Stolen

by Cheree Alsop

  STOLEN

  By Cheree L. Alsop

  Copyright © 2012 by Cheree L. Alsop

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN

  Cover Design by Andy Hair

  www.ChereeAlsop.com

  To my husband, Michael Alsop,

  Whose belief in my dreams

  Made my books a reality.

  To my children for their patience,

  laughter, and love.

  I love you!

  Chapter 1- Kyla

  I walked slowly through the cages to check on the dogs and cats. The lights were low and my sneakers squeaked noisily on the tile floor. The clinic was strangely quiet. Though most of the animals were still awake, they sat silently in their cages, eyes wide and shifting as if they waited for something.

  I paused at the kennel of a poodle that had undergone a cesarean. The mother lay curled around her sleeping puppies, her eyes large amid her curly white hair. I opened the door and petted the dog’s head reassuringly. “It’s okay now, Sugar. Your puppies are beautiful and healthy.” The dog licked my hand and I smiled. I shut the cage and continued my rounds, making sure the occupants were resting and water bowls full.

  I paused by the door to the supply room to tuck an errant strand of hair into my braid when I noticed that the door knob was discolored and the door open slightly despite the fact that I had closed it at the beginning of my rounds.

  I touched the door cautiously and my heart started to pound. I had worked as my father’s assistant at the veterinary clinic long enough to recognize the color of blood on metal. The door swung inward and light from the outside room illuminated a rectangle on the floor. I reached up slowly to flip on the light switch.

  “Don’t.” The whisper was quiet.

  I froze, my hand just below the switch. I thought of the small knife I always carried in my pocket to assist with opening packages, dog food, and the other random chores I carried out after school. I wondered if reaching for the knife would be too obvious. The light coming into the small room put the front of me in shadow, so I slid my right hand down slowly, my left still frozen by the light switch.

  “Don’t move.” The whisper was stronger this time.

  My heart began to race. “Who are you?” I asked. I tried to keep my voice from shaking and almost succeeded. “What do you want?”

  The voice fell silent for a moment, but I could hear him breathe; each outlet of air was forced, as if through clenched teeth. When he spoke again, his words were softer with a hint of gentleness as if he knew I was afraid. “Bandages and thread, if you have it. I couldn’t find them.”

  I willed my heart to slow. I thought about the location of the wound supplies in proximity to the speaker’s voice. Though I had been the one to store the supplies and could have found them blindfolded, there was no way I was about to step into the storage room in the dark.

  “I have to turn on the light to find them,” I lied. He didn’t answer. His breathing sounded loud in the tiny room. “Or I could get my father,” I continued, trying to keep my tone positive. “He would take care of you.” I hoped that came across as a good thing rather than the impending doom I knew the speaker would meet if my father found out someone was hiding in the clinic and scaring his daughter.

  “No, no one.” He fell quiet for a moment. I couldn’t hear him breathe and wondered if he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly, confirming my guess. “Go ahead and turn on the light.”

  I slipped the pocketknife out of my jeans as I flipped the switch. Neon hummed above. I turned back slowly, afraid of what I would find.

  He was crouched in the corner between the wall and a stack of boxes that held sterile water in IV bags. I judged him to be roughly my age of eighteen. He wore a black hoodie with the hood pulled up over disheveled black hair. His pants were faded, and he wore sneakers that were torn and dark with use.

  I sensed something wild about him, like the feral dogs and cats the catcher brought in. I met his eyes and froze for a moment. At first, they shone gold as if reflecting the light that now filled the room, then they darkened to blue, dark and stormy like the ocean. He looked caged, wild. The expression in his eyes was guarded, calculating, as if he was planning his escape route.

  I felt like I should say something. “I’m not going to hurt you.” It sounded like false reassurance with the lingering hint of fear in my voice. I felt stupid for saying it, but he nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. I then noticed that he held one hand tight against his right side; blood dripped slowly between his fingers to the white tiled floor. His face was drawn and pale, a sharp contrast to his dark hair and shirt.

  “I should get help,” I said, more alarmed now at his condition than his presence. I put a hand on the door.

  “No!” There was fear in his voice this time. I turned back and found that he had risen halfway to his feet, his free hand holding the boxes for support. His blue eyes were wide, pleading, his face pale with the pain. He shook his head and dropped his eyes under my gaze. “No, please. No help.”

  I nodded, worried that he was using strength he couldn’t spare. “Okay, no help.”

  “Thank you.” He let himself slide slowly back down the wall to his crouched position. Blood from his side left a streak along the white paint. I stared at him, my mind racing. He looked back at me and a slight, pained smile touched his lips. “Are you okay?”

  “Huh?” I started. “Um, yes. Sorry.” I quickly made my way around the tiny room, gathering supplies. I kept the knife in my hand more for reassurance than protection. With the shape he was in, I figured he was more danger to himself than me.

  I approached him with an armful of bandages, clean rags, ointment, rubbing alcohol swabs, two curved needles, thread, gloves, and a sterile pad to set everything on. I took a steeling breath, slipped the knife back into my pocket, and knelt down next to the box of IV’s. The young man hesitated before lowering himself to a sitting position. His eyes never left my face. He seemed calmer now, as if the knowledge that someone was trying to help eased his pain.

  “Are you. . . are you from around here?” I asked. I avoided his gaze, unsure I would be able to do what he seemed to be asking.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he carefully pulled the hoodie off his left arm, over his head, and then eased his right arm out. The torso revealed underneath was toned like an athlete with small scars along his skin. I fought back the urge to look away; it wasn’t every day I saw a half-naked boy late at night in the clinic. The cloth stuck to his side and he gasped as it pulled at the wound.

  “Wait,” I commanded. I ran to the next room and filled a small bowl with clean, warm water, then grabbed a large syringe my father kept next to the sink for just that purpose. I hurried back into the storage room where he held the shirt to his side to help staunch the flow of blood.

  I knelt down carefully to keep the water from spilling and filled the needleless syringe with the warm water. I used it soaked the edge of the cloth that stuck to the wound before easing the shirt, thick with drying blood, as gently as possible from his side. He didn’t make a sound; a glance showed that his jaw was clenched and his eyes were focused on the far wall.

  After what felt like hours but was probably only a minute or two, the shirt came off and blood flowed freely onto the tiled floor. I examined the wound quickly. It was a long, clean cut from his right side to almost the middle of his stomach. It wasn’t
deep enough to reach organs, but he had lost a lot of blood and it continued to flow. If I called Dad or an ambulance and he left and tried to make it on his own, he would probably die in an alley somewhere from blood loss.

  I took a calming breath. “If you lay on your side, I’ll be able to stitch it better.” At his nod, I rose and grabbed a clean blanket from the shelf to spread across the floor. He positioned himself on it slowly, avoiding both my gaze and looking at the wound as if trying to maintain some control of the situation.

  I pulled on the gloves, then attempted to thread the needle. It took several tries; my hands shook enough to give away my nervousness no matter how I tried to concentrate. I had assisted my father many times when he stitched similar wounds, but I had never been the one to do the stitching. I clenched my jaw and cleansed the wound with rubbing alcohol the best that I could; the swabs were quickly soaked with blood.

  I could hear him struggle to stay silent as the alcohol touched the raw edges. My heart thumped sideways in my chest and I pulled back my hand. “Let me get my father. He could at least use a topical to make it hurt less.”

  I started to rise, but he grabbed my hand, turning so that he lay on his back. I met his eyes and shook my head. “I can’t do this. I’ve never stitched anything up before. I just assist my father with the bandaging and all that.” A tear escaped down my cheek. I brushed it away with my free hand, averting my eyes from his steady gaze.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “What?” I looked back down, surprised.

  “What’s your name? I’m Marek.” He gave the hand he still held a little shake.

  “Kyla,” I replied, trying to see how that applied to the fact that he was bleeding to death and I couldn’t do anything about it.

  “Kyla,” he repeated, studying me. “I like that name.”

  “But-”

  He cut my protest short with a shake of his head. His wavy black hair, damp with sweat, fell in his eyes. He let go of my hand to push it back. “Kyla, we only have two options here. Either I leave and hope I can get through this on my own, or you try your best to stitch me up and I can go back to where I’m needed.” He picked up the threaded needle and studied it, his teeth bared slightly in distaste. “Now, as much as this is going to hurt, it’ll be nothing compared to what will happen if I’m caught and I can’t run.” He looked back at me, the needle on his palm. His hand shook slightly. “I don’t want to die. You can help me.”

  I knelt back down despite the voice in my head that screamed for me to call the police. I tried to be rational, remembering the fear in his voice when I offered to get help. He would undoubtedly leave if I tried to call someone. I opened my hand slowly. As he placed the needle on it, I heard his slow outrush of breath and realized he had been holding it while I made my decision. I glanced at him.

  Marek dropped his gaze. “Sorry; you’re my only hope here.”

  I nodded and took a deep breath to clear my mind. I let it out slowly. “I can do this,” I whispered.

  Marek tipped my chin up gently. I met his eyes. “It’s okay. You can do this,” he echoed quietly. My heart slowed and I nodded.

  Marek turned onto his side and stared past me at the rows of supplies packed neatly on the shelves. I glanced at his hands. They were clenched, the knuckles white amid the red stain of his blood. I turned my attention to the task at hand, willing myself to be calm and my fingers steady.

  I made the first prick and tried in vain to block out Marek’s gasp as I eased the two edges of skin together. I was grateful that the cut was smooth and straight, and kept my stitches small and evenly spaced after my father’s example. The minutes dragged by with only the harsh sound of Marek’s breathing and the hum of the neon lights coloring the air. The flesh slowly closed back together in a straight red line that continued to drip when I was done.

  My head pounded from the tension. My gloves were stained as red as Marek’s hands, and with the same blood. My fingers shook from the strain of holding the tiny needle and easing it through injured flesh. I swabbed the freshly sewn wound with alcohol, aware that Marek didn’t make a sound. I avoided looking up as I bandaged the wound. It wasn’t until I finished taping the main bandage down and needed him to sit up so I could wrap the long strips around his waist to hold pressure on the wound that I finally looked up at his face.

  Marek’s eyes were unfocused, his breathing harsh. His black hair was a tangled mess that shone with sweat and hung over his eyes. He held his right hand next to his mouth in a loose fist. It bled along the knuckles as if he had bitten it to keep from crying out with the pain.

  I stared at the hand. It looked as though it had been bitten by a dog, not a human. Long gashes that would have been fang marks scored the flesh deeply, framing the smaller teeth marks. I shook my head, convinced that I was seeing things.

  “Marek,” I whispered. He didn’t acknowledge my voice. His eyes, the same gold cast I had noticed earlier, stared past me. I wondered if the pain had been too much, if I should have gotten my father despite his protests. “Marek,” I repeated louder. “Marek, it’s over.” I grabbed a left-over rag and dipped it in the remaining clean water. I ran the cloth over his forehead, smoothing his hair back.

  Marek started to shake as the cool water touched his skin. I stared as his eyes turned from gold back to blue. I closed my own eyes and rubbed my forehead with the back of my arm, certain now that I was seeing things.

  “Is it over?” His voice was soft and expressionless.

  I jumped anyway and stared down at him. “Yes, it’s over.” I rushed on, worried at how pale his face had become, “I’ve got it pretty much bandaged, except I need you to sit up so I can finish wrapping it.”

  Marek closed and opened his eyes again slowly. He reached up to rub his knuckles across them, then stared at his damaged hand. I could see his thoughts racing, but couldn’t read them. He lowered his hand and used it to ease himself into a more upright position.

  I helped him up, aware of how clammy his skin had become in the tiny, air conditioned room. I helped him turn so he could sit with his back propped against the cardboard boxes, but he winced.

  “It might be better if I stand,” he said quietly. “It pulls at the stitches to sit like this.”

  I helped him slowly to his feet. By the time he was standing, his face and chest shone with sweat. He held his side tightly with his left hand in an effort to ease the pain, and he leaned on me and the boxes for support with his head low. I wrapped the bandages quickly and tucked the ends of the cloth underneath so it wouldn’t catch on anything.

  Marek gave me a slight, pained smile. “You’ve done this before.”

  I nodded. “Bandaging, yes; but you’re the first person I’ve ever stitched.”

  “Well,” he grimaced slightly and shifted so that he could lean against the boxes. “Glad to have been your first.”

  I smiled and felt the tension ease from my shoulders. I bent and began gathering up the supplies to throw away or clean. I felt his eyes on me as I rushed around the room, aware that my parents would start worrying if I didn’t return home soon. Luckily, I often stayed late to reassure the sick and wounded animals, making sure they were as comfortable as possible. Dad probably thought I was tending to Sugar’s puppies.

  I finished scrubbing the wall, doorknob, and floor with disinfectant and water, tossed the bloodied cloths and rags into the hazardous bin, then glanced back at Marek. He stood with his eyes closed and head bowed as he leaned against the boxes. Blood glistened from the gash on his hand.

  “I should take care of that, too,” I said softly.

  Marek opened his eyes in surprise. He glanced around quickly as if to remind himself where he was, then looked back at me with questioning politeness.

  I pointed at his hand and followed his gaze back to it. When he looked up again, his eyes were dark and unreadable. He didn’t protest when I took his hand and cleaned it carefully. I applied the clear ointment Dad used on most wounds,
then wrapped it securely.

  His fingers were hot compared to my own, and his muscles were tense as though he was unsure of my touch. I lowered his hand gently and turned away to give him some space. I put the ointment and extra bandages back where they belonged, then glanced around one more time to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. I was stalling, but didn’t know what to say.

  “Is there somewhere safe I could sleep, just for a little bit?”

  There was a touch of despair in his voice. He couldn’t stay here, and we both knew he wouldn’t make it far in his condition. My mind raced as I thought of, then discarded, a thousand different possibilities. I finally stuck on the tree house in our backyard. It was small, but hidden from the house by the surrounding trees. My brother had grown too big for it, and it currently housed only squirrels and spiders.

  It would have to do for the night. We couldn’t trust anyone, and he had mentioned that someone or something was searching for him. It was probably the same person that had left him wounded and bleeding in an unforgiving city. I nodded. “Yeah, I know somewhere safe. It’s not the best, though.”

  “Anything,” Marek agreed. “It’ll be fine.”

  Chapter 2- Marek

  I watched her carefully, wondering if it was foolish to trust her. She seemed innocent and sweet, but definitely wasn’t prepared to deal with the danger that followed me. Her little pocket knife would be no help against those on my trail.

  My knees threatened to buckle when I stood up from the wall. I swayed slightly, but caught myself with a hand against the boxes before Kyla saw. I gritted my teeth and followed slowly. She kept looking back to make sure I was alright. The concern on her face made my heart thump strangely, but I knew better than to relax my guard, especially when I was hurt.

  Even though I protested, Kyla slipped my arm over her shoulder and helped me out the door from the clinic. I blinked, willing my eyes to focus, though it took longer than usual. The darkness of midnight pressed down around us. I felt like they were everywhere, waiting and watching for me to slip up so they could catch me weak and unable to defend myself. I second-guessed my decision to involve Kyla in any of it, but I had to lean on her more than I liked just to put one foot in front of the other. I couldn’t remember feeling more exhausted and cold. Maybe I could trust her just for one night. I really didn’t have much of a choice if I was going to make it back.