Dead in Bed by Bailey Simms, The Complete First Book

by Adrian Birch

  For now, I tried not to think about it. Somehow I’d find out the truth, but not now. Now, more than anything else, I was terrified that Morgan might die. She still wasn’t waking up.

  When we reached my parents’ house, Ian carried Morgan upstairs to my old bedroom. I pulled back the covers and helped Ian lay her limp body in my childhood bed.

  Most of the blood that had spread from her face to her pubic hair was now dry and hardened. I ran downstairs to get a mixing bowl to use as a washbasin.

  “What on earth is going on?” my mom called out.

  “It’s Morgan,” I said as I hurried by the living room. “She’s hurt.”

  I grabbed a washcloth and filled the mixing bowl with soap and warm water. I could tell my mom was totally confused about everything that was happening, but she didn’t ask any more questions.

  While Ian kept watch of Morgan’s pulse and the rate of her breathing, I did my best to clean the blood from her body. I washed her face, her breasts, and her tummy, and then I began gingerly cleaning her pubic hair and around her vagina, part of which had actually been torn a little and was a source of some of the bleeding.

  “Oh, Morgan,” I whispered, but I had no hope that she was able to hear me.

  Almost as soon as I'd begun cleaning the blood off her tangled pubic hair, Morgan began to whimper even though she was obviously still deeply unconscious. It was almost like she was dreaming. The sound that came from her throat, though, was definitely not one of pain or fear.

  Somehow, it was one of pleasure.

  Still totally unconscious, she began grinding her pelvis, pressing against the washcloth and my hand as I did my best to clean the blood from between the folds of her vagina without hurting her. The whimpering started to grow into rhythmic moans.

  “Morgan, sweetie,” I whispered. “What are you doing? Stay still, sweetie. Please wake up. Wake up.”

  Ian touched my arm. Morgan was as cleaned up as she was going to be without putting her in a bath. I pulled the warm washcloth away from between her legs. Right away, her moaning subsided.

  “What the hell is this?” Ian took Morgan’s pulse once again. “Her heart’s racing,” he said. “She’s also burning up." He gave me a confused, desperate stare. "I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Together we dressed her in sweatpants and a T-shirt, then covered her with the sheet.

  “We have to take her to the hospital.” I looked at Ian. He was standing over Morgan, folding his arms, staring at her. He wasn’t meeting my eye. “Right?” I said. “We have to take her to the hospital.”

  Morgan lay almost totally still now. Other than her swollen eyebrow, she appeared to be sleeping more or less restfully. Ian placed his hand on her hot forehead yet again. It was like he was trying to solve a puzzle, but was missing some essential piece.

  “The hospital isn’t a good idea,” he said. It was almost as though he was talking to himself. “Not now. I don’t know how safe it is there.”

  I remembered what Ian had said about the armed guards surrounding the room of the girl who had been attacked at the fair. He’d told me they wouldn’t even let the parents in to see their daughter. Now that Morgan had been attacked, too, would they do the same to her at the hospital? Would they take her away and lock her in some medical facility to run who-knew-what kind of tests? Or worse?

  “Okay,” I said. “I understand.” Or I thought I understood. I tried to trust Ian’s instincts. “We’ll keep her here.”

  “No one can know where she is.” Ian gave me a look that told me just how important this was. He was dead serious. “No one,” he repeated. “This is the safest place for her. But you have to tell your family not to tell a soul she’s here. You don’t have to say why. They trust you. Tell them that someone burgled Morgan’s house, beat her up, then killed Mr. Hershel when he tried to protect her. That’s the story.”

  I nodded again.

  Ian rubbed his eyes. He looked totally exhausted. And scared.

  “Stay here with Morgan,” he said. “Give me a call from the land line if she wakes up or if anything changes. I have to go take care of Mr. Hershel.”

  * * *

  Only a minute or two after I heard Ian’s SUV pull out of the driveway, someone knocked on the bedroom door.

  It was Shawn.

  Before I could stand up from the bed, my husband had already opened the door and stepped inside the room. He’d been sleeping on the couch, and he was in the sweats and the T-shirt he used as pajamas.

  “What is going on?” He was furious. “You have to tell me what’s going on!” He stepped directly in front of me as if trying to block me from running away. “Tell me now.”

  I put my hands on his chest as calmly as possible and gently pushed him a step back.

  “Just...” I began, trying to figure out what to say and how to keep him in a reasonable state of mind.

  This is when Shawn finally glanced at Morgan. Her right eye was now completely swollen shut. Her breaths were coming a little more quickly than normal.

  “Oh God,” he mumbled, turning away. “Ashley, what the fuck is going on?” He was no less upset, but now at least he was whispering and speaking a little more pleadingly.

  “She was…raped,” I whispered tentatively. “And beaten.” I lowered my voice even further. “She won’t wake up.”

  I hoped this information would give my husband a sense of perspective. I hoped it would make him feel a little compassion for Morgan. But it had the opposite effect.

  “Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t a good idea to keep hanging out with fucking Morgan?” he snapped. “What if it was you on this bed?” Indignantly, he added, “And why did you bring her here?”

  Years ago, Shawn never would have acted like this, but ever since he’d rolled his pickup and spent all that time in the hospital recovering, something had changed. I don’t know what exactly, but he seemed more fearful. And after everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, his fearfulness was coming out in ways that were starting to frighten me.

  “She’s staying here because Ian thinks it’s safest,” I said, gathering myself. “There’s a lot of shit going on, Shawn, that nobody understands.” I told him the story that Ian had given me—how a burglar broke into Morgan’s house and killed Mr. Hershel. “That’s it," I said. "That’s all I know.”

  “Mr. Hershel?” Shawn looked at me like I was crazy. “Mr. Hershel’s dead? Ashley, what are you talking about? Mr. Hershel? He isn’t dead.”

  But even as my husband denied it, I could tell the truth was starting to sink in. He was starting to see that things were going bizarrely wrong. His eyes were beginning to tear up. I could tell he was struggling not to cry.

  “I don’t give a fuck about Mr. Hershel!” he burst out. I flinched. I hadn’t expected this. “All I care about is what’s been going on with you! And where you’ve been! And who the fuck you’ve been with. You were gone all night. You’ve been gone for hours—all fucking day. I’ve been worrying my fucking ass off! Tell me what the fuck is going on!”

  I sat down on the bed beside Morgan. For some reason I felt safer being close to her. Shawn had never hurt me, but, for the first time, I was afraid that he might try.

  “I’ll tell you everything in the morning,” I whispered. “It’s not what you think.”

  I said this, but whatever happened was probably more or less exactly what Shawn suspected. The problem was that I still didn’t even know exactly what I’d done last night, so I had no idea what I was going to tell him. I tried to keep my focus on Morgan.

  “Right now, Morgan needs help,” I said. “A lot of help. She’s in trouble. She’s hurt—bad. She’s not even fucking conscious, Shawn. Do you understand? She may be in a coma for all I know. And I think she’s getting worse.” My voice started to crack. I took a breath and forced myself not to break down as long as Shawn was in the room. “And there’s nothing you can do to help! Is there?” I snapped. “Right now, you’re only in the
fucking way.”

  I could tell this stung. But I wanted it to sting. Shawn gave me a hurt look I’d never seen before. His face darkened.

  He clenched both of his fists and stepped toward me, putting his face right next to mine. He was breathing hard. He was furious.

  He lifted his right fist.

  I didn’t take my eyes from his. I forced myself not to look away. If he was going to hit me, there was nothing I could do about it. Instinctively, I grasped for Morgan’s limp arm and held it tightly.

  Shawn sobbed.

  He didn't hit me. Instead he stepped away and a huge tear slipped down his cheek. He just shook his head back and forth, still furious.

  He knew I must have betrayed him. And it was true. However badly he'd been acting lately, I had betrayed him. I thought about the old Shawn and how we used to be together when we were younger, and I felt sick. Then I thought about the old me, and how I'd changed, too. Whatever I'd done last night, I'd done it—there was no taking it back. And right now, I couldn't afford to let myself feel guilty about anything, even if I deserved to. All that mattered right now was keeping Morgan alive.

  Shawn turned and stepped out of the room. He gave me one last indignant look over his shoulder, then closed the door with surprising gentleness and went back downstairs to sleep on my parents' couch.

  * * *

  I must have slept, because sometime before dawn I woke, slumped on my old desk chair.

  Ian had returned during the night. He was sleeping on the floor without a pillow, his folded hands beneath his cheek.

  I'd woken because I could hear someone pulling into the driveway. What sounded like a large vehicle moved over the gravel and then came to a stop outside the bedroom window.

  Ian woke, leapt up, and looked between the closed blinds.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. "Stay here."

  He left, hurrying downstairs.

  Someone started knocking loudly on the front door.

  "Ian Craig? Shawn Young?" The gruff, official voice that called out paused long enough to knock loudly three more times. "Are Ian Craig and Shawn Young on these premises?"

  I peered between the blinds. Some kind of large, black, military SUV was idling in the driveway. Three men in uniform stood beside it. I couldn't tell what kind of uniforms they were, but they definitely weren't local or even state police. The men looked more like soldiers at war. They were dressed in full combat gear. Each held an automatic weapon pointed at the ground. They must have been some kind of military police. They waited without expression while the fourth man, the one in charge who I couldn't see, called out to Ian and Shawn from the front door.

  I wasn't totally shocked when I heard Ian’s name, even if I had no idea who these people were or what they wanted from him. He did have a military background, after all. But I was surprised to hear my husband’s name in the same breath. What could they want with Shawn? I also didn't understand how anybody could possibly know that Shawn and Ian were at my parents' house. Neither my husband nor my brother-in-law had addresses registered here.

  I heard the door open with a creak, then Ian’s startled voice asked, "What is this?"

  It was hard to make out what the man who’d been knocking said in response, but there was something about “emergency conscription orders.”

  I heard Ian say, “No one’s leaving this house.”

  “Sir, you have one option and one option only. One way or another you’re coming with us. Time is extremely sensitive. You’ll be briefed at the center. Here are your orders.”

  Shawn must have arrived at the door while the man in charge was handing over whatever conscription documentation he had.

  “Shawn Young?” he asked.

  “I’m Shawn Young. What’s—”

  “These are your conscription orders, son.”

  After a pause, Ian said, “We’re not even wearing shoes. What is this?”

  “You have exactly thirty seconds to get what you need. Otherwise, appropriate footwear will be provided at the center. I will not repeat again that time is extremely sensitive.”

  At this, the three armed men who'd been standing back actually raised their guns. Practically in unison, they took a few steps forward.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ian said.

  “I assure you, I am not.”

  There was some shuffling in the entryway while Ian and Shawn must have been putting on their shoes and jackets. The uniformed men who had drawn their weapons didn’t move. They kept their guns trained directly at the front door.

  “Our wives are inside,” Ian said. “My kids. We need to tell them we’re leaving, at least.”

  The armed men stepped forward, marching up the front steps and onto the porch, out of my line of sight. All I could see now was the idling SUV with its faint trail of exhaust visible in the cool morning air.

  “Sir, even the very fact of your leaving these premises has to be kept under the utmost secrecy. Do I make myself clear?”

  Suddenly I saw Ian stumbling down the porch. Two of the armed guards were holding his shoulders. Right behind them came Shawn. He was being escorted toward the SUV in the same way, a guard at each arm. It looked like they were being arrested. Ian was in the faded blue jeans he’d slept in, and Shawn was still in his sweats. His tennis shoes were untied.

  The guards threw Ian and Shawn into the large SUV and climbed in behind them without lowering their guns.

  I gave Morgan a quick glance. It was the first time I’d looked at her that morning. She was breathing faster than she’d been the night before. I put my hand on her forehead. She was still burning up. But she was alive.

  “Be right back, sweetie,” I whispered, knowing full well she couldn’t hear me.

  I raced down the stairs. Haley had been using her coloring books at the base of the stairway, and I had to be careful not to slip on the crayons she’d left scattered everywhere. I opened the front door and ran out onto the porch.

  The black SUV was already speeding away.

  I stumbled onto the gravel driveway in my socks. For a moment I considered following after them in my car, but that was obviously a stupid idea. There was nothing I could do. I looked back at my parents’ old farmhouse. Already I was worried about leaving Morgan alone.

  I went back inside. In the entryway, I noticed something stuffed into the pocket of the jacket I’d left hanging on the rack.

  It was an envelope from an unopened credit card offer, partly crumpled. I turned the it over.

  On the back was Ian’s handwriting in purple crayon. He must have taken the envelope from the mail piled in the entryway while putting on his shoes. He’d managed to use one of Haley’s scattered crayons to scribble out a message:

  DO NOT LET ANYONE

  TAKE MORGAN AWAY

  I found my sister’s jacket and rifled through its pockets. Another note, this one written over a post office pink slip, said only:

  AM SAFE

  DON’T WORRY

  LOVE, IAN

  How could he possibly know that he would be safe? After what I’d overheard, there didn’t seem to be any reason to believe I’d see Ian or Shawn anytime soon. Or maybe ever.

  This fact swept over me slowly as I dialed Shawn’s number on my parent’s old rotary phone in the entryway.

  No answer. His phone was off.

  I tried Ian.

  No answer on Ian’s phone, either.

  Their phones had probably been confiscated.

  The house was silent. My parents’ bedroom and Danielle’s bedroom, where she was sleeping with both her kids, were in the back of the house. They’d slept through everything.

  I didn’t wake them. Before I did anything else, I had to figure out what to do with Morgan. I’d barely glanced at her before racing out of the bedroom, but it was clear enough that she hadn’t gotten any better during the night.

  And I was pretty sure now that Morgan wasn’t safe here at the house. Everyone knew she was a close friend of ou
r family. If someone was trying to find her—and Ian seemed to think that someone probably was—it wouldn’t be long before they came looking for her here.

  I had to keep her safe.

  * * *

  Touching Morgan’s forehead was like touching a hot water bottle freshly filled with boiling water. She was sweating, and beads of perspiration had collected on her upper lip and across her cheeks. I was too afraid to take her temperature and find out how high it actually was. Her breathing had sped up so much that she was panting, taking in short little breaths and releasing them maybe two times a second.

  I needed to figure out where to move her, and how. But before anything else, I had to get her some water. Considering how much she’d been sweating, I figured she was probably dehydrated. There was a glass on the bedside table, which I took into the bathroom to fill.

  On my way back through the hallway, I could hear my mom stirring downstairs. She was in the kitchen, cooking. Bacon and eggs, it smelled like. She was probably trying to offer some small, homey comfort to lift everyone’s spirits after everything that had been going on.

  She didn’t know the half of it. She didn’t know that Ian and Shawn had been taken away, not yet. I was pretty sure she had no idea that Mr. Hershel was dead. I didn’t think she even realized that Morgan was still in the house—not at the hospital—and maybe dying in my childhood bed.

  Briefly, I envied my mom. I didn’t think that I’d ever be able to just get up one morning and do something as simple and pleasant as cook eggs. Not ever again.

  I slipped back into my room, eased the door shut, and tipped the water into Morgan’s mouth. She was breathing so quickly that most of the water just spilled down her cheeks. I didn’t know if she’d even swallowed any at all. I tried tipping a few drops at a time between her lips while I figured out how to hide her in a safer place.