by C. T. Adams
Traffic was flowing smoothly toward the distant skyline as my mind drifted. Then I saw the first bright red set of brake lights. I nosed over in my lane to see that a lighted directional arrow had been placed on the roadway, just where the airport access joined the interstate. I had to fight a wave of annoyance. Seems like every time I leave town, another construction zone springs up.
Vehicles were supposed to merge into my lane so I stayed put. Still, as always, drivers insisted on zooming past the building line of cars to try to butt in ahead. Vehicle after vehicle sped past at highway speed, only to be shut down when their lane ended. Soon there were cars stacked up in both lanes as we moved closer to the barricades, still at a good clip.
As soon as I realized the barricades were concrete I started swearing under my breath. The type of barricade is an indicator of the length of the proposed construction. Orange cones signify a day or two of frustration. Those orange and white barrels filled with sand mean weeks. Concrete walls mean you’re in for months; maybe even years of inconvenience. There’s one highway in Denver that’s been under construction for over two years and isn’t even close to finished. I noted with annoyance that there were similar barricades on the opposite side of the highway. I started mentally calculating the extra time I would need for my next trip to the airport. No! Think about something nice!
Okay, how about the renovations to the building entrance? Ahhh, yeah, that’s it. I still get the little-girl giggles whenever I think about finding the exquisite mosaic tile floor under the dirty linoleum I’d torn up in front of the elevator in my building last month. The tiny jewel-toned tile bits formed the face and upper torso of a lovely dark-haired woman. Considering the building was constructed during the silver boom of the late 1800s, she could have been anyone from a society matron to a red-light madam. Heck, from the books I’ve read on the subject, she might have been both. It was now covered with canvas until I’m completely done with painting and trim.
A blasting of car horns behind me brought me back to reality with a panicked jerk. We’d reached a section of highway lit bright as day by poles holding banks of artificial lights. The glare was awful. I checked my rearview mirror, but I couldn’t see the source of the noise. The horns continued, beeps of all different tones and lengths. The angry squeal of tires against pavement made me twist against my lap belt to look through the back window, but a large panel truck behind me blocked my view. I was two car lengths from the beginning of the construction zone. A Toyota Camry on my left stepped on the gas to try to nose in ahead of me. I’d probably let him when the time came but right now I wanted to know what was going on behind me. I rolled down my window so I could hear better. The sound of screaming metal now joined the horns. As tight as traffic was packed, there was a good chance I was going to be rear-ended by that panel truck, but there was no helping it.
As I reached the barrier, the Camry pulled in front of me from the left lane. I tried to put a little distance between me and the panel truck when a one-ton truck with dual rear tires, towing an oversized trailer, moved up fast and hard along the quickly narrowing emergency lane. The wheels of the trailer were off the pavement on one side. The trailer was clipping off the plastic delineator posts at ground level. I realized in a panic that the stake-bed trailer was headed straight for me!
The next few seconds were a rush of sound and motion. The panel truck behind me honked and swerved. He collided with the car to his left, driving it into the concrete barrier with a screech of protesting metal.
What in the hell is he doing? I couldn’t believe it. Was the driver of the dually insane? He seemed intent on entering traffic exactly where my truck was. He swerved toward me and then away, sending the trailer careening in my direction. Twice, then three times in rapid succession. I swerved to give him room and touched my brakes to let him enter but it wasn’t enough. He slowed and swerved again. The trailer just missed my bumper. I had nowhere left to go. Even stopping wasn’t an option. The panel truck behind me wasn’t giving way. It was right on my bumper, close enough that I couldn’t even see its headlights.
I said a quick prayer, slammed on my brakes and at the same time cranked the steering wheel as hard right as I could. I swerved onto the shoulder of the road behind the trailer. Edna skittered wildly on the sand and I fought to control her. The panel truck careened by me without the driver giving me a glance. As the road joined the highway, the driver of the one-ton swerved across the double white lines into the far left lane and the whole works ended up sliding down the sloped median. It teetered, tipped sideways at high speed and nearly flipped. The trailer was all that held it upright.
My knuckles were white where they gripped the steering wheel. My heart was pounding a mile a minute and my left eye started to twitch. I had almost regained control when a motorcycle cop sped past me on the shoulder. I instinctively turned the wheel away from him. It was too much for the poor old truck.
The landscape raced by me in a blur as Edna executed a 360-degree spin on the shoulder. The passenger wheels caught the edge of the pavement, and as the driver’s side of the truck raised into the air enough that I could look down the steep embankment, every second seemed an eternity.
Edna doesn’t have shoulder belts. This could be really, really bad.
2
I threw every ounce of my weight against the driver’s door and prayed. My heart stilled as the truck balanced on two wheels. Finally, gravity won and the chassis returned to the pavement with a teeth-jarring thump. I sat there, frozen, remembering how to breathe as wailing sirens filled the air. I patted the steering wheel of my faithful truck like I would a puppy and congratulated her. “Attagirl, Edna!”
My legs were rubbery as I exited the truck and checked for damage. A state trooper came running over and I spent the next twenty minutes trying to convince him, and the off-duty EMTs that just happened to be at the airport, that I wasn’t hurt. They seemed convinced that I must have suffered a concussion.
Fortunately, there were enough people who did need an ambulance that they let me leave after taking my statement. The Denver cop on the motorcycle made me promise that I would check in at Denver General for testing. While it seemed silly to me, he threatened to write me up for careless driving if I didn’t.
As I eased back into traffic, I glanced again at the truck in the ditch. Christian charity aside, I got no small amount of satisfaction from seeing that dually end up there.
I didn’t go to DG. Instead, I drove to St. Elizabeth’s. It’s just one of many sprawling brick buildings on hospital row. Joe was off shift, but I was sure to know someone on duty in the ER.
I crossed the parking lot and came in through the ER entrance. An ambulance was just arriving. I had to leap sideways through the door to avoid the speeding gurney and attendants. I had to wait a few minutes to check in. A pretty blonde nurse who I didn’t recognize took the insurance card I pulled from my wallet and made a quick photocopy. As I slid the card back in my wallet she gestured toward the reception area.
“Have a seat. It’ll be a few minutes.” I turned and looked around. It’d be more than a few judging from the crowd. People occupied nearly every chair lining the walls of the waiting room. Most of them looked worried, and were probably waiting for word on a friend or relative. One woman rocked a sobbing young boy of about eight in her arms. His head was a mass of blood from a nasty cut. As I watched, another red splatter landed on the mother’s arm. Despite the blood, that they hadn’t already taken him to a room was a good sign—head wounds bleed like crazy even if they aren’t serious.
I sat down in one of the two remaining seats. Fortunately, it was right at the edge of a busy aisle. If I spotted someone I knew, I could nab him or her and jump ahead of the line. I didn’t feel guilty. I’d only take two or three minutes and be out of the others’ way.
As I watched the passersby for a friendly face, jet lag decided to settle in. My limbs suddenly felt like lead and my stomach was growling enough to warrant a glance from th
e man next to me. A quick scan around the room cheered me. While I’m not terribly fond of either vending machine food or coffee, anything is better than nothing. I fished around in my pockets and was rewarded with a pair of quarters. I walked over to the machine debating internally—more caffeine or food? Caffeine won by a hair. I’d pay for it later, of course. I’d probably have a stomachache by noon for having a second cup.
As I stepped up to the machine I noticed something odd. A brand new Gucci purse sat unattended on the chair next to the machine. I shook my head as I plunked the quarters into the coin slot. I didn’t remember it being there a moment before. Why would someone leave an expensive purse lying around in a room of strangers? I glanced around. Nobody else seemed to notice the tooled leather bag, but it seemed really familiar to me.
I turned my attention back to the machine as the hissing ceased and coffee began to pour into the cardboard cup. I saw movement in the shiny black surface. I started to turn, but it was too late. A fierce blow hit the back of my skull solidly enough to drop me to my knees. I didn’t pass out, but only barely. I rolled out of the way of a second attack by the nurse from the check-in desk, running into the legs of the mother with the boy. She didn’t notice. I looked up into her glazed eyes. I realized that none of the people were seeing what was happening to me. With a sudden chill, I remembered the last time I’d seen that expensive handbag—swinging from Monica Micah’s slender arm as she backhanded me across a restaurant while all of the patrons stood blindly hypnotized. The queen of the Thrall was paying me a personal visit. Shit.
The nurse came for me again. I shook my head frantically, forcing the remaining cotton candy from my brain. I let her believe that I didn’t notice her until she was close enough for me to slam my boot into her kneecap. She dropped to one knee with a grunt but got up so fast that you’d think she’d been kicked by an errant child.
“Enough!” came a voice that crawled along my skin like rows of biting ants. My attacker froze in place, arm raised. A brick fell from her instantly limp fingers.
Monica stood in the doorway a dozen feet away, and she hadn’t changed at all. She was still the same vibrant raven-haired beauty with milk-white skin and violet eyes. She looked both elegant and sexy in clothes that had been cut to make the most of every curve. Luring prey has always been easy with her sultry voice, cover model looks and wanton sexual appetite. She could look cherubic, professional or even demure. But underneath the good looks were a mind and a body capable of unimaginable evil. Her enemies tend to scream a lot and then die very, very slowly. So far, I’ve been the lone exception.
Hello, Kathleen. She spoke directly into my mind, her voice deceptively pleasant. I hate that she can slide so casually into my thoughts. I raised myself stiffly to a sitting position while trying to increase my mental shields. It was a struggle. Her force of will pushed at my body enough to make my muscles ache. My God! I hadn’t seen her for a couple of years, but I didn’t remember her being this powerful. The scent of her expensive perfume made me sneeze, sending a shooting pain through my skull. Oddly, it helped. By concentrating on the pain I was able to push her mind aside just enough to throw up a stronger shield and not be overwhelmed. She hissed. It was a very inhuman sound that seemed even more evil coming from those perfectly painted lips.
“What do you want, Monica?” I forced the words through a throat that didn’t want to work.
Her smile was dazzling. Her laugh was bright but cold, and words again appeared like magic in my head. Want? Why, what I’ve always wanted, darling. I want you dead. But not quite yet. We have other plans for you first.
The last syllable was followed by a surge of pure power that seared my brain. I gasped and brought my hands up against my temples, but white spots and flowers threatened to eat away reality.
When I could force my eyes open past a slit, I saw the nurse taking the cap off a syringe. Monica’s eyes glinted with wicked pleasure. We’ll go somewhere less . . . crowded, and we’ll chat. Won’t that be fun?
No, it wouldn’t. And we wouldn’t. Not so long as I had an ounce of fight left in my body. I tensed body and mind to fight. I cast my eyes around the waiting room, looking for something, anything I could use as a weapon. Nothing. But I did see a familiar face walking in the hallway beyond Monica. So, Monica didn’t have enough power to do the whole hospital. It was only the people in this room who were enthralled. As liquid leapt from the needle in a broad arc to clear the air, I called in the loudest voice I could manage.
“DR. MACDOUGAL!”
The man turned to my voice and he saw Monica. He knew her. He sees a lot of people who she’s chatted with. But only for a few seconds before the face is covered and the body is taken downstairs. He ran and grabbed the arms of two burly attendants. Monica bared her fangs and hissed at me.
The blonde was still moving steadily toward me, needle extended and thumb on the plunger.
I couldn’t stand. I knew that. Monica’s power was too strong. But I knew that if she enthralled the doctor and the attendants, she’d lose her hold over the room, or me. In any case, she was undone.
Or so I thought.
The first attendant grabbed the nurse. He had to struggle to hold onto a woman that couldn’t have weighed more than ninety-eight pounds. He was winning, but only barely.
The other attendant reached for Monica. Big mistake. One slender arm shot out and the man was suddenly in the air, held effortlessly by her superhuman strength. A flash of movement later, he was on the ground, his throat ripped into shreds by her perfectly manicured nails. Blood spurted from his torn arteries. I grimaced as she licked the blood from her fingers while he lay thrashing.
This isn’t over, Katie.
Both women disappeared. That’s the best I can describe it. I lay still on the floor for a second, stunned and grateful. I’d been lucky. She could’ve killed me in those seconds when she’d clouded our minds to leave. Why hadn’t she? What in the hell was going on?
With Monica’s departure, the waiting room came alive again. The mother looked down at her blood-covered arm with a start. The boy had been bleeding steadily the whole time, and she hadn’t noticed.
“Kate!”
I turned to see Dr. MacDougal, a slender middle-aged man with thinning black hair and a bushy moustache. He was still dressed in a lab coat. He was on one knee next to his fallen employee. I watched as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves taken from his pocket. I could tell the man was badly wounded, but he’d probably live. He was lucky. Monica seldom leaves survivors. A gurney arrived with a contingent of doctors and nurses and the unconscious man disappeared down the hallway in a rush of voices and motion.
I would’ve expected him to follow along, but he stayed, giving me a long, intense stare that carried the weight of his displeasure.
“Hi, Dr. MacDougal,” I replied wearily. I was truly sorry about the guard—and confused as hell.
“What happened here, Kathleen?” He removed the gloves and dropped them into the biowaste container hanging on the wall.
His guess was as good as mine. I couldn’t fathom why Monica would suddenly appear. She’d left me alone for years. I reviewed her words in my mind. “We have other plans for you first.” We had to be the hive. But what other plans? I didn’t have a clue. My pulse began racing with fear. One of the benefits of being Not Prey was that they were supposed to challenge me one on one, not hunt me like an animal. Somehow the rules had changed. My body started to shake, and it wasn’t just a physical reaction.
“I had a near miss on 1-70 and promised the police that I’d get checked out by a doctor. I checked in. Monica was waiting for me. I don’t know how or why.” My stomach tightened into a tense knot. There were too many questions, not the least of which was why my free pass had abruptly expired. I needed to find out, just as soon as I could get my feet back under me and enough rest for my brain to start working again. But I was just too tired, too hungry, and my head hurt too badly to do anything but deal with the immediate
crisis.
The anger faded from MacDougal’s eyes and his face fell into professional lines. He opened his mouth to begin asking the usual series of questions for accident patients.
I warded off the words by holding up my hands. “I just spun out when someone forced me off the road. I’m fine. The truck’s fine. But the cop on the scene wouldn’t believe I didn’t hit my head.” I snorted and shook my head, which brought on a brief wave of nausea. “Doesn’t matter much now, since the check-in nurse cracked me with a brick.” I used gentle fingers to probe the growing lump. It hurt. A lot. But I wasn’t dizzy, or nauseous—both good signs. “I’m probably fine. Really.”
MacDougal scowled at me. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised his brows. “I’ll let you know if you’re fine.” He grasped my chin in one strong hand, gazing carefully at my pupils. He let out a little snort of air that could’ve meant anything or nothing.
I heaved a sigh. I wanted out of here, and now. But I knew that tone of voice. I wouldn’t be going anywhere until the doctor got a good look at me. If I tried, he’d call reinforcements—possibly in the form of my older brother.
He released my chin. “Come with me. We can take care of this in my office.” He gestured for me to follow and I fell into step beside him. I knew where the lab was.
I’m always amazed by Dr. MacDougal’s office. Researchers seem to run to two extremes. Some are so involved with their projects that everything else suffers. Unless they are fortunate enough to employ a competent assistant, their office, lab and life are in constant chaos. Dr. MacDougal is the other flip of the coin. His office is meticulously clean—dirt is the enemy. His lab is a model of order and efficiency.