened with Mom. Paul wouldn’t have told her―I know he wouldn’t. That only leaves Mom…only Mom would have known.

  “Grandma said they’re in the basement,” Emma said, snapping his mind back to the moment. The little girl had been looking thoughtfully over his shoulder, her lips pressed together, her brows crimped slightly, as if she’d been concentrating. “There’s lots of pipes down there, and a laundry room, too. It smells like soap. She showed me inside my head. I saw Uncle Paul there, walking around, looking at a little paper clock. I saw Aunt Vicki, too, sitting in a chair.”

  “Vicki?” Jay asked, blinking.

  Emma nodded. “There was tape on her mouth. And she was only wearing her underpants.”

  “Jesus!” Jay exclaimed, rising to his feet. At least he understood Paul’s frantic urgency on the phone. His head swam as he stood, and he groaned, staggering sideways, smacking into the wall. He damn near lost his balance but managed to remain upright. Terrific, he thought. Some rescue I’m going to be.

  “Daddy…!” Emma whimpered, frightened by his stumbling.

  “I’m alright, lamb,” he said, forcing a smile for her. “I’m just a little dizzy, that’s all. You go on in the bathroom, okay? Remember what I said.
”

  “Press the nine button and hold it,” she repeated, and he nodded. She hugged him, burying her face against his belly. “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too, Emma,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jay stepped off the elevator in the hospital basement and looked around, trying to get his bearings. His hands weren’t thrumming yet, and he took that as a good sign, however feeble. At least no one’s dead yet. There’s still hope, then. There’s got to be!

  He found the laundry room and the paper clock Emma had seen Paul looking at. It said, Be back in ten minutes! but Jay found the doors propped open, and two women inside, shuffling heavy loads of bed linens between industrial-sized washing machines and dryers. He staggered into their view.

  “Have you seen a police officer down here?” Jay called loudly over the din of the churning equipment.

  Both women paused, blinking at him in surprise. “You aren’t supposed to be down here!” one of them snapped. She was a hefty woman, with thick, meaty arms, and she flapped one at Jay as if shooing him.

  “Have you seen a police officer?” Jay shouted again as the room spun. “A tall guy, thinning hair, blue eyes?”

  Both women shook their heads. Again, the larger one waved her arm at Jay. “What are you? Drunk? You aren’t supposed to be down here!” she said. “This floor here’s for employees only! Go on, now! I’ll call for security!”

  Good, Jay thought as he turned, darting down the hallway. Call security―get their asses down here right away!

  He made his way through the basement, ducking in and among abandoned hospital beds, stretchers and other pieces of forgotten equipment. Many of the overhead lights weren’t working, leaving the narrow corridors lined with heavy patches of shadow. He listened for hints of movement or voice, but there were none. He wondered if the laundry workers had called security. Christ, I hope so.

  He saw Vicki first, in her bra and panties, with tape around her mouth, just like Emma had said. Paul lay face-down and sprawled on the floor beside her. Jay felt his heart shudder in sudden, dismayed panic and he limped forward, stepping out of the shadows and into Vicki’s view. She stared at him, her eyes enormous and frightened, as she mewled at him around her gag.

  “That’s far enough,” a man said from his left, his voice quiet and nearly gentle. Jay whirled, startled, and lost his footing. He stumbled and fell, his fragile equilibrium disturbed. He crumpled to his knees, smashing them against the concrete floor, and he grimaced.

  “Hello, Jay Frances,” the man said, and Jay looked up to see him standing before him, the man from his brownstone, the Watcher. This time, there were no shadows to hide him; he stood directly beneath an overhead fluorescent, bathed in its pale glow. He was large, tall and brawny, but the swell of his paunch above the waistband of his white nursing pants hinted that his build wasn’t all muscle. He had sandy brown hair, large eyes and a mustache that followed the contour of his upper lip in an upturn as he smiled at Jay. “My name is Charles Toomis. It’s nice to meet you at last. Jo’s told me so much about you.”

  Charles had Jo, one large hand closed in a fist in her hair, forcing her head back toward his shoulder. Her hands were bound before her with white surgical tape. Like Vicki, she’d been gagged, a wad of cotton bandaging held securely between her jaws with more tape. She stared at Jay, her eyes enormous with terror, pleading with him. She mewled around her gag, twisting her hands vainly, desperately against the tape.

  “Let her go,” Jay said, staggering to his feet. His head swam momentarily, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his brow, struggling to steady himself. It was still too soon after Marie, and he was too weak. He shook his head to clear it and then stepped toward Jo, his brows furrowed, his gaze locking with the Watcher’s. “Let her go, you son of a bitch.”

  “No,” the man, Charles, replied. The distinctive click of a gun safety being thumbed off drew Jay’s attention, and brought his clumsy stride to an immediate halt. Charles had a pistol in his free hand, and he shoved it against Jo’s temple, making her cry out in muffled terror.

  Jay didn’t move. He heard Vicki crying behind him, snuffling around her gag. He could see Jo’s eyes glistening brightly in the fluorescent light with frightened tears; he could hear her moist, choked breaths as she began to weep. “Please,” he said quietly, holding out his hands. “Please don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt any of them. The police are coming. They’re on their way.”

  Charles spared a quick, dubious glance around him and then nodded once. “Well, then, we’d better hurry.”

  He moved so quickly, Jay didn’t have time to react. Charles shoved Jo forward, knocking her forcefully to the floor. She cried out, her voice cut off abruptly as the side of her face smacked against the concrete, stunning her into silence. Charles crouched atop her, planting his knee against the small of her back. He shoved the barrel of the pistol against the side of her head, and she screamed feebly around the gag, hunching her shoulders and cringing.

  “No!” Jay cried. “No, God, no―don’t! Don’t!” He darted forward, but froze again when Charles swung the pistol up and out, directing the barrel at him. “Don’t hurt her,” Jay said. “Please. I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever you want.”

  “What I want is to watch,” Charles told him, and the skin along the nape of Jay’s neck crawled.

  He wants you to follow them, Emma had said. He thinks if you go, he’ll get to see it again, what you can do.

  “You don’t understand,” Jay whispered, holding his hands out in supplication. “What happened before with Jo…it doesn’t happen like that. It’s never happened like that. I can’t bring them all of the way back.”

  “Then why do you do it?” Charles asked. He spoke quietly, calmly, almost as if asking Jay why he preferred one brand of coffee to another, and with the sort of soothing cadence best reserved for a good bedside manner.

  Jay shook his head helplessly. “I can’t stop it,” he said. “It just happens. I can’t control it. Please don’t do this.”

  Charles’ brows lifted sympathetically. “I wish I didn’t have to,” he said. “But I can’t stop, either. I can’t control myself. You and I, we’re like brothers in arms, both of us playing God. I knew that the first time I saw you, the things you can do. It’s like we’re a coin―heads and tails, darkness and light, life and death. Both of us helpless to stop.”

  He pressed the pistol to Jo’s head again, and she squirmed against his weight. “No!” Jay cried. “God, no―stop! You don’t understand! If you kill her, if I touch her―it’s not life. It’s worse than death. Please don’t do this!”

  “It’s what I do!” Charles shouted, the calm, soothing manner vanishing abruptly. His brows furrowed and his face flushed, twisting with bright, sudden fury. “It’s what I do, and it’s what you do, too! I’ve practiced until perfection, but you―you pathetic son of a bitch―you cringe and cower from it.” He sneered, his voice rising in shrill, mocking octaves. “Please don’t do this. Oh, you don’t understand. I can’t bring them all of the way back. It’s worse than death!’”

  He glared at Jay, his eyes blazing with outrage, his brows knotted. “You’d better learn, like I did, Jay Frances,” he seethed. “Because when I’m finished, I’m going to make you choose―this bitch here…” He shoved the gun more firmly against Jo’s head, wrenching a muffled cry from her. “…that bitch over there…” Now he shoved the gun toward Vicki, who cried out in fright. “…or your police-detective brother who couldn’t find his ass with both hands, a flashlight and a week to try.”

  Jay felt his chest tighten in sudden, horrified realization. He was going to kill them all. He meant to shoot all three of them. Oh, God, no! Please, no, I can’t

  “Maybe you can raise them all. Maybe only one, maybe two.” Charles shrugged. “We’ll soon see. But that won’t be the end of it. Practice makes perfect, Jay, and the world is a
big place. I’m going to watch you do it again and again. Because that’s what I do, Jay. Like I said, we’re brothers.”

  He turned the gun on Jo again, and this time, Jay saw his finger flex against the trigger. There was no time; nothing Jay could do. Even if he leapt at the man, even if he’d been at his full and usual strength, he couldn’t prevent it. He wasn’t faster than a bullet; no one was.

  He had a split second to look into Jo’s eyes, her tearful and terrified gaze, and then he heard the booming report of the gunshot. It echoed in the close confines of the basement corridor, bouncing off of overhead pipes and conduits, and Jay cried out in helpless, dismayed anguish, crumpling to his knees, clapping his hands over his face. He waited for the tremors to begin, the trembling that meant Jo was dead.

  When a long moment passed and he felt nothing, Jay lowered his hands from his face, blinking in bewilderment. He smelled the acrid stink of fresh gunpowder in the air; his eyes smarted from its sting. He saw Jo laying blinking at him, her face ashen. She squirmed slightly, her voice escaping around her gag in a garbled tangle of sounds.

  “Jo!” Jay gasped, scrambling to get his feet beneath him. He saw Charles lying sprawled behind her, nearly spread-eagle across the floor. The front of his white uniform shirt had a growing stain of dark scarlet against the breast; his pistol lay against his motionless palm, resting on the floor.

  Jay turned and saw Paul on his knees beside his wife’s chair, clasping his gun with both hands, still holding it out level and at the ready. His nose looked smashed and crooked, his face smeared with blood. He turned his face slightly, spitting against the floor and grimacing. “That son of a bitch broke my nose,” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

  Paul stumbled to his feet, reeling unsteadily. “Are you alright?” Jay asked, and Paul shook his head dismissively.

  “He kicked me,” he said. “Hit me in the head with something, a fire extinguisher, I think, and then kicked me in the face.” He spat again, bloody phlegm splattering to the floor. “Son of a bitch.”