by Arlene Webb
The approach of Evan’s footsteps toward the house added to Malcolm’s prediction he had but minutes left in this nightmare. Evan could find in the computer everything Malcolm knew, including no solution of how to contact the ones destroying Arizona. With hope the youth survived, the laptop also contained a living will leaving James’ assets to Evan.
Malcolm had to move that cabinet, but Jane Doe’s pacing stopped, and he worried he’d delayed twenty-eight seconds too long. She’d stepped simultaneously with him, and was now eighteen feet closer to the kitchen area than he was. Would his pathetic need for an extra half minute of life would cost Evan his? The gasp of rage after her door opened burned through Malcolm’s fear.
“I’ll remove the cabinet,” he said. “Talk with me. You must listen. Please!”
* * *
Four bags of ice clattered from Evan’s arms onto the counter as he listened. That loud clunk would be the cabinet falling over. Turning his fear crashed, a tsunami flooding from his brain to his toes. A flickering yellow/green gaze locked on him. Still beautiful, still undressed, Jane Doe…Jane moved in a blur.
Evan managed to scream as she body-slammed him to the floor.
She lifted him to his feet like an inflated plastic dummy, twisted then chopped him in the back of his knees. Evan fell forward, and the monster flung her arm around his neck. Held in a chokehold, his weight supported by Jane. Eight inches taller than her and at least sixty pounds heavier—didn’t matter. Her grip on his throat, around his stomach, caught him so firm he couldn’t breathe, let alone move.
Taser in hand, Malcolm materialized in front of them. His eyes had frosted with rage. “Release him. He’s an innocent. With my help, maybe, you can return.”
To Evan’s relief, Jane shifted her hand from his neck. Her sharp poke in his side caused him to grunt in agony. It felt like bruised ribs cracked, and he sagged in her arms. It hurt, a stabbing ache, and that yellow hand tightened again on his windpipe.
Evan wanted, he needed, one gasp of air. Too much to ask? A chance to say he knew Malcolm tried to save him? Blackness framed his vision. Oh please! Let me stand. His legs buckled. Evan collapsed against her, and finally, Jane loosened her grip. He drew a panicked gulp. Jane’s flat voice, speaking for the first time, halted Evan’s sob of sorry to Malcolm.
“You’ll regret what you’ve done. You can’t touch me with that weapon before I break its neck. Tell me everything. I’ll continue to hurt this pitiful, lightless thing. If you don’t cooperate, it dies.” Jane grabbed Evan’s hand, and snapped his little finger like it was a twig.
He wanted to be brave but couldn’t swallow back his yelp. Oh it hurt, and he didn’t want to die. Not like this!
The taser tumbled from Malcolm’s fingers. He shuddered and fell to his knees, head bowed.
Jane held Evan’s broken hand. He shook with rage, crested on waves of pain, as her sweet breath kissed his ear.
“Explain, Malcolm, while I see how loud it can scream.” Jane crushed Evan’s index finger. Her fist rammed into his back, she knocked him down, and forced his face into the floor. Evan felt her weight move off him. One foot wedged into his side for leverage, she lifted her other.
Flattened worse than a bug—but screw her, Evan wouldn’t cry. A flash of blue stopped Jane’s heel from ramming him through the floor. Malcolm jerked her upward, flinging her away from them as Evan scrambled aside. She fell backward only to rebound back up. Malcolm threw himself at her.
She smacked the floor beneath Malcolm, but she wrapped her arms around him. She’d crush him if Evan didn’t do something. He’d never felt such incredible strength, and he’d be dammed if he couldn’t help in time. Broken back, ribs, fingers—who cared? Where, oh where was it? God, finally.
Malcolm pinned Jane’s shoulders, her legs jerking under him, but Evan could easily imagine Malcolm’s ribs cracking further. And now Jane raised her head to bite.
Jane fastened her mouth on Malcolm’s while Evan activated the taser. Over Malcolm’s shoulder, he zapped the first spot of yellow he could reach. Jane turned white. Her head thumped linoleum and Malcolm, no longer blue, collapsed over her.
The taser slipped from Evan’s numbed fingers. He sobbed and rolled Malcolm free. Jane’s eyes had faded to brown, her snarl gone. His eyes closed, Malcolm’s drawn face had lost its color. The jagged cut on his lip dripped a greenish-blue blood.
“Malcolm, please, please.” Evan cradled Malcolm’s head in his lap. Jane wasn’t breathing, and the glazed look whispered of death. Malcolm wasn’t breathing either, but he’d told Evan he didn’t need to and his skin felt warm, almost hot.
Evan looked around. Nothing to use as a compress. He pulled off his shirt, gasping with the piercing ache. He pressed the wadded cotton over Malcolm’s lips.
Minutes passed, and the fluid bleeding from Malcolm’s mouth appeared to stop as long as Evan kept the pressure on. Again, Malcolm had saved him. Everything Evan did went wrong, and this sequence of events seemed to be unsalvageable. Injured in a stranger’s house with two non-humans, both dead, and now electricity jabbered into his thigh…um, that’d be his cell phone. Idiot. Use your good hand.
His ribs screamed, but he kept the cloth pressed to Malcolm’s mouth. The number was unfamiliar. Evan’s dull hello croaked out.
“Evan? It’s Aaron. What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“I’ll live…but I think…Malcolm’s dead! I killed her and he died, too. Aaron, I don’t know what to do. Where are you? Malcolm can’t be dead. He just can’t be.”
“Calm down. How do you know he’s dead?”
The roar of the plane made it difficult to hear and grief made it hard to talk. If Evan didn’t say the dead-word out loud again, maybe his man-angel would open those eyes and yell at him to go home.
He drew a shallow breath. “Jane attacked me. Malcolm stopped her. She bit his lip open and crushed him. I stunned her with the taser Malcolm made. She’s white now. Malcolm isn’t blue. I got my shirt over his mouth to stop stuff dripping. He-he’s not breathing. He never not breathed before, except under water.”
“Jade doesn’t need to surface for air either. I’m guessing they’re some sort of sentient light energy. An electrical charge could have knocked them out. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re dead. You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine! Not the one killed, am I? I went for ice like you said, but I got him murdered.”
“This isn’t your fault. I’m calling someone to help you. We’re hours away, and I don’t believe you when you say you’re fine.”
“No. No. No.” Evan grunted back the pain and hardened his voice. “Malcolm said if they took him back to a hospital, he’d kill himself. Kept yelling I should leave. If I’d listened, he wouldn’t have died. I have to start doing what he says. I-I’ll put him in the bathtub with ice. You got to believe I don’t need help—Malcolm does.”
“Bandage him up then call me back. We’ll figure it out, promise.”
Oh God, yes. Such concerned authority in the older man’s voice, and Evan choked out his goodbye.
He held the shirt with his broken hand over Malcolm’s mouth, and began dragging the body down the oak floor. In the hallway, the damn cabinet blocked his path. He rested Malcolm’s head on the floor and peeked under the makeshift bandage. Finally, something maybe good. No greenish-blue liquid.
Rage inspired adrenalin kicked in. Evan threw the cabinet over into the room he’d painted to please a golden monster and stumbled back.
Goddamn it. The leaking from Malcolm’s mouth had started again. He picked Malcolm up while corny song lyrics—his mom’s era—strummed through his head. He’s not heavy he’s my man-angel? Evan should smack himself in the skull. Add to the pain. If only he hadn’t told a psycho killer that Malcolm had the taser. Perfect, just perfect. Create a hostage situation that resulted in the death of the coolest super-being imaginable.
Evan settled Malcolm in the cobalt water and propped his head against the tub’s edge. Guilt be
ing a powerful motivator, he didn’t care how much it hurt to function. Gauze in hand, he returned and soaked it blue, and found scissors in the drawer. He clumsily cut his shirt into strips and used the gauze to bind it around Malcolm’s head. He emptied the bags of ice from the truck onto Malcolm. The black blanket cushioned Malcolm’s head, and Evan didn’t know what else to do.
His teeth chattered. A dark shirt hung in the closet. His hands shook, his left one throbbed intensely, and his fingers wouldn’t button. The vibrating cell interrupted his tears.
He fell on the bed, and poured his grief into Aaron’s ear. When he asked about Jane, Evan shuddered. He kept expecting her, a minion of Dracula, to swoop into the bedroom and finish the torture.
“She must still be dead, because she hasn’t killed me yet.” Evan’s battered body didn’t want to move. He stifled his moan and checked the bathroom. “Malcolm’s the same, but his forehead’s not hot anymore. I don’t see any blue stuff soaked into the bandage.”
Thanks to the compassionate voice in his ear, Evan found the courage to walk down that hall. She lay on the floor exactly as he left her, except more beautiful than he remembered. Guess it could be worse. His torturer could be a hideous, bloodsucking he-alien.
“If Malcolm had her in the tub,” Aaron said, “he’d have reason. You could put Jane with him, so she’s on ice also.”
Rage burst through Evan. “You out of your mind? I don’t want to touch her. I need silver bullets, wooden stakes, something. And no way I’m putting her anywhere near Malcolm. You don’t understand. I’m glad she’s dead.”
“If she’s truly dead, she can no longer harm you or anyone. Is there somewhere else you could ice her down? We’re six hours away.”
“Yeah. I’ll take care of her now.” He closed his cell without even a grudging goodbye, and the guilt kicked back in. He’d taken his frustrations out on a stranger trying to help him.
I’m some lucky bastard. First time in his life a nude woman holds him and she tortures him. He gets to carry her gorgeous body—only gross—she’s dead.
Her eyes were fixed, that anger gone. Malcolm had saved Evan without Jane getting a bruise. In all fairness, maybe Malcolm had died because Evan killed him, when he tasered Jane. But that battered body in the tub sure looked crushed to death—Evan was still a murderer, in common with her.
He left the corpse on the floor. In the laundry room, he plugged the drain in the utility sink. As it filled, he slunk back. Dead or living, he feared her. More remained to be done.
Evan couldn’t help it. One look at Malcolm, and he started bawling again. A hostage. How stupid could he get? He grabbed the rope and scissors.
Tying up a dead woman wasn’t easy. The hurt zapping through him, the cause of a man-angel’s demise, made Evan feel like he deserved even more pain. He bound her hands and tied her slender ankles. Funny how perfect breasts help distract from broken fingers. The yellow hair draped over his arm sparkled so prettily. She felt light for a super-warrior. That stabbing in his chest seemed less than when he’d carried Malcolm.
Evan settled Jane in the basin and prayed that the lack of rigor mortis didn’t mean she wasn’t really dead. He dumped two bags of ice over her, and made it to the kitchen sink before he did the heave-ho. Light faded from his vision, gray wrestled with black. His legs buckled, he slid to the floor, and he leaned against the counter while the vibrating started again. He struggled to stop crying and answered his cell.
Aaron got that “tell the truth or I’ll call a zillion cops” tone, and Evan admitted broken fingers. He fought his chuckle as he noted the swollen digits had turned blackish blue. If they jaundiced into yellow, he’d chop them off. Aaron told him to swallow triple dose of painkiller, wrap ice in a cloth around his hand, and call back from the bed.
He didn’t mention his ribs, back, or the darkness trying to swallow him. Aaron would have insisted on paramedics. He’d be damned if he couldn’t keep the only promise Malcolm had asked of him.
Evan took a handful of ice off Malcolm, not a worthless towel in sight, but there was a white sock in the drawer—good protection against zombie bitches. He collapsed on the bed and told Aaron everything but the torture. Aaron called back whenever they were cut off, assuring Evan he sped as fast as the plane would go.
Chapter Seventeen
Her foot heavy on the gas, Jaylynn gulped back her groan. What rotten luck. The only other driver on the road rubbernecked, and then went for the U-turn. Caream’s head rested on Jaylynn’s leg, and Damon slouched against the door. But horror of horrors, Bernice gawked from the driver seat of the car now behind them. Wouldn’t there be more than forty-eight hours notice if Jaylynn really were nuts? Maybe in this new reality, Bernice could be the nice old lady she pretended to be. That’d be worth losing marbles for.
Jaylynn came to a squealing stop in her store’s parking lot. “Come with me. Hurry. I don’t want that woman to see you.” She ran to her side door and almost rocketed out of her shoes. Color hovered behind her. She swallowed her surprise, opened the door, and pleaded into Damon’s scowl, “Wait inside. Don’t make a sound. I’ll get rid of her.”
Her human legs pumping as speedy as a slug, Jaylynn hurried to the sedan’s lowering window. “Hi, Bernice.” She leaned against the door, stopping the opinionated tyrant from opening it. “Store’s closed today. Sorry.”
“Who’s that man with you? The police are looking for a red-haired suspect.” Bernice pulled her thin lips into a tight line. “You do know the Maloney’s cabin burned to the ground this morning?”
“What man? I just popped out for aspirin. I was in a car accident. I need to lie down. See you later.”
“Everyone heard you went off the road. Probably under the influence of something, but that’s not why I stopped. That man in your car had bright red hair.”
“You’re seeing things.” Jaylynn snorted. “It’s too hot to stand out here like this. Bye.”
Bernice reached for her handbag. “The police are in Pine. There’s a patrol car by the coffee shop.” Of course, the gossip queen would have a cell phone.
“What do I have to do to make you understand I’m not hiding some felon?”
Penciled eyebrows rose. “Show me.”
“Fine. One minute. No longer.” Jaylynn yanked open the door and fought the urge to smack the smug look off the woman’s face. She turned, stomped for the house, and muttered as she went, “If you guys can hear me, hide.” Hopefully her suspicions of super-hearing were correct—or they’d disappeared like good little hallucinations, and she’d call the men in white to come rescue her from Bernice.
She waited by her door for the old biddy to catch up.
Bernice marched inside. She peered around the empty living room and headed for the bedroom.
Her colors, these supernatural beings, sure seemed real. Jaylynn couldn’t risk it. “For goodness sakes. Haven’t you seen enough?” She grabbed Bernice’s arm. “I want you to leave.” One yank, and Jaylynn managed to budge the heavy cow all of two inches.
“How dare you manhandle me? You could be helping an arsonist, even a murderer. I’m calling the police.” Bernice wrenched free, drew back her arm and swung.
Her palm froze less than an inch from Jaylynn’s face, her wrist clasped by a large hand reaching over the old lady’s shoulder. Another arm round Bernice’s ample chest immobilized her. Eyes bulging, she gulped like a gutted fish. Bernice’s wrist fell, and Damon’s hand slapped over her mouth. He arched his brows. “Kill or hit Bernice?”
His impatient grunt left no doubt in Jaylynn’s mind. At her word, he’d either snap Bernice’s neck or knock her out. Tough decision.
“God, no, don’t do either.” Jaylynn’s fingers fluttered her panic. “She’s just an old lady…who’s…biting you?” Bloody droplets glistened on Damon’s hand. “Bernice, stop that.”
“It’s pretty.” Damon didn’t move his hand. “Just-an-old-lady kills like Mom? Why’s her head already dead?”
N
o time to understand him, let alone answer. A small fist whirled around Damon. His bleeding hand snaked, and he halted Caream’s blow. “Jaylynn said not to hit Just-an-old-lady. Dead head will fall off.”
Damon’s bark had a pleasant outcome—Bernice fainted. Disgust all over his face, he picked up the stout woman and glared at Caream.
Jaylynn took a deep breath. What should she do now? Bash her head into a wall until she woke up? Hide Bernice’s body? Hesitate long enough for her colors to kill each other?
Caream grabbed and licked Damon’s injured hand. He held the three hundred pound sack of Bernice one-handed and whacked Caream to the floor. She hunched into a huddle and clasped her arms around her legs. Huge tangerine eyes peeked fearfully between Jaylynn and Damon as if she expected Jaylynn to go off on him. Not a clue what Godzilla would do next, Jaylynn didn’t dare move let alone speak.
Damon stomped to the couch and dumped Bernice. Anxiety continued to radiate from Caream, and Jaylynn wondered if Damon threatened her in a frequency Jaylynn couldn’t hear. He turned to Jaylynn and grumbled, very loud, “Damon sorry. Bernice broken? Fix her.”
A hard sigh and he stepped back from Jaylynn’s approach. How could he be so dense? His curled lip, the glower would make a sane person pee their pants.
She straightened Bernice’s legs. The pulse in the old lady’s neck beat steady. “It’s okay. She’s just unconscious, but we’re in such trouble. She’ll freak out if we revive her.”
Caream hopped to her feet. She scanned the room, shivered at the sunlit blue and green décor, and inched to Damon’s side. He yanked her close and pressed her face into his shirt. He lifted a bright carroty tendril. “What’s this?”
“It’s called hair.”
“Bernice has dead hair. Just-an-old-lady belongs in closet.” His tones sharpened with anger. “Arson? Murderer? Drugs? Damon doesn’t understand.” He forced Caream off his arm, thumped her head, and she hit the floor. He stomped to push the front door closed. Thin cracks, a lovely spider web pattern, shot through the wooden frame. Glaring at the floor, he began pacing the little living room.
