Double Blind

by Hannah Alexander

  But there was no time to dwell on it now, or to try to remember. Lord, You are my strength, my help. You brought me here, to this place, at this time, for a reason. Go with me now.

  “Betsy? April?” Sheila called, hearing the tremor in her voice. “Are you in there?”

  A sudden cry reached her, soft and brief.

  “April? Honey, is that you? Is Betsy in there?” She took a step toward that evil door.

  A movement caught her attention from inside, away from the glow of the fire. A small, slender form stepped in front of the light, casting a shadow along the ground. A whisper emanated from somewhere in the hogan, and the small form stepped to the doorway. It was April.

  “Honey, we need to get back to the school,” Sheila said. “It’s getting late.” She had a flashlight in her medic kit, but if Betsy was in there, and she was sick…

  April skittered back into the shadows. Sheila stared through that entryway and felt the barriers around more memories begin to crumble. This was the place of her nightmares.

  She had to go into that hogan, not only to get April and, perhaps, Betsy out of there, but to find the answers she’d been seeking.

  “Lord, be with me,” she whispered as she walked to the hogan, paused at the entrance, and then entered the smoky, firelit dwelling.

  There was a sudden movement to her right, and something sharp jabbed her in the right thigh. She cried out, stumbling away. And then she looked back.

  The nightmare. Fangs bared and menacing in a gray face, a long snout, angry eyes, a coat of fur outlined in flames from the fire.

  “Were you looking for someone?” came a guttural voice she knew only from her nightmares—her memories? It was unlike any other voice she had ever heard. She thought of Jamey’s words when asked who the wolf was. The wolf, in Jamey’s eyes, was simply the wolf.

  Mesmerized by the form and voice, Sheila could only stare, slack-jawed. The tug at reality caught her with such intensity that it was as if she were again that little girl, weak and helpless, at the mercy of a terrifying power. Now she knew it was true. There was definitely a power here.

  A demon?

  “What are you doing here?” the harsh voice demanded.

  Sheila swallowed. God help me. She wasn’t alone. Never alone. “What are you doing with April?” Her voice trembled, but she was surprised she could speak at all.

  “April is not the reason you are here.”

  The lines of the room began to waver. Sheila suddenly felt as if her blood had thickened in her veins. She glanced toward the doorway. The straight edges of rectangle were no longer straight, but curved and curled like a slithering snake.

  Was help on the way? Where was Tanya?

  She returned her attention to the wolf. She knew this was only a human in animal skins. She could see the legs in buckskin, the human hands.

  “You’re not dealing with a child this time, wolf.” Her voice sounded as if it were echoing through a long pipe. She closed her eyes and focused. The wolf had drugged her…some kind of hallucinatory drug. She had to think hard about what she was saying. “I’m taking April home. Where is Betsy?”

  “That old woman?” There was scorn as well as puzzlement in the harsh voice. “What have we to do with her?”

  Sheila glanced around the room. There was no one else, only April and the beast. Unless Tanya could have been right.

  “April, let’s get out of here,” Sheila said. “I’ll take you home.”

  April’s heavy-lidded gaze traveled from the wolf to Sheila. She was most likely drugged, as the wolf had drugged other children. It was the screen of forgetfulness that allowed this animal to continue. April backed around the stone circle of the hearth until the flames licked and fluttered in front of her.

  Sheila glared at the wolf. “Release the hold you have on her. She has to go home to her family.”

  “You don’t tell the spirit of the wolf what to do.”

  The cold harshness of the wolf’s voice echoed through Sheila’s memory, plucking chords of darkness from the distant past. There really was a spirit of a monster beneath those dead skins. Someone else existed in that body, as well, but this could not be Betsy. Sheila’s beloved old friend could not contain the hatred Sheila heard in this wolf’s guttural voice. And a woman’s voice could never be that deep…could it?

  Chapter Forty-Four

  T he van sprayed gravel across the sidewalk as Preston swung in next to Sheila’s Jeep and saw the darkened windows of her apartment. He leaped from the van and raced to the door.

  “Sheila!” He pounded with his fist, tried the handle and for once found it locked. “Sheila!” He pounded again.

  No answer. He’d called Blaze barely two minutes ago. The clinic had three patients, all with rising temperatures. Blaze was alone and busy. Sheila had taken off into the desert with Tanya, and they hadn’t returned. That terrified Preston.

  What terrified him even more—and impressed the daylights out of him—was that Blaze had taken fresh blood samples from the patients who had come to the clinic, and he had run those samples under the microscope. He had not diagnosed Marburg virus, which needed special equipment, but he had discovered plague. The Marburg virus and the plague—Two of the most deadly diseases on earth, both right here at the school.

  What were the chances? None. The only way two of the world’s most deadly diseases could show up at the same time and the same place, originating from opposite sides of the world, was if they were planted here. Bioterrorism.

  Canaan, who had been fielding calls from the CDC and the FBI on his cell, was less than five minutes away. He would go directly to the clinic.

  Wouldn’t the CDC have a heyday when they discovered what was here? Canaan was agonizing over the possible spread across the Navajo reservation of the deadly disease because most of the children and staff had scattered to their homes. How many others would be exposed before everyone could be brought back to the school? And if Marburg and plague were both rampant on the reservation, where else might they have been planted? The country was barely prepared for one deadly bioweapon, much less two or more.

  Preston jumped into his Jeep, praying in earnest as he drove into the desert, avoiding rocks and dodging arroyos that appeared suddenly in the deepening gloom. Faith—that elusive quality of heart and mind he had so often wished for and never been able to manufacture—continued to elude him. He felt himself teetering, with the rest of the world, on the edge of destruction, with no one to stop it. Still, he prayed.

  Betsy battled her way to consciousness at the sound of knocking. If she lived through this, those knocking doors would haunt her dreams for years. If she lived through the pain.

  Before she could gather the strength to answer the knock, the caller left.

  Moments later, a key clattered in the lock. Betsy raised her head from the sofa pillow just as the door flew back and slammed against the wall. Blinding light filled the room.

  A man gasped. Betsy squinted at the tall, broad-shouldered figure coming toward her. Canaan.

  “Betsy!” He dropped to his knees beside the sofa. “This isn’t the arthritis.”

  She shook her head.

  “When did it hit?”

  “Tuesday night, but I thought I just needed another shot.”

  “And so you put it off, as you always do.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a surgeon’s mask. He placed it over his nose and mouth, pulled some vinyl gloves over his hands and a blue plastic gown over his arms and torso. He reached beneath her and picked her up into his arms.

  “What do I have?”

  “We’ll find out as soon as we test your blood, but it could be bad.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  His arms tightened around her as he carried her out the door. “We’ll do everything we can to help you, Betsy.”

  She rested in Canaan’s strong arms. She knew he would do all he could. Though she might not make it, she would still be fine.

  Sheila moved with
difficulty through the wavering atmosphere toward April on the far side of the hogan. She had to focus to stay on her feet; she couldn’t think clearly.

  Before she reached April, the wolf growled.

  “What a valiant, self-sacrificing woman you are,” the wolf mocked. “Like your mother.”

  The words made sense several seconds later. “My mother,” she repeated.

  She remembered that day when her mother had come looking for her and found her here. Mom had attacked the wolf in fury, screaming and punching. But even the strength of a mother’s righteous anger was no match for the cunning wolf.

  A whisper of movement drew Sheila out of the memory, but she didn’t turn to look toward the source of the sound. Instead, she called to God in grief and agony, silently, unable to form the words in her mind, but knowing He heard her.

  She focused totally on the strength she knew she had in Him. God’s spirit lived in her. As she had told Preston, she believed she was here for a reason. Maybe this was it. Maybe it was not. But God was with her now, filling her as she prayed, turning the tide of evil with great power.

  The wolf’s shadow fell across hers on the hogan floor when she opened her eyes. She felt the warmth of another body close behind her.

  “Do you think He will hear you?” The sandpaper coarseness of the voice softened to a caressing lilt.

  She shut him out. Blessed are You, Lord. My hope is in You, the Maker of heaven and earth, the sea, and everything in them. You remain faithful forever.

  “How foolish you are,” came the voice behind her. “What does God have to do with you?”

  Sheila turned, still praying silently. Something about the wolf’s tone seemed to have lost its edge.

  The wolf retreated a few inches, and though that monstrous silhouette grew in the firelight, an unearthly glow emanating from the bristling fur, Sheila was encouraged. He had retreated.

  “Lord,” she prayed aloud, “break the power of evil in this place. Protect—”

  “Stop it!” Though still harsh, the voice seemed weaker, and laced with fear.

  “Jesus, break the power of this Navajo werewolf that killed my mother with the very medicine that she needed to keep herself alive. Release the bondage this evil one holds over April.”

  The wolf turned, and for the first time, Sheila noticed its hunched shoulders. Much like Betsy’s shoulders had been hunched in the clinic earlier. Perhaps, when under the influence of evil, this person even hunched over as a wolf would normally do, on all fours.

  “Why did you kill her?” she whispered.

  “Because she was biligaana.” Cold, harsh, hate-filled.

  “No,” Sheila said, looking into the fire. The flame, a constant in all her nightmares, connected her memories in a pearled string of conflicting emotions—happiness over being singled out for special attention; confusion when the wolf began to hurt her with…needles?

  Sheila looked back at the wolf. “You killed her because she found you holding a syringe to my arm.” The shock of memory once again helped her focus and fight off some of the effects of whatever drug coursed through her system. “What were you injecting into me?”

  “I injected nothing! I required a blood sacrifice.” He said the words slowly…taunting her?

  Again, the lines of the hogan wavered, and she fought for control. She remembered that once, a couple of years ago, when sleep had refused to come to her night after night following Ryan’s death, she had resorted to a strong prescription sleep aid. During the weeks she’d taken that drug, she had found her body reflexively fighting to focus and stay awake, as if her subconscious knew something of the dreams that would bring so much darkness. Her mind had learned to focus well, in spite of the power of the drug. Now she relied on that practiced ability, maintaining control with great effort.

  She gazed around the interior of the hogan. For the first time, she noticed that in place of the bare wooden beams of a traditional hogan, cabinets and shelves lined the walls.

  It was much more modern, neater, than it had been all those years ago, but she had another memory—of vials and cases and syringes. Of alcohol swabs. Of pages and pages of notes…of notebooks and microscopes.

  And in her mind, she continued to pray. Dear Lord, break the power of evil in this wicked place. Show us the light of Your goodness. Your will be done, Your name be glorified.

  She became aware of the wolf’s harsh breathing, growing less steady, more broken, filled with pauses. The breathing of someone in pain?

  A quickening in the air teased the flames, sending smoke and sparks across the hearth. The evil that emanated from the dead animal skins seemed to dissipate into the air before reaching Sheila. Movement behind her brought her around to find the wolf removing the skins, pulling the cape of fur away to reveal painted flesh beneath…and…was that blood? She looked closer at the gleaming red splotch that mingled with other colors on a very human abdomen. Yes, blood. A male torso, painted with swirls of darkness and streaked with blood.

  He tossed the cape into a dark corner and put his hands to his head. No, not his head, but the head of the wolf.

  As he pulled up the head, she suddenly didn’t want to know the identity of this vile being. She turned toward the doorway. She wanted out of this place, but she could not leave April, who still cowered at the far end of the hogan, watching with eyes of drugged stupor.

  The head plopped to the floor behind her, and the wolf groaned, its guttural voice softening…the harsh groan changing to a moan. A very human sound, a different voice altogether.

  “Sheila.” A voice filled with anguish. Sorrow and defeat. A voice suddenly familiar.

  She turned to him, and she saw his eyes. His short, black hair. His broad shoulders. The straight, white teeth bared in a grimace of pain.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  T he headlights of the Jeep danced across the dark terrain, and Preston held fast to the steering wheel with both hands, evading boulders and anthills and an occasional heat-stunted tree as he searched for signs of life. His left front tire plunged hub-deep into a pit of soft sand. He steered hard right and allowed the four-wheel drive to pull him free.

  That was when he saw the pale faces of two people in the distance, running toward him, arms waving. He broke free of the sand and gunned the motor. As he drew closer, he recognized Tanya Swift and Jamey Hunt. Sheila was not with them.

  Preston slid to a stop as Tanya rushed to open the passenger door, yelling for Jamey to get into the backseat as she climbed into the front. “You came, Preston! We tried calling you on Sheila’s cell phone, but the mesas block reception here. We have to get back to her!” She paused, panting for breath. “I’ll show you. Hurry!”

  Tentacles of nausea clutched Sheila’s stomach and her vision wavered, as if she had opened her eyes under water. One more piece of the puzzle wedged into place, and she cringed in agony. Her mother’s killer grimaced, and she saw streams of blood trickling into the waistband of his pants.

  “Doc?” Please, Lord, no. It can’t be Doc.

  Eyes as black as a cloudy night reflected the orange flames of the fire. Sculpted lines of darkness formed another wolf below the one he had discarded, but it was Doc, and he was badly wounded.

  “Like a snake shedding his skin,” he said, his voice hoarse from pain. The evil entity had controlled Doc while he was useful, but now that he was injured and unable to perform, the raw, cutting edge of hatred no longer reigned.

  Sheila’s prayers had been answered with swiftness and power.

  Now Doc’s expression was one of anguish that nearly matched her own.

  “No,” she whispered.

  He breathed in through his nose, hard and fast, desperate for any relief the breathing technique could bring him.

  “You killed my mother in front of me,” she whispered, feeling the pain of this memory, like the thrust of a knife deep into her heart. “You’re the monster in my dreams. Of all people, how could it be yo
u?”

  Doubled over, he stepped to a metal case beside the entrance. He pulled out a small cactus button. “Did you know peyote has analgesic properties?” He slipped the button into his mouth and chewed like a starving man.

  Sheila tried to focus past the fact that this man—whom she’d trusted and followed around like an adoring puppy when she was a child—was her mother’s murderer.

  She needed to know more. She needed to know everything. She gazed around the room again. “What is all this? Why were you drawing my blood?”

  He shook his head. “None of this will matter in a few hours. You’ll forget everything.”

  Not if she could help it. She would fight to retain these memories. Her sleeping pills had caused short-term amnesia, and she had learned to remain focused, to retain many memories. It could be done.

  “You gave me GHB,” she said.

  He continued to chew his peyote, grimacing at the taste. She recalled the bitterness, herself. She remembered him placing a button of that awful cactus in her mouth. He had apparently fed countless children peyote laced with another drug that would cause amnesia. The GHB.

  “You have such a need to know,” he said softly. “So much like your mother, always seeking answers for everything.”

  “If I’m going to forget all about this, anyway, then why not tell me the truth? What are you doing here, and what are you doing to the children? Why did you infect them with Marburg virus?” It was a guess, because last she heard, it had only been a possibility.

  Judging by Doc’s expression, it was a good guess.

  “You know nothing about it. You have no idea what we’re doing here.”

  “Then what are you doing? Who else is working with you?”

  “My employer is developing vaccines.” He closed his eyes, leaning against the door frame. His voice sounded weary. “To save lives. Why explain it? The drug cocktail…you won’t—”

  “I need to know now.” She heard the cold anger in her voice. “You owe me an explanation. You haven’t saved any lives, you’ve killed.” Her face felt numb, and she rubbed it hard. Had to stay focused.