Dragon: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 37)

by Robert J. Crane

  The pants came off next. Once I was free of those, I figured out where the boot blood had come from. There was a huge cut along my shin that no one, not even me, had noticed. It had already crusted over, but it looked like it had done its fair share of bleeding before doing so. The back of my opposite calf had a similar wound that looked smaller but deeper. It was still nickel sized, a scab that suggested I'd caught a big splinter in my flight through the walls of that house.

  Shucking off my jacket was easy, but getting out of the vest proved slightly harder. The shoulder was still crying out to be loved, loved, “Why don't you looooooove me, Siennna?” like I'd been ignoring it in favor of the younger, sexier, rib injury. Fortunately the vest could be unbuckled at the sides with a little effort, and I did so, managing to sort of slip it over my head with the uninjured arm. I was playing a dangerous game there, though, because that was the side that had all the broken ribs.

  When I finally got in front of my bathroom mirror, I got a good idea of why Officer McGee had made his horrified face when he lifted up my shirt, and it wasn't because my bra was tan and the panties sticking out of my waistband were purple.

  No, it was because I literally had broken ribs sticking out of the skin. I didn't know how medical professionals numbered these things, but there were splinters of bone the length of my pinkie finger halfway to the first knuckle, peeking out of my side. Two of them, just hanging out there beneath the bottom of my bra.

  I swore under my breath. Maybe EMT Stegenga had been right, because having a doctor set these would be a huge help to proper healing. Still, there was nothing for it but to do it, so I took a deep breath, sat down in front of my full-length mirror, grabbed the nearly used roll of toilet paper off the dispenser and shoved it in my mouth, biting down hard.

  Then I took two fingers and pressed on the first errant bone until I got it back under the skin.

  I screamed a lot in the days, weeks, years that it seemed to take. Once it was back where it belonged, I sat drooling bloody saliva into the toilet paper roll clutched between my teeth. I might even have blacked out for a few minutes. But when I came to, I had another rib to fix, and I got right down to it.

  When I woke again, cheek pressed to the cold bathroom floor, bloody toilet paper roll shredded and disintegrating in my mouth, I felt surprisingly better, a real shock given the injuries I'd had. After a few more moments, I managed to stand and take a look in the mirror. No more bones peaked out of my torso, or anywhere else, which left me with a couple oozing wounds and a whole lot of bruising and crusted blood.

  The solution to that was obvious.

  I sat in the tub as hot water cascaded down on me, my mind dulling under the heat and given sweet release in this confined space. There was something freeing for me about being in a tight spot. Some people had claustrophobia; I had claustrophilia, if that was a thing. I could almost sleep better in a coffin than an open bed, though I didn't sleep in tight quarters very often.

  Tonight, I did, falling asleep in the tub, drifting off to the steady patter of the water on my skin, like rain on the roof, warming and lulling me into sweet unconsciousness behind the familiar shower curtain that kept me closed in this tight space, where I felt safe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I woke to cold, drizzling liquid pouring down on me and just knew my water bill was going to suck this month. After toweling off, I crashed into bed without checking the state of my wounds, and didn't wake until a terrible honking sound drove me out of a deep slumber the next morning.

  It took me a few minutes to identify the noise as my doorbell, a further few to work my way to the box in the living room and answer it with a mumbled salutation that landed somewhere between, “Hello?” and “Omgeffoff.”

  “Hey,” came the sunny voice through the speaker, “it's Bilson.”

  I rolled my eyes like I'd just been called on by the teacher in my least favorite class. “What are you doing here?”

  “I brought donuts,” he said, like that explained everything. “Can you buzz me up?”

  No, I wanted to answer, but instead I buzzed him up and went to get some clothes on. Passing in front of my bedroom mirror, I saw that other than a couple faint discolorations where the ribs had protruded from the skin, I was healed. Pushing against the spot where they'd popped out, I felt nothing but the pressure of my fingers.

  Bilson knocked on the door just as I was buttoning my blouse, and I hopped on one foot answering it while trying to pull on a sock. I always had to be careful, because with meta strength, it was easy to rip a sock if I yanked too hard.

  When I opened the door, I found Bilson in perfect order, box of donuts in his hand, smiling at me. I'd already strapped my duty pistol to my side before answering the door, of course. Just in case. “I come bearing gifts!” he announced.

  “Like a proper Greek,” I said, leaving the door open for him as I went to find my other sock. And my jacket. It was at about this point that I realized my boots were still filled with blood, parked in front of my washing machine, but luckily I had three pairs. It had become a necessity in my line of work. “Put them in the kitchen.”

  He didn't even have to ask where the kitchen was, nor did he make a show of having to guess. Which I found unsurprising. My apartment was not that big, but still, he showed a familiarity with the design, not having to look around much to find it, nor showing much interest in his surroundings.

  “Feeling better this morning?” I could hear him munching on a donut and smell the chocolate from inside the bedroom.

  “Yes, it's a wonder what a good night's sleep – and metahuman healing powers – will do for you when you've gotten positively curb stomped,” I said, putting on the jacket that went with these pants. It neatly covered both guns, and I clipped the knife onto the back of my belt again.

  “You had a rough night,” Bilson said as I stepped into the bathroom to try and do something with my hair. It was getting a ponytail today, no two ways about it. The clock informed me it was already 8:46, something I would have known if I'd had my phone, given that my alarm always went off at 6. “I don't know that I've ever seen a person that badly beaten.” He chuckled lightly. “I mean, I've seen some brutal debate performances and takedowns in the political world, but...”

  “Doesn't really compare to watching the blood drip out of someone's mouth, does it?” I asked, snapping my hair binder in place and stepping out into the main room. Metahuman speed made everything quicker, even a ponytail.

  “No,” Bilson said, looking a little pained. This was not a man who'd seen real violence in his life. Which was fortunate for him, because he was the kind of soft sister a real predator could eat alive. “So...I suppose you're wondering why I'm here.”

  “I thought you were following me around until this thing is solved?” I picked up a glazed donut. There was a dearth of them in favor of the chocolate, which told me Bilson had terrible, chocolatey donut preferences. The bastard. How could you ignore the glory of glazed?

  “Well, I will be working with you on this,” Bilson said, shifting back and forth on his feet. “Not necessarily following you around. I can drive today.”

  “You've certainly got the car for it, though I might recommend not parking it in an abandoned Baltimore neighborhood if there's no police cordon present.”

  He cringed, then moved on. “I really am aiming to be of help to you in this.” He brightened slightly. “To that end, I've scheduled a meeting for this morning.” He must have seen me react in some unfavorable way, because he quickly amended, “Consider it a counterpoint to yesterday's, uh...discussion...with Professor Chu.”

  “Oh?”

  His eyes widened as I sped my chewing up to meta speed in order to get the whole donut down without talking with my mouth full. “Her name is Bridget Schultz,” he said, shaking off my odd display. I considered going in for another, just to weird him out, but I was trying to calorically limit myself these days and spite seemed a poor reason to pack on extra pounds. Be
sides, the donuts were mediocre. “She's an attaché to the State Department. Served half a dozen years in our embassies in China, knows the culture inside and out. In addition, she's more bearish on China, unlike Chu.”

  “So she'll talk the real shit, that's what you're saying,” I said, still eyeing the donuts. Self-control was a terrible bitch.

  “Yes,” he said, “and I set up a meeting with her for this morning at her house.” He fidgeted. “She's a bit under the weather, but she agreed to meet with us.” He fiddled with the square of cloth in his breast pocket. “I hope it's not contagious. She sounded a bit...spacey, but I'm sure we can get the 'lay of the land' as she sees it.”

  “Great,” I said. “I had an informant contact me last night to tell me they might have another missing persons case with Chinese government connections.”

  Bilson's eyes went wide. “What?”

  “Yeah,” I said, leaning against my counter.

  “When?” Bilson asked, and his smile evaporated. “Where?”

  “I don't have the details yet. My source was...cagey.”

  I could see his mind racing. “Well...then it didn't happen,” he finally decided, and boy was he firm about it for a guy who hadn't actually heard the evidence (if any existed) of this particular crime.

  “I know you're new to this field,” I said, “but gathering evidence generally comes before we draw our conclusions.”

  “This person hasn't made a report to the police?” Bilson asked. He waited for me to shake my head, though I wasn't a hundred percent sure. Michelle wasn't really the “Go to the cops” type. “If there's no police report, then it's probably nothing. I mean, who knows if it even happened?”

  I raised an eyebrow at Bilson's emotional commitment to denying a second case existed. I vacillated for a moment on whether to argue with him, and ultimately shrugged. “I guess we'll see.”

  His face flushed red, and he took a second to answer, seeming to really struggle. “I guess we will,” he finally managed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A quick-ish stop at a cell phone place later and we were back in Bilson's car, moving through post-rush hour Washington, which differed from rush hour Washington by 20% +/- in traffic volume, in my guesstimation.

  “How far to this meeting?” I asked, fiddling with my phone. The cloud hadn't dumped all my contacts in yet, but my cell service was active. I was an old pro at setting up new phones by this point.

  “In this mess?” Bilson asked, surveying the stopped cars in front of us. “Maybe ten minutes? A little more, probably.”

  “I'm going to check with the office,” I said, pretty sure my voicemail wasn't going to be online yet. “See if forensics at any of the scenes yesterday has come up with anything.”

  “Rock on,” he said, tapping the wheel of the Maserati, the horsepower under the hood completely wasted in this city.

  Holloway answered on the third ring, “FBI, Office of–”

  “Idiots, morons, and the exiled,” I finished for him.

  “Sounds about right,” Holloway said. “How'd your night go? I heard you ended up in East Baltimore.”

  “The answer to your question was in the question.” I paused. “I mean, you already know I ended up in East Baltimore, so...”

  “Yeah, say no more,” Holloway said. “Forensics called from the Baltimore field office. Early this morning, too, so you must have had them working all night, huh?”

  “I'm a real job creator that way,” I said. “All about giving the working man some overtime. Any other messages?”

  “Yeah, we got some preliminaries from both the scene in Virginia and the furniture store. Which do you want first?”

  “Chronological. Virginia first.”

  “You're like a three-state bandit here, Nealon. Hitting all those places yesterday, I mean.”

  “Beats when I was a bandit in all fifty states plus the territories. Virginia?”

  “Yeah,” he said, shuffling papers. “There was a bullet found in the victim's car. The one that shot out the tire. .22 caliber. Might have been subsonic.”

  “That'd keep it quiet,” I said. “Definitely suggests the attempt was planned in advance, given they had to post a sniper along her route to bust her tire. Okay, that's good. Confirms the suspicion I had.”

  “Yep. Furniture store...not a lot there. They've got a shit ton of hair and fibers. Lab says not to expect anything from that, at least not anytime soon. Though they did find one thing after you left.”

  “What?”

  “A bolt action .22 rifle. Forensics is working to match it with the bullet from Virginia. Better still? The shell casing was in the chamber.”

  “That'll help us tie a perp to the scene. Probably one of the corpses Hilton left at the furniture store, if I had to guess.”

  Holloway sighed. “Yeah. Lucky dog. She got to shoot someone and she's got some days off now.” His chair squeaked as he spun, and I could imagine him in the empty office, twirling in his seat.

  “Think of it this way: now no one's going to notice if you don't show up for work the next few days.”

  “You'd notice,” Holloway said.

  “But I won't care, so enjoy your time off.”

  Holloway laughed. “You'd notice when you didn't get your forensic reports.” He sighed. “Nah, I'll stick around and play secretary. I don't know anyone in DC anyway, really, and the drinks here are stupid expensive, just like New York.”

  “I admire your willingness to sacrifice for your job. What about the Baltimore results?”

  More paper shuffling, then Holloway grunted. “Huh, yeah, so, this one's interesting. Nothing from the Volvo.”

  “Not a huge surprise. These guys are pros, they know how to scrub a car before ditching it.”

  “Right,” Holloway said. “They pulled something out of the house that may be nothing, but after I read your statement...well...”

  “What?” I asked. Bilson shot me a look from the driver's side, like he was waiting expectantly for some bombshell.

  “They found what looked like animal hair.” He paused, and I couldn't tell if he was trying to be dramatic or it was just a rather dramatic pronouncement. “It was pure white.”

  I didn't show it on my face, because I didn't need Bilson jumping to any conclusions, but I did feel a brief surge of reassurance.

  I hadn't been delusional.

  The white tiger was real.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Bilson's China contact lived in a third-floor walk-up not far from Dupont Circle, in a brick building that looked like it had been around since shortly after the Revolutionary War. For all I knew, it had.

  The sun was already getting up there in the sky, pushing the mercury into the mid-eighties at 9:30 a.m. It was going to be a scorcher unless rain intervened on behalf of us poor, pale-skinned Minnesotans, and I didn't see that happening. Hell, even if it did, the humidity in the air post-rain tended to make it feel like I was sweating while standing still and not even exerting myself. Such was life in the swamp of DC.

  “Nice place,” Bilson said, making me roll my eyes. Where he couldn't see them, obviously, because I was well past the point of wanting to inspire trouble with my boss or her proxies like Bilson. This year of working for the FBI in New York and DC had convinced me of one thing: I was not a city dweller, and would never be comfortable being surrounded by this many people.

  Oh, sure, I could work in the city on a case for a few days, but I always felt the pressure of souls around me, hemming me in in a way that physical confines didn't bother me. Stick me in a ventilation duct for six hours and I was fine; put me in a crowded subway car for five minutes and I wanted to rip the souls out of everybody in the place after thirty seconds just so I could breathe again.

  I was clearly not normal, but was pretty okay with it.

  Bilson chattered as we went up the stairs. I dutifully listened with one ear but mostly tuned him out, because he was going on about the Washington Nationals. “Gonna be a g
ood season, I think,” he said, and I just grunted in reply.

  He stopped a few steps shy of the landing. “Not a sports fan, huh?”

  I shrugged. “Not really, no.”

  “This is one of those things you could learn from,” Bilson said, looking at me with all seriousness. “I don't care about sports either, but I pay nominal attention to it because it's a great way to connect with people.”

  I warred with myself for all of a second before my instinctive reply burst out. “What if I don't want to connect with people?”

  Bilson chuckled patiently. “That's understandable, but shortsighted. Regardless of what business you're in, connections are vital to your success. Look at your field: you and Chalke butted heads for the longest time, always wrong-footing each other. I'd argue that's more her fault than yours–”

  “Thanks, I think?”

  “–because she's the boss, and the Director of the FBI. It's more her job than yours to deal well with her people. And she's not very good at it, to be quite frank,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But this is where you can take up the slack, and I think you have, judging from my conversations with her since you've come to Washington. The tenor changed a little, am I right?”

  I weighed how much I wanted to engage in a discussion with this guy about my boss. He was, at least, a political operator who I'd been warned about by Harmon before his death. If he was as tightly bound to Chalke as I thought, it seemed likely he was also part of this Network that had been on my back for years now.

  Still, honesty was the best policy. “Yeah, she and I butted heads for the longest time. But I can only fight the power for so long before I have to choose whether I'm going to do it inside or outside the system. If that means I have to put up with Chalke's bullshit, I'll roll my eyes and get on with it. But don't expect me to smile while doing so. It's transactional, purely. She feeds me cases, I minimize the headaches I give her.”