Night Terror (The Lazarus Codex Book 7)

by E. A. Copen

  Emma picked it up and slipped it onto her shoulder. “Mind if I come? It’ll give me something to do other than pace out here.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I hesitated. “Thanks.”

  The nurse showed us back to a small curtained off area of the ER where a hospital bed waited. Not exactly a place where I could sit her down and leave her safely. I sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed while Emma took the chair. Our nurse promised the doctor would be in to see us shortly and rushed off to deal with more serious customers.

  “It’s probably nothing,” I said, my voice slurred with exhaustion. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until I sat down on a bed.

  “Probably,” Emma agreed. “But best to make sure.”

  I grunted my agreement and closed my eyes only to jerk them back open. No sleep. Not here. Not now. “Hey, Em, I hate to ask but…”

  “You want me to take Remy so you can go top off the caffeine tank?”

  I nodded.

  Emma put down the bag, stood and held her arms out.

  She didn’t seem hesitant, but I didn’t want to just drop my kid off with her and run, especially given everything she’d said earlier. I met Emma’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

  Her shoulders slumped with a sigh. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

  “How come you haven’t kicked me to the curb?” I must’ve been more tired than I thought if that was falling out of my mouth. The last thing I wanted was for Emma to dump me and yet I’d just opened that door for her.

  Emma finally lowered her arms but said nothing.

  “Your family hates me,” I continued. “I do nothing but draw trouble and complicate your life, I put your career at risk. Hell, I got you killed and sent to Hell. You were tortured because of me, and I took too long getting to you. Now, I’ve gotten your brother’s fingers broken and ruined your Thanksgiving dinner. Why the hell don’t you just tell me it’s over?”

  “Laz—”

  “I don’t want you hanging on if it’s just pity, or if you think you can just wait for a better time. There’s never going to be a better time, not around me. People die. Tomorrow’s not going to be any better than today. I know I’ve been a jerk. I’ve asked too much of you, of everyone. So if that’s it…”

  Her face hardened, and she gave me a punch in the shoulder. I think it was meant to be a playful punch, but it still hurt. Emma was a lot stronger than she looked. “That’s not it at all, you big, dumb idiot. I’m not going to dump you just because your life is weird and things are hard. Stop trying to make me. Stop pushing people away that care about you.”

  I squirmed on the edge of the bed. “People leave me, Emma. My parents, Lydia, Beth and Odette. Even Pony betrayed me to save his own skin. It’s hard not to expect that, I guess.”

  Emma took my face in her hands and lifted my chin, so I had to look her in the eyes. “Look at me. I’m not going to walk. I’m too stubborn. Ask anyone. Besides, for some reason, I like you. And your daughter is adorable, despite all the fluids that come out of her. You and me, we’re exhausted. We’re stressed and, right now, our lives are shit. We’re still making it through. Together. If we can get through this without hating each other, I say we can do just about anything. You want to know why my parents split?”

  I shrugged. “I assume it’s because your mom realized she was a lesbian at some point.”

  Emma chuckled and let go of my face. “No, that happened after. They split because they were never really together. They stayed together for us kids. Never really built a life. I don’t want that. I don’t want us to be like them. If I’m going to get old and miserable, I’d rather complain about the monsters tearing up the world than the color of the bathroom walls. I used to think that boring life was what I wanted. But that’s not who I am. If it was, do you think I would’ve put on this badge?”

  I glanced to the badge resting on her belt. She’d put it on before leaving the house, not because she was acting in any official police capacity, but because she’d discharged her weapon and knew she’d have to answer for that. Anytime there was gunfire, the emergency room had to contact law enforcement. She’d have to explain herself and file a whole bunch of reports soon.

  “No,” I grumbled and lowered my head.

  “Give me Remy and go get some coffee, Laz. I need you. She needs you.”

  I nodded and passed my daughter to Emma before stretching and ducking through the curtain in search of coffee.

  It took me three tries and directions from two nurses to find my way to the coffee vending machine. The thing swallowed the last of my change and spat out a cup of watery coffee that I promptly made palatable with cream and sugar from a nearby display. It was scalding hot and still tasted like liquid punishment, but I gulped it down as fast as I could stand. Who needs taste buds anyway?

  On my way back, I passed the room where they’d shoved Curtis. His door was open. He lay in the bed with his arm supported on a portable stand. They had splints on three of his fingers, but hadn’t yet come in to do the cast. He scowled at me when I stopped, which I took to be an invitation for a visit.

  I slid into the doorway, sipping my coffee. “Private room in the ER, eh? Federal correctional officers must have pretty good insurance.”

  “I should press charges,” he snapped. “You assaulted me.”

  “Your grandma broke your fingers with a rocking chair. I didn’t have any part in that. Not unless you want to admit magic is real.”

  Curtis’ scowl deepened. “What’s your angle, asshole?”

  “Angle?” I gulped down some more coffee. “What angle?”

  “With my sister. I know who you are. Looked you up.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Here we go.”

  Curtis continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “I know you’re conning her. I just don’t know how yet. Why else would she be with a felon? My sister’s a good woman. A better detective. Don’t think I don’t know her career went to shit as soon as you showed up. She was on the fast track for promotion until recently. Until you butted into her life.”

  “I know this is hard for you,” I started, “but just because I did time, it doesn’t make me a bad person.”

  “Yes, it does,” he ground out. “Once a criminal, always a criminal. You’re dirty, and when I find out how, I’m going to ruin you.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know what? Screw you, pal. I could stand here all night and explain to you that there were extenuating circumstances surrounding my arrest. I could tell you I did my time and kept my head down and even got out early for good behavior. Or, we could talk about how my time inside changed me, made me realize how I’d let my life get away from me, and I came out vowing never to fuck up that badly again. Isn’t that what prison is supposed to do? Rehabilitate offenders? Just because it doesn’t work eighty percent of the time, don’t discount the twenty who turn their lives around on the other side. But even if we work through all of that, you’ll never be able to put aside your prejudice to get to know me, will you? I’ll always be the ex-con who’s not good enough for your sister. You want to talk about criminals?” I gestured to him with the coffee cup. “I wasn’t the one standing over my grandma and a helpless infant with a knife.”

  Curtis didn’t say a word, but he glanced away, picking a spot on the floor to stare at. Guilt.

  I suddenly felt bad and sighed. “And I know it wasn’t you either,” I said, my tone gentler.

  His eyes snapped up, face hardening. “Yes, it was. I saw myself doing it. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but…”

  “But you weren’t in control of your own body. Like you’d suddenly slid into the passenger seat, and someone else was driving.”

  Curtis nodded slowly.

  I stepped further into the room and drew the chair closer to the door, flipping it around so I could lean forward against the back. “You’re not the first or the only guy that’s happening to. There’ve been a handful of people who describe the same phenomenon. Some of them, no one wa
s there to stop them. They murdered their wives and children only to wake up later and kill themselves. I arrived just in time to stop another one from burning his pregnant wife and himself alive.”

  He swallowed and looked down at his broken fingers. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I was just so…”

  “Terrified, Curtis. The word you want is terrified.” I sipped at my coffee and watched as he thought it over before nodding. “Next time you fall asleep, it’s going to happen again. It’ll keep happening until either you die, or I find whatever’s responsible and make it stop.”

  “Whatever’s responsible?” Curtis shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  I crossed my arms over the back of the chair and leaned forward. “Let’s pretend you’re not another skeptic and you believe in magic. I’m not talking about David Copperfield. I mean real magic. Magic that makes people suddenly have bad luck, or that lets real monsters slip into the world, the kind you can’t kill with guns or put in a cell. Assuming you believe in all that, then I’d tell you that there seems to be a supernatural creature that takes control of certain people while they’re sleeping and makes them do these things. As for how this thing chooses its victims…”

  Curtis frowned. “I don’t believe in all that crap.”

  “Either way, you have been to Angola recently, haven’t you?”

  He blinked. “How’d you know that?”

  Bingo. So, that’s how this thing was getting into people’s heads. I’d been screwed as soon as I walked through the door and back out. Not that knowing that narrowed down my pool of possible victims yet. There had to be hundreds of correctional officers employed there, plus the warden, and any inmates that might’ve been released lately. Then there were the dozens of visitors who came and went, and any other employees or contractors who came in contact with the prison. The pool of possible victims was practically bottomless. Still, it was a start.

  I tapped my fingers on the coffee cup. “Because I was there a couple days ago, and all the other victims had connections to the place, though some of those connections reached back weeks or months. This thing seems to be ramping up whatever timeline it’s on. The others spent weeks of sleepless nights before attacking people. You dozed off on the sofa once.”

  Curtis shifted his weight, glancing again at that spot on the floor.

  “Curtis?” I ducked my head, trying to catch his eye. “Something you want to tell me?”

  “The nightmares, they’ve been going on about three weeks. Ever since I drove over there to pick up a transfer.”

  I sighed and rubbed my temple. “How long have you been sleepwalking?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “A few days. Barely slept for almost a week. That’s why I dozed off. I’m just so damn tired.” Curtis met my eyes with a deepening frown. “And you say this’ll happen again? How do I stop it?”

  “You don’t,” I said, standing. “You don’t believe in the supernatural, remember?” I toasted Curtis with my half-full cup and turned to go.

  “And what are you going to do?” he called after me. “Read this thing its fortune?”

  I didn’t answer him, though he had a point. For all my effort, I still had no idea what I was chasing or how to stop it. But at least now I knew how to get those answers, even if I didn’t like it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Remy’s shoulder was bruised from her tumble, but nothing was broken. They gave me a bottle full of infant pain reliever and sent me on my way.

  When I got back out to the lobby with Emma, the whole family was still there. Grammy leaned on Perry’s arm, snoring, while Joyce stared absently at the soap opera playing on the television. Her eyes shifted to me with a wary glance. Perry’s expression matched hers. Fear.

  I wished I didn’t care, but it bothered me. I didn’t like people fearing me, not as one of the good guys. It was the standard reaction of Normals encountering the supernatural though. Emma would have a time explaining things to them.

  I turned to Emma. “I need to do something, a magic thing. I don’t want Remy exposed to it. I know you’re exhausted, and I’ve asked too much of you, but I can’t call Nate and bring him in. Not today.”

  Emma raised an eyebrow. “And because my holiday is already ruined, why not me, right?”

  “I don’t mean it like that.”

  She flashed me a tired smile and put a hand on my arm. “Laz, I’m joking.”

  “You need a sitter?” Joyce asked, her voice small and hesitant. She pushed her cheeks up into a dimpled smile. “I don’t mind. I love babies. That way Emmy can get some sleep.”

  I looked to Emma.

  Emma shrugged. “She raised me and Curtis, and she does love babies.”

  I held Remy’s carrier out to Joyce. Something tugged at my chest as I handed my daughter over. Not worry, not true worry. She’d be fine with Joyce and Emma, of that much I was sure. But the way Joyce cooed at Remy while she was sleeping, it reminded me that my mother had never met her and never would.

  I cleared the tightness from my throat and turned to Emma, slipping my hand into hers. “I’m sorry about today. I’m sorry about everything. I’d like to make it up to you if you’ll give me a chance. Though, I don’t know how. I can’t really cook, and I don’t have space for a big dinner.”

  “It’s okay.” She leaned in and kissed my cheek.

  Just having her that close to me, the world suddenly seemed better. Easier. I wanted to melt into her and just stay there. Something made the back of my neck burn. I turned my head to meet Perry’s eyes as he scrutinized me, holding his daughter’s hand. Every instinct screamed at me to let Emma’s hand go, but I squeezed tighter instead and caught her lips in a quick kiss. Screw them. They didn’t run her life, and I was done acting for their benefit.

  “I’ll call you later,” I promised before shooting Perry a hard look and walking out of the ER.

  It was dark outside. The air held enough of a chill that I was glad I’d thought to dress Remy warmly. I stopped under a light in the parking lot to adjust my jacket and wondered if I’d wake up in the morning to news of another dead family. With no more clues, I couldn’t chase this thing any further. I couldn’t save anyone else, couldn’t do anything, not until I knew what it was that was killing people in my city.

  Instead of getting straight into the driver’s seat of my car, I opened the passenger door and rummaged around in the back until I found Dad’s journal. With a careful glance around the parking lot for any unsavory characters that might be hanging around, I walked around the front of the car and slid into the driver’s seat, journal in my hands.

  It might hold the answers I so desperately needed, but I didn’t see how. The old man couldn’t have known any more than I did. If anything, he knew less. His only resources would’ve been in the prison library, and it wouldn’t exactly be bursting at the seams with books on the supernatural. I still needed to read it. There was no explaining the urge, but I knew somewhere deep down I had to read what he’d written to the last page.

  I exhaled and flipped open the book.

  November 8th

  I’m going to die here. Seems like I should’ve already known that. With all the wrong I done, it seemed a given. But that ain’t what I mean. I mean I’m going to die in this cell very soon. One way or another, this is the end for me. I don’t know why I’m writing this down. Maybe it’s just to have someone to talk to. Someplace to put my thoughts. This’ll be here after I’m gone. In a way, the words make me immortal. That’s funny. Wish I’d realized that sooner. I’d have wrote more.

  November 17th

  I can hear it. I feel it. It’s watching me from the corner right now. Just looking at it makes me sick. But I know something. I know how to stop it. I know what I have to do. Wish I could say I wasn’t afraid, but I’m fucking terrified. Not of dying. I can do that easy. What if nobody comes to bury me? I can’t go in the cemetery grounds. I deserve it, I know. I done bad. I wish I hadn’t. Wish I could take it all back. I deserve to
be here forever, but I don’t want it. I know what they do when a prisoner dies. They’ll call my boy. He’s the only one left. I can only hope when they call him, he comes.

  If he reads this, I hope he looks a little deeper on the last page of this memoir.

  I lied at the beginning. This is a confession. God forgive me.

  The air in the car was suddenly too stuffy. I turned the battery on and lowered the window so I could breathe. My father had died repentant. I didn’t know which thing made me feel sicker, that he’d apologized, or that I actually wanted to believe him. Maybe staring his own death in the face had changed him. Had I known, would we have reconciled? Could I have contacted him in those last days and given him some small measure of peace?

  Probably not. I wouldn’t have trusted him, wouldn’t have accepted any apology. And if he’d called me to tell me he was going to die, that some supernatural monster was haunting his dreams, I wouldn’t have cared nor would I have believed him. I would’ve dismissed it all as the ravings of a madman.

  I kept staring at the words on the page, trying to make sense of them. Did he feel bad because he was going to die? Because he’d gotten caught? Or did my father carry actual guilt with him to the grave? I supposed I’d never know, not unless I raised his ghost. Before I did that, I needed to be armed with all the information about him and his death as I could. I’d need to steel myself against the possibility this was all an act, and the man was getting his last laugh from beyond the grave.

  With shaky fingers, I turned the page and found the next two pages in the notebook ripped out. The jagged edges of torn paper jutted out from the stitched spine unevenly. I ran my fingers along the rough edges of the missing pages. How many were gone? What was on them? Mom had said he wrote her a letter. Maybe the pages had come from that very notebook. Maybe his suicide note too.

  What was it he’d written? Something about looking deeper on the last page.

  I flipped to the last page but found it blank. Just because there was nothing visible written there didn’t mean there wasn’t some clue. There were lots of ways to make writing invisible. It was a simple enough trick anyone could do with a couple of items from their fridge. But my old man wouldn’t have had access to lemon juice or baking soda in his cell. He’d have gone for the simplest thing. If he had access to magic like Mom had suggested…