“Yeah, we’re being careful and yet someone almost cut off my head.” The burning in my chest intensified. I redirected the conversation just so I could bear it. “We almost moved to Atlanta actually. He’d already rented my office space and signed a lease for my apartment, but then Brinkley chose Nashville at the last minute.”
“Did he say why?” she asked.
“He said it was too hot and too much traffic.” Talking about him made the burn climb higher into my throat—Brinkley where are you?
Ally’s eyes lit up with recognition. “I looked up Atlanta in the car. Eight murders and every single one of them were death-replacement agents.”
Eight agents killed? Why the hell didn’t Brinkley say something? Why didn’t he warn me to be careful, that we have some kind of NRD serial killer on the loose?
“The internet says an anonymous caller was the one who broke the story to the Atlanta press,” she replied. “But that’s all it says.”
I slid farther into the tub so Ally could rinse the shampoo out of my hair and let the gauze get wet. Dried gauze stuck to a wound was hell to peel off. Once it soaked, Ally removed it with tender fingers.
“Why would the bureau hide the fact that death-replacement agents are being murdered?” I asked. And why would my handler leave me alone—defenseless?
“Clearly this isn’t a random isolated event,” Ally said and turned to throw the wad of wet, pink gauze into the trashcan. “Something else is happening.”
Chapter 7
“How are you today, Jesse?” Herwin asked. Because of the angle of the overhead light, Herwin was nothing more than a shadow in the corner, a disembodied voice speaking from beyond.
“In pain,” I replied. I was sluggish from medication and desperate for another pill, which Ally wouldn’t let me have until after therapy. She said my appointment wouldn’t go well if I came doped up. I reminded her that Herwin has seen me in worse shape. I’d completed my mandatory psychic evaluation as soon as I had woken from death before, with a contorted, bloody body and looking like a zombie in the old-fashioned sense. Still, she wouldn’t budge, giving me some crap about being especially good, since I was under investigation.
Herwin wore the only suit I’d ever seen him in, brown tweed that matched his brown office. Brown, brown, brown everything except the walls and floor, which were the same as the rest of the hospital with its cinder-block walls and speckled white floor tiles. It gave me the impression of a bomb shelter or a bunker or something equally submerged and depressing.
I settled into an overstuffed chair that made me feel tiny—another trick to get to my neglected inner child? Big chairs just made me want to cry. Not that I didn’t have plenty to cry about—a court date away from becoming somebody’s bitch, for example.
“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” he asked.
Yes, I thought. Make Brinkley call me. How hard is it to return a phone call?
I let my head fall back against the cushion. “Just get on with it, please.”
He nodded, pulling a stack of cards from his desk. “Look at these and tell me what you see.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I waved a hand to hurry him. “A black bird.”
“And this one?”
“A black dog,” I said.
“And this?”
“Two seals having sex on a rocky beach.”
“Good,” he said. Only a million cards to go.
“My dog Winston, but he’s missing a leg.”
“And this one?”
I didn’t see anything, but you can’t say nothing, at least not when pretending to be sane. So I went with the next best thing—feigned realism. “A puddle of oil left by a clunky old car.”
He put the cards in an even stack by tapping them against the table.
“How’d I do?” I asked.
“Just fine,” he said. He motioned to the couch. “If you’ll stretch out, please.”
I dragged my body out of the chair with much difficulty and stretched myself long on the couch. I got as comfortable as possible, despite this scratchy brown tweed upholstery and the sticky gauze clinging to my neck wound. Once I settled, Herwin moved his chair closer and pulled out the pointer light and shined it down into my eyes. The lights in the warm room softened, making the pointer light look like a searchlight, pouring into my skull.
“Follow the light, Jesse.”
The longer I stared at the light the more relaxed I became. I drifted off and before I knew it, Herwin was out of his chair, exchanging the pointer light for the soft glow of the lamps. He offered me a tissue and I had to sit up to wipe the water out of my eyes.
“How do you feel now?” he asked.
“Tired and sore.” I pinched my eyes shut beneath the tissue. They always watered like hell after the light test. I never really understood what the light test was for. The other therapist, Jen, said it was a kind of hypnosis used to see if we remembered anything from beyond the grave—figuratively speaking.
“Sit tight while I check on your blood work.”
The door clicked shut behind him. I opened my eyes and blinked, trying to focus. I felt dizzy and leaned my head against the couch, hoping it would cease its incessant pounding. No help. And when my spotty vision cleared, I knew for certain that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
Against the opposite wall of Herwin’s office, stood a man. He was tall with dark features and a wide brow. His eyes were light, intense, and his mouth larger than most men’s. One major attribute told me he wasn’t just some guy hanging out in the office—the man had wings.
He looked nonchalant, his arms folded over his chest and black feathers draped over each shoulder. He’d made a mess of feathers on the floor, a few white downy strands sticking to his pressed black suit. I blinked several times, but he didn’t disappear. In fact, his big green eyes just held mine with a placid expression, as if he had all the time in the world.
“Hel-lo,” I said. My voice caught in my throat and I sort of choked on the word. I cleared my pipes and tried again. “Hello. Who are you?”
“You can see me?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah.” I let out a high, nervous burst of laughter. “How could I not see you?”
“I tried to reach you before,” he replied. “It would seem, however, that you agree with my current form.”
Before I could respond, the door opened and Herwin entered. The therapist never took his eyes from the manila folder he held an inch from his button nose. “Which news do you want first?”
“Uh,” I said and gestured to wings over there, leaning against the wall. Herwin looked up from his file folder and blinked. I jabbed my finger at the guy again. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Herwin looked at the wall but not at him. The angle of his gaze was all wrong. “You don’t like the painting?”
“The painting is fine!” I said an octave too high. “What about—him?”
Herwin’s eyes searched that side of the room for an alternative. He settled for a photograph that wasn’t really near the painting at all. “In the picture? It’s my son, Trevor.”
“He cannot see me,” he replied, inspecting his fingernails in the soft light of the lamp. “If you have not noticed.”
And Herwin did appear completely oblivious to the guy in his office or the feathers he kicked up with his feet as he crossed the room to lift the picture from the table. How could he not see the little storm cloud of swirling feathers sticking to his pleated pants? “Shit.”
“Excuse me?” Herwin asked.
“I—uh—” I searched for sane words but it was hard grab ahold of something with the world falling away. “Your son?”
“Yes,” he said and set the picture down. “I have a son and a daughter.”
Herwin shifted his weight and stared at me as if he was completely aware that I was unraveling before his very eyes.
“Let’s hear those test results,” I said. “Good news first, please.” I had a feeling the bad new
s was “you’re crazy.”
“All your blood tests are clean and Dr. York thinks your neck will heal fine.”
“Any brain damage?” I asked, staring at those abnormally green eyes and black wings.
“Nothing unusual,” he said. “Do you feel ill? Headaches or nausea?”
I stared at the wall behind Herwin and it blurred. “Yeah, I have a hellacious headache building right behind my eyes.”
“The pain medication has probably worn off.” Herwin closed the file and took his seat again. “The part that concerns me is the alkaloid levels in your blood. They are above normal now.”
My mouth felt sticky. “Will you have to commit me for that?”
“No,” he said. He patronized me with a smile. “Continue saving people as long you’re able.”
“You told me that my levels were great last time.”
“Yes, they were. Better than average.” Herwin laced his fingers and sat back in his chair. “I’m sure you’re aware the average mind folds around ninety-five deaths. Replacement agents often retire once their alkaloid levels are too high because it signifies toxicity in the blood. You’ve kept your levels real low despite your elevating death rate—but this last replacement. It must have changed something.”
I met those green eyes. Hell yeah, it changed something. And I wasn’t fooled. Retire was code for institutionalized. I wet my lips. “So I shouldn’t do anymore replacements?”
“It would be wise to slow down. But you’ve got another year or so at this rate.”
“Listen to him,” he said with a twitch of his wing.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I replied. My hands clasped my mouth in surprise. My God, I just spoke to an illusion. I’d officially lost my mind.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Sullivan. You’re right. I’m not here to give you career advice. And you must be under a good deal of stress now. Would you like to talk about what happened in the hotel room?”
No way in hell I was going to explain to Herwin that I wasn’t talking to him. That I was talking to a hallucination. And about what happened at the hotel room—where to start? What was more traumatic—the smorgasbord of prostitution? Partial decapitation? Being straddled by a pantyless sex worker?
I forced a tight smile. “I’m just tired. I should go lie down, or something.”
“It’s difficult living in a highly political climate with passionate people whose views differ from your own. That being said, you should know you deserve all the same rights to life, liberty, and happiness as everyone else. Do you know this, Jesse?”
I waved a disinterested hand and thought of pills. Not just pain pills. What did hallucinating people take? Some kind of anti-psychotic, right? I could manage this. I just needed the right pill—but how to get Herwin to prescribe an anti-psychotic without arousing his suspicion? Maybe an anti-anxiety med would hold me. I could ask for that right? Later. Yeah, later.
“I’ve got to go,” I said. “That headache is getting worse.”
Herwin offered his apologies but I’d already stumbled out of the office. The hallway whirled on its side. I hit something solid with my hip and then saw a nurse run past me down the hall, chasing after her medication cart.
How the hell was I going to keep a six-foot invisible guy with wings a secret? How does someone pretend not to hallucinate?
“You start by not talking to yourself,” he replied.
I whirled on him, processing what he’d just said. The dark smudge of his body against all that sterile white was startling enough. The strange expressions from the nursing staff and the man at the vending machine retrieving his Coke suggested, indeed, I had narrated my concerns aloud.
I flashed a few tight smiles and laughed. Nothing to worry about here. But under my breath I muttered. “Not another word.”
I found Ally where I’d left her. Dr. Stanley York stood beside her in his lab coat. Both of them looked really grave about whatever it was they were speaking about. Ally bobbed her head up and down slowly, regretfully, like she hated to agree with what Dr. York was saying. They were talking about putting me away forever.
“Not hospitalization, no, but they are talking about you,” he said. I jumped at his voice in my ear.
“Did they lie about me passing my exams? Did they just want me to voluntarily come out to the waiting room so they could get me here?” Why was I whispering? Hell, why was I asking him?
“They didn’t lie,” he said.
I didn’t see any cops or staff on hand to sedate me. The only cop I saw wasn’t even dressed properly. His shirt was all wrinkled and untucked as he leaned over the nurses’ station to kiss a nurse.
“It’s his wife,” he said, as if he’d been watching the pair too.
I whirled on him. “I thought I told you to quit talking to me.”
“Jess?” Ally said. Great, she’d probably just heard me yelling at myself.
“Congratulations, Jesse,” Dr. York said. He extended his hands to envelop mine as I crept toward the pair. “I hear you passed your tests with flying colors.”
“Except that I’ve got high alkaloid levels,” I replied, suspicious of his well-wishing. Ally forced me into my jacket.
I tried to pay attention to Dr. York but wings over there made me nervous. He was eyeing Ally.
“You’re not in a hurry, are you?” Dr. York asked. I refocused.
“No, not necessarily.” This was it. They were going to keep me here. Ally scratched her cheek when a feather brushed it but she never acknowledged the cause. I turned farther away, using my back as a shield against the weirdness. At the very least, I didn’t have to look at him.
“What do you need?” I asked. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.
“I heard about the FBRD suspending your replacement license, but I hope you will still do the seminar. I spoke to Special Agent Garrison and he is perfectly fine with that.”
The back of my neck crawled. Don’t look around. Just answer him. “I don’t feel well. Can’t someone else do it?”
“Cindy was scheduled to, but she took one of Cooper’s replacements. I understand you are very busy. Really, your work load is already quite impressive. If only all the agents serving our community were as fine as you.”
Flattery. My one true weakness. “When is the seminar?”
“Friday.” He let his pleading eyes seal the deal. Damn it.
“I don’t know why more NRD-positives aren’t dying to become replacement agents,” I replied. Because sarcasm makes everything better.
“Exactly,” he beamed. “See you Friday. Until then, get some rest.”
Rest? My hallucination was picking at his under-feathers.
Just before the good doctor rounded the corner, he called out to the nurse behind the station. “Stacy, tell your husband to wait until your break.”
Blushing, the nurse stepped away from her cop and pulled at the hem of her scrub shirt.
Her husband. It really was her husband. Had I known that before my illusion told me?
“Turn that up,” Ally said as she came to stand beside me. I turned my attention in the same direction and saw a familiar face in the television hanging above the nurse’s head.
“Ms. Sullivan, is it true a woman by the name of Eve Hildebrand tried to kill you?”
“Yes. Ouch.” A strung out looking zombie with rat nest hair bulging from one side of her head, answered with a raspy voice.
“I look like shit,” I said. Ally took my hand to reassure.
I should’ve been mad. My first time on television and I looked horrible. But I wasn’t mad because I couldn’t quit thinking about my newest problem—and what the hell I was going to do about him.
“My name is Gabriel,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.
“No,” I said. “No, no, no.”
“You don’t look so bad, honest,” Ally said, misunderstanding my panic.
No names, I thought. No names.
After all, if hallucinations were anything like pup
pies, then names meant something. A name meant it would stick around.
Chapter 8
I sat crossed legged on my bed with two white 800mg painkillers on the comforter in front of me. Ally had given me the pills and the glass of water on the bedside table before disappearing downstairs to work in the home office. Though she’d already given our paperwork to Garrison, she wanted to get all our papers in order in the event this investigation got uglier. Clearly, she’d been talking to her brother.
Of course, no amount of paper would undo the fact that I murdered my stepdad, if that secret got out. Gabriel sat in my desk chair, his massive wings stretched all over the desk itself. He’d knocked my pencil cup to the floor without as much as an apology. I couldn’t chastise him louder than a whisper because I was supposed to be asleep.
I pointed at the growing pile of feathers at his feet. “Do you shed like that wherever you go? It’s screwing with my OCD.” I couldn’t get the picture out of my head—his wings out the window as Ally drove, little black feathers swirling up to the sky at fifty-five miles per hour.
“You are the only one who sees them.” He didn’t bother to whisper like I did.
“How do you do that?” I asked. “How can you be both real and not real? I mean, none of you is real, but—” My voice faltered.
When he didn’t answer, only blinking those large green cat-eyes at me, I resorted to gesturing wildly. “Like in the car you were sitting in the seat, but your wings went right through the door and out the back like the car wasn’t there. But you were there enough to sit in the seat. And you’re doing it again now with my desk!”
He shrugged. “I do not know.”
“What do you know?” Again he said nothing. “How am I supposed to figure out what you are if you won’t talk to me?”
He tilted his head. “Why must you understand what I am?”
“Because something is wrong with me!” I took a breath. “I’m trying to figure out if I’m having a psychotic episode. Help me out here.”
He sat up straighter in his seat, losing that casual air of his for just a moment. Instantly, I realized the ridiculous nature of asking my hallucination to help me distinguish itself as a spiritual being or a psychotic episode. Then his tie changed colors, from black to the green of his eyes.
Dying for a Living (A Jesse Sullivan Novel) Page 7