Hell Bent

by Heather Killough-Walden

  Because she was high as a kite and she knew it. No food for twenty-four hours, a brisk run, and ten milligrams of hydrocodone, and she was on another planet.

  It felt good.

  She laid her head back down against Jack’s chest and mumbled, under her breath, “There is no greater pleasure than the cessation of pain.”

  “Right. Definitely, food.” Jack didn’t wait for any kind of response this time. Instead, he stood, taking her with him. He carried her easily from the room, as if she weighed nothing at all. And that was exactly how Annabelle felt. Weightless. She lay in his arms as he moved from room to room, and she stared up at the ceiling as it passed her by. It was beautiful. The architecture was ingenious, was it not? All those long flat planes and perfect right angles and crown molding and textured paint jobs…

  “Dylan, would you mind?” Jack said.

  Annabelle heard Dylan come forward, doing something that she couldn’t quite see. Probably moving a pillow from the couch, because that was where Jack set her down. And then the man in black disappeared and Annabelle was staring at Dylan, who was draping a blanket over her. She curled into the blanket, noticing the texture of the fabric against the skin on her bare arms. It felt so good.

  Jack was back, holding a plate in one hand. In the other was a glass of white liquid. Milk of some kind.

  “Toast and soy milk, Bella.” He handed her the plate and she took it.

  Annabelle looked down at the toast. It looked like the most unappetizing thing she’d ever laid her eyes upon. In fact, she realized, she had no desire to eat anything, much less dry toast. Not even the thought of chocolate stoked her interest. She just wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t interested in eating. She wanted to do something else – something more fun. Like sky diving.

  “Eat it, Bella.” Jack’s tone was more insistent, this time. His voice, lower. Annabelle looked up into his eyes. It was a mistake. That blue-fire gaze was so compelling. She found herself lifting the toast to her mouth and taking a bite.

  “Blech,” she said, the toast bland and crumbly on her dry tongue. “It tastes like crap.”

  “It’s all I have at the moment,” he told her calmly, his voice soft. “And it tastes like crap because you’re high.” He took the plate from her and handed her the glass of soy. “How much Vicodin did you take, luv?”

  “One pill,” she answered, before putting the glass to her lips. She took a few swallows, and though it was at least wet, it was as tasteless as the toast had been. She lowered the glass and met Jack’s penetrating gaze. “And don’t start with me, Jack. We have more important things to discuss.”

  She was incredibly cogent for someone whose system was running on nothing but pain killer and endorphins, but that was hydrocodone for you. She handed the glass back to Jack. He took it without saying anything and put it and the plate on the coffee table beside him.

  “You’re right.” He turned to Dylan then and leveled that same penetrating gaze onto the teenager. Dylan shifted where he stood, his bare feet sinking into the thick white pile of the plush carpet beneath him.

  “Where is the laptop, Dylan?”

  Dylan looked from Jack to Annabelle, who also waited expectantly. And then he sighed, apparently deciding that he had little choice, at the moment, but to trust Jack Thane. After all, it was obvious that Annabelle did. And Dylan trusted her.

  “I hid it on campus. There’s a bridge over the river that students paint in. The panels are decorated by different groups. The laptop is behind one of the panels.”

  “I know the bridge you’re talking about. It crosses the Mississippi,” Annabelle said as she curled more deeply into her blanket. She just couldn’t get over how great the material felt against her skin. “I love that bridge.”

  The bridge Dylan referred to was a walk-way, meant for pedestrians only, though some bicyclists used it as well. It was composed of dozens of square panels on both sides, and each panel was painted in a different and interesting way by the various groups and clubs on campus. One was dedicated to the Black Engineers. Another belonged to a lesbian organization. Still others bore religious references. And so forth. Crossing the bridge was an education, unto itself, if you did it slowly and took time to read.

  “Okay,” Jack said, forming his words as carefully as he formed his thoughts. “I need to know exactly which panel.” He turned his full attention on Dylan, even turning his body to face his. “I’ll have to retrieve it tonight.”

  Dylan swallowed, and looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the amount of information he was sharing with Jack. But, again, he gave in to the inevitable and sighed, running a hand through his thick hair. “Fifteenth panel on the right. Under the rainbow.”

  Jack nodded, once, and turned back to Annabelle. “How are you feeling?”

  “Great,” she answered, smiling. It was true. She wasn’t looking forward to the medication wearing off, but at the moment, she felt a bit like Superwoman. No physical pain, no mental anguish, no sense of what it felt like to be human at all, actually. It was heaven.

  Jack sighed, his dark blue eyes scanning her face as if he were searching for something he couldn’t find. As he did so, a thought occurred to Annabelle. If she hadn’t been high, it might have been a difficult issue to bring up, but as she was presently, it seemed like nothing more than a curiosity.

  “Jack, are they going to do an autopsy?”

  Jack blinked, momentarily taken aback by the directness of the question and the abrupt change of subject. And then he nodded. “Yes. And they’ll find nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “You mean they’ll find that he committed suicide by overdosing on Klonapin?” she asked, shaking her head. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I told you, I’ve taken that before. It works slowly. At least, it always did for me.” She sat up straighter, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “Besides, I doubt the drugs were even his. He never seemed to have any kind of anxiety disorder.”

  Dylan came forward then and sat on the love seat opposite the couch on which Annabelle was seated. “She’s right. The only thing my dad ever had to take was Midrin, for migraines. And that was rare. Brought on by allergies. Mostly cats.” Dylan paused, swallowing loudly. “The cops told me about the Klonapin and told me he had a prescription for it. I didn’t believe them, but they checked the pharmaceutical records.” He shook his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “They told me he’d been taking it for two years!” He put his face in his hands and leaned back into the cushions of the chair.

  Annabelle blinked, cut her gaze to Jack, and then looked back at Dylan. There was no way Max Anderson had been taking Klonapin for two years. She would have known.

  From behind the hands that hid his face, Dylan continued, “And then they told me that he’d written a suicide note.” He fell silent again, this time for a long time. Jack watched him carefully. Annabelle threw her cover aside and got off of the couch. For an instant, Jack’s hand shot out as if to hold her down, but he drew his hand back, on second thought, and let her go.

  Annabelle stood on wobbly, numb legs, and, as if her body simply knew how to do it without her mind having to take part, she moved to Dylan’s side and sat on the arm rest of the love seat. In the next instant, she was holding the teenager, drawing him into a soft embrace, cradling his head against her neck.

  “The bastards wouldn’t let me have the God damned note. They said they needed to keep it for their investigation. That bitch, Garcia, said that it could take up to two weeks before I would be able to see it.” Dylan pulled away from Annabelle and looked up at her, his expression one of desperation, anger and frustration. “And the fucking thing is written to me! It’s my father’s note to me, for Christ’s sake!”

  He put his face in his hands again and the room fell silent. Annabelle watched as Dylan rocked ever so slightly back and forth on the couch. From behind his hands, he said, “They killed my mom too, didn’t they?”

  This time, Jack closed his eyes. He took a d
eep breath and licked his lips, then opened his eyes again. “Yes.”

  “They killed them both. For whatever’s on that fucking laptop.” Dylan raised his head, lowering his hands, and looked up at Annabelle. She gently brushed a lock of his curly hair from his forehead. He lowered his gaze once more, this time staring at nothing.

  “My mom and dad grew up in Salt Lake City. They were high school sweet hearts.” His tone had gone even, dead. “My mom was my age when I was born. My dad, a year older. The church was furious with them, as were my grandparents. Sex before marriage and all that crap. When they told everyone they were bringing me here, they were disowned. Literally,” he laughed harshly. “Can you fucking believe that shit? Disowned because they were in love and wanted to leave that God-forsaken hell hole of a town.”

  “My mom told me, years later, that my dad and grandfather had one last conversation, over the phone, after he left. It was like that song, you know? My grandpop told him it would never work, that he and my mom would never make it and that they would come crawling back.” He laughed again, this time more gently. Across from him, Jack was motionless, simply listening, absorbing the information silently. “Well, together, we proved them wrong.”

  And then Dylan’s face went slack. “But they were right, weren’t they? Mom and dad were cursed.”

  Annabelle was about to tell him he was wrong, but Jack’s phone rang just as she opened her mouth. She closed it and she and Dylan turned to watch the man stand and move to the adjoining kitchen, where a portable telephone hung on the wall.

  He picked it up. “Yes.”

  They watched as his expression became unreadable. He listened for several seconds and then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

  Jack came back into the living room and pinned Annabelle with a blue-eyed gaze of uncomfortable intensity. “Your detective Chen and her partner have been to my house,” he said simply, the Sheffield in his accent coming on strong.

  Annabelle blinked. What? They’d been to Jack’s house? But why? She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Of course. Obviously, they thought he might know something. Maybe the autopsy had come out screwy. Maybe he just looked suspicious…

  She continued to watch in silence as he moved to the wall where his black sports coat hung on a hook. He pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. He took a long, deep breath, in and out through his nose, as he punched a button and the phone dialed. Who was he calling?

  Annabelle could tell Jack was upset. She’d known him long enough to be able to read his body language and, quiet or not, right now there was a bucket-load of tension running through that hard body.

  And then she realized why.

  If the detectives had linked him to this case, then so would the bad guys, who would probably be keeping an eye on the investigation in order to cover their own asses. And if they saw the cops pay Jack a visit, then they might decide to do the same.

  And Sherry would be in danger.

  “It’s Thane,” Jack said suddenly, jerking Annabelle out of her realization. She listened.

  “Get Sherry out of the country. She’s been wanting to visit Rome. Tell her that I’ve asked her to meet me there.”

  He was quiet a few seconds and Annabelle desperately wanted to know what the person on the other end of the line was saying.

  “A few days. Four at most.” He paused again and then nodded once. “Good.” He closed the phone and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Annabelle said softly.

  He turned to her, one eyebrow lifted inquisitively. “It isn’t your doing, luv.”

  “Who’s Sherry?” Dylan asked.

  “My wife.”

  It was Dylan’s turn to blink. He straightened. “You’re married?”

  “Yes. And I have children, in case you were going to ask that next.”

  Dylan straightened further, running his hands down his pants legs as he studied Jack carefully. Jack, for his part, simply stood there, a figure of calm in black from head to toe.

  “How many?”

  “I have a daughter your age and a son five years younger.”

  Now Annabelle could tell that Jack was trying hard not to smile. He knew that he had Dylan’s utmost attention and was probably relieved to have distracted the teenager from his pain. So, he continued calmly. “My daughter’s name is Clara. She and her younger brother, Ian, live with their mother in Essex.”

  Dylan continued to rub his hands on his jeans a few moments more, and then he stood. “I’m gonna get dressed. I’m going with you to get the laptop.”

  “No you’re not,” Jack told him simply, shaking his head once. His sculpted, tanned arms were crossed over his chest and his booted feet were planted apart in what could be interpreted as a fighting stance. At the same time, he seemed perfectly at ease.

  “Like hell I’m not,” Dylan told him. His green eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  Annabelle stood and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Dylan, it isn’t safe. You and I have probably already been identified by whoever killed your father. They might even know we’re here, and if we step foot out that front door,” she gestured to the apartment door several feet away, “then we’ll be followed. They’ll wait until they know where the laptop is or until we have it and then they’ll take it from us.” She lowered her hand as Dylan turned to face her. “By whatever means possible.”

  “She’s right,” Jack said softly, the hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. Annabelle turned on him, her brown eyes sparked with a hint of angry amber.

  “Yes, I am, Jack. And now that we know the detectives have been to your home, we can safely bet that they know who you are too, and that you’ll be followed just as we would have been. It isn’t safe for you to go either.”

  Jack’s eyebrow lifted. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dylan beat him to it.

  “I’m not letting some unknown stranger touch my mom’s laptop-”

  “Jack knows people that he can trust who can get it for us and bring it to us safe and sound.” Annabelle cut her gaze from Dylan to Jack. She knew she was right.

  Jack closed his mouth again and blinked. Then his smile broadened and he shook his head slowly. “Very well. I’ll make a phone call.” He reached back into the pocket of the sports coat and pulled out the same cell phone he’d used before. Then he used his other hand to pull a second cell phone from the opposite inside pocket. The second phone, he tossed to Annabelle, who caught it easily but looked up at him questioningly. “Order a pizza,” he told her as he opened his phone and turned to leave the room. “I have no food in this bloody apartment.”

  Chapter Seven

  “We’re going to need to get a copy of that suicide note,” Annabelle said, breaking the silence that had enveloped the three of them. They were sitting in the entertainment room of the vast apartment, Dylan on the couch, now wearing a black Rolling Stones t-shirt and tennis shoes with his jeans, Annabelle and Jack in opposite chairs. The furniture set faced a forty-inch screen on which Linda Hamilton, whose body reminded Annabelle of a much skinnier version of Sherry, stabbed a Buck knife into a wooden table and then got up and left. The director’s cut of Terminator Two was a shared love between Dylan and Annabelle. Normally, they would be commenting on editorial mistakes and physical unlikelihoods throughout the entire movie, but at the moment, Dylan stared at the screen as if he couldn’t see it. And Annabelle stared at Jack.

  He stared back.

  “Yes. I’ve already taken care of it.”

  Annabelle didn’t wonder at how he’d accomplished that. She knew him well enough by now. With some effort, she pulled her gaze away from his and glanced, distractedly, at the screen. She ran her hands through her hair, which was still damp from her five-minute shower, and separated the long strands so that they could dry. She’d dressed in clothes that Jack had just happened to have on-hand in this apartment. The man obviously enjoyed shopping at V
ictoria’s Secret, because she was now wearing a pair of Victoria’s Secret Pink sweats, a few layering V.S. tank tops and a signature Pink zip-up hooded sweat shirt. Everything was in her size. Not Sherry’s, who would most likely need a size or two larger than Annabelle, just to squeeze all of those muscles into. Annabelle couldn’t help but mull that over in her head. Jack, shopping for her. What did that mean?

  After donning a fresh pair of white socks, she’d slipped back into her riding boots. They looked preposterous with the rest of her outfit, but she felt more comfortable with them on. They were familiar. They gave her some small sense of power, of control over her situation. They were practically all she ever wore these days.

  Besides, she figured she’d set a trend tonight and pretty soon, women across the country would be wearing sweats with biker boots. Or hiking boots. Hell, they already wore sweats with Uggs.

  Jack had put back on his sports coat and looked like a cross between James Bond and whatever bad guy wanted Bond dead. There was a knock at the door. One loud bang followed by several seconds of silence and then another loud bang. Annabelle turned a questioning look on Jack and Dylan turned to look at him as well.

  Jack took a deep breath and then stood, pulling a gun from beneath his jacket. A long, sleek black silencer had been screwed onto the end of the barrel. Annabelle was all out of emotion at that moment and couldn’t summon up any surprise. However, Dylan could. His eyes widened and Annabelle put a hand on his shoulder.

  Jack turned away from them and left the room. Annabelle couldn’t help it. She stood and followed him out, Dylan hot on her tail.

  At the door to the apartment, Jack paused and peeked through the eye hole. Annabelle had seen people do that on movies and she’d always thought that it would be a good way to make sure you took someone’s head off – just aim for the peek hole on the door. However, Jack wasn’t a Hollywood boy and his life didn’t follow a script. The door had been bullet-proofed long ago.

  Jack re-holstered his gun, then stepped back from the door and unbolted it, swinging it open. A tall, skinny figure in basketball shorts and a baggy shirt stepped into the foyer and Jack closed the door behind him. Annabelle and Dylan stayed where they were, at the edge of the kitchen, and studied the newcomer in wary silence.