Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures

by Merry Jones

  In the darkness, I didn’t see the dead end until I almost flattened my face against it. Even then, I had the absurd hope that I’d escape. That at the last moment, I’d find a skinny passageway between buildings. Or an open door. But no exit magically appeared. I was trapped in a dank, dark cul-de-sac. No time to think. No time to do anything except spin around and charge the person chasing me. Fine. I’d do that. I took a breath, counting to three before my counterattack. One—

  I never got to two. Someone grabbed my hair, yanked my head back. Pulled me down. I reached behind me, trying to break my fall, hoping to rebound and come back up, but my attacker was too fast. He came around and shoved me, pouncing onto my midriff. Landing hard on top of me. Pushing the air out of my lungs. Did he plan to rape me before he killed me? I swung my fists, pummeling the masked head. He grabbed my wrists, pressing them down. I bucked and rolled, trying to knock him off, but he rode my ribcage like a rodeo champ. We struggled that way, with Vivaldi playing faintly in the background, until, finally, I wriggled an arm free, grabbed the mask and yanked it off of him.

  Except that he wasn’t a “him.” Thick tresses of long hair burst out of Spandex, concealing the attacker’s face. Even so, I could tell who it was.

  “Melanie?” I croaked.

  She pulled a knife from its sheath, aimed it at my face.

  “Man, it was hot under that damned thing,” she swung her hair. “Thanks for pulling it off.”

  What the hell? I tried to grasp what I was seeing: Melanie straddling my torso, waving a knife. So that meant that Melanie had been the one chasing me around Puerto Vallarta, wearing that bizarre wrestling mask? And Melanie had swung at me, cutting my collarbone, trying to cut my throat? Clearly, yes. She had. But why? Just two days ago, she’d rescued me from the ocean. She’d saved my life. So why was she brandishing a knife at me, trying to end it? And, just as puzzling, how had skinny, spindly Melanie bested me in a fight?

  “Don’t move, Elle. If you move even a pinkie, I’ll stick this in your eye.” She said this matter-of-factly, pointing out a simple if-then relationship.

  I didn’t have to think long; I decided not to move even a pinkie. I made my body go limp, hardly daring even to breathe. In the dimness of the alleyway, I watched her toy with the tip of her blade.

  “You shouldn’t have betrayed me, Elle.” Her voice was lilting, almost singsong.

  Betrayed her? “I never—”

  “I took you into my confidence. I trusted you. And what did you do?”

  I tried to remember. What had I done?

  “You snuck behind my back and hooked up with Luis. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

  Find out? “Melanie, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, it’s obvious. You tried to steal him from me.”

  Steal him from her? I blinked, trying to make sense of what she was saying. “But you hate Luis—”

  “I saw you with him, Elle.” Her voice got lower, more urgent. Her knees tightened against my ribs. “Did you think I wouldn’t see you? Did you think I’d sit by and passively watch you taunt and mock me? After everything I told you?”

  “Melanie, but you told me that you—”

  “Cut the bullshit, Elle. I know who you are and what you’ve done, you hypocritical, back-stabbing, lying, man-stealing whore.”

  The knife pressed against my cheek, silencing me. Was she going to slice it? Make ribbons of it like Greta’s? Oh God—Greta. Greta had been involved with Luis. Is that why she’d died? Had Melanie found out and come after Greta, preventing her from seeing Luis? Making sure Luis wouldn’t be attracted to her anymore? Oh man. I needed to get Melanie off of me, but I didn’t dare move. I stared into the dark pebbles and dirt of the alley, saw my bag beside me, its contents spilled onto the ground, the beaded jaguar that was supposed to protect me. Melanie was still talking, leaning over me. Accusing me. Explaining why she was going to kill me. Why I deserved to be killed.

  “I saw him kiss you. I saw you pressing yourself against him, whispering to him.”

  “But I never kissed him—”

  “Stop lying, Elle.” The tip of the knife dug into my skin.

  I gasped. Thought back. Remembered taking Luis aside, talking to him privately. Oh God. “Melanie, wait. It wasn’t what you thought—I talked to Luis. But I was trying to help you.”

  “Fucking pathetic liar.” She looked down, her knife on my cheek, her hair dangling over my face.

  “No, I swear. You said he’d been stalking you, so I told him to leave you alone or I’d go to his boss. That’s what you saw.”

  “Were you jealous, Elle? Couldn’t you stand it that a hot guy like Luis would choose me over you? Is that why you tried to take him from me? Well, guess what? You can’t. I won’t let you. This time, I’ll make sure you’re gone for good.”

  “But you don’t have to, Melanie. I’m leaving in a couple of days. For good. You’ll never see me again.”

  “I thought I’d gotten rid of you, Elle.” She shook her head. “But you came back. Why wouldn’t you stay dead?”

  Dead? What? Oh Lord. She had to be talking about when I’d nearly drowned. But Melanie had been the one to pull me out of the water. She’d risked her own safety to save me.

  Unless she hadn’t.

  Again, I saw the cloudy water. The floating figure with seaweed hair. Had that been Melanie? Had I kicked her away as she’d swung her knife? Had she held me under the water, bringing me to shore only after she’d thought I’d drowned?

  Melanie’s knife slid deeper into my cheek. Blood dribbled down my cheek, into my ear.

  “I’m so sick of you, Elle. This time, no rescuers, no CPR. You’re done. Good riddance.”

  She lifted the knife off my face and her arm arced upward above her head. Fury pulsed through me, adrenaline roared. Before she could bring the knife down, I freed my fist and swung it, slamming her wrist.

  The knife went flying, clattered to the ground. Melanie climbed off of me, scrambling for it, but as she did, I rolled onto my knees, using my extra thirty-or-so pounds to thrust myself onto her legs. Her knees hit the ground, but she slithered ahead, dragging herself forward on her elbows, shoving me with her feet until she slid out from under me, skittering toward the knife. I struggled to my feet, hurried to hobble past her. As she reached for the knife, I put my weight on my sore leg, lifted the other, and stomped on the back of her hand.

  Something crunched under my foot. Melanie howled and cursed, then reached around with her uninjured hand, grabbed my stitched leg and dug in her nails. Air rushed out of me; flashes of white pain blinded me. I fell facedown in the gravel, my left arm on a toppled trashcan while Melanie scuttled on her knees, still trying to get to the knife, her crushed hand useless. I pushed away from the trashcan, mustering the strength to propel myself forward. I landed just behind her legs, tugged on her ankles, pulled them out from under her. Melanie plopped flat onto her belly, and I used my last bit of energy to drag her body away from the knife.

  Or I thought I did. In fact, I didn’t. I was too late. I dragged her, but at the tip of her extended arm, beneath her grappling forefinger, the knife was hooked, scraping the ground right along with her. Melanie’s unbroken hand reached out, struggling to grab hold of it and close around the hilt.

  I wasn’t aware, anymore, of pain or exhaustion. I had not the slightest bit of fear, no sense of time passing or of a need to hurry. Somehow, the night sky had become overly bright, improving my vision. Calm passed through me, as if I knew what was going to happen. As if all I had to do was go through the motions of acting it out. No—as if all I had to do was watch.

  Melanie held onto the knife. I held onto Melanie. When I stopped pulling her legs, she twisted and reared, swinging her body at me, the knife in her fist, hurtling toward my chest.

  I grabbed her arm and turned it downward, stopping the knife. She roared, jumped to her feet and rushed at me with so much force that I almost fell over. For a long
moment, we stood pushing at each other, balanced like a human triangle. Melanie thrust herself at me; I countered with equal force, clinging to her wrist and leaning toward her.

  “Melanie?” I panted. “Stop. Will you?”

  She pressed harder, her body angled sharply to the ground. If I let go, she’d fall.

  “Truce?” I was losing my strength. My leg was done, wouldn’t hold me up much longer. Melanie snarled, yanked her arm out of my hand, and swung the knife.

  I released my grip, jumped out of the way.

  Melanie slid in the gravel and fell facedown, reaching out to break her fall.

  I waited for her to get up. She didn’t move.

  I didn’t go to her. Knew that she was waiting to grab and cut me again.

  “Melanie?”

  Melanie didn’t answer. Didn’t budge.

  I watched her warily, braced for her to rise up and resume her attack. But she didn’t. Finally, cautiously, I ventured over to her. Knelt, despite the angry protests of my leg. Touched her. Got no response.

  “Melanie,” I repeated until it became an unanswered question, no longer a name. And until, rolling her over, I saw the knife still clutched in her hand, its blade half buried in her chest.

  Susan, Jen, and Becky were sitting around my bed. They didn’t notice that I was awake; they were too busy talking. The room wasn’t familiar. The walls were green. Sunlight poured in through the window. I closed my eyes again, dozed, having a sense of déjà vu, lulled by their voices.

  Until a man came into the room, greeting them. Even without opening my eyes, I recognized Sergeant Perez. “How is your friend doing?”

  They all answered at once. Susan, of course, won out, insisting that I was sleeping and shouldn’t be disturbed. That the police in Puerto Vallarta had interviewed me for most of the night. That I was the victim, that the woman’s death was both accidental and in self-defense. She would have gone on, but Sergeant Perez interrupted.

  “Señora, por favor. I asked only how your friend is doing. ‘Fine’ or ‘not so well’ would have been sufficient answers.”

  Susan didn’t back down. “Her leg needed to be stitched again. Wounds on her collarbone and cheek needed to be closed as well. She has bruised ribs, abrasions all over her arms and legs and face. Her ankle is discolored and swollen. Is that a good enough answer?”

  “You left out that she was filthy,” Jen added. “Effing mud wrestlers are cleaner.”

  “Stop it, Jen.” Becky bristled. “That’s so not important. They bathed her. She’s clean.”

  “Bullshit—of course it’s important. Do you have any goddamned idea how many bacteria were on her? Crawling into her frickin’ wounds? Contaminating her open wounds? She could have hundreds of horrible infections—”

  “She’s on antibiotics. She’ll be fine.”

  “How do you know? Are you a damned microbiologist? Some bacteria are resistant to drugs. And, trust me, her leg? Even with these ace plastic surgeons, it’s going to have a hell of a frickin’ ugly nasty scar.”

  Really? It would?

  “My friend Nan—” she went on. “You met her, Susan. She had two C-sections and they used the same incision site for both, so they stitched up the same place twice. She showed me the scar.”

  “A C-section’s different—”

  “No, it’s not. A scar is a scar. Now, it’s three years later and she showed me the scar. It’s disgusting. Thick and red. Ugly. And her skin buckles around it and she has these damned internal adhesions—”

  “Señoras, if you don’t mind.” Thank God, Perez interrupted. “I came by with some news.”

  “News?” Susan’s voice.

  “The dead woman. We checked her room in the hotel. All over the walls, she had pinned up photos of this man.”

  What man?

  I cracked open an eyelid. Perez took out a photo, held it up.

  Becky gasped. “It’s Luis.”

  “You know him?” Perez asked.

  “Of course I know him. Everybody knows him. He works for the hotel, he’s one of the activity directors—”

  “Yes,” Perez confirmed. “Do you know if this Luis had a relationship with the woman your friend killed?”

  Killed? I winced, wanted to correct him. Make sure he knew it had been an accident. Did he think I’d killed her?

  “How would we know about her relationships? We didn’t know her.” Susan again.

  But I did. I knew. I could tell them about Melanie and Luis. Their relationship.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Becky suggested.

  “What a good idea, señora.” Perez sniped. “If only we’d been clever enough to think of it.”

  “Okay, so if you’ve already talked to him, and he’s told you, why are you asking us?” Jen sounded belligerent, was standing up for Becky, in a way.

  “He wants to corroborate Luis’s statement,” Susan said. “So? What did he say?”

  “He denied having a relationship with her. He said he’d seen her only at the pool.”

  But made no mention of her breaking into his room or vandalizing it.

  “You said she had pictures of him on her walls?” Susan asked.

  “Many. Dozens. Candid ones, mostly of poor quality. Probably she took them with her phone camera and printed them in the computer room. But she had other things, as well. Official hotel shirts with his name embroidered on them. Other items of clothing and toiletries that he’s identified. Also charge slips he’s signed. Notes she’d written to him but apparently never sent. Some were quite—explicit.”

  Perez went on. I lay still, eyes closed again, replaying Melanie’s visit to Luis’s room. Seeing her climb in through his window. Waiting while she left her message to make him leave her alone. But now I understood: What she’d told me had been backward. Luis hadn’t been stalking Melanie; Melanie had been stalking Luis. Had gone to his room to invade his space, pilfer his possessions. She’d been obsessed with him, had seen me talking to him. Had watched his sarcastic kiss good-bye and assumed we were having a relationship.

  “You’re trying to steal him from me,” she’d hissed.

  Melanie had tried to kill me to keep Luis for herself.

  And if she’d tried to kill me just because she suspected that I was seeing Luis, what would she have done to women who’d been openly and unapologetically enjoying his company?

  “What about Greta?” I sat up. “Melanie was jealous of anyone Luis paid attention to, and she used a knife to attack me, and Greta’s face was cut—” I stopped, aware of four faces gawking at me.

  For a few beats, there was silence. And then everybody spoke at once. Perez had already thought of the connection. But in the flurry and consternation that followed my comment, it took a while before he could say so.

  “You’re awake?” Becky asked.

  “Obviously, she’s awake,” Jen took my hand. She looked battered; her eyes were still black, her nose bruised and swollen and taped. “Becky and I tried to bring you get well balloons—”

  “Or a stuffed animal.”

  “But the stores weren’t open yet.”

  “It was the middle of the night.”

  “How do you feel, Elle?”

  I raised an arm, saw an IV tube attached to it. “Fine.” My voice didn’t work. I had to repeat myself.

  “How long have you been awake?” Susan eyed me. “How much did you hear?”

  I shook my head, didn’t actually answer. Focused on Sergeant Perez, who, when he had a chance to speak, admitted that Melanie was indeed being considered a suspect in Greta’s murder. In fact, now that the police were aware of Melanie’s fixation on Luis, they wondered if she’d been involved somehow in Claudia’s death as well.

  “It seems that Luis also had romantic ties with Claudia Madison. In fact, he admits that he visited her on the very evening of her death.”

  “I told you,” Becky said. “Chichi said that Luis gets around.”

  “Wait a frickin’ minute,” Jen p
ut her hands up. “Was Melanie the maniac who got into our room? I bet she was. I bet she was looking for Elle that night. But instead of killing you, the bitch pulled off my effing bandages.”

  “That makes no sense, Jen,” Becky folded her arms. “Why would she attack you if she was after Elle?”

  “Why wouldn’t she? She was a fucking lunatic.”

  “Señoras, we don’t know everything that this woman did.” Perez put his hand up for quiet. “But we suspect that she made an attempt on your life at least once before, Señora Harrison.” He looked at me.

  “You mean in the water?” Susan looked from him to me.

  I felt Melanie’s weight pressing on my chest, heard her complain that I hadn’t stayed dead.

  Perez explained that Melanie’s rescue had been a cover. He believed that she’d been the one who’d stabbed me, that she’d tried to drown me, and that she’d pulled me to shore only after she thought she’d succeeded.

  “Well, that supports Elle’s claim of self-defense.” Susan gestured lawyerlike.

  “Indeed, señora. You need not worry. There will be no charges, as far as I can tell.”

  A cell phone rang and Jen dug into her bag. Rolled her eyes. Mouthed, “Norm.” Walked into the hall to take the call.

  Susan thanked Sergeant Perez for coming by, walked him out of the room, asking questions in a muted voice.

  Becky closed in on me. “I feel terrible, Elle. It’s just like the other day. If I’d have been there, it never would have happened. She wouldn’t have attacked us both.”

  “It’s not your fault.” I reached for the control button so I could sit up a little. Grunted because every part of me hurt.

  She grabbed the control, handed it to me. “I know. Because somebody had to be here to help Jen. And besides, Chichi and I have only two more days together. I couldn’t have gone with you. I couldn’t bear to lose a single minute with him.”

  “I understand.” The head of the bed came up. I could see her better now. Her hands fidgeted. Her round eyes were strained.

  “Honestly, Elle. Just two more days? I don’t know how I’ll manage without him. It’s not possible. How do you let go of someone you love?”