I felt wrong.
I felt broken.
“She’s crashing,” a voice warned through the fog.
The void swept over me like the blanket my mother used to spread across my bed as a child. I could imagine her voice. I could hear her singing to me in the void, but it wasn’t real. She hadn’t come.
I was alone. Weak and alone.
♦ ♦ ♦
A sharp light pierced the void. It was clean, so white and clean that the black of my limbo state couldn’t abide in the same space. I let my mind focus on the spot where the most luminous points converged. Joy lived there. I could feel it. Yet as the distant beacon called to me, I wouldn’t go.
I was tired, but I wasn’t done.
The light multiplied, and my fear spread with it. Had I waited too long? Had my moment of choice faded and evaporated with time? I wanted to run away, but I was paralyzed, stuck in the moment that held me. The white light swallowed the blackness as it rushed toward me. I felt the need to squeeze my eyes closed and brace for impact as the wave overtook me.
Instead, my eyes fluttered open. Through blurry vision I could make out shapes, and a few drab colors. The beeping I’d heard in my few moments of lucidity became clearer. Confusion pulled at me and my dreams of the black void filtered away. The longer I tried to grasp at them, the faster they faded and slipped through my hands.
My name is Lindy Johnson, I thought. I’m a private investigator. I have two sisters, one in college and one who was stolen. My final thought crashed on me with a horrible weight. I’m sick. I have a degenerative disease called multiple sclerosis.
For the shortest moment of time I’d forgotten, but the memory brought new terror. My eyes were blurry. Had I relapsed? My world revolved around maintaining my disease and stopping future relapses, or attacks that were waged by the monster that lived in my nervous system. The last time I’d relapsed I’d gone blind in one eye for six months before it had come back. I strained to see, blinked over and over again, but nothing righted the haze. A growing ache behind my eye told me my instincts were correct.
I wiped at my face with heavy arms, but my hands bumped plastic strapped over my mouth. Pliable and smooth, it gave way to my touch. Cold air brushed over my mouth and nose. I yanked at it, eager to remove it. A searing pain reverberated through my body from my right shoulder. A small cry squeezed from my dry throat. Tears burned behind my eyes. I ceased all movement and let my body sink into the bed, willing to do anything that would stop the pain.
“Hey Slugger, calm down. You’re safe.”
Uncle Shane.
His voice calmed me in an instant. Through my blurred vision, I recognized his silhouette. Warmth filtered through my nerves as his hand stopped me from pawing at the oxygen mask. It was enough to anchor me, to keep me from diving into the depths of panic. Knowing he was there, knowing I wasn’t alone was enough that I slipped off once more.
♦ ♦ ♦
Panic took hold as I opened my eyes to darkness. Blind was a legitimate fear, but as my eyes adjusted, I could make out shapes. The lack of light in the room helped, as though the bright light of day had been a glare on a windshield. In the late evening glow, I could distinguish enough to identify a hospital room. Fearing the devastation of a relapse, I went through my mental checklist.
I wiggled my toes beneath the sheets. I could feel both. My hands clenched and unclenched. As I dug my fingernails into my palms on each side, the sensation was the same, but I could feel bandages covering parts of my hands. Remembering the pain in my right side, I ran my left hand over any skin I could find. There were patches of numbness, but that wasn’t new, just another part of my normal. A thick bandage covered most of my chest and that was new. The ache behind my eyes bloomed with every new breath. I could remember my name, my address and my phone number. At the perimeter of my mind, the memory of St. Anthony crept in.
The alley.
The gunfire.
I’d been shot, that at least explained my pain.
The papers. The thought shook me to the core. I’d risked everything to get them, but where were they? Anxiety woke me like an adrenaline shot to the heart.
“Help,” I called out. My voice wasn’t much more than a hoarse croak. I cried out again, forcing air to create volume, “Please help.”
A metallic chair rasped against the floor. Heavy footfalls moved across the floor, a sleepy shuffle I recognized as my Uncle’s.
“Slugger, it’s okay. You’re safe.”
I was more coherent than I had been and I could feel the panic rising within me because of it. “The papers,” the words were stuck in mud. I forced my mind to create the question. “Where are the papers?”
“What papers?” he asked. I could hear sleep in his voice, but he could hear the urgency in mine.
“The papers. From the alley.” I stopped myself because I’d never told Uncle Shane about St. Anthony. “It’s about Jackie.”
Blurred vision kept his face hidden, but I could tell that I’d shocked him into silence. Speaking Jackie’s name had that effect in my family. Scenarios pooled in my mind as his blank stare sat heavy in the dim light. What if the papers had been burned? What if they’d been thrown away without a second thought? I’d gambled it all. I’d risked Ryder.
“Oh.” The groan slipped from my chest as if my heart had whispered the sound itself. “Ryder.” His dark eyes, thick brows and ever worried expression pulled at my gut. I’d chosen the papers over him, and for what?
Uncle Shane wanted answers. I knew him well enough to know that, but he also had enough sense to know it could wait for morning.
“You need to rest, Lindy. We’ll find them in the morning.” Maybe he could sense my hesitation because he added, “I promise.”
Uncle Shane settled into a chair near me so he could keep a hold of my hand. He was asleep within minutes, but I wasn’t so lucky. Thoughts plagued me, but none as heavily as the memory of the moment I’d chosen to turn right.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Hey slugger, you awake?”
My elation at the sound his voice was cut short as I remembered my new reality. The second my eyes opened, he crushed me in a bear hug. Pain in my shoulder caused a whimper in my chest and he released me before he could cause more pain.
“I’m sorry. I forgot you’re hurt.”
I grimaced through my smile. “How did you find me?”
“Once the burns on your hands cleared up enough, they ran your prints through the system. I’d filed a missing persons report when you went missing. I was the first one they called.” I felt his hand tighten for a second. “I didn’t tell your parents.”
“Probably for the best,” I said, and I meant it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d kept something from them. Cases were often dangerous. There was no need to worry them when I didn’t have to.
Silence hovered over us for a second; it was unnatural for our relationship and itched worse than a wool sweater. He was the first to breech reality. “Why are you here, Lindy? Where did you go?”
Though it took forever to find the words I needed, I confessed everything: Kip’s information that had led me to St. Anthony, the phone call, the threat, and my all night drive to meet him. I told him about the fire, the attack, and the way I’d shot him as he dove to destroy the papers.
“The officers told me to put down my gun, but I couldn’t let the papers burn.” Words weren’t ordered the way I wanted, as if I had to pull them from a heap and arrange them before I spoke. “I must have looked threatening, because that’s when I was shot.”
My left hand rubbed over the tender skin that marked my chest. The burns were only a quarter inch wide and three or four inches long. Burns caused by the edges of the paper that had caught fire.
“I got a pretty bad burn.” I stopped myself before I could continue. I needed to tell him about my vision, but I hated admitting it out loud. “I think I relapsed. I can’t see very well.”
If he had a response, it was lost a
s a nurse entered and began bustling around me. My issues with my vision were addressed first. Doctors were called, medication was ordered. The hospital neurologist wanted an MRI, but I only wanted to go home again. In truth, Dr. McAlister, my neurologist, was one of the few doctors I trusted. But knowing optic neurosis was a possibility, I agreed to see the ophthalmologist.
On the way back from the Ophthalmologist’s office, I noted the sign on the wall as the orderly rolled me by in my wheelchair, Bozeman General Hospital.
I was still in Montana.
Uncle Shane was waiting in my room when I returned. Fatigue yanked on me like an impatient child who wouldn’t be ignored, but I could feel his need to talk.
“How are you doing, Slugger?” I could hear the pity in his voice. I expected more from him. He never treated me like I was diseased or broken. What had changed? How bad did I look?
“Not great, but steroids will help.” The vision remained impaired in my right eye, the left had returned to normal by lunch. I could hear his sigh and I averted my gaze. I could tell he’d wiped his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. I wished I could talk more naturally. My jilted rhythm and short sentences worried him.
“I walked this morning,” I added, “only a slight drag on the right. They gave me my phone back too, but it’s busted, not usable anymore.”
“Your father needs to hear about the shooting. He’s your lawyer; you should talk to him before the cops—”
A knock at the door cut him off. “Lindy Johnson?”
I turned and saw dark uniforms, a sure sign of the local police. “Yes, that’s me,” I answered.
“I’m Officer Hicks, and this is Officer Keller. We need to talk to you about the night you were shot.”
“I’m Lindy’s uncle, Detective Robinson.”
I was sure Shane had taken the moment in hopes that they would see him as an ally, and by relation, me as well.
Without so much as acknowledging him, Hicks continued. “What were you doing in that alley?”
I’d shot St. Anthony to prevent the papers from falling into the flame. It was selfish, and it was driven by fear, but it wasn’t exactly self-defense. There were consequences to pay. Still, it was such a long answer. The thought of ordering all those sentences exhausted me.
“My sister was kidnapped by St. Anthony when we were kids,” I paused to think about the rest, “I uncovered contact information for him. St. Anthony said he would meet me with her paperwork.”
“Did he hand over the papers?” Keller asked.
“No. It was a trick.” I felt filthy as I thought of the way his wicked hands had groped my body. “He attacked me.” With a little bit of pride I said, “So I shot him in the foot.”
My uncle’s snicker was cut short as the officers turned to glare at him, but I continued. “He tried to throw everything in the fire. I took the shot as he dove.”
“We’ve been tailing St. Anthony, or rather, Gianni Esposito,” Keller said. “We were about to arrest him when a lookout spotted you a block away. We weren’t sure of your intentions, so we allowed it. We couldn’t get a clean shot with you there. When he lunged, we thought he was going to try to stab you. One of our officers fired at the same instant you did. You hit him, but from the looks of it, it was our officer’s bullet that killed St. Anthony.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. The darkness was better than the stare from the cops. I hadn’t killed St. Anthony. I hadn’t taken a life.
“We were still unsure of your intentions. You wouldn’t place your weapon on the ground and you lunged forward as if you might—”
“You took the shot,” I finished. They weren’t there to arrest me, they were there hoping I wouldn’t make trouble for the department.
“Our analysts have been working on the codes, but it is all gibberish, probably only made sense to Esposito. We copied them and brought those today.”
It was a peace offering. I wondered if it had been Hicks or Keller who had shot me. If I could see their faces more clearly, I’d be able to tell. But with the figurative black lace covering my right side of vision, I was still impaired.
“Your gun is still a part of the investigation. It’ll be returned to you when the case closes,” Keller mentioned as they turned to leave.
I didn’t bother to ask when that might be. It’d be easier to buy a new gun. A case like St. Anthony’s could take months, even years. In reality, I shouldn’t have the papers, but because of the peace offering, I had them.
They left with well wishes, but Hicks ducked his head back in. “Again, thank you for answering our questions.”
It was Hicks. He shot me. And I basked in the knowledge that I could still read people without perfect eyesight.
♦ ♦ ♦
Solu-Medrol.
It’s the name of the steroid they gave me to shut down the MS activity in my brain. I think a better name would be something far more menacing, like acid death, or tin roof inferno. Dr. McAlister called and talked with my Bozeman doctor, and three days of steroid infusions were ordered. Day one wasn’t so bad. Day two my face flushed and I could feel my heart racing. It messed with my moods, not that I’ve ever been accused of picture perfect stability in the past, but the drug sent me reeling from one side of the spectrum to the other. Like a ping pong ball being volleyed back and forth across a net, I shifted from tears to rage and then back again.
I tried not to focus on the heartburn, or the uneven rattle of my pounding heart, or the possible kidney damage the tech had so graciously warned me about. But as sleep continued to elude me, courtesy of the drug, I was often left with other thoughts. Ryder, and whether I should call him, or explain where I went. Explain why I never returned his phone calls as I drove to Montana, explain how sorry I was for my rash decision. It didn’t feel like a conversation I should have over the phone.
I’d finally gotten up the nerve to ask Uncle Shane how long I’d been gone as we ate another hospital lunch. Because of the drug, even my pudding tasted as though it was made of tin and copper.
“You were unconscious for a week.” He’d said, as slow as he could, knowing it would upset me. “Now the doctor thinks it had something to do with your relapse, and the complications in surgery compounded the problem.”
I did the math in my head. The seven days I’d been unconscious, the two days of testing, now three more of steroids, and I’d been away from Ryder for nearly two weeks with no explanation or contact.
Regret was the only emotion powerful enough to drown out the symptoms of the solu-medrol.
♦ ♦ ♦
It took five days before my vision returned. Since it had taken six months the last time I’d relapsed, I counted my blessings. Long distance sight was still rough at the edges, but I was safe to drive.
Once I was released from the hospital, we tracked down my car at the impound lot and began our caravan back to Washington. Because of my weakened state, we spread it over two days. It wasn’t until lunch on the second day, only two hours outside Ferndale, that Uncle Shane said, “I saw Ryder Billings before I left. I ran into him at that burger shop downtown.”
I only stared at the salad in front of me. I ignored the sharp ache in my stomach and instead focused on the bright colors I was able to see again.
“How is Ryder?”
He didn’t want to answer. “He was with someone, a girl. It looked serious. I didn’t talk to him.”
My fork fell from my hand and clattered against the plate before it tumbled to the floor. I felt as if every head in the room had turned to judge me. Somehow they all knew what I’d done. I was all too happy to duck under the diner’s table top and retrieve my fork. It crossed my mind that I could stay under that table for the rest of my life, but against my better judgment, I straightened back up.
“I know there was something between you two before you left,” Shane said.
My uncle wore many emotions with ease. He didn’t, however, wear compassion comfortably. The sorrow and pity hung off of him like
a wet blanket, and the dampness seemed to ooze across the table toward me.
“We were friends. We still are,” I said. A dull ache spread inside my chest as I cracked a stale crouton in half. “It never would’ve worked.”
“You should call him when you get home. Maybe I was wrong and they weren’t—”
“No,” my words snapped like a whip. “If he’s happy, then it’s good enough for me.”
We finished eating in silence, but Ryder clung to my thoughts. For a guy that had been head over heels for me, he’d sure bounced back in a hurry.
Chapter 3
While I wanted to contact Ryder the second I crossed my threshold, my pride held me back. He’d warned me that if I broke the date, we’d be over. He’d made good on that threat. Instead, I threw myself into work.
PI Net, a network that connected individuals who needed private investigators with people like myself who were willing to do the work, was waiting for me. I took the first job that came up, a background check for a local company. It felt good to do something.
My place was exactly as I left it. Scattered makeup strewn over the vanity in the bathroom, a curling iron teetering on the edge. It was a poignant reminder of what I’d given up to chase after Jackie. And for what? The stack of papers taunted me from the oversized plastic zipped baggie. It was gibberish, as I’d been told, a series of numbers, then code words, and numbers again. The one man who could decipher it was dead.
With frustration burning through my veins, I changed and stepped out to my back porch where my punching bag hung. After strapping on my gloves, I allowed my aggravation to vent through my arms and legs into the black bag of sand.
My strength wasn’t what it had been and after five minutes of exertion, I dropped to my knees in exhaustion. I swore I could hear the MS monster laughing as I crawled back into the house. It felt like I had been gone a couple days, but in reality it was weeks. With a body like mine, there was no stagnant. Weeks of no work meant I slipped further into the abyss with every passing minute of inactivity.
I didn’t make it to my bed, or even my room. I crumbled inside my back door and kicked it shut with a foot. My fatigue won in the end and I was done.
Saddles & Sabotage Page 2
