by J. R. Rain
Last I checked, Hannah had no shoes on, nor was she ambulatory.
Her grandparents wouldn’t be trying to sneak into her room. That foreboding I had the whole time the girl had been drifting on a life raft comes back strong.
I leap off the pot and rush to the door while hiking my jeans up.
A large-bodied man at the opposite side of her bed from where I stand fumbles with the IV line going into the back of her left hand, hunting for the injector port halfway between the needle and the dangling bag. He’s got a syringe in his other hand, and I don’t at all like the vibe I’m getting from him.
I shove the bathroom door open so it whacks the wall to startle him. He jumps and goes still, staring at me. All I care about is getting him away from Hannah. I rush around the foot of the bed, flying into him with a body check that throws him into the wall. He lets out a grunt, and before he can recover his balance, I grab his right wrist, holding the syringe at bay.
“You’re not a doctor. What are you doing here?” I ask, almost shouting.
Even as pissed off as I am, I can make myself so supernaturally beautiful in his mind, he would do anything to please me, be near me, get to touch me. His surprise and anger melt to a placid smile. I invade his mind, pushing my way past the idyllic vision of me taking up most of his thought processes. The image of a pudgy, disheveled man in dirty clothes―like an auto mechanic in the middle of his day―forms. Curly grey-brown hair and a goatee make him look like a washed-up pro wrestler from the 80s who got too fat to perform anymore.
“Who is that?” I let a hint of snarl into my voice.
He flashes a languid smile. “Vern. Uhh, Vernon Baker.”
“Who is he?”
“You know, he puts guys who want legs broken in touch with guys who break legs.”
I squeeze his syringe-bearing wrist a little harder. “He hired you to hurt this child?”
“Yeah.” The man stares at me like we’re about to share a night of passion. “He offered me $10,000 to get rid of this little problem, and got me a syringe of potass-a-whatever chlor-something. Supposed to stop the heart.”
Rage gets the better of me and I slam the piece of shit into the wall beside the bed, pushing him up off his feet.
He gurgles, snapping out of the charmed daze.
I wrap my hand over his fist and force his arm up, positioning the needle like a dagger over his heart. “You were going to murder a child for money. The world has no need of you.”
He screams, unable to open his hand to drop the needle. This guy’s huge, but I’m a lot stronger than I look. He realizes he can’t overpower me, so he decides to lift me off the ground since I’m no heavier than I should be for my size.
The thug swings me into Hannah’s bed, bumping it and knocking over her IV tower with a hollow, aluminum clatter. Snarling, I surge, shoving him back into the wall while at the same time ramming his right arm forward so the needle penetrates his sternum. A dawning expression of horror on his face deepens as I grab his right thumb and use it to empty the syringe into his heart. A strangled, wheezing gasp escapes his throat while he feebly tries to yank the needle away, but it’s stuck in the bone. The man paws absently at his chest, face red, grimacing from pain that must burn like a tiny furnace eating him alive inside. Potassium chloride is exquisitely painful when injected.
I keep him pinned to the wall until his eyes roll back into his head. At the rapid approach of footsteps in the hallway, I drop him face down and take a step back two seconds before a nurse and a man in teal scrubs run in and stop short at the sight of the guy.
One of the thug’s legs twitches.
The nurse gawks at him briefly then stares at me. “What happened?”
“I came out of the bathroom and surprised this guy while he was trying to inject something in Hannah’s IV. He tried to run, tripped, and didn’t get up.”
The nurse glances at the guy in scrubs. “I’ll get security.”
“You said he fell?” The doctor takes a knee to check on the thug. His confusion at the man’s condition evaporates when he spots the bent syringe sticking out of his chest. He turns his face toward the door and shouts, “Need a crash cart in here!”
I pick the IV stand up before moving around to the right side of the bed and taking Hannah’s hand again. Unless I’m imagining things, she’d cuddled the stuffed unicorn. Aww. Probably used to sleeping with it and did it unconsciously. At least it makes sense why simply being in the room dispelled my uneasy feeling. She needed a protector. How long had that guy been watching, waiting for the grandparents to walk away? He couldn’t have been here long if he didn’t realize I had come to visit.
The doctor rolls the thug onto his back and pulls out the syringe, which takes some effort and makes him grunt.
Fortunately, the thug is huge and I’m on the thin side, so no one in their right mind would ever imagine little ol’ me being responsible for his condition.
Two more nurses rush in pushing a red cart with several drawers. The medical crew tries valiantly for a minute or three, even hitting him with paddles, but the thug doesn’t respond. That much potassium chloride directly to the heart would’ve killed a moose. The mere idea that he almost gave it to a helpless child makes me snarl low, in a tone no human should be able to produce.
Licinia approves.
“The hell?” The doctor looks around.
The crash cart nurses jump. One stares at me for a second before leaning to peer around me at the window. “I thought I heard like a tiger or something growling.”
“Yeah. That was strange.” The doctor sits back on his heels, shaking his head. “We lost him.”
“Oh, I hate this eerie crap,” says one of the nurses. “If anyone says that was his ghost, I’m gonna slap you.”
Hospital security plus a few Seattle Police officers show up around the time a gurney is wheeled in to remove the man from the room. I give a statement, helped along with a bit of charm. I’m in luck; the female officer must like women. My version of events is mostly honest. I explain that I’m a PI working for the girl’s grandparents who went to the cafeteria after asking me to stay with her. Came out of the bathroom, saw this guy about to inject something in her IV line, and shouted. He tried to run, fell, and somehow landed perfectly on the needle.
“Wow. Freaky shit happens.” A dark-skinned cop shakes his head, almost chuckling. “Guess God was watchin’ out for her.”
Oh sure. I do all the work and God gets the credit.
“Yeah.” His partner gives me a hungry stare before she closes her little notebook.
After I insist I’m okay, don’t need to talk to a shrink, and don’t need any medical help, the security team leaves. The doctor checks Hannah over and, evidently satisfied with her condition, jots some things down on an electronic tablet before walking out.
I’m alone with her for three minutes before she stirs and her sea-blue eyes flutter open. She stares at me for a few silent seconds before sitting up and clamping on in a tight hug.
“You saved me,” whispers Hannah.
I wrap my arms around her and give her a pat or two on the back. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”
The child continues clinging, whispering into my ear, “You’re a mermaid. You saved me.”
I can’t help but grin. When she leans back, I look her in the eye. “It’s important that you don’t tell anyone about that, okay?”
“Only bad people tell kids not to tell anyone stuff.” She wipes at her nose.
“You’re right, but sometimes people who aren’t bad need to keep secrets too. If people find out I’m a real mermaid, I’ll wind up in a giant fish tank somewhere being poked with needles.”
She gasps, wide-eyed. “Okay. I don’t want anyone to put you in a tank.”
Seeing her blithely unaware of what almost happened to her warms me inside. I ruffle her hair. “Neither do I. Oh, I brought you something.” I nab the unicorn plush and hand it to her.
“Uni!” she cheers.
“You saved Uni too!”
Hannah smiles and scoots back on her bed, hugging her plushie while swaying side to side. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s a new one, so I let it ride. She whispers to the plush, asking him if he’s okay and telling it she’s happy the bad man didn’t stick him with a knife too. Ugh.
She eventually lies back, swishing her feet side to side under the blanket. Hannah looks healthy, no worse than a kid who overslept. Her bright expression falters after a little while of silence, and she frowns at her lap. “Daddy’s friend had a knife. He hurt Mommy until she went to sleep again.”
I swallow hard. Dropping bad news on adults is difficult enough. I’m not sure I can―
“They’re dead, aren’t they? Like Hammy.” She lifts her head and makes eye contact. “He was a hamster. He got out of his cage and Mommy sucked him up on accident with the vacuum.”
“I’m sorry, Hannah.” I take her hand again. “Your parents are with Hammy now.”
She tilts her head, eyebrows scrunching together, mouth open. “They’re buried in the backyard?”
I can’t help myself, and giggle for a second before clamping a hand over my mouth. “No, Hannah. They’ve become part of the world again, where souls go after our bodies are gone.”
“Oh.” She looks down and cuddles the unicorn. “Is that man going to get a time out?”
“Yes, a very long one,” I say. “But you might have to tell the police what happened.”
She nods. “Okay. When he made the water go in the boat, I ran outside. The yellow boat was there, so I got in. It had air in it so it wouldn’t go underwater. I untied the rope and pushed so it floated away before he could get me, too. The man was angry with me. He yelled a bunch of bad words, but I was too far, so he didn’t jump in the water an’ come after me.”
“Hannah, you’re an extremely brave little girl.” I squeeze her hand. Wow, this kid is taking her parents’ deaths in stride. Probably in shock. The reality of it hasn’t hit her yet.
“The bad man hurt my parents,” whispers Hannah. Seconds later, her lip quivers, and she bursts into a fit of hard sobbing, jumping into another hug. Her thoughts leak into mine. She stayed up all night, huddling in the raft, rubbing her feet on the blanket to keep her toes from going numb. Soon after the sun came up, she passed out from exhaustion. When she awoke, it appeared to be late afternoon. I get bits and pieces of her trying to wave at distant boats, sitting in a ball terrified, or singing to herself. From the look of it, my guess of the killing occurring on Friday night is correct. She’d been drifting all weekend, and the better part of Monday.
Geez, this kid’s guardian angel must’ve been working overtime.
I don’t think they punch a time clock.
You’re too serious.
I am. They’re real.
If that’s true, why does anyone die? What about David and Christina? Or my ship sinking?
I said they’re real, not infallible. You wanted adventure, and you have become quite fond of being a mermaid. Who’s to say what destiny had in store for you?
I’d be fond of anything that’s kept me from having menstrual cramps since 1924. But, you told me this has cut my soul off from the cycle, ended my existence…eventually.
Well, yes… but… Licinia’s voice turns sorrowful. Things happen for reasons. What happened to you was no act of mortal free will. The universe set things in motion.
I haven’t had enough coffee for a conversation of this depth. I smile sadly at the wall, still patting Hannah on the back. She cries for her parents, clinging to me. I do my best to answer her ‘why’ questions. My best theory at present is that Troy wanted something her father wouldn’t give him.
Gerald and Lorraine shuffle into the doorway. As soon as they notice their granddaughter up and about, bawling, they almost kill themselves in their haste to rush over.
“Easy, don’t run,” I say, standing.
“Gran! Pop!” Hannah yells. “She saved me!”
Shit.
Hannah gives me an ‘oh crap’ look.
I wink at her. “It’s all right.”
“So we heard.” Gerald glances at the floor. “Bastard.”
Lorraine swats at him. “Gerry, not in front of Hannah.”
Oh, they think she meant that guy with the needle. I sit back as they dote over her. The joy of seeing her grandparents momentarily pushes aside her sorrow. This poor kid’s life is forever changed because of what Troy did. Growing up with grandparents isn’t the like having parents. They’ll try, but it’s not the same. My Mom was all I had, and that sort of thing carried a whole other set of baggage in those days. I guess everyone’s a little broken. Maybe she’s better off. I shouldn’t assume she had a perfect life. What if her father worked all the time and never spent a moment with her? Of course, the more pressing question on my mind is making sure Hannah actually does grow up.
The fact remains someone tried to murder an eight-year-old with a syringe of nastiness.
I don’t care if the Stricklands ask me to or not.
I’m going to hunt down everyone involved.
y phone goes off, startling everyone. I’m about to ignore it when I notice the caller ID. Restricted. Definitely Serrano.
“Sorry. It’s the police. I have to.” I hurry out into the hall before answering. “Paolo…”
“What happened over there, Alex?”
He sounds worried. Good. Not accusatory. I give him a more-or-less true explanation of what happened. “… kinda freaky how he landed perfectly on that syringe.”
“Yeah. Kinda convenient.” He sighs. “You know these things called testimony and plea bargains help out, right?”
I roll my eyes. “If you ask me, the man got off easy. Straight potassium chloride hurts like a son of a bitch, and he was going to do that to a little girl. Don’t worry about not being able to cut a deal with him. I have a lead already. The palooka mentioned a guy by the name of Vernon Baker before he tripped. That guy with the needle was no one important, just a torpedo.”
Paolo chuckles. “I know the name. It comes up during a lot of my cases. These dealers go to him when they need collections. You’re really into that whole PI shtick, aren’t you? You talk like an old gangster movie.”
“Heh. Maybe I do,” I say. “Don’t worry about Baker. I’m handling it.”
“Dammit.” Paolo catches himself and lowers his near-shout to a whispery mumble. “You can’t simply arrange accidents for everyone who breaks the law. That’s not how ‘low key’ works. People with secrets shouldn’t be drawing attention.”
“I know, Dad.” I wink at nothing. “I’m not planning on taking him for a ride. I’ll try to get you enough evidence to do things the legal way, though I may give him a bit of an anointing.”
“What?’
Drat. The language one grows up with lives in a reflexive place. “A bruise or three if he gets out of line.”
“Don’t do anything careless,” says Paolo.
“I won’t. Look, hey, since I’ve got you on the phone… Can you post a uniform in her room? At least until we know why someone threw ten thousand clams at killing a child?”
“You’re doing that on purpose now.”
I pause a second. “What?”
“Talking old-timey.”
“Oh, maybe I am, ya big lug.” I chuckle. “So, how ‘bout it huh? Think you can get someone to keep an eye on her?”
Serrano’s keyboard clicks in the background. “Yeah I think so. You lookin’ at Troy for that attempt on the girl?”
“Unless Hannah’s deeply indebted to some second-grade crime boss for illicit cupcake sales, I’m thinking it’s Troy.”
“I hope you can prove it.”
A sinister smile spreads across my face. “I don’t have to prove anything if they decide to confess because I’ve convinced them it’s the noble thing to do.”
“If they come in here black and purple…”
“Nothing of the sort, detective,” I say,
all innocence. “Nothing of the sort.”
He grumbles something unintelligible before clearing his throat. “All right. Be safe.”
“Will do, and thanks.”
I spend another hour or so with the Stricklands, during which Hannah goes back and forth from quiet normal to crying over her parents. Lorraine’s grumble about hoping Troy goes to jail for a long time sets her off with worry that he might try to hurt her. I can’t stand seeing such terror in the eyes of a child as young as she is, so I slip in with a hug and whisper a promise to take her for a mermaid swim once everything settles down.
She beams and hugs me, again swearing she won’t tell anyone I’m real.
Eventually, a cop shows up to guard the room, and I head out, intent on finding this Vernon Baker and putting an end to the threat on Hannah’s life. No one bothers me on the way across the hospital and down the elevator to the parking deck. After an irritatingly long stop at the gate to pay for parking, I zip into traffic. When I’m about six minutes from my office, a chirp comes from my phone and makes me growl.
Damn. What timing.
One cheating husband is on the move. No bizarre worry comes over me when I think about changing direction, so I pull over long enough to dig my phone out and open the tracker app. After mounting the phone on a dashboard holder, I swing a U-ey and follow the GPS dot for Eric Moss’s car to Federal Way.
I wind up in a quiet section of town and park a short distance from a cul-de-sac on 9th Ave South by a cluster of ivy-covered pine trees. Eric’s little red Toyota sits in the driveway of a light brown two-story. He’s already inside from the look of it. People are moving around in two windows above the double garage. I grab my camera off the back seat and zoom in on the windows.
Eric is standing on a stepladder in the middle of what appears to be a living room, changing light bulbs. I snap a few shots of him. Behind him, a black-haired child stares up at what he’s doing. I give her a brief look, intending to dismiss her presence, but wait… that’s not a little girl’s face. When I zoom in on her, I’m sure. She’s young, but no kid. Early twenties. She’s short because she’s sitting down.