Emily glanced back at the tabby, but he wasn’t following her. He was sitting upright on his hind legs, pawing at the air. She didn’t have time to convince him to come along, nor did it seem like he wanted to, so she ignored him and focused on the path ahead.
She knew that the Quick-Mobile Arena had been recently completed, and was located not too far from Glassford Park. She remembered the public outcry when its construction was first commissioned—few thought Phoenix needed another sports arena, especially one built for hockey—in the blistering desert, of all places.
The local NHL franchise in Glendale was struggling to stay afloat, and most of those who opposed the new arena used that fact as the basis for their mud-slinging campaign. But in the end, the city council passed the funding measure by a unanimous vote. Not that she cared; she lived on the street and didn’t pay taxes.
* * *
“Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate it,” Striker said in a hasty voice on the concourse level.
He looked at his watch, frustrated. It had been almost twenty minutes since he’d put the kid in the closet. He needed to get back and figure out what to do with him. Even though he thought his tracks were covered, he couldn’t risk it. If it came out that he was smoking pot and drinking on duty, and then beat the crap out of some teenager to cover it up, it would be the end of him. Even his pals on the police force wouldn’t be able to help.
“Just thought you should know,” the manager of the arena’s food service, Bobby Morris, said with sincerity. “Now there’s just one more thing—”
“Look, the game’s about to start and there’s a million and one things I need to do. I really don’t have time for this crap right now. So suck it up and figure it out on your own. That’s what I pay you for.”
“You okay, boss?”
“Just do your damn job already!” Striker snapped, leaving before Morris could delay him further.
Striker knew his food manager was wondering why he wasn’t taking the time to micromanage him like usual. But truth was—tonight—right now—Striker didn’t give a shit about anything other than his captive in the closet. The rest could wait.
He made it to the service stairwell and flew down the steps and into the locker room hallway. He ran through the maze that would lead him to the storage room where he’d left the delinquent, Derek Morgan.
When he rounded the final corner, he found the door standing open, with splintered wood sprawled across the floor.
“Oh, shit!” he said, running to look inside. It was empty. No sign of the kid.
He put his hands on the sides of head and screamed. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
* * *
Almost there, Emily thought. Run, girl, run! Faster. Faster. Don’t stop. Oh God, please let him be okay. Please.
She kept her legs pumping, running faster than she had ever run before. Faster than the night when the Locos were after her and Junie; quicker than the day she’d come out of a jump in the middle of a shopping mall; harder than a few nights before when she and Derek needed to get away from the condo after she’d killed a fat biker.
Derek was hurt, and he needed her. That’s all she knew. And somehow it kept her muscles churning, even though she was exhausted and starting to cramp up.
Ignore the pain, she convinced herself as the link between them flashed on and off like a strobe light. She didn’t know why it was happening, but it worried her.
When she sprinted around the last corner and the arena came into view, she slowed to a medium jog, trying to decide where to go next. She could see the main entrance to the building, but where was the service entrance? Probably around back, she decided, but it was a huge building—it could have more than one.
She angled right and ran towards the building’s massive digital marquee that said:
ICE DOGS vs. WRANGLERS TONIGHT
FAN APPRECIATION NIGHT!!
There were police officers directing traffic, but she couldn’t risk asking one of them for help. Interactions with cops never turned out well for her, so she decided to blend in with the dozen or so fans waiting to enter the building. She picked the shortest line, knowing she couldn’t get in, not without a ticket, but that didn’t matter. She had a different plan in mind.
Even though it only took a minute to make it to the front of the line, it seemed like an hour. A middle-aged black woman with short-cropped hair and a pair of gold middle teeth was waiting at the turnstile with a ticket scanner in hand.
She looked at Emily. “Ticket please.”
Emily held her hands up to show the woman they were empty. “I’m not going to the game, but I do have a quick question. Can you help me? Please?”
The woman pointed to her left. “Step over here, dear. Let the others pass.”
Emily did as instructed, walking around and standing to the side of the turnstile.
“What do ya need?” the woman asked, still grabbing tickets and scanning them with brisk efficiency.
“Sorry to bother you, but my cousin works here and he told me to meet him at the service entrance. Can you tell me where it is?”
“Which one, honey? There’s two of them. Do you mean the loading dock?”
“No, I don’t think so. He said it was—” Emily said, pausing to search her memory. “—like a regular door where they make deliveries. Not raised or anything like that.”
“Okay, sweetie. That’s gonna be just around there—” she said, leaning forward and pointing to the left. “It’s just past the Zamboni ramp. You know, where they dump the shavings. Just look for the pile of ice and it’ll be around the very next corner. Can’t miss it.”
“Thank you so much!” Emily said, trotting in the direction she was given.
She darted into a wave of approaching hockey fans, then stopped in her tracks when she saw what she thought was an Orange Man across the parking lot. He wasn’t moving—just standing still between two parked cars with his briefcase—watching her. Someone bumped into her, taking her attention from the Orange Man. When she returned her eyes to his location, he wasn’t there.
“Must be seeing things,” she said, taking off at a full gallop to the corner of the sprawling building. She made a left and tore through the side lot, zipping past the Zamboni ramp and ice dump, where she found Derek lying face down next to a service exit door.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Emily knelt on the ground next to Derek and turned him over. He was breathing, but his face was red and puffy. His left eye was swollen.
“Derek! Derek!” she screamed, rocking his shoulder gently. “Babe? Can you hear me? Please wake up! Say something. Come on, talk to me.”
His eyes blinked open. He groaned and then spoke in a weak voice. “Em? What are you doing here? How? How did you find me?”
“I can’t explain it. I just did. Add it to the list of things I need to tell you.”
“How could you know? Of all the places?”
“I got this vision. It told me you were in trouble. My body was screaming at me to come find you, so I did. Somehow, I just knew.”
He sat up, wincing in pain. “We need to go. They’ll be looking for me.”
“Who?”
“The GM and his security.”
“Did they hurt you?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later. We need to get out of here. Now!” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder.
She helped him to his feet. “Where?”
He leaned into her for support, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. His weight added to hers, making her thigh muscles and lower back work twice as hard. She wasn’t sure how far she could help him walk.
“Anywhere but here. Hurry,” he said, before coughing up a small batch of red-colored phlegm. He spit it onto the ground.
“Oh my God, Derek! Is that blood?”
“They busted me up pretty good. Probably one of my ribs.”
“We need to get you to a hospital right away. You could be bleeding
internally.”
“No—no hospitals. Too many questions. Besides, that’s the first place they’ll look for me. Just get me someplace where I can rest. I’ll be okay, Em. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Probably just tore a muscle or something. Just need some ice and a place to lie down.”
“There’s a neighborhood just east of here, past the main entrance where I came in. Lots of dark corners and places to chill. And there’s a neighborhood play park, too. It has one of those big cement pipes we can hide in.”
“Either will work. Just need to sleep,” he said, with pain oozing from every word.
“Wait,” she said, stopping her feet. She thought about the possible Orange Man sighting and the members of law enforcement. She decided not to mention the man with the briefcase—she wasn’t sure she actually saw him.
“What?”
“Cops. They’re everywhere out front, directing the traffic from the freeway. If I walk you out there like this, they’re gonna notice.”
His head swung to the left, staring at the rear half of the parking area.
She followed his eyes and spotted four rows of cars parked neatly together—far away from everyone else. Maybe a hundred feet away from their position.
“Take me there. Must be the employee entrance. Shouldn’t be any cops.”
She did as he asked, turning and moving quickly. His legs were having a hard time keeping up with the new pace she was setting. She slowed down, allowing him to balance and keep up. She kept glancing over her shoulder at the arena exit door as they moved, making sure they weren’t being followed. They weren’t.
“Why did they hurt you? Did you sneak in without paying?”
“Actually, I was following your advice.”
“What advice?”
“I was trying to get an interview with one of the coaches for my Lit class. I tried to follow the rules, Em. I really did. But they wouldn’t let me.”
“So, what? You threw the first punch?”
“No. I didn’t do shit. They started it.”
“Then, I don’t understand. How’d this happen?”
“When the GM turned me down for a pass, I snuck down to ice level and waited for my chance to talk with the Wranglers’ coach. That’s when it all got fucked up.”
“Is his name Striker? The coach?”
“No. That’s the GM,” he replied, groaning through the pain. “Hey, wait a minute. How’d you know that?”
“His name was part of my vision. Just wasn’t sure if striker was a who or a what.”
“How’s that possible?” he asked as they approached the first row of what they both assumed were employee cars. There was enough space between two dark-colored, four-wheel-drive trucks for them to squeeze through as a tandem.
“It’s hard to put into words. They sort of just happen. I never know when. I get these flashes, and sometimes what they show me comes true.”
“Flashes?”
“Yep. They take over my brain for a second and show me stuff. Sometimes about people and what they’re thinking or feeling. Other times it’s about an event or a place, like tonight.”
“So, you’re a psychic?”
“Something like that, but more. It’s hard to explain. But enough about me. Go ahead, finish your story.”
“I snuck downstairs to wait and then I got caught. That’s when they beat the shit out of me.”
“That’s it? They caught you and kicked your ass?”
“Well, I did see all of them smoking weed and drinking on the job.”
“The GM, too?”
“Hell yeah.”
“That explains it.”
“And I had it all on video, until I dropped the phone I borrowed and it broke. It would have been the scoop of the century.”
“Maybe. But it’s not worth it if you get killed in the process.”
They were passing through the last row of cars when a woman in her thirties backed her ass out from inside an open side door of a minivan. She was holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket. Emily saw a look of concern come over her face.
“Do you need help?” the woman asked, spinning her child away from Derek.
Emily hesitated. She knew Derek needed help, but she hadn’t figured out how she was going to get it for him. This woman might be the help they needed—or a way to get it.
“My boyfriend fell down some stairs,” Emily replied. “I think he’s okay, but do you think I could use your phone to call my dad so he can come pick us up?”
Emily heard voices from the minivan. She noticed two young boys in the back, strapped in car seats. Neither of them looked to be older than four.
“Mommy, can we get out now?”
“Just a minute, you two.” The woman turned back to Emily. She took a flip phone from her pants pocket and gave it to her. “Are you sure I don’t need to call 9-1-1?”
“Thank you so much for this, ma’am. I’ll just be a second. My dad will come get us. We’ll be okay,” she said, trying to decide who to dial. She couldn’t call Miller, but there was one person. Someone with a car and a willingness to help.
She turned away and looked down at the phone, punching in a number she’d committed to memory several days before. Well, several days Emily time, but several months, normal people time. It was back when she was riding in Duane’s car on the way to see Jim at the hospital and he let her use his cell phone. She’d memorized his number on impulse, just in case. Now she was glad she did.
* * *
Duane hung up the phone and thought about what Emily had just asked him. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do—he was in a classic catch-22. She didn’t want Jim involved and wouldn’t say why, but she was adamant about it.
He looked across the kitchen table at his wife, Nora, who was an emergency room nurse with close to twenty years of experience. Their two teenage children, Duane Junior and Monica, were in the family room playing a video game. They’d bolted from the table as soon as mandatory family time—i.e., dinner—was over.
“I know that look, D. Out with it,” Nora demanded.
“It’s pretty complicated, baby.”
“It always is. But that’s not a look that says ‘I’m worried about work.’ That’s something else.”
Duane’s throat seemed to tighten and dry up. He swallowed, but the glob stuck a bit. He coughed, bringing it back up. He took a sip of after-dinner coffee and washed it down. “Remember that teenage girl I showed you photos of? The snapshots in Jim’s files? The redhead?”
“The one you think travels through time?”
Duane flinched and looked over his shoulder and into the family room. His kids were still occupied with the zombie shooter game.
“Not so loud,” he whispered across the table. “I don’t want the kids thinking I’m crazy.”
Nora’s voice turned sarcastic. “But it’s okay if your wife does?”
“Well, you married me already knowing I’m crazy. You had the choice. They didn’t. And besides, you’re the one I talked it out with, remember? So, that makes you just as crazy.”
“We might have talked it out, but you’re the one who came up with the time travel idea.”
“Yeah, and you tried to punch holes in it for an hour.”
“Yep. That I did.”
“And you didn’t manage to come up with anything that made more sense, now did you?”
“No, I didn’t. But still—it’s crazy.”
He nodded. “A crazy idea that appears to fit the facts.”
“True enough. So. Okay then, what’s going on? What’s that phone call got to do with the redheaded time traveler?” she asked, sitting back in the chair and folding her arms. She creased her forehead and pressed her lips together, making that ‘don’t bullshit me’ look. He’d seen it countless times during their marriage, usually when they were talking about something the kids did before she made it home from a long shift at the hospital.
“Well, a male friend of hers got beat up pretty bad. They need h
elp, and they don’t want to go to the emergency room.”
Without blinking, Nora picked up the car keys and yelled to the kids in the family room.
“Junior! Come here!”
She opened the pantry door and grabbed her orange EMT bag that Duane insisted they keep in the kitchen. He was convinced that most household accidents either happen in the kitchen, or end up being dealt with there.
Nora slung the bag over her shoulder. “Junior! Don’t make me call you again!”
“Mom . . .” a teenage voice whined from the family room. “We’re in the middle of a game. I’m on the last level!”
“Now! I won’t say it again!”
“Okay. Coming.”
“So, we’re gonna go just like that?” Duane asked, giving her a smile. He couldn’t help but admire his tough, compassionate wife, nor could he resist taking a jab at her—all in fun. “No questions asked?”
“Duane, you ought to know me by now. You just told me there’s a kid in trouble, and we can help. What do you think I’m going to say? No?”
A lanky, mocha-skinned teenage boy with kind, dark eyes appeared in the doorway to the family room.
Nora licked the tip of her index finger and used it as a makeshift comb, trying to convince the rooster tail on the back of Junior’s head to lie down. It didn’t. Instead, it sprang back into place, ignoring the saliva glue she was using.
“Your father and I are going out for a couple of hours. You’re in charge. Look after your sister, and don’t answer the door for anyone. You can play video games for another hour, then both of you finish your homework and get ready for bed. Lights out by ten.”
Duane junior’s eyes lit up. “You mean I get to be the boss?”
“Yeah, but no funny stuff. And you know I’ll know if you don’t do your schoolwork. We’ll try to be back by nine thirty at the latest, but we might be later. I expect all your homework to be done and both of you ready for bed when we get back. Don’t make me say it again.”
Glassford Girl: Boxed Set (Complete Series) (Time Jumper Series) Page 34