by J. R. Rain
“A couple out jogging found you.” He lets off a manic laugh. “Who the hell goes jogging at midnight?”
I force a cheesy smile. Sorry for being dumb.
“They think a coyote attacked you. Maybe a pack of them. One doctor even said a wolf.” Danny’s eyes dart, looking a bit crazed. “A wolf. Wolf, can you believe that? Here in Orange County.”
No… it was a man. That moment comes back to my thoughts, and in the prescience of calm, I recall the pressure of human fingers digging into my shoulder and side. As I ran, a man had lifted me off my feet and hurled me thirty feet into the trees. I’m sure of it now. How is that even possible? Yet, I remember it like it happened two seconds ago. Not a coyote. Not a wolf. I blink twice, but Danny doesn’t notice.
He grasps my wrist with his left hand, likely wary of having another finger broken. “You lost so much blood they were telling me to prepare for bad news. Oh, God, Sam, I’m so glad you’re still here.”
That makes two of us, I think. I don’t care if I’m a mute invalid in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. At least I’m here.
“They’ve got you on IV antibiotics for infection. You had a real big wound, and there’s a massive amount of stitches.”
I look up at Danny, but cringe away from the nuclear furnace the window has become. The glow is so bright it’s painful to my eyes. Guess they’ve got me loaded up on the good shit. Probably why I’m not crippled with agony. Oddly enough, other than the infuriating itch, my body doesn’t hurt much.
Clattering goes by in the corridor and the fragrance of turkey and gravy washes over me. The instant my brain processes the smell, nausea churns inside me. Merely thinking about eating pushes me to the edge of vomiting.
Danny grips my arm and shoulder as I convulse. “Sam? What’s wrong?”
I gurgle.
“You need to throw up?”
One blink.
A nurse walks in as he cranks the bed up so I’m in a sitting position. “You hit the call button?” she asks.
My eyes water from her perfume. Fire fills my sinuses like I insufflated half a bottle of it. The brace keeps me from cringing away. Oh, if there’s a Hell, this is it. Maybe I really did die.
“My wife’s in pain. Is there something you can give her?”
The nurse looks over a chart hanging from the end of the bed and shakes her head. “Not without a doctor being involved. She’s already on a pain drip. A fairly high dose, too. She shouldn’t be feeling much of anything. In fact, I’m surprised she’s even awake. She shouldn’t be lucid.”
I stare at her.
“Mrs. Moon, are you aware you’re in a hospital?” asks the nurse.
“She can’t talk,” says Danny, a hint of confrontation in his tone.
Damn this brace. Even if my muscles remained on speaking terms with me, I can’t nod with my neck locked in plastic. I do manage a thumbs up with my right hand. Well, that’s something.
The nurse steps closer and examines my eyes. “Do you recognize the man standing beside you?”
Again, I give a thumbs up.
She does the ‘track my fingers with your eyes’ thing. Evidently, I pass the test, which surprises her. When she asks my age, I hold up three fingers, then one. After that, she runs off to get a notepad and pen.
When she returns, she places the pad of paper under my hand and sticks the pen in my grip. She asks, “How do you feel?”
I write ‘itch like hell,’ and below it, ‘smelling food makes me sick.’
The nurse gawks at the pad. “I really don’t understand how she’s so coherent on that much painkiller. We had a guy a couple months ago on a slightly lower dose. The doctor asked him who the president was and he said ‘purple.’”
Danny chuckles.
Another whiff of food goes by, and I nearly gag.
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” The nurse fusses at my neck brace. “You’re in no condition for solid food, Mrs. Moon. It’ll be some time before you have to worry about eating. For the time being, you’re on IV nutrition. I suspect you’ll be on a liquid diet for a while. At least until we see how your injuries heal.”
Small blessings. Concentrating on the idea that I won’t have to eat that turkey helps me avoid choking on bile. I look at Danny, then write, “Sorry for being stupid and going out at night alone.”
“Sam…” Danny brushes my hair off my face. “Don’t talk like that. You’re no helpless dame.”
Hah. Maybe I wasn’t before, but I am now. I can’t not laugh at the thought, even though my laughing is only a toneless oscillation of air. Wow, that hurt.
“Easy.” Danny pats my forehead. “Don’t try to talk. Give yourself time to heal.”
I write, “Did my spine break? Am I going to walk again?”
“There’s nothing on your chart about a spinal injury,” says the nurse, glancing at the pad. “If you’re having difficulty moving, it might be an aftereffect of the surgical anesthesia, but that’s somewhat worrying considering it’s been two days since you got out of the OR.”
Two days!? I rapidly scribble, “Danny! How are the kids? What did you tell them?”
“They know you got hurt and you’re in the hospital. They’re staying with Mary Lou right now. Tammy’s demanding to come see you but she’s too little. The hospital won’t let children younger than six in to visit.”
Grr.
“Nurse?” asks Danny, holding up his right hand, with an obviously broken pinky and ring finger. “Since I’m already at the hospital… think someone can take a look at this?”
“Oh, ouch. Of course. Come with me.”
Danny leans down and kisses me on the head. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try to get some rest.”
Yeah. I don’t think the flea army chowing down on my neck and shoulder is going to permit that. I write, “Okay. Sorry about your finger.”
The nurse leads Danny out of my room, and I am once again alone with my thoughts. I guess Chad was right. After being shot at twice in a month, my guardian angel must’ve gotten drunk and fallen asleep on me when I went jogging.
Hah. Guardian angels indeed. How do people come up with this stuff?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Innocent Victims
Soon after Danny leaves with the nurse, a heavy, groggy sensation spreads over my mind.
The next thing I know, it’s dark out. Danny’s still in the chair at my bedside, his face lit pale in the harsh glow of his Kindle. The itching hasn’t let up, and I’m astounded that I managed to fall asleep with it. Danny’s e-reader is enough to illuminate my whole room. Wow… what a screen on that thing. The door’s pushed nearly closed, muting the sounds of activity outside as well as the light from the hallway. My monitor’s gone, which explains the lack of beeping.
Danny’s scent rides heavy on each breath. I swallow out of reflex; my mouth and throat are dry. Not painfully so, but it’s unnerving that the usual saliva isn’t there. Maybe the attack did something or the drugs I’m on right now are playing havoc with my system.
“Hey.” Danny perks up. “You slept all day.”
Guess I did.
He shuts off the Kindle, making the room darker but not so much I can’t see, and approaches the bed, again taking my hand. I’m not the only Moon sporting a rigid brace now. His two broken fingers are wrapped together to an aluminum strut to keep them immobile. The sight of his bandage fills me with remorse. What happened to me doesn’t matter at all by comparison, because I did that to him.
“Some of your people came by this afternoon, including Chad, but you slept straight through their visit. They’ll come back tomorrow.”
I try to nod, but this infernal goddamned contraption locked around my neck won’t let me. Danny looks like crap. He gets the idea when I squirm at my hand, and lets go so I can write.
“You look fried. Have you been sleeping in that chair for two days?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t leave you.” His voice breaks up a bit as tears well at the corners
of his eyes. “I thought at any minute, you could…” He swallows hard. “I wanted to be there for every moment you had left.”
Guilt settles like a lead weight in my chest, though I make myself smile while writing, “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
He laughs, wiping his eyes. “How you feeling?”
“I feel okay,” I write. “But damn this itches. If you want to sleep home tonight, it’s okay. You look sicker than I feel.” I point a finger at where the monitor used to be, and keep writing, “I guess I’m okay if they took away the beepy thing.”
“You got a bad one I think. The machine kept alarming all day long like your heart stopped or you were going into cardiac arrest. After the sixth false alarm, they took it out. Guess they never got around to bringing in a new one.”
“Oh,” I write. “Please call Mary Lou and let her know how I’m doing.”
He nods before looking himself over. “Ugh. I’ve been in the same clothes for days. Maybe I should go clean up.”
I don’t tell him his scent is overpowering. “Okay.”
Danny leans down and kisses me lightly on the lips. The warmth of his face against mine stirs an odd feeling of… hunger inside me. And not in the sensual way. It’s freaky enough that I can only stare at him. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he says. “Make that late morning. I want to stop by your sister’s and check on the kids, let them know their mother’s doing better.”
“When can I go home?” I write.
He grimaces. “Last thing the doctor said made it sound like at least… two months.”
Ugh! Two months in this torture contraption is going to give me nightmares for the rest of my life.
“I know, I know.” Danny reacts to the face I make. “You’re tough though, Sam. I bet you’ll be out in one.”
Heh. I smile.
Danny kisses me once more and walks out in a slow trudge, his suit jacket hung over his back on one finger at his shoulder. He doesn’t really want to leave, but he needs a proper night’s sleep. When he hesitates at the door and looks back at me, I smile at him and (since I still can’t move) give him a thumbs up.
“See you soon.” Danny bows his head, sighs, and walks out of sight.
Drifting back and forth from restless to guilty, I stare at the ceiling as the attack replays in my thoughts. Why did I have to go jogging that night? I should’ve stayed home, safe inside, so Danny wouldn’t have had to go through thinking he’d lost me. No matter how many times he says it, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for doing that to him. My arm curls at my side, cradling an imaginary Tammy. That gets me fuming that the hospital won’t let her in to see me.
Some time of staring at the ceiling later, I manage to reach the TV remote on the night table to my right and flick the set on. My left arm has decided to rejoin me, and much to my relief, my legs are once again under my control. If not for the three IV lines tethering me, I’d even try to walk. Oh, wait a minute, they’re on a wheeled post. I could probably go to the bathroom if need be, though I lack the urge.
What have I been doing for two days? I slide my hand under the blanket, checking for a diaper, and find a catheter. Oh, ouch! That’s uncomfortable. So much for needing to get out of bed.
Hours of mindless TV go by. As 6:00 a.m. approaches, grogginess sets in, and I let my eyes flutter closed.
I snap awake to a painfully bright room. Chad, Montoya, Anders, and Rivera crowd around my bed. They’re in the midst of a conversation about me being asleep again in the middle of the day, which worries them that I might be in worse shape than anyone’s let on.
“Hey,” I rasp. Wow, did I just talk?
They all startle and look down at me.
“Mooney!” yells Chad. “Holy shit, it’s good to see you awake.”
“Hey, Sam,” says Michelle Rivera. “Looks like you had a rough week.”
“Yeah.” My voice is rough and wheezy, but present.
“You probably shouldn’t be talking too much yet.” Chad pats my left arm. “We interviewed the couple who found you. They didn’t see anything or anyone else out there. Fullerton Police are looking into it as well, but they’re baffled. Did the attack happen in Hillcrest Park? You lost a major amount of blood but they didn’t find much at the scene.”
“The detective thinks you were attacked somewhere else and dumped,” says Montoya.
“No. In park,” I rasp. “Something… hit from behind.” I wave my hand around in a circle. “Flew into a tree.”
“They’re at a loss for a motive too.” Chad sits on the edge of the bed. “Nothing was taken. Even your gun was still there. There’s no evidence of any sexual assault.”
Michelle shudders. “Could be some ‘rando’ serial killer. Hit you with his car and tried to finish things with a knife.”
“Gang?” I shift my gaze among my team. “Revenge?”
“Doesn’t seem like it. FBI says they got ‘em all.” Chad shakes his head. “Guess your guardian angel was off at O’Hara’s getting drunk.”
I fight the urge to chuckle. “Chad, you know I don’t believe in that stuff.” I swallow and take a couple quick, labored breaths that feel strange, like I’m overinflating my lungs. “Those assholes tried to kill me again, and they almost succeeded.”
“They’re blaming coyotes,” says Montoya.
“No. Not animals. A man.” I reach up as if cradling a dangling amulet. “He had a medallion around his neck. I saw it right in front of my face. Round… gold with rubies.”
Chad shakes his head. “The police didn’t find any other footprints in the dirt. It couldn’t have been a person unless they were doing some Mission Impossible shit with rope, hanging over you.”
Montoya and Rivera chuckle.
“Neck wound, lot of blood loss but little found at the scene,” says Bryce Anders. “Maybe you got attacked by a vampire?”
Chad rolls his eyes, as do I.
Michelle swats him in the arm. “Come on, Anders. Be serious.”
“I am.” He holds up his hands. “Not saying a literal vampire. Some freako that thinks he’s one. There have been a couple dozen attacks like this over the past few years. Cops still haven’t found a suspect.”
Montoya puts his hands on his hips, frowning at the floor. “If that’s true, why isn’t it on the news? You’d think something like that would’ve gone nuts… Serial killers become media sensations. Remember that one in New York in the 70s? The whole thing was a furor.”
“Sorry, Ernie. I wasn’t alive back then.” Bryce winks. “I dunno why they’re keeping it quiet. That detective mentioned the previous similar cases. But he didn’t think Moon got attacked by the same person or group since she’s alive.”
“Oh, Sam.” Chad grins. “You’re in the paper. Set off a coyote panic. People are calling for a hunt to thin their numbers before they attack some kid.”
“No. Wasn’t coyotes. Don’t let them kill animals because of me.” I stare down at myself under the sheet. I don’t need even more guilt on my head. Those poor creatures had nothing to do with this. “I’m sure it was a man. Please stop them from murdering coyotes. They’re innocent.”
“Prosecutor’s going after Brauerman with 94 counts. We found a few more in his computer that weren’t on the phone records you got. He’s looking at serious time if he’s convicted,” says Chad. “It might wind up being pled out.”
“Okay. What about Donnie Vento?” I ask.
“I hear they offered to go easier on Brauerman if he testified against Vento. He agreed, but couldn’t pick the guy’s photo correctly, and there’s no evidence we could find that shows the two ever met. Looks like Donnie was just a disaster as a HUD agent without being a criminal on top of it.”
“Oh well.” I shrug. “It was just a theory.”
Chad squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it for now. There’ll be plenty more investigations for you once you’re out of that hospital bed. Michelle’s already collecting money for cake and shit when
you come back to the office.”
She grins.
Thinking of cake doesn’t instantly nauseate me, so maybe I am feeling better. “That’s sweet of you guys. I’m not sure how long I’ll be out, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.” My eyes half-lid.
“You look beat.” Chad stands, making the bed jostle. “Guess we’ll let you get some rest. We gotta get back to the office anyway before Nico throws a fit.”
“All right. Thanks for visiting, you guys.”
One by one, they grasp my hand and file out.
Alone again, I feel myself falling back to sleep. At some point in the vagary of time, I become remotely aware of Danny speaking to me, but whatever he said distorts in my foggy brain to unintelligible sound.
***
My eyes open to a dark room.
he clock on the bedside table reads 9:28 p.m. I’m wide awake, and ravenous, but I’ve still got the IV drip feeding me. Guess I suffer an empty stomach. Danny’s gone, but he’s propped a dry-erase board in his chair with a note that Jeff begged him for help with a case, and it’s a ‘make or break the whole firm’ kind of big deal. He promises to be back tomorrow as soon as he wakes up.
I cringe at the constant, infuriating itch. The army of fleas has multiplied. It feels like half a million biting bugs have gotten in under the bandages and brace, devouring my flesh in an unending cascade of teeny-tiny bites. Fidgeting at the rigid plastic doesn’t help, and I can’t get my fingers under it. With a huff, I glare at the ceiling, fuming with anger at my present situation. I’d give anything to make this itching stop!
Blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision. My limbs go leaden once again, and it feels like I’m sliding backward down a long inky hallway. A mental scream floods my thoughts. I sit up in shock, stark naked and curled up on the floor of a tiny cube-shaped room of solid onyx. The glassy floor is cold to my bare skin. There are no doors or windows―or any light source, but I can see.
I grasp my throat, feeling smooth, intact skin. No bumps or scars, or gaping wounds. The wall I’m huddled against is shiny enough to serve as a mirror. Other than pallid, my body is perfect. Oh, this is some new freaky level of dream. Locked in a little prison cell naked. I know they do that with mental patients or when they throw a prisoner in punitive solitary, they sometimes take all their clothes so they don’t hang or strangle themselves.
