Fifi craned her neck to look over the edge of the desk. I didn't need to look up to know what it said.
Searing yellow letters spread across the center of the black screen proclaimed GET OUT OF TOWN OR DIE!!
Fifi scrambled to her feet and stormed toward the computer.
"Leave it!"
"But, Sloane, that is horrible. It has to be some sicko prank."
"Ya think? And what do you suppose the dead rodent was, a birthday present?"
With small, deliberate movements, I raised my head to look at Fifi . I shut my eyes once or twice, wincing at the stiff tendon pulling in the back of my neck. The braids slid back to expose my whole face.
Fifi's eyes flew open wide and a sob caught in her throat. "Oh my Lord, child! I'll call 9-1-1."
"No! No more police or publicity."
For the first time in the last ten hours, I noticed the stiff- ness in my face when I opened my mouth. With my hair no longer blocking my sight, I realized the vision in my right eye was constricted and blurry. I carefully moved my fingers over the swollen and painful flesh.
"But . . .but . . . What happened?"
"Trey happened. He sorta became a self-fulfilling prophecy."
"Sugah, you're not making sense."
I squeezed my eyes closed. "Well, Trey wasn't trying to kill me until after we sent the police to question him about threatening to kill me."
"Is that why you're holding the gun?" Fifi's hand went to her own throat and she sobbed.
I waved the hand with the gun as though they were a single welded unit and sighted down the top of the weapon at nothing in particular. "I shot him coming." I tried to wink but flinched at the pain in my jaw. "And then I shot him going."
Hands flew to Fifi's face. "Oh, Lord, help us! Is that his blood trail on the floor? Where is he? Sloane, what have you done?"
"It was only in the arms. The first time I closed my eyes 'cause I was scared to look at him and actually pull the trigger. So I guess he's lucky I didn't get him in the head. You know, you were right about that keeping-the-eyes-open thing."
Fifi reached out a shaking hand to touch my bruised face. "I can't believe one of the neighbors didn't call the police last night."
"There were only two shots. They were spaced a few minutes apart, and I wasn't screaming or anything. So even if someone did hear it, they couldn't have gotten a bead on where it was coming from."
"But we know just about every shop owner in this block!"
I shut my eyes. "And they're all old and can't hear. You can barely hear anything that goes on outside from in here. This building is old and layered in brick. What makes you think you can hear any better out there?"
I struggled to get up from the crouched position I had rested in for almost ten hours. I grunted. Muscles rebelled, denying me the ability to flex. My torso ached from bouncing down the stairs and each motion brought a fresh stab of pain. I thought I might have to go to the bathroom.
"I finally, truly, defended myself and, God help me, it felt good." Tears welled up in my eyes and splashed down my cheeks, hanging up on my swollen lip. "And you know what? If he hadn't left, I'd have shot him again." Yep! That I was sure of. I was cured of my fear. I could defend myself now.
I groaned and huffed out air as I stood, bracing myself on the desk, and forcing my knees to straighten. I laid the gun on the computer mouse pad. Every part of my body had an ache, a shooting pain, or stiffness.
I pounded my fist on the desk. Good, make something else hurt. "I will not be a victim anymore."
"Oh, sugah, where is he? Where's Trey?"
I shut my eyes and lowered my head. "He is probably with the stitcher he has over on Clermont."
"Stitcher? What's that?"
"That's the guy who sews them up when they get cut in a fight or shot. No hospital or police reports that way."
I forced myself upright. My back cracked in several spots as my spine realigned. I turned to face the door at the end of the counter, the one leading upstairs. My eyes squeezed shut, then popped open and stared. The pain and degradation of being pulled down the stairs by my feet flooded my senses.
Fifi followed my gaze to the open door. "Why is that door open? You haven't used those stairs since your momma died."
I lowered my head, speaking in a hushed whisper.
Fifi moved closer. "What?"
"I was trying to get away." I pulled myself up straight. "But I'm not running anymore."
I took a step toward the doorway. Stopped. My brain couldn't make my feet go up those stairs while I was thinking clearly.
My heart thumped hard. I turned away, moving to walk around the counter. I swore. My fist slammed onto the counter again. Another shooting pain radiated up to my elbow. "I can't take this! I can't go back to that. I'm a failure. How can he bear to look at me?"
I collapsed into the leather chair. The force of my movement slid the back of the chair into the desk with a resounding thud. The bruised muscles in my body screamed for relief at being jarred.
Fifi rushed to me. "Who, sugah? Who can't bear to look at you?"
"Jesus."
Fifi pulled back. "How did Jesus get into this conversation?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me. And granted I don't go as overboard as you do, but I do go to church on Christmas and Easter." She snorted with laughter. "If I went any more often than that, the ceiling would fall in." She put her hand to her chest. "Lawd o' mercy, God knows my heart."
I diverted my gaze from the floor to Fifi . I so wanted to give a snarky reply like "Yeah, the Lord knows our hearts are continually evil," but I just didn't have the energy. Instead, I lowered my head again.
Sigh. "I'm supposed to be a Christian. I'm not supposed to be acting like this." I made a waving motion with my hand as a groan escaped my lips. "I mean, my goodness . . . I shot Trey."
"You were defending yourself."
"I could have killed him."
"It would serve him right."
I snapped my attention back to Fifi again. "Do you have any clue how long it has taken me to let go of that kind of attitude?" I shook my head. "I'm supposed to be a new creation in Christ, and here I am shooting people and declaring that I won't be a victim anymore. I sound like the hoodlums I can't stand."
Fifi screwed up her top lip. "What the . . . a new creation? Sugah, are you sure about the church you're going to? It sounds like a cult or something."
"Ugh, that just means that since I've accepted Jesus into my heart, I'm supposed to be a new person, and not act like the old me."
"I've known you since you were a little girl and the old you was just fine."
"No . . . no, I wasn't. I didn't need God. I didn't like God. And I didn't even trust God very much."
"Well, your ma was a good Christian woman."
"That only came after Dad died. Before that, she used religion like a weapon."
"I never saw that."
I gulped back the lump threatening to close my throat. "Daddy was one denomination, and Mom was another. Daddy didn't like her church and wanted me raised in his. Mom refused and raised me in a whole different church altogether. And the best, or worst part, depending on how you look at it, is that neither one of them ever went to church with me."
"Well, good gravy! All I know is she went to church every week after your daddy died, all the way up to her passing."
"I know." My voice went small. "But by the time she straightened out with God, I was all messed up. It took a lot of praying, soul-searching, and help from the Lord to get me where I am today, and I don't want to slide back to the kind of person I was in those days."
"She was proud of you, girl."
I rose from the chair again, grimacing under the weight on sore muscles. I had to get out of here. Have a chance to think. Feel safe again. And go to the bathroom. "Call Brinks and have them get Broadview over here to wire this whole place for security. The store, my apartment upstairs," I pointed at the door, "and especiall
y the outside door in that hall. Have them put control panels in here, out in that hall, and up in my apartment. I'm going to get a good soak in the tub and try to get cleaned up."
I snatched my keys from the desk and my cell phone from its dock, and turned to look Fifi square in the eyes. "And don't you dare call the police again. They've caused me enough trouble for one lifetime."
"But sugah, maybe Griffen Justice could help."
"Yeah . . . help . . . Right! Help put me in my grave. Please. If you love me like you say you do, let this go. I'll handle it."
"How are you going to do that?"
"I don't know, but I will. I need time to think."
My nose prickled. I sneezed. My whole body screamed with pain. I shut my eyes and stood there, pulling it all back together. I needed all kinds of help.
24
I LIMPED OUT THE FRONT DOOR. MY EYES SCANNED UP AND DOWN THE street. Granted, it was early morning, and usually Trey would be sleeping off the previous night's party, but last night was different. I could never take anything about him for granted again.
I didn't see him or any of his boys on the street. Thank you, Jesus. I didn't fool myself, though. The proverbial other shoe would drop sooner or later.
Whether from sheer determination or pure adrenaline, my body pushed the numbness out of my joints, and straightened me to an upright position as I walked around the building. I didn't want to run into anyone while walking like a mummy.
I climbed the stairs. The aches in my posterior magnified with each muscle contraction as my legs moved me upward. Okay, so maybe not all the kinks had left. I concentrated on cleansing breaths to keep from crying out in pain. Going down the steps would be easier, or at least I hoped. Someday, I really needed to install an elevator. But it was the only exercise I had to ward off the Red Velvet hips.
By the time I reached the third-floor landing, beads of sweat coated my forehead. I dragged the back of my hand across the wetness, so I could see to use my key. I locked the door and leaned against it, releasing the breath I had unconsciously held. Safe.
My hand moved across the surface and contacted the swinging chain. I slid it into place. A twinge gripped my chest. That wouldn't be enough to keep Trey out. I needed deadbolts.
A shiver passed down my arm as I looked at the light coming through the narrow glass pane. Why hadn't I ever noticed that before? The front door to my apartment has the same glass panel. A body would never fit through it, but a hand? That's all it would take to unlock the door.
Panic pushed up from my legs and zipped up my torso.
Knock it off! I have figured out worse situations than this. Sure, they didn't include shooting anybody twice, and they never included multiple death threats. But I hadn't been as strong then as I was now, so I figured the ratio of trauma to tenacity worked out the same. I'm really smart, and extremely capable. I would learn to operate in this new environment and the Brinks guys would know how to handle the window. We all had our own areas of expertise.
The self-pep talk had the desired effect. My pulse dialed down to normal. I pushed off from the door and forced myself to trudge up one more flight of stairs to the sanctuary of my bathroom.
Nothing was more luxurious this side of heaven than a pampered soaking. Mom always thought the expense for top of-the-line bathroom fixtures was frivolous. But I had the money at the time, which was another reason for me to lament giving up my job in the CC unit. It paid very large bucks.
I slid back the double-glass doors, and turned on the heat lamps over the tub. I dialed the settings for a hot bath. I watched the rushing water swirl a rapid circular pattern that pushed steam curls up to fog the walls.
Rapid circles. Just like my life. Rapid circles. Driven to fear by one violent man after another.
But this time I broke that pattern. I would not be afraid. The corners of my mouth turned up, and the resulting pain that stabbed my face diverted my eyes from the water. I caught my reflection in the mirror before it was obliterated by the encroaching steam. Ugh! I looked terrible.
I rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of Advil. I gulped down two of the brown caplets with a cupful of tap water and prayed the swelling would go away before anyone noticed.
I slipped from my clothes and slowly submerged myself in the blissfully hot water. Leaning back on the towel padded headrest, I engaged the hydro-massage system and aimed the jets at my back. Just as I began to relax in the soothing current, I noticed my cell phone sticking from my pants pocket on the floor. I leaned over and pulled the leg of the pants closer so I could grab it. I pushed the ON button. Two missed messages.
Both were from Andreas. He had called to tell me that he had returned from Manhattan late, he loved me, and goodnight. The second was to tell me that he realized he had a full schedule for today and I might not see him.
I breathed a sigh of relief. This could work to my advantage. I'd need to avoid him until my face started to look better, or I came up with a good excuse for looking this bad. If he found out about Trey, there might be a war.
I still had a would-be killer out there, and I wasn't going to figure this out sitting in this tub.
25
ANDREAS COMINO FLIPPED THROUGH THE REPORT IN FRONT OF HIM, BACKED up a page, and jotted a note in the margin—multiple prolonged doses produce psychotic episodes. He tossed the blue folder back onto his desk. It landed on top of four other blue folders and skidded into his Beckham's Books & Brew coffee mug, sloshing the weak coffee his secretary had made onto the edge of the folder. If he hadn't needed to be in early, he could have stopped at Sloane's to get a decent cup.
He dabbed the liquid off with a tissue and turned to stare at a picture of him with his arm wrapped around Sloane's shoulder. He reached for the frame and traced his finger along the outline of Sloane's face. She was the pot of gold at the end of his rainbow. His face softened and the tension relaxed in his shoulders.
He glanced at the clock on the marble mantle just as it chimed nine a.m.
His intercom buzzed.
He pushed the button. "Yes, Erin?"
"Doctor Comino, your nine o'clock is here."
"Erin, pick up the phone, please." He let go of the button and picked up the receiver.
"Yes, Doctor?" answered Erin.
"Are we sure who this is?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"Give me a minute and then show her in."
He replaced the receiver in its cradle, rose from his chair, and walked to a panel situated in a wall recess behind the front door. Opening the small painted metal door, he rotated the numbered disk to the digit ten. The timer began its soft audible tick. Comino shut the door, and strolled to the long expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. He pulled the cord and closed the heavy burgundy drapes, then returned to his high-backed leather chair.
He shuffled through the blue folders once again, selecting the one with an orange paperclip hooked on the cover. He opened the cover, disengaged the clip, and slid several pages off to the left as he picked up his pen.
A soft tap sounded on the door.
Comino looked over the top of his reading glasses. "Come in."
The door opened, and a woman with frightened eyes poked her head around the door. "May I come in?"
He laid the pen down. "Yes, of course. How are you feeling today?" He sat back in his chair and swiveled toward her.
"I . . . I'm fine." With downcast eyes, and shoulders hunched, she wrung her hands.
"Come and sit down." He offered a slight smile.
She looked around the room with a halted gaze. "Where? Here or on the couch?"
"Wherever you like."
With small, quick steps, she crossed the thick carpeting to the couch and reached out to touch the burgundy brocade material. "This is lovely. When did the new living room furniture come?"
"This is not—" Comino clamped his lips shut and picked up the folder, along with his pen. "Why don't you sit on the couch today?"
The wom
an seated herself to the far right, her back against the arm.
Comino sat in the chair opposite that end. "Have you finished the medication I gave you?"
"Yes, and now that I am finished I want to come—"
"We have a new course of medication for you."
She frowned and blinked her eyes as though something was waving in front of her face.
He watched as she continued to wring her hands and cross and uncross her ankles.
Today she had dressed appropriately and her shoes were as shiny as the pennies in the tiny leather slots on the tongue of each shoe. Her hair was a bit askew, but understandable, given the way she kept fiddling with the tendrils around her face when she wasn't wringing her hands.
Suddenly the room went dark.
The small red security light glowed in response to the loss of power, flooding the room with scarlet light as though it were blood.
The woman screamed and slapped her hands to her eyes. "Light! There is no light! Agh . . . I'm afraid of the dark."
"Take your hands away from your face and you will be able to see," Comino spoke calmly in an even tone.
She looked out from behind her hands. "No, no, no . . . it's still too dark. The monsters will come. The monsters will come."
She jumped up and bolted for the door.
Comino pushed the button at the edge of his table panel.
An audible thunk echoed from the door.
The woman jerked on the knob. Nothing happened. She turned, throwing her back to the door as her breath came in short, jagged spurts. "Let me out! The monsters will get me."
Her voice lowered, turned raspy as her breathing became labored. "Open this door."
She pounded her fists on the heavy oaken door. "Monsters are in the dark."
Comino turned to face her but held his position. "You can see me. There is no need to be afraid."
She screeched like a wounded animal and pounded harder. "You're trying to kill me."
"Calm down. Breathe slowly. Concentrate on my voice." Comino pressed the second button on the small panel and shut the lid.
The lights came on in the room.
The woman slumped against the door. "The monsters want me. The monsters want me. Did you see them? They are in the dark. Did you see them?"
Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012) Page 16