by CJ Lyons
“Why?”
“I’m gonna get you a new suit. Real nice one. Nice enough for a funeral. You’ll be wearing it if I don’t get Esme back. Alive.”
“You talk big, Runt. But you don’t know shit.” He whistled, and two men dragging a third emerged from the tunnels behind them.
They entered the room. The third man was Harold. Unconscious, maybe dead.
Before Devon could move, Tyree whirled and fired his weapon at the cop. Three shots, all in the kill zone. The sound boomed through the small room, echoing into Devon’s bones.
“You really thought you could come on back to my town and send your men poking and prodding into my business and get away with it?” Tyree shot Harold in the face.
“Don’t bother looking for your other two men. Nice thing about having the tunnels connecting the Tower to Good Sam. Hospital has an incinerator that comes in real handy at times.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork. Harold, by some miracle, was still breathing, gasps bubbling through the bloody mess that was his face. Tyree shot him twice more in the chest.
He turned to Devon. Raised the gun at him. Devon’s heart stumbled, then stopped for a moment that hung between them. Everything he’d done, everything he still had to do—like saving Esme—it was all for nothing.
Then Tyree grinned. He flipped his grip on the pistol, holding it for Devon’s inspection. “Recognize this? You should. It’s yours.”
The one the cops had taken from Devon earlier at the hospital. Ryder. Was he in on this? Devon would have bet good money that the detective was one of the good guys. But, hell, he’d been wrong about so much since he’d come home, maybe he’d been wrong about Ryder as well.
Trust no one. When was he going to learn?
“Here’s the deal,” Tyree said. “I can’t afford pissing off the Russians, so I won’t kill you unless I have to. You leave town. Forever. Today. You do, I’ll work a deal with Kingston, see to it that Esme lives. You don’t, the cops get this gun complete with your prints all over it, and she dies.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Waking up beside Ryder was an unexpected surprise. Not because of the man. Believe me, I’d love to do more than just sleep beside Ryder. Smart, handsome in an irresistible, weathered, world-weary way, and even more attractive—at least to me—was the way he took nothing and no one for granted. Seven scrawny anonymous kids from the Tower were just as important to him as Sister Patrice or meeting with Daniel Kingston himself.
As much as I’d love for Ryder to share some of that passion with me, it was the worst idea ever in the history of worst ideas. In the past twelve hours, my life had spiraled into a headlong rush to insanity.
I couldn’t risk pulling Ryder down with me. Even more, I didn’t want to risk losing his friendship. And one thing was becoming clear: if my symptoms continued to escalate, I’d be in no position to pursue any kind of more meaningful relationship.
So, attraction or no attraction, this wasn’t going any further than it already had.
I sat up slowly, trying not to wake him—or Ozzie, who was snoring so loudly I wondered if they made CPAP machines for dogs. I couldn’t believe how good I felt. A little sore and achy—no surprise, given what my body had gone through during my fugue states last night. But what was surprising was the energy. It surged through me like a shot of adrenaline.
Sunlight streamed in through the bay window. I glanced at the clock. Seven-forty. Amazing what an hour of sleep could do. One hour of sleep in five months? It wasn’t a world record. There’ve been people who have gone years without a full night’s sleep, but I already missed it and yearned for more.
I stood and stretched. Ryder’s eyes were open, watching me with a definitely non-clinical appraisal. I imagined what it would be like seeing him look at me every morning. Inhaled so fast my gut ached. Not in the cards, I reminded myself with regret.
I used his bathroom and when I returned, he had Ozzie set up on the back porch. “You know,” he said as he handed me my coat and helped me on with it, “as a detective, I have keen powers of observation and insight into the human condition.”
He grabbed his own coat and held the door for me. I was creating a checklist in my mind, prioritizing everything I needed to do today: find a safe place for the kids, follow up on Allie and the other victims’ lab results, come clean with Louise and submit to her poking and prodding, maybe find out what was wrong with me…
“What?” I asked, stumbling over a nonexistent crack in the walk leading from Ryder’s front porch.
“I was saying, over the twelve hours I’ve known you, my keen powers of observation have told me that you find me irresistible. And yet, you were going to sneak out without saying a word this morning, weren’t you?” His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent that felt all too heavy.
It took me a few seconds to process what he was saying. Ryder was right. I had been giving him mixed signals. Not because I wasn’t sure how I felt. Because I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me. Could I really expect anyone to dive down that rabbit hole before I had any answers?
No. Of course not.
“You’re right, I’m an idiot.” He filled in the silence as if I’d spoken. “We have to focus on what’s important. Finding Esme and taking care of the kids and stopping Allie’s killer. We work together. It’s a conflict of interest. Against the rules, right?” A regretful tone entered his voice. “Right.” His tone turned firm, a soldier receiving orders. “Of course. Sorry I even brought it up.”
We turned onto the sidewalk. I wanted to tell him the truth about what was going on with me. But how could I? I didn’t even know what to say without sounding crazy. Why had it been so easy telling Devon last night? I guess because he was a stranger. I had no real feelings about him, would never see him again once we found Esme.
“Although,” Ryder continued, “way the brass feel about me right now, I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard for me to arrange to be transferred somewhere else so we wouldn’t have to work together. I’m sure they have openings in the motor pool or maybe as a crossing guard.”
“Stop it.” I spun to face him, stumbling off-balance. He caught me by the elbow and steadied me. “Just stop it. You can’t abandon those kids or the Advocacy Center. Besides, you won’t have to—I’m leaving.”
His mouth sagged open. “Why would you—”
“I’m sick.” There, it was out.
His eyes widened, and his grip on my arm tightened. Not painfully, more like he didn’t want to risk losing me. Wind from the river whipped between us, carrying the scent of snow. He edged closer to me, our breath mingling to create a cloud. “You’re sick? What’s wrong? Is it serious?”
His words tumbled over themselves, as clumsy as my feet. He pulled me to him, his breath in my ear, warming at least one small part of my body. We stood there, oblivious to the cold for a long moment before I pushed away. I wiped my eyes and began walking once more. Two steps later, he was by my side, his hand wrapped around mine.
“I haven’t slept in five months,” I started. “Not until this morning.”
“This morning? That was barely a catnap. Wait. Did you say five months?”
“No sleep. Plus, losing my balance. Tremors in my muscles. Fevers, night sweats.” I gave him the litany of symptoms. Well, the ones that didn’t make me sound insane. “And now, last night, I started having spells where my whole body just freezes up.”
“Like seizures? When I was a kid, a girl in our class had petit mal epilepsy. She’d stare off into space, frozen. They have medicine for that, right?”
He sounded so damn hopeful, I couldn’t steal that from him. After all, the man had known me for only twelve hours. It wasn’t his burden to shoulder. “Epilepsy would be the best-case scenario. But I don’t know. I’m going to see my friend, Louise Mehta, this morning. She’s a neurologist. She’ll figure this out.”
“You think it’s something bad. So bad that you didn’t see a doctor sooner. Like what? A brain tumor?
Something like that?”
I dropped his hand. God, I was so damn tired of not knowing. “Maybe. I’m not sure. Point is, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”
“Oh. I see. This is you letting me off the hook.”
“No. Ryder, no.” I stopped, turned to face him. I couldn’t read his expression, which seemed to happen when he had feelings too deep to share with the world. Maybe that was for the best. “This is me asking you, as someone I trust—as one of the few people I trust—not to give up on Esme or those kids. If I can’t be there for them, I need to know someone is still fighting for them.”
He stared at me, his eyes matching the sky behind him, a blue so bright it made you want to paint with it. A blue that should have made me feel happy, hopeful, but that instead made me regret everything I was about to lose.
I wanted to be that person, the Hallmark type: brave and strong, facing a life-changing illness with courage and dignity. But, looking into his eyes, it took everything I had not to turn tail and run home, grab my fiddle, lock myself in my apartment, and play, play, play until the music flew me away to another world, another life.
“Okay.” His shoulders rose and fell with his exhalation as his posture relaxed. “If that’s what you need.”
“Thanks, Ryder.”
We walked in silence, our hands occasionally brushing. It felt so comfortable, being able to think without worrying about holding up a conversation. Finally we arrived at the staff entrance behind the ER, dodging the horde of media camped out at the hospital’s front door.
Ryder rested his hand on the door but didn’t open it, blocking my path. I didn’t like the look in his eyes—no, that was wrong. I liked it, very much. But it was dangerous. And confusing. Didn’t he understand? We couldn’t do this.
He leaned forward, and I turned my face away before he could kiss me. But he wasn’t aiming for my lips. Instead, he kissed the top of my head, gently, with care. The second surprise of the morning. First, actual sleep, and now this… I didn’t even know what to call this.
His eyes crinkled in delight at my puzzlement. “I’ll call you later.”
“To see what the children say.” I tried to put things back on a business platform.
“No. I mean, yes, I want to hear what you learn. But that’s not the only reason why I’ll be calling.” He touched my cheek, brushed my hair away from my eyes. “Good luck.”
He was gone before I could figure out a response. I stood there, staring, even after he’d vanished from sight, my eyes foggy with tears. I was numb, not from the cold or exhaustion, but from all the possibilities, each uncertain, each fraught with pain and danger. Not just for me, but despite my best efforts, for Ryder as well.
I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to carry that burden. Wasn’t sure if I could resist the temptation.
I grabbed the cold metal handle and opened the door to the ER. My true home, my comfort zone. The place where I felt in control. Until now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Brushing my teeth, showering, and changing into clean clothes—the slacks and blouse I kept in my locker for court—felt almost as good as the hour of sleep had. As soon as I finished cleaning up, I went over to the Advocacy Center. Couldn’t resist checking on the kids, and who knew, depending on what Louise found, if I’d be able to come back again.
They were asleep, bundled together in a pile of arms and legs and blankets. The nurse watching them said they’d all eaten—piling their food together and sharing, but without talking—and then had fallen back asleep. The psychologist was due in an hour, so no answers as far as any prognosis or course of treatment.
None of them had asked for their families. And social services had gotten nowhere.
I watched them from the observation window, tempted to call Tyree and press him for answers. I hated that I had to trust that he truly was trying to protect the children. But they were safe here behind the locked doors of the Advocacy Center, away from the prying eyes of the press and, with police officers guarding the entrance, also from whoever had taken them.
Nothing more I could do here. My phone buzzed. Louise calling. Time to face my future.
<<<>>>
“Your message last night,” she said as we sat in her office, Louise behind the desk and me in one of the patient chairs. “It sounded, you sounded,” she glanced up at the ceiling as if seeking guidance, “agitated.”
“Good word for it.”
“So it wasn’t some kind of joke?” I stared at her. She shook her head, as if chiding herself for even considering the idea. “Okay. Tell me everything. From the beginning. When did your symptoms start?”
She took it better than I expected. After her first reaction of shock, then chiding me for not coming to her earlier, she listened, fascinated by my description of my fugue states and communicating with Patrice, Allie, and Mrs. Kowacz.
“Everything they said—Patrice’s voice, her image of Esme, how she got shot, Mrs. Kowacz’s ring, Allie playing the piano—it’s all true. There’s no way I could have imagined it,” I finished in a rush, feeling emptied. I sat back and waited for her judgment. Hated the way she looked at me like a patient. Hated even more that she didn’t immediately clap her hands together in that funny way she has and tell me the answer complete with a magical cure.
Instead, she frowned. Not an encouraging frown, either. “It could have been your imagination,” she said. “Filling in the gaps of what you expected.”
“Why would I expect a nun I’d never met to talk to me while I held her heart in my hands and tell me about a missing girl who I also never met?”
“The mind is a mysterious thing. Memories even more so. You know that from your work at the Advocacy Center—how easy it is to accidentally plant a so-called memory by simple suggestion. Maybe it wasn’t until after you learned the girl was missing that you thought you remembered the nun telling it to you?”
I shook my head. Not sure why I felt the need to defend the veracity of my visions, spells, whatever the hell they were. After all, if I agreed with her, then I was just a wee bit delusional, something easily explained by sleep deprivation and stress.
But, no. I had to insist on being full-blown psychotic. “I know what I know. You can ask Ryder. I told him about Esme being missing, not the other way around.”
She made a note—probably to remind her to verify that Ryder actually existed and wasn’t another delusion. Then she made me change into a patient gown and did a complete examination. It was obvious that she didn’t like what she found. Next thing I knew, she had me whisked away for an EEG and MRI, tests that, if the results were abnormal, there’d be no hiding it from the rest of my colleagues. No such thing as patient confidentiality when the patient is a physician.
Two hours later, her nurse ushered me into Louise’s exam room. I changed back into my street clothes—being a patient was so damn humiliating—and took a seat, waiting impatiently. No, more than impatient. Angry.
Because, damn it, I wanted my life back. In my control. And to do that I needed to know the face of my enemy. Needed something to fight.
She walked in without knocking, head facedown in my chart.
“What did the MRI show?” I asked.
Louise leaned against the closed door, looking down at where I sat in the swivel chair traditionally reserved for the physician. I’d taken the chair by habit and, once in it, couldn’t bring myself to move to the patient chair.
Her face, a mask denying all emotion, told me everything, but I needed to hear the words. I felt a twinge of guilt, forcing a friend to give me my death sentence. But better a friend…
She took her time sitting down in the patient chair, adjusting the seat, arranging the papers that had quickly filled my chart. From my vantage point, I saw pages of lab results, EEG tracings, an MRI report. I was too far away to read them. I would eventually, of course—part of being a doctor is being a snoop. But, for now, I waited.
Not so patiently.
She re
ached past me to bring up my MRI on the computer screen. “No tumor or aneurysm.”
Suddenly, I could breathe again. Oxygen rushed into my brain, making red spots dance in my vision.
Louise cleared her throat, and I knew my relief had been premature. “But there is evidence of microvacuolization in the thalamic region.”
She zoomed in on the image of my brain. Vacuolization? Part of my brain was filling with tiny holes, turning into Swiss cheese. Even I could see them on the magnified MRI.
“What’s causing them? MS? Some other demyelinating disease?” I’d heard of vacuolization before, but always as a result of severe brain trauma or metabolic diseases. Never with symptoms like mine. I braced myself, thinking I might have a rocky road ahead of me but certain I could navigate it. Even diseases like MS are no longer the death sentences they once were.
I was wrong. So wrong.
Louise shifted uncomfortably. “I need a blood test to confirm.”
“Blood test to confirm what?”
She didn’t answer me.
A frown broke through her rigid mask. She stifled it, sorting the lab results neatly into my chart. Louise was methodical, but I couldn’t wait for confirmation. I needed to start fighting this thing. Now. “Test for what?”
“Prion diseases. Specifically Creutzfeldt-Jakob and variants, including fatal familial insomnia.”
“Mad cow disease? But I’ve never been exposed—” Her words caught up to me. “Fatal insomnia? What the hell is that?”
“Hereditary disease discovered by an Italian doctor in the 1700s. He was the first documented fatality from it as well.”
Louise was good—but knowing the specifics about a disease that I’d never even heard of? She must have looked it up before coming in to talk with me. “You think that’s the one, don’t you? Fatal insomnia?”
“I don’t know. The blood tests will take a few weeks to come back. The only lab that does them is in Italy.”