by K.A. Tucker
9. Attacked
The two thugs smiled crookedly at me, one of them revealing a brown tooth. A pretty, young, round–faced woman of perhaps twenty–five, with shoulder–length auburn hair and rosy cheeks, stepped out from behind them.
Cold sweat trickled down my back as panic set in. I’m such an idiot! I was trapped and it was my own fault. I was that stupid, gullible girl from Maine, wandering through Central Park. A big, shiny target for any lowlife. My eyes darted about, frantically searching for an escape route. There wasn’t one. Either by flying bullet or flying mutt, I’d be stopped.
I swallowed. “I have money. Lots of money. Here, you can have it all,” I quavered, thrusting my purse forward.
No one made any move toward it.
“Evangeline, correct?” the man with the dog asked.
A chill ran down my spine as I ran our brief conversation through my head. I hadn’t given my name, had I?
He chuckled. “You really should be more careful, sharing information with strangers. Even sweet old ladies. Looks can be deceiving.” His smile sent a chill through me.
I managed a small gasp, shocked that the bird–feeding lady could be in league with them.
“When we saw you leave the leech house alone, we were intrigued. So we followed you here.” I remained silent but my bewilderment at their “leech” reference to Viggo and Mortimer’s place must have been evident, because the round–faced man cocked an eyebrow. “So they’ve kept their secret from you … interesting. They’re very good at it, aren’t they? And there aren’t as many telltale signs as the stories would have you believe.” He paused. “I can’t believe they allowed you out on your own, though … Why are you with them?”
I swallowed hard several times, struggling to form words. “I’m just visiting … I don’t know what they’ve done to upset you, but I have nothing to do with it.” I started trembling.
“On the contrary, we believe you have everything to do with it,” the woman interjected, her voice cold and detached. “You are here with Sofie, correct?”
I blinked. How do they know so much?
The woman closed the distance between us. Those eyes … hazel eyes with dark green flecks, like the old lady’s eyes. She must be a granddaughter. A grandmother–granddaughter criminal team—that had to be a first.
The woman paced around me slowly, like a cat circling its prey. “You’re human; I would know, otherwise.”
I fought hard to stave off tears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Perhaps you don’t; it wouldn’t surprise me that Sofie didn’t inform you of her designs for you. She’s cunning, that one,” she mused. Her eyes darted to my pendant and she reached up, but her hand hovered over the stone, not touching it. “Incredible,” she murmured. Her mouth crooked in a smile of realization. “Do you know what she’s done to you?”
I noticed her eyes flicker toward the bushes; they narrowed suspiciously, and she started backing away. “So sorry, if you are indeed guiltless,” she said in a rush, nodding to the man with the gun.
He answered by raising the weapon to point at my chest.
I heard the click of the trigger.
Once, I had wondered what a bullet would feel like, tearing into my flesh and organs. I expected it would involve a considerable amount of pain. I didn’t expect that the impact would send my body flying as if hit by a train.
But it did. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back some distance away, with a crushing weight in my chest. The bullet must have punctured my lung because I couldn’t inhale. This is what drowning in your own blood must feel like. I hoped it wouldn’t take too long. It was painful.
I was lying on a cushion of brittle leaves, staring up at the overcast sky as I made my peace with God, when the tightness in my chest began to subside. I found I could inhale again—small breaths at first, then increasingly normal ones. Maybe I would be okay. If I could get to a hospital. If I could get away from here.
I closed my eyes and remained still, feigning death until I was sure they were gone.
A wet nose poked against my cheek. Badger, checking to see if I’m dead yet. That mutt would surely give me away, I realized, fighting panic. I kept my eyes closed, trying to calm myself.
Another, more forceful nudge against my cheek— followed by a familiar whine. I dared to peek through one eye to see Max’s large snout. He was lying beside me. Three other massive black bodies surrounded us, on guard. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The dogs must have scared off everyone.
“Oh, thank you, Max!” Propping myself up on one elbow, I reached over to stroke Max’s shoulder. I felt something warm and slick. I pulled my hand back, gasping when I saw the blood.
Examining Max’s fur, I found the tiny hole where a bullet had entered. The bullet that was meant for me, I realized then, checking my chest to see that I was unscathed. Well, almost unscathed. Max nosed my left hand, growling. It was covered in my own blood from a deep gash across my palm. I must have cut it on a rock when I fell. When Max crashed into me to take the bullet.
“I have no idea how you guys found me, but let’s get out of here before they come back,” I whispered, staggering to my feet.
My stomach lurched.
No one had left.
They wouldn’t be going anywhere, except in body bags.
Body parts were strewn everywhere, heads practically decapitated, necks torn wide open. And blood—pools of it. So much blood that it stained the forest floor bright crimson. I spotted Badger’s head lying three feet away from me, his lifeless eyes staring vacantly up at the sky, his tongue lolling out. His body was nowhere in sight.
The trees began whirling around me. I was unconscious before my body hit the ground.
Sitting on the leather couch in the library, I watched in silence as a diminutive, elderly woman cleaned and stitched the three–inch gash on the palm of my hand with skilled precision, her slender fingers weaving the needle in and out of my flesh. It should have been painful. Instead, I felt nothing.
I recall stirring only once after seeing the corpses, to find myself cradled in Leonardo’s gentle arms. When I came to again, I was lying on a sheet on the hardwood floor in Viggo and Mortimer’s library, a maid hovering over me with a set of blood–free clothes, adamant that I remove mine immediately. Once changed, I watched her toss the stained outfit and the sheet into the lit fireplace. Slightly dramatic, in my opinion, but the clothes were ruined so it didn’t matter.
The grandfather clock gonged. It was four in the afternoon.
“Leonardo, where is everyone?” I asked.
“They’ll be here soon,” he responded calmly, placing another log in the fireplace.
“Do they know what happened?”
Leonardo sighed. “Oh, yes … they know.”
“Are they angry?”
His eyebrows arched severely, but he said nothing. I’d take that as a yes.
“What about Max?” I suddenly remembered.
Leonardo glanced over, frowning.
“The gun shot … he was shot,” I elaborated.
He opened his mouth to speak, then paused to choose his words. “So you were aware of that.” He chuckled. “Don’t you worry about that brute.”
“How did he find me?”
“You’ll need to ask him,” Leonardo answered with a secretive smile.
My brow puckered as I tried to make sense of that. I couldn’t. “How did you find me?”
“Thank you for your services,” he said to the old woman as she finished wrapping my hand in gauze, ignoring my question.
In response, she shoved two tiny blue pills—presumably painkillers—into my mouth, then packed up her medical tools and disappeared without uttering a word.
“Hopefully those don’t upset your stomach,” Leonardo murmured with a hint of annoyance, handing me a glass of water.
I averted my eyes, feeling my face heat.
Leonardo eased himself to his knees beside me and surveyed the carpet and
furniture from various angles, a clear spray bottle and rag in hand. He then began scouring the operating area.
“Let me do that,” I offered.
“That’s quite alright, Evangeline. I may be old, but I’m not completely useless.”
“No, I didn’t mean—” I stammered, “I just thought … it’s my blood. I should clean it up.”
“Well, that’s a remarkably courteous way of looking at the situation, though not surprising. You’re a remarkably courteous young woman, aren’t you?”
I felt myself blush. “And you’re not old.”
“Yes, I am,” he responded, chuckling. “Seventy–eight, to be exact.”
A few more minutes passed. “You’re very meticulous,” I observed.
He offered no response as he struggled to stand.
“Leonardo …” I began hesitantly.
“Call me Leo if you wish. Leonardo is such a mouthful.”
“Okay … Leo.” An inconsequential question suddenly popped into my head. “Hey, why do you have such an Italian name when you’re so … British?”
He chuckled. “My father was Italian and I grew up in England.”
“Oh.”
“Was that your burning question?”
I shook my head. “Should I be worried about anything?”
He sighed, gave me another strange smile, then walked over to throw the rag into the fireplace. I sensed that was the only reply I would get.
My eyes roamed aimlessly around the library, landing on the painting above the mantel. On the black pendant. “Why is Sofie’s sister’s picture on the wall?”
“Do you normally ask so many questions?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, flushing.
Leo chuckled, glancing up at the portrait. “I believe she was a lady friend.”
“Lady friend … oh, you mean girlfriend?”
A rare smirk appeared on Leo’s face. “Yes, girlfriend, you young folk would call her.”
I smiled sheepishly. “Whose?”
He pursed his lips. “Can’t say, really.”
“So when did Viggo and Mortimer—” I stopped abruptly. ‘When did they switch teams?’ God, Evangeline. Be a little more tactful.
“When did Viggo and Mortimer what?” Leo probed.
I searched for the appropriate words. “Begin their relationship?”
He repeated my question to himself, confused. Then, suddenly, his face lit up and he erupted in raucous laughter. I widened my eyes, startled by the unexpected reaction.
“Viggo and Mortimer are no couple. I wouldn’t even call them friends. Partners in a common interest, one may say.”
I struggled to translate his words as he stoked the fire. What a cryptic old butler.
“Although I suppose I can see how someone on the outside may mistake their relationship,” he continued. “They live together, spend all their time together, and squabble like an old married couple.”
“Who squabbles like an old married couple?” a deep voice boomed.
I spun around to see Viggo and Mortimer strolling into the library. But where’s Max? I held my breath, waiting for the dogs to trot in behind them. They were never too far away. When none of them did, my stomach tightened another notch. What if the police had them? They’d destroy them for that massacre, even if they did save my life.
“Where’s Max?” I asked as the two men took up positions before me, arms crossed over their chests. Viggo’s face displayed the same placid expression as usual. In stark contrast, Mortimer’s was primed to throw daggers. I couldn’t help shrinking guiltily onto the couch, feeling less like an eighteen–year–old adult guest and more like a naughty six–year–old in need of a spanking.
“Busy,” Mortimer said.
“How’s the hand?” Viggo asked, eyeing my bandages, a strange grin on his face.
“A bit sore.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. “So … were those the protesters you were warning me about?” I asked awkwardly.
“You could say that,” Viggo replied.
Another long pause. “How much trouble are the dogs in?”
“None. It’s been taken care of,” Viggo answered as if referring to a minor bill needing payment.
“What does that mean?” I asked warily.
“It’s cleaned up. No evidence. No witnesses.”
A chill ran down my spine. “But, it was broad daylight in a major park. And there was so much blood.”
“So … ?” Viggo shrugged, unconcerned.
“So …” I faltered. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be accessories to murder? The police would understand, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t it be easier to report it?” I pictured a full–scale S.W.A.T. team crashing through the gate and pinning the lot of us—the gentle old butler included—to the ground.
“It would have been easier if you had obeyed us,” Mortimer answered through clenched teeth.
I cowered further into the couch.
“Mortimer, please,” Viggo said, patting the air in a soothing gesture. “I’m sure Evangeline has an excellent reason for defying us.” His raised eyebrow indicated he was expecting the explanation right then and there.
Did I tell them the truth? Did I accuse them? I had gained no proof through my adventure. Only more questions.
“Are you going to explain yourself, or sit there and fidget all afternoon?” Mortimer said, drumming his fingers loudly on a console table.
“Well … I didn’t think I was disobeying. It was just a suggestion, wasn’t it?” I finally answered in a meek voice.
Mortimer’s fist slammed down on the table, sending a lamp flying and me cowering.
The library door exploded open and four giant black bodies barreled through. The dogs. In seconds they were circling the couch where I sat, their hackles raised and growling a warning at Mortimer.
If the wall of fangs and froth intimidated him, Mortimer didn’t let on; he stared Max down, looking ready to lunge himself.
Sofie ran into the room.
“I thought you had him under control.” Viggo’s voice was calm but I sensed the underlying contempt.
“You try controlling that beast.” Her eyes fell on me. She took several quick steps forward then froze, glancing uncertainly at Viggo.
“It’s okay, Max,” I said, reaching up to stroke his side, trying to calm him. I examined his shoulder for the wound. Nothing. I must have mixed up the sides. I checked the other shoulder. Nothing. No wound, no bandage, no dried blood. I screwed my face up. Yes, he had been shot. I remembered. “I saw the bullet wound. His blood was all over my hand,” I said out loud.
No one answered. I looked up to see worried glances passing between them.
“Leo. Tell them you saw it too,” I pleaded, frowning my confusion.
Leo shrugged noncommittally, his eyes darting to Mortimer. He ducked his head and exited without a word.
“It happened, didn’t it?” I cried as tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision.
“Do you believe it happened?” Viggo asked calmly.
I looked at each of them in turn, at their blank faces. Maybe it hadn’t happened. Is this what a schizophrenic feels like, skating through delusions and reality so seamlessly that it’s impossible to discern which is which? I raised my hand to see the bandage. I felt the throbbing ache of my gash, a result of the attack. No, this had to be real.
“I warned you two,” Sofie said softly, her eyes never leaving me.
“Well, go ahead then, Sofie. Tell her what you’ve done. See if that doesn’t terrify her, you self–righteous witch,” Mortimer answered, smiling smugly at her.
What is he talking about?
In the next instant Sofie was standing where Mortimer had been and he was airborne, his tall, muscular body flying through the air and slamming into a wall twenty feet away. Glass rained down as the impact from his body shattered a mirror into countless pieces.
I gaped at Sofie, who—with her delicate arms and her lithe frame—had thrown Mor
timer across the room right before my eyes. It was impossible. It couldn’t have happened.
Mortimer pushed to his feet and strolled back, brushing glass from his jacket sleeves. “My, you’ve gotten strong, Sofie. Who have you been snacking on?” He paused only a foot away from her, looming, their eyes communicating silently.
What did he say? My stomach dropped with the realization that this was beyond hallucination. This was a full–scale delusion. There was no conspiracy, no one was tricking me. I had lost my mind. “None of this is real. The bullet, Sofie’s lip, my hand, the bites …” I rambled, picturing straitjackets and padded cells with tiny peepholes and seemingly normal people having intellectual conversations with empty chairs. Maybe I could share Eddie’s alley with him. I was his goddess, after all.
“What bites?” Mortimer suddenly said, eyes narrowed.
“No bites. They’re not real. I thought they were real but they’re not,” I rambled absently, yanking the collar of my shirt down. “See? Nothing.”
Sofie gasped.
