Angels Weep

by C. J. Lyons

  Fish, her father’s voice sang through her mind as her fingers moved. After everything I taught you, here you are, caught like all the other stupid Fish. Trapped. Powerless. Weak.

  Not for long, she promised herself. As soon as she was strong enough—

  Sad excuses. Face it, you like it here. Force-fed, pampered, hiding from who you really are. Don’t you know, girl? You can’t outrun the Wolf. Can’t run and can’t hide. Best to leave before someone else gets hurt.

  A hand touched Morgan’s shoulder, and she startled, overturning the glue bottle. “Morgan, it’s just me.”

  She turned. Micah was smiling down at her. “Thought you might like a picnic lunch.” He held up his knapsack, the odor of fried chicken making her mouth water. But as he reached past her to straighten the tumbled glue bottle, his smile faded. “Did you make this?”

  The other children stopped, all eyes on Morgan’s handiwork. She’d filled the blank paper with bits and pieces of people: men, women, children, their limbs torn off and scattered, heads twisted and askew, body parts connected by ribbons of angry red.

  Maria snuffled and turned away. Theo pushed forward, shielding Justin. Nelson and Tia just stared. Morgan spread both palms over the sticky mass of paper and glue and balled it up, hiding it from sight. She wadded it as tight as she could, squeezing and squeezing until the ink left her hands colored bloody.

  She didn’t meet Micah’s eyes as she pushed back from the table and hobbled over to the sink. The tight ball of dismembered bodies fell to the drain as she washed her hands clean.

  Micah joined her, taking a handful of paper towels to scoop the soaked wad of paper from the sink into the trash, and then handed her another towel to dry her hands. She dared to glance into the mirror and was surprised to see tears streaking her cheeks—she hadn’t even known she was crying, just as she hadn’t known what kind of bloodstained savage art she’d created. The reflection felt more real than her own body, gazing at her from a dispassionate distance.

  Then Micah touched her arm and brought her back to herself. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Want me to get your walker?”

  She shook her head and wrapped her arm around his. “Just need you.”

  “Sure?”

  She nodded. “Outside. I want to go outside.”

  “Okay.” Together they walked past her bed, pausing only for him to grab a hoodie for her, helping her with the jacket and zipping it up when her fingers couldn’t join the ends of the zipper together.

  The other children said nothing as she and Micah left, but she felt their gazes lasered against her spine. Wondering what kind of creature had been invited to share their den, no doubt. Worried that maybe the whistling bogeyman was the least of their fears.

  Can’t run from the Wolf, her father laughed.

  She clutched Micah tighter even though her legs felt fairly steady. The horizon wasn’t wobbling the way it had yesterday; she felt more grounded than she had in weeks.

  Feeling a sudden, selfish urge for privacy, she led him past the entrance to the atrium and then to one of the side exits to the real outside. He hesitated but said nothing as he held the door open for her, and they emerged into sunshine so bright it turned his pale hair into a halo struck through with golden gleams.

  Blinking, she let him lead her down a paved path to a picnic table. The air was cool and crisp, scented with the faintest hint of spring flowers—tulips? Lilacs? She wasn’t sure; she’d never had time to think about flowers before.

  They sat side by side at the table, their backs to the clinic, and Morgan took her first deep breath in what felt like years. Bushes laden with colorful pink and purple flowers—azaleas, she thought—crowded in with more bushes budding tiny yellow-green promises of more flowers to come. Why hadn’t she ever paid attention to flowers before? They were magical tiny time travelers, here today, vanished tomorrow, but returning without fail to bear witness, year after year.

  She smiled at the fanciful thought, certain it was something Micah had put into her head. He was an artist and noticed things like flowers and the way the sun sifted through springtime leaves and how time and weather could transform a cheap lumber picnic table into a thing of beauty.

  Content to bask in the sunshine, she placed her hand over his and simply sat, head tilted to the sky. This was all she wanted…just this simple moment.

  Too soon it was over. He removed his hand to open his knapsack and bring out the lunch he’d brought. Not fried chicken—too hard for her to chew and swallow—but chicken salad, made extra thick but without any chunks she could choke on. He finished first because it took her so long to eat, but she managed to not drop her spoon—a regular-sized one—or dribble too much onto the napkin she tucked into her collar.

  “School?” she asked, to get the conversation started while she finished eating. It was nice not being rushed; the tang and tartness and savory bits and pieces had a chance to mingle and dance along her taste buds. She made a mental note to start learning more about flowers and food. Her life needed more color and flavor—the good kind, not the copper-scented blood and terror kind.

  “Fine,” he answered. Although he sounded anything but. She untucked her napkin, wiped her hands and mouth, and waited. He packed up their trash and shoved it back into his pack—he’d recycle it later at home, she knew. Then he took out a phone and handed it to her. “Yours. You left it in my car before…”

  She nodded, examining the small piece of plastic and electronics as if it were the Rosetta Stone. It felt just right in her hand, as if a part of her that had been missing had returned home. So many things she could do with this phone—with any phone—once her brain fog cleared. But for now, it was enough to merely hold it once again.

  “I know you’re not allowed to have a phone or anything,” he said. “It’s against the rules. But I wanted you—”

  He interrupted himself by sliding the phone from her hand and setting it between them. “You said words were still an issue, so I took the liberty of adding a private dictionary—pictures and emojis, to make things easier for you. See, just touch this.” A tiny photo of Micah smiling into the camera appeared. “And you can call me. Or this, and it will start a text to me. Swipe here.” He guided her fingers in the motion. “It takes you to this whole list of other words and pictures, just like your communication board. So even if we’re not together or if you can’t talk, we can still…”

  His words trailed off. She glanced at his face, her fears confirmed as his expression told her everything his words hadn’t. She snatched the phone from him, securing it in her pocket. Turned away, then turned back again. “You’re leaving.”

  “No, I’m not going anywhere. I just won’t be able to come here. Not as often, at least. My moms, they—” He shook his head, his hair falling into his face, hiding his eyes from her.

  “I’m bad for you.” His mothers were right. She had no idea what Micah saw in her or why he’d stayed with her as long as he had.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  He sat, shoulders slumped, not touching her. “It’s not a lie. You’re not bad for me. It’s just…the things your father did.”

  “Things we did.” It was too difficult to place emphasis on any single word, but he knew what she meant.

  He said nothing, simply nodded, his gaze glued to the ground. She swallowed, surprised to find her mouth dry. “Who was I?”

  “You still can’t remember?”

  She raised her head, squinted at the sun for so long that even hidden behind her sunglasses, her vision spiked red. “I can. But it doesn’t feel…real? More like a dream than a memory.”

  “Maybe it’s better that way. Better not to remember.”

  “No. It’s not. It…” She struggled for the right word. “Haunts me.”

  He took both hands in hers, his gaze settling onto hers, a brightly lit doorway leading home on a cold, dark night. “The girl I knew—the girl I know—she’s brave and smart and
stubborn. Boy, is she stubborn. But in a good way. Once she sees a problem, she won’t stop until she finds a way to fix things. She knows right from wrong better than anyone, doesn’t sugar coat it or try to take the easy way out, doesn’t rationalize that things are okay the way they are or that they could be worse. She doesn’t worry about the consequences to herself. Once she decides what’s right, what’s best to help people who can’t help themselves, she does it. No questions asked. That’s who you are.”

  His words danced around her like the fragile spring perfume. Easily blown away by any sudden gust of wind.

  “Do you believe me?” he asked, squeezing her hands.

  “Yes.” But it wasn’t the whole truth, that much she knew. Even if the details were still hidden in the shadows of forgotten memory.

  “Then don’t worry about the rest. Just worry about getting better. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “I have to go.” He dropped her hands. “I’m not even supposed to be here today, but I couldn’t not come and tell you, try to explain. It’s just until school’s out—maybe not even that long if you’re out of here before then. Depending on where you end up, I mean.”

  The thought of the state putting her into a foster home where Micah could never find her simmered through her, at first a shivering chill but quickly building into a roiling cauldron of rage. “No!” The word was a shout that made Micah jump. “No. Let’s go. Now. You and me. Now. Go. We’ll go.”

  Emotions shredded her words. She knew she made no sense—where would they go? The whole idea was insane, impossible. But it didn’t matter. Not if it meant that she would be free of this place, free to be with Micah.

  His face fell, and she realized she’d forced him to play the role of the protector, taking responsibility and being strong enough for both of them. That wasn’t the girl he’d just described; that girl wasn’t weak or helpless. That girl hadn’t needed anyone.

  He hugged her tight, her face against his shoulder, their cheeks touching. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I can’t—we can’t. Don’t worry. As soon as you’re better, I’ll find you. I’ll think of something, I promise.”

  For the first time since she’d met him, she didn’t believe him.

  “There you are.” A woman’s voice sliced the air. Paterson, Morgan recognized without looking.

  Micah slowly pushed her away and stood to face the doctor. Morgan turned in her seat and saw Paterson standing with John Lazarus.

  “Mr. Chase, I’ve warned you that your visitation privileges have been revoked. Do I need to call security?”

  “No, ma’am,” Micah said. He didn’t sound sheepish or scared, despite Paterson’s glare. “I just came to tell Morgan that I wouldn’t be able to see her again. For a while,” he added, one hand squeezing Morgan’s shoulder.

  “Ms. Ames is at a very delicate point in her recovery. You do her no good by—”

  Morgan pushed to her feet. “I can hear.” Damn, she hated being treated like a child; or worse, an object. “I want Micah to stay. He helps me.”

  “I’m sure you feel that way, young lady. But you have no real understanding of exactly how sick you actually are. Say goodbye to your friend, and John will escort him off the premises.”

  “Bye, Morgan.” Micah gave her a quick kiss on the lips, earning another glare from the two adults.

  John took him by the elbow and steered him down the path. “Next time we’ll call the cops,” Morgan heard John say.

  She took a step after them, but Paterson stood in her way. “Now then,” the doctor said, brushing her hands as if she’d just taken out the trash, “tell me what you two were talking about that was so important that Mr. Chase broke the rules. Or maybe there was another reason for his clandestine visit? He does know you’re underage, does he not?”

  “He was teaching me to make chicken salad,” Morgan said.

  Paterson rolled her eyes. “Very well, if you say so. Come with me. It’s time for your therapy.”

  Morgan wanted to march back inside, show Paterson that she didn’t need more therapy, but she tripped over the edge of the pavement and went sprawling into the grass. Paterson swore under her breath. “Wait here. I’ll get a wheelchair.”

  So much for independence, Morgan thought. At least Micah hadn’t been there to see it. Which only reminded her that she might not see him again anytime soon. Morgan remembered her phone and touched the pocket of her jacket. It was still there. Her lifeline to the world outside.

  She pulled it out. The screen had cracked from her fall. Would it still work?

  Paterson was on her way back. Morgan hid the phone in her hand and shoved her hand in her pocket, holding it tight. Then she remembered—she hadn’t had a chance to tell Micah about the whistler stalking the clinic at night, to ask if he could help.

  A car door slammed in the distance, and John Lazarus reappeared at the edge of her vision. Micah was gone. She was on her own.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jenna looped her silk scarf around her neck and draped it over her blouse. “Does this look okay?”

  Andre, dressed in his usual long-sleeved Under Armour top and jeans, glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror. “The blue in the scarf matches your eyes.”

  Not answering her question—meaning he had no idea what she was asking. Men. She sighed, fiddled with the scarf, added her leather jacket, and re-appraised. With his usual uncanny sensitivity—Morgan and Nick were the only other people who could read her so easily—Andre settled his palms on her shoulders and rested his chin on the top of her head. “You look beautiful.”

  She didn’t quite believe him, especially since she hadn’t had more than a few hours of sleep after leaving the hospital that morning, but she nodded anyway, grabbed her bag, and he followed her out of their loft down to the garage. As she climbed into the driver’s seat of the Tahoe, she tried a few of the deep breathing exercises Nick had taught her to curb her anxiety. By the time Andre joined her, she felt a little better, except for a nervous flutter that scratched at the back of her throat.

  “Relax,” he said. “Nick said case conferences are routine. It’s just to review Morgan’s progress and to set realistic expectations and goals. It’s not like back when she was in the ICU and they needed to decide whether or not to do surgery. Or make her a DNR or not.”

  Bitterness colored his voice—Andre had not taken kindly to being shut out of Morgan’s life after the authorities realized who she was and that she was a minor. He’d felt as if he’d abandoned her. Plus, with his vast experience with hospitals as the survivor of an IED blast that had left over sixty percent of his body covered in burns, Andre did not trust medical professionals.

  “They’re all assassins,” he’d muttered to Jenna, once he’d somehow convinced the ICU doctors to allow them visiting privileges. “Don’t trust anyone. Watch them like a hawk. Ask questions, make them double check everything. They’ll hate you for it, but that’s okay.”

  But now Morgan was out of the hospital, in rehab, out of danger… Except what she’d said about the little girl who’d died the night before still haunted Jenna.

  “What if they tell us she’ll never get any better than she is now?” She voiced her fears—Nick said that was the best way to mitigate them, and Andre never saw her admissions as failures or flaws. One of the many reasons she loved him. No one in her life had ever made her feel so safe and protected and yet so independent and free. It was a paradox, but one she’d never question.

  “No way. Everyone’s said her progress has been remarkable.” He sounded like a proud father.

  “I was talking with a few of the other families. They said sometimes kids will wake and make progress and then just stall out, plateau. Or even get worse, as if they’d burned themselves out.”

  “Maybe. But this is Morgan. She plays by her own rules.” As if Morgan had the power to circumvent medical science. Although, Jenna had to admit, if anyone did, it would be Morgan. The girl was simply that willful.
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br />   They reached Angels of Hope and parked. The rehab clinic was a single-story modern building shaped like an open square with an atrium at its center. Its exterior walls were made of steel and glass tinted for privacy, and it sat on a sprawling eleven acres of land that was mostly wooded, with paved paths accessible to wheelchairs and walkers. Dr. Lazarus believed in the healing properties of nature, which was why he’d bought this former apple orchard on the outskirts of Pittsburgh for his clinic.

  Once she left her Tahoe, Jenna smoothed invisible wrinkles from her slacks. Why was she so nervous? Wasn’t as if Morgan were family—hell, most of the time they were sparring and trading barbs. Except for times when they were saving each other’s lives—or sacrificing everything to save someone else. She glanced at Andre waiting for her at the curb. Without Morgan, he’d be dead.

  Nick pulled into the parking slot on the other side of the Tahoe and hopped out of his Ford Escape. Lucy wasn’t with him, Jenna noted—the FBI agent had cut all ties with Morgan after Morgan had interfered with one of her cases last December. It was a fragile détente, with Nick forced into the role of diplomat since Morgan came to him for counseling. He, like Andre, was optimistic about her ability to leave her sociopathic, homicidal tendencies behind and turn her talents to something other than killing.

  She shook her head. Men. Morgan might have them fooled, but Jenna knew better. Once a sociopath, always a sociopath. Although she did agree that Morgan could use her talents in a positive way; namely by working for Galloway and Stone Security Consultants and helping them close cases.

  They gathered on the sidewalk near one of the large maples that shaded the walkway. “One of the girls in Morgan’s ward died last night,” she told Nick.

  “Honey,” he said. “I saw this morning. The nurses said it was a prolonged seizure.”

  Andre frowned, his gaze moving past Nick and Jenna to settle on the clinic’s entrance.

  “Morgan thinks someone killed her,” Jenna said bluntly. She told Nick what Morgan had told her. It sounded crazy here in the bright April sunshine. A man’s footsteps, a stranger creeping into a children’s ward.