A Brady Paranormal Investigations Box Set
Page 10
I tiptoe forward, the glass embedded in the thin carpeting crackling beneath my shoes. Crap. Whoever’s in here is going to hear me for sure.
Thump.
The sound echoes from one of the rooms, down the short hall, and past the kitchen. I freeze. Was that Graham? My heart races, the beating sound so loud in my ears that I can barely hear above it. I don’t dare call out, just in case it’s not him, but I can’t leave, just in case it is, and he needs help.
When I reach the kitchen table, I crouch and grab one of the spindly table legs. It’s not much, but it’s better than smacking someone over the head with my camera. As I sneak past the table, a crumpled something on the floor moves. I hadn’t seen it before because the table was in the way, but now I can’t look away from the blood-soaked blue plaid shirt, blue-jeaned legs bent at an unnatural angle, and the pale, liver-spotted skin. It’s Mr. Rasputin.
He groans, his hand twitching slightly. I fly to his side, slipping to my knees in the blood. “Oh my God. Don’t move, okay? The cops are coming.” I hope they bring an ambulance. They’re supposed to, right? I mean, I told them there was an intruder in the house, wouldn’t they normally send one?
I feel for his pulse. It’s there, but it beats weak and irregular against my fingertips. A two-inch gash on his forehead is the only visible wound I see, but there’s a dark stain on his thigh that tells me he’s injured there as well.
I push myself to my feet. “Just... Just stay there.” After rifling through three kitchen drawers, I finally find some kitchen towels and drop back down to his side, pressing them against his wounds. I fold the one and lay it on his head, and then I press two to the other wound, afraid to look at it. All the while the urge to go help Graham beats in the back of my head with greater and greater urgency.
To better staunch the bleeding, I take Mr. Rasputin’s arm and lay it over the towels. He’s not in any condition to move, and the pressure might help until the paramedics arrive. If they’re coming.
After saying a silent prayer to a God I’m not sure I believe in, I leave Mr. Rasputin’s side and creep down the hall, trying to be as silent as possible. There are three doors. The first is open. It’s a bathroom, and my heart skips a beat when I glance inside, expecting to get a bullet to the brain any moment. This was such a stupid idea. I never should have agreed to come over here. Yeah, well, you never thought this would happen either, did you?
The second door is shut, and I put my ear to the crack to listen for sound, but it’s silent. Slowly, I reach for the knob and inch it open. This bedroom is empty, too, and just as trashed as the rest of the house.
That leaves one more door. My adrenaline ratchets up another notch.
Thump.
Time stops. Someone or something is in this room. Is Graham in there? I have to find him. I take a deep breath and fling the door open, but it hits something directly behind it.
“Damn it!”
The door bounces back and clocks me in the head. I stumble but then push through, shoving the door into whoever’s on the other side. If it’s Graham, I’ll apologize later.
This time, the door slams open, and I fly through and collide with the bed. A figure in a dark hoodie jumps over a body on the floor and picks up a wooden chair. I rush him, brandishing my table leg like a club. He swings the chair at me. I try to duck out of the way, but I can’t in the cramped bedroom, and it crashes into my shoulder.
Pain explodes up my arm and down my side. I drop the table leg and hit the ground. My attacker tries to dart around me, but I roll and grab one of his legs, ignoring the shooting pain in the other. It’s not broken if I can still move it. I’ll worry about how badly I’m hurt later. He’s not getting away from me this time.
He grunts, swears at me in a low, gravelly voice, and crashes to the ground next to me. I reach for his hood, determined to figure out who he is, but he rolls to the side and kicks me in the gut.
All of the air whooshes from my lungs, and black splotches dance around my vision. Every nerve in my body screams in pain. The guy scrambles to his feet, but I manage to trip him again, buying myself enough time to get to my feet.
He grabs up the chair from the floor and swings it at me again, but this time, it moves slowly enough that I can grab one of the chair legs, which puts him off balance, so I shove it back at him. He stumbles against the wall, giving me a few precious seconds to find the table leg. Hefting it like a baseball bat, I take a deep breath to swing, but he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. Something with a dull black barrel glinting in the shadows. Something that could really ruin my life.
Click.
I close my eyes. I have to. Anything so I don’t have to see the black barrel of the gun pointing right at me. What feels like a million seconds pass and I open my eyes, but it’s still there, waiting. For what? For a reason to shoot me? Or is he waiting for a reason not to?
I force my gaze to travel from the barrel of the gun to the person holding it. Soulless dark eyes stare at me from behind a black nylon face mask. A little overkill, but it ensures we won’t recognize him. Does that mean he’s someone we know?
I hear sirens in the distance. The police are coming, but they’re not fast enough. Back to the gun. His finger hovers over the trigger, caressing it like a lover before pulling away.
“Leave,” he says, his voice unnaturally gruff. “Or next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”
He shoves me into something on the floor and I trip, arms pinwheeling backward, and land on whatever it was I tripped over. The man disappears down the hall and I hear the front door slam. He’s gone. I reach down to push myself off, but my hands grab... what’s that? Is that? In the dim light, I look down at the prone body on the floor beneath me. Graham!
I scramble off of him and press my fingers into his neck for a pulse. It’s there, steady and strong beneath my fingers. Thank God. I shake his shoulder and he starts to move.
“Are you okay?” Some hero I am. I’d gotten so wrapped up in catching the bad guy that I’d totally forgotten about the damsel in distress.
His eyes flutter open. “Meredith?” he mumbles.
“Yeah, I’m here. Don’t move.” I lean against his shoulder, pausing to breathe for a second.
“Did we catch him?”
“No, he got away.”
“You’re bleeding.” He reaches out, clumsily touching the blood on my hands and arms.
“That’s not mine. It’s okay, I promise.” It’s not okay. I’m lying again, but I have to this time. Belatedly, I remember the camera strapped to my chest and wonder if it’s still working. I’m glad I wasn’t live streaming, or we’d have viewers going all out trying to find us and make sure we’re okay. Granted, that’s not always a bad thing, but right now, I don’t want the interference that would bring in our investigation. I unclip the camera from the harness and stuff it into my pocket. I also don’t want the cops taking it as evidence, at least not until I’ve seen what it has on it. “Just lie still. The paramedics are on their way.” I hope.
Chapter 14
Oak Cliff General Hospital is a single-story brick building that boasts a twelve-bed emergency room. I pace the tiny waiting room, ignoring the way my body complains with every step. A Golden Girls rerun plays on the TV mounted on the wall. Russ sits cross-legged in the chair, watching the show and eating a bag of Cheetos, as if I didn’t almost just get killed and we’re in the hospital while Graham and Mr. Rasputin get checked out.
Jess curls up in another chair with her knees to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She stares out the window at the trees surrounding the parking lot. Her eyes flicker to meet mine before darting away again. She hasn’t said a word since I called them.
Damn it. I hate this. Even Jess on a tirade is better than the silent treatment.
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know this was going to happen.” I run my hand through my tangled hair, jerking it mercilessly when I hit a snag. “We were just going to talk to Mr. Rasput
in.”
They ignore me.
“Graham’s the one who went inside first. I... I couldn’t let him get hurt. And I called 9-1-1 before I went in there. I was careful, honest.”
Still nothing.
“Come on, guys. I’m not trying to get hurt. Here”—I hand him the camera—“I recorded it.”
Russ explodes out of his chair, Cheetos dropping to the floor and his face contorting with rage. “You recorded it? Why? So Jess could watch you die? Do you have any idea what would happen to her if something happened to you?” He stalks toward me with murder in his eyes. “No, you didn’t. Don’t you remember what happened when Aunt Mary took her to Michigan? She ran away to find you, and when you brought her back because you thought you had to, she lost it. What do you think she’d do if you died?”
Slack jawed, I drag my eyes away from him long enough to glance at my sister. Tears well up in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say. It’s not enough, but I don’t have the words to explain why I did what I did. I don’t have a death wish,
“Sorry doesn’t cut it if you’re dead, damn it.” Russ balls his hands into fists, angrier than I’ve seen since the day his mom kicked him out of the house.
“I don’t know what your problem is,” he says. “Maybe you’ve got a death wish or you just don’t care, but you’ve got to think about other people for a change. Me and Jess, we’re here for you. We’re a family, so whatever it is that you’re doing on your own, or whatever you think you have to do on your own, knock it off. You’re not alone. You can’t go off half-assed when there’re other people’s lives at stake. It’s not fair, and it’s not right.”
He’s right, but I don’t know what to say. My mind’s a jumble, and I can’t think straight. I can’t explain why I went into that house the way I did. There is no excuse. No reason good enough to make up for me taking that risk. He’s right. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well...” Russ collapses into the chair next to Jess, all of the fight suddenly leaving him. “We’re just worried about you, that’s all. And... And I don’t know if I can keep watching you risk your neck like this. What we’re doing has never been this dangerous before, but now, we actually have someone coming after us. It scares the hell out of me.” He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the back of his chair. “Us. It scares the hell out of us.” He opens his hand, and Jess slips hers into his, her light, slender fingers a contrast against the rich bronze of his skin.
“It scares me, too.” Very carefully, because my muscles are protesting more and more every second I remain standing, I gently lower myself to the floor in front of them and scoot between their legs, resting my head on their joined hands. We’re family. We scare the crap out of each other on a regular basis. It’s what we do.
A nurse clears her throat in the doorway. “Meredith Baker?” She frowns as she glances at my ruined clothes, which I still haven’t had time to change, and my disheveled hair. I’m sorry I haven’t had time to clean up, but to be fair, I came straight here from Mr. Rasputin’s house after the cops released me.
I stand up, groaning with the effort.
“Graham MacIver would like to see you,” she says.
“Great. Thank you.” I press my hands against my stomach to keep my nervousness at bay. God, I hope he’s okay.
“Come on,” Russ says kindly, taking my arm and leading me from the waiting room. I follow him, stiff-legged, as if my movements aren’t my own. I don’t know why I’m so reticent to see Graham. Maybe it’s because a part of me feels somewhat responsible for what happened to him. Maybe if I hadn’t gotten wrapped up in this stupid search for what happened, he never would have gone over there.
But then Mr. Rasputin might have died. It’s true. Giving up the search wouldn’t have stopped whoever it was from breaking into his home, destroying it, and attacking him.
We follow the nurse down a short hallway to the second door on the right. Graham sits on the single hospital bed with his legs swung over the side. Shelley leans against the window, her phone pressed against her ear, listening intently to whomever is on the other end. When Graham sees us, he gives us a wan smile.
“Hey,” I say, eloquent as always.
Russ holds up the other side of the window, and Jess rolls her eyes before slouching in the visitor’s chair next to the door.
Graham pats the bed next to him, and I sit. “Thanks for coming,” he says. His eyes are bloodshot, and deep shadows mar the skin beneath them. A bruise partially hidden by his hairline shows where the attacker hit him, and dried blood still clings to his hair.
“Yeah, well, we wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I appreciate that,” he says gruffly.
A thick, awkward silence stretches between us.
“Have the police talked to you yet?” he asks.
I nod. “Fontaine cornered me after they took you away in the ambulance. That was fun.”
He chuckles and then winces at the effort. “Yeah, I bet it was. He came here, too. Dad’s in Atlanta. That’s who Shelley’s talking to.”
His sister waves absentmindedly from the window.
“Anyway,” he says, “I wanted to thank you for coming after me and saving me.” He grins sheepishly. “It’s not every day the princess saves the prince.”
I can’t stop the laugh that bursts from my lips. “Oh, you’re a prince now, are you?” He flushes, and I pat him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lancelot. I didn’t do much. He hit me with a chair then ran off.” And he threatened me with a gun, but it isn’t the time or place to mention that. Graham seems to have a macho streak that’s starting to rear its head, and if I’m not careful, it’ll get him killed. The boy’s not very street smart.
He rubs his arm as if I actually hurt him. “In any case, thank you.”
I shrug off his gratitude. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. You would have done the same for me.”
He opens his mouth to say more but then pauses as if changing his mind. “What are your plans now? Did Fontaine give you the all clear to head out?”
Russ snorts. “Nope, we’re still stuck here.”
I sigh. “Yeah, we can’t leave town until he gets everything straightened out, he said. So we’re going to head back to the hotel and start going through our evidence. There’s still some footage from the investigation we haven’t finished going through, along with the stuff from today.”
His eyes widen. “The cops didn’t take your camera?”
Heat creeps up my cheeks. “I didn’t tell them I had it. I stuck the camera in my pocket before they got there.”
Graham laughs. “That’s brilliant. When can we take a look at it?”
“We aren’t looking at anything.” I point my finger at him. “You’re getting some rest. Once you get sprung from this joint, look us up. You know where we’ll be.”
His expression turns belligerent. “You’re not going to cut me out.”
I cross my heart with my finger. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Give me a call once you get out. You’ve got my number.”
“Right,” he says, his voice unconvinced as my teammates and I stand. “As soon as I leave, I’ll call you.”
“It’s a date.” I give him a jaunty wave and limp out the door.
Chapter 15
The hotel room I share with Jess is quiet as I unlock the door. Curled up on the nest he made of our pillows, Bear raises his head and thumps his tail once before going back to sleep. Life’s tough for my dog.
I collapse on the bed and bury my face in Bear’s wiry scruff while Jess pulls out her phone and Russ gets online. The air still feels thick between us. Even though Russ got a lot off of his chest, there’s still a lot left to be said. I screwed up, majorly, but I hope there’s something on the camera that might make up for it, at least a little bit.
Feeling restless, I transfer the video from Mr. Rasputin’s cottage to my computer, but as soon as his bloodied body appears, I turn it off. I can’t watch it, not yet.
“Hey, Jess, did you see this?” Russ beckons my sister to the laptop. “Someone already went through the evidence from the investigation.”
“I didn’t see anything. The internet sucks here.” She tosses her phone onto the other bed. “What’s up?” She pulls a chair up next to Russ and scans the screen, her eyes widening. “Holy crap. Pull up the video.” She waves at me. “Get over here.”
This had better be good. My muscles are finally settling into some semblance of their former shape. I limp over to them. “What’s up?”
Russ’s fingers fly over the keyboard. Folders appear then disappear. The audio file from our investigation pops up, and he clicks on it. “One of our viewers found something.” He fiddles with the dials until he reaches the right time stamp. “There.”
Static. Russ turns it up. Louder static.
I give it a second. “Well, this is fascinating. I’m going to try to sleep.”
“Be patient, okay?” He gives me a dirty look. “You know I like to start the recorder a minute early so we don’t miss anything.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I’m not very patient right now.” Not to mention that every single muscle in my body feels like it’s pulled or aching. Even my brain feels as if it’s been put through the wringer, but whatever. I can give him a few minutes.
There’s another burst of static, and then it quiets. There’s something garbled, which isn’t unusual—it’s where most people who really want to believe put whatever words they want to hear in the ghost’s mouth. I’m just about to call it that when the voice says, “Graham.”