by Angie Sandro
“Like…on that TV show Lost?”
I lean forward, gripping the blanket. What a relief. I don’t have to try and explain what I saw. I’m still having difficulty wrapping my brain around the strangeness of the experience myself. At least Anders has a frame of reference to draw on.
“Kind of like that, only the smoke was actually like a tentacle. It came from a black vortex, which acts like a door. When people die, it drags their soul through to whatever’s on the other side. Heaven, hell, or purgatory in my case. No big deal, right? It’s the natural order at work. Except this particular door seems to be malfunctioning. It shouldn’t be able to target a living person and burn him from the inside out.” My nervous grin fades in reaction to Anders’s dubious expression.
I press against my pillow, wishing I could disappear. “Look, Anders, I know it sounds outlandish and it’s hard to believe death’s a sentient being that can target its victims, but trust me. I’ve thought about this all night. I’m on the right track with this theory.”
Why isn’t he saying anything? His silence makes me fidget, determined to hold my tongue, but I break first. “This is why I didn’t want to say anything. Now you think I’m crazy. Don’t you?”
“Ms. Acker, I thought you were crazy before this conversation. You just confirmed it.” He leans forward in the chair. “Before coming to speak you, I was at the scene of another murder. This man burned to death right outside the hospital. He was a real person, not a character in a TV show, and he died in the most horrible way imaginable.”
I blink, shocked to discover his incredulity hurts. I guess subconsciously I hoped he’d believe me and I wouldn’t be in this alone. Then his words about another murder penetrate, and I reel with the memory of the dream I had the night before. Could he be talking about the same man? But it was just a dream.
I force my face into a derisive mask. It’s difficult to speak without the pain and confusion coloring my voice, but I do. “And I’m responsible, ’cause, obviously, I don’t know the difference between fiction and reality?”
Anders’s mouth twists. “The nurse on duty last night told me you were missing from your room for several hours.”
Uh-oh.
“Of course I wasn’t in my room, Anders. I was busy burning an innocent man to death with my superpowers. I shot lasers out of my eyes and then danced around his burning body.” I wave my arm in dismissal. “Give me a break! I kept having nightmares about being attacked. So I wandered around the hospital.” Not that anyone saw me to provide an alibi. Darn all my sneaking around. “Cross my heart, I didn’t leave the hospital. Check the surveillance cameras.”
“I want to trust you, Dena. I’m just finding it difficult. Everything keeps pointing to your involvement, and you haven’t told me anything that would rule you out beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
I rub my burning eyes. “I don’t think ‘shadow of a doubt’ is even applicable in this case. There is no doubt when it comes to the smoke shadow. It killed that man. It’s real, Anders. Either you’ll believe I’m telling the truth or you won’t. Frankly, I don’t care what you think.”
Anders stares at the ground for a long moment, as if considering my words. Then, coming to a decision, he jerks upright. He thrusts another business card in my direction as if he knows I threw the other one away. It teeters on the edge of the bed before falling to the floor.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Dena. This is all an act to hide your culpability in this crime. And I swear I won’t rest until I figure out what is going on.” His lip curls in a sneer. “I hesitate even to say this, but if you decide to cooperate and happen to think of anything pertinent that doesn’t involve smoke and mirrors, give me a call.”
“Hold your breath until you get my call, jerk!” I yell at his retreating back, feeling childish. Why do I keep regressing to toddler status in his presence?
When Gabriella returns to the room, I’m still replaying our conversation. Why did I think it would be a brilliant idea to tell the cop that Death’s his murder suspect? Sometimes I despair over the state of my sanity. Anders is in good company thinking I’m two pieces short of a full meatloaf.
Gabriella sits on the edge of the bed. “So he’s gone? Is he coming back?”
“I don’t think so.” I cross my arms, trying hard not to cry. “I think Detective Anders has all the answers he needs.”
“Then why don’t you look pleased? I thought you’d be happy to get rid of him.”
“I am glad—sort of. I hadn’t planned on divulging as much information as he managed to weasel out of me. He’s sneaky.”
“And pretty hot,” Gabriella says with a sigh. “I’m surprised you held out as long as you did. Every time he looked at me I thought I was going to melt.”
“You’re one twisted sister, Gabriella. That man is obviously the spawn of some malodorous form of lichen, with the same personality.”
“Malodorous?” Gabriella snorts with laughter. “So Anders formed an impression, even if it was negative. Since breaking up with Charles, he’s the first man you’ve paid attention to long enough to even form an opinion.”
I wave her away. “My experience with Charles taught me not to waste my time with losers. If the right guy comes along, I’ll know it. I’m out of my experimental phase. I’d rather be alone than stuck with some commitment-phobic jerk.”
“So young and so bitter…it’s such a shame.” Gabriella pats my head as if I’m a stray dog. I swipe a fist in her direction.
She jumps out of reach with a laugh. “Come on, grumpy. I promise, once you’re home, you can eat a carton of ice cream and whine about the evil Detective Anders to your heart’s content.”
“Gosh, Gabby, sometimes you’re such a brat. But you are so on. Just promise not to eat all the mint chocolate chip, and I won’t give you any problems until Tuesday.”
I pack up my things and let down my guard enough to believe I really will be discharged without any difficulty, then Dr. Estrada tears into the room. His almond eyes widen with relief when they meet mine. He wipes a shaking hand across a forehead dotted with sweat.
“Good, good, so glad I caught you, Dena,” he pants. “I thought you had already checked out.”
“No such luck,” I mumble, throwing an aggrieved look in Gabriella’s direction. It’s her fault. She spent the last ten minutes getting detailed instructions from Susan on how to take care of me. The fact that the high and mighty doctor Alonso Estrada stands there out of breath cannot bode well for my situation. He’s never been much for patient care. I’m still surprised he even took me back. I have a concussion, not a bullet to the brain again, or a tumor for him to remove—unless I count Detective Anders.
He smiles at Gabriella.
I roll my eyes. Question answered, but then he turns in my direction. “Dena, I almost forgot your pain medication and antibiotics. Directions are clearly marked on the label, so even you can understand them.”
Ah, the Estrada I love to hate. His nice act creeps me out. He probably feels the same about me, but he plays concerned citizen since I convinced my mother not to sue for malpractice after he pronounced me brain dead.
I grit my teeth, holding back the scathing remark dancing on the tip of my tongue. It takes a few seconds to regain control. “Thanks, Dr. Estrada. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
Estrada’s lips purse as if he’s sucking on a lemon. “No problem. I hope you convey my regards to your mother in this matter.”
“Ah, well, Doc, Pepper took my brothers to Disney World for Easter break. She’s parenting from guilt, trying to make up for abandoning them.” Wow, that sounds bitter. “I don’t expect them to return until right before school starts.”
The shock on Estrada’s face sends a shiver down my spine, but in a matter of seconds he composes himself. “Well then, I’m sure your mother will be happy to learn how well I’ve cared for you once she returns.” He smiles again. It looks painful. “I scheduled a follow-up appointment. The details are on y
our discharge paperwork.” He leans in with a serious expression. “I want you to call if you have any unusual symptoms.”
“Unusual,” I echo, wondering what he means, then shrug. “Sure, if anything unusual happens, I promise yours will be the first number I call.”
CHAPTER 5
Two Steps from Road Kill
Rather than heading to the family plantation, I recuperate at Pepper’s house in town. She and my brothers won’t be back until the end of the week, and I have a key to keep an eye on the place. It’s weird living in my mother’s house. We’ve got a strained relationship. Which shouldn’t be surprising since she’d abandoned her family for five years, only returning once she found out Dad had died and I lay in a coma. Yet, she seemed shocked when I kicked her out of the family home.
The old plantation’s part of the Savoie legacy, passed down through my many-greats grandmother, Tenelle Savoie, who married Herman Acker. It’s my inheritance for suffering through Dad’s crazy shit with a smile and a “yes sir” for years. And I couldn’t stomach this woman, who I barely know, coming into my home, pretending to be a mother to me. Pretending to love me.
It’s not like I don’t understand why my mother—or Pepper, as she demands to be called—packed up and ran. I’m not insensitive. Or blind to Dad’s faults. He was an abusive asshole. She left to survive. She thought she had no choice. He really would’ve killed her if she’d stayed—but why did she leave us kids? My brain knew this was how she survived, but my heart ached…still aches for those missing, silent years.
When she came strolling back, expecting to be a parent to me and the boys, I couldn’t forgive her. Because of her abandonment, I lost my childhood. I’m smart. I got straight A’s in high school and earned a scholarship to Texas A&M, but I turned it down to raise my brothers.
Hell, I barely had a social life. My relationship with Charles didn’t stand a chance. We snuck around behind Dad’s back, snatching stolen moments in the back of his pickup. I’m not stupid enough to blame myself for him cheating on me with Vanessa. That was Charles’s choice. He could’ve broken up with me. Told me he was unhappy. He chose not to. But if I ever find someone to love again, I’ll do things differently. Dying should’ve taught me how to live. Instead, I almost screwed up my second chance.
Almost dying a second time. Well, now I finally get it. Life’s too short.
Gabriella keeps her promise to Dr. Estrada and does her best to nurse me, despite my cranky refusal to stay in bed. Bribes of ice cream and a Supernatural marathon can only distract me for so long. Part of my irritability comes from having the same disturbing nightmare that I had in the hospital, every freaking time I go to sleep.
Trapped in the dream, I experience an overwhelming hunger—a deep, gnawing pain in my center that obliterates rational thought from my mind. In the moment, I operate on instinct, hunting my prey—human beings. The perfect food. Part of me knows this is wrong, even if I’m only dreaming. I fight for control over the hunger to keep from killing, battling my true nature and my dream self every night.
Come morning, my muscles ache as if I’ve spent the night fencing with armored knights…or orcs, like in my brothers’ favorite movie, The Hobbit. Gabriella’s got no idea my mind’s being splintered into a thousand pieces…eaten by the mist. And it’s becoming harder and harder to pull myself together.
I’m so tired…Tired of fighting.
I sigh, rolling onto my side. The pillowcase warms beneath my cheek. I stare at the alarm clock, watching the minutes tick by, afraid to close my eyes. I can’t handle another nightmare. My gaze shifts to the shadows flickering on the wall opposite the window with the light of passing cars. My breathing slows as my eyelids grow heavy. Reality bends, shifting into the world of dreams. Once again I’m trapped in a void, without physical form. Everything seems gray, hazy and indistinct, like morning mist hovering over the bayou. I can’t see where safety lies. One misstep could lead to my death.
I should wake up. Even in my sleep, I know this image of beauty is false, but I’m mesmerized by the ribbons of color before my eyes—a rainbow dancing to otherworldly music. This melody calls to me, and I fall under its influence like a child lured from the safety of my home by the Pied Piper. Emotion pulses through the ribbon connecting me to the piper, to Death, filling my body with energy. I can’t fight his desire. It overwhelms…and infects.
“Need…need…you.” It comes as a chant in my head. Not in real words, but as a tightening in my body. A feeling which translates itself into English. This thought isn’t mine.
I’m dreaming—a horrible, intoxicating dream. To believe anything else means I’ve gone insane.
Terror wings through me, setting my heart racing. My hands shake from the residual energy seeping from my body. Wind brushes against my cheek, and I gulp in air tinted with the lemony scent of magnolia blossoms. The tree blooms in the front yard. How? My eyes pop open. “Oh crap!”
I’m standing in the middle of the street. Headlights stab my eyes with a spear of light, and I slam them shut again. The car speeds toward me. Too fast. It’s night. The driver…does he see me? Run. My legs won’t move. I’m still asleep, at the mercy of things outside of my control. I can’t break free. The hold over my mind keeps me frozen in place. Shit! I’m gonna die.
My muscles stiffen as I brace for the impact of the car smashing into me. Tires shriek, skidding on the pavement. The heat of the engine caresses my skin, and the headlights burn the inside lids of my eyes Popsicle orange.
The car stops inches from my body.
Still frozen, like Anna near the end of the Disney movie, I don’t even twitch when the car door slams. It’s only the unnerving tingle of eyes on my body that triggers my own release. My eyes open to meet Detective Anders’s. Oh boy, he looks pissed, and not with his typical “you’re lying, so I’m going to make you feel guilty until you confess” intensity.
The way he stares at me…whew, he’s gonna blow like Old Faithful. Hopefully, he’s only full of hot air. My cheeks burn with the heat of his anger, and I drop my head so my curls cover my face. The headlights set my red hair on fire, like I’m staring through flames.
Silence falls over us. He moves until his body blocks the headlights. I stare at his black boots, willing myself not to vomit all over them. My stomach’s bucking and rolling like I’m sitting in my cousin’s rowboat in the middle of a thunderstorm.
“What the hell are you doing, Miss Acker?” His voice vibrates with fury, and I tremble in response. He grabs my shoulders with his large hands and gives me a swift shake. “Snap out of it!”
My head falls back until I stare up at him, still unable to speak. Tears roll down my cheeks. I swallow the bile climbing the back of my throat, unable to think of anything witty to say. Witty isn’t appropriate in this situation anyway. Instead of appearing tough, I’ll end up babbling or burbling. Wailing also seems to be a distinct possibility.
Obviously, I haven’t quite gotten my shit together yet.
He frowns, staring at my tears. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Dispatch puts out a call about some crazy woman walking down the middle of the road, and of all people, it has to be you.” Anger turns his tone harsh, but his fingers caress my shoulders.
I tremble, unable to form a coherent sentence to explain. Not that any of this makes sense. Nothing in my world seems logical since my attack—the first attack. The second one only emphasized how screwed up my life has become. This must be a new symptom to add to the others I’ve been collecting: rage, panic attacks, nightmares, and now—sleepwalking? Hell, Dr. Estrada was right to tell me to watch out for unusual symptoms. I’m a poster child for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Anders’s mouth tightens. “You’re not all right, are you?”
Bingo. I sniff, wishing my arms would move so I could wipe away the snot running from my nose. The embarrassment keeps dribbling out. Anders grimaces. He pulls a tissue from his pocket and wipes my nose like I’m an infant. The whole time
he doesn’t release my other arm. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll run if he sets me free. Ha.
His hands tighten once then slide down my arms, and I shiver in response. This situation stinks. I don’t want to add collapsing at his feet in a boneless puddle to Anders’s mega-long list of my faults. Drawing in a deep breath, I close my eyes and lean against his wide chest. His heart races beneath my ear. His arms lift, hovering behind my back, and then circle around me. He holds me tightly, but not so I can’t breathe. Just enough to make me cling to him harder, soaking in his strength.
His gentle pats on my back snap me from my trance, and I stiffen. I’m hugging Anders. And even more shocking, he’s holding me like he’ll never let me go. Or is this my own messed-up longing to feel special? Maybe he hugs every deranged woman he finds wandering in the middle of the road in her nightgown. Mm, he smells good. I press my nose into his shoulder and inhale his spicy scent.
“Where do you live?” Anders asks.
Snap out of it. I point a shaking finger toward my house.
Anders’s hand warms my upper arm. A huge contrast to how the rest of my body feels. I stare at my bare, muddy feet. The night’s damp chill makes them ache. I barely feel the prick of a rock digging into my heel as I take a step, but I stumble.
Without bothering to ask my permission, Anders scoops me up into his arms. A low mew of surprise escapes. God, I hope he didn’t hear. I wrap my trembling arms around his neck, determined to play it cool—like guys sweep me off my feet all the time.
Anders crosses the yard to my front door with long strides. I kind of wish he’d slow down, but he bounds up the stairs as if he can’t wait to get rid of me. The front door’s wide open. He enters, careful not to bump my head on the door frame, then pauses on the threshold. He scans the room before going over to the sofa and gently setting me down. I sink back against the cushions and hug myself as I shiver.
Anders lifts the cream cotton blanket folded over the back of the sofa. He wraps it around my shoulders and tucks in the sides. “Where’s your bathroom?”