by CJ Lyons
Eleven years had changed all that.
The elevator doors opened on seven. Two more of Tyree’s men got onto the elevator, and one pushed the button for the roof.
The roof? Now Devon was intrigued. Growing up, the roof, with its all-too-optimistic playground, basketball court, community garden, and Victorian-style greenhouse—the Tower’s pride and joy back in the day—had been off-limits unless you were looking to score drugs or get a beat-down.
They arrived, and the doors slid open. Tyree’s men lined up, one on each side of Devon, the third hanging back with Harold. Devon paused before exiting, taking it all in.
What had once been an open-air basketball court was now enclosed—not very well, from the draft snaking around Devon’s ankles—to form a reception hall with a wall of windows at the far end. Red velvet drapes hid the walls, but Devon caught a glimpse of unpainted drywall. The roof was sheets of translucent corrugated fiberglass perched on two-by-fours, the rain creating a thrumming undercurrent as if a wild animal paced above them, while the floor was cracked concrete with a stretch of red carpet extending from the elevators to a large executive desk—exquisite, hand-crafted mahogany—perched on a plywood dais in front of the windows. A single leather chair stood behind the desk. Tyree’s throne.
An impressive way to greet visitors—and to control who came and went. As Devon approached Tyree, he immediately scanned the area, noting exits, strategic positions, the number of bodyguards—four—and the number of guns—at least six since Tyree always carried two, had ever since a cheap semi had jammed on him in the middle of a firefight.
A firefight that had involved two teens hopped-up on crank, an unpaid tab, and an unarmed sixteen-year-old prostitute. The prostitute had been the only casualty. No great loss, Tyree boasted whenever he told the story. He’d gotten his money from the teens, and the ho had been costing him more in rock than she’d been bringing in.
Of course, Tyree never mentioned that the “ho” was his own cousin.
He hadn’t changed with the years. Still the same unpolished, braggart bully. Devon could see that in the way Tyree leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, smiling as if he were royalty granting an audience to some lowly peon. Cunning, wily, street smart, but with little wisdom.
“So the Runt finally grew into his big-boy pants,” Tyree said, crashing his chair down onto all four legs. He was eight years older than Devon’s twenty-eight and had several inches on Devon’s six feet, plus about forty pounds, all of it the bulging muscles that came from steroids and heavy lifting. In other words, all show. Useless in a real fight.
Since fleeing Cambria and working his way up through the Russians’ organization, Devon had been in more fights than he could count—physical and mental. The physical ones had been by far the easier. Before the Russians had totally accepted him, after he’d shunned Philly’s black street gangs, he’d killed two men with his bare hands.
It’d been awhile, but he could do it again. Might even enjoy it in Tyree’s case.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Devon said, wondering if Jess’s message had been right. She’d left him a voice mail this morning at 7:28, either dodging talking to him directly—she knew damn well he never got up before noon—or because it was too urgent to wait. Probably both. Her voice had been panicked, a whisper begging him to come, that she needed him, and not to say a word to her brother, Tyree.
He sucked in his breath, drawing oxygen down into every fiber, the memory of her final words, that she needed him—him, the outcast, the runt—singing through his mind, repeating until he could block out the panic underlying them. He and Jess, they were meant to be together. Make a family together. Now, finally, maybe, they could.
He’d initially thought he’d swoop in, bluff his way past Tyree, rescue Jess, and escape. After seeing this place, what Tyree had done with it, the decay and ugly filth, he was tempted to stay. Claim his birthright, defy both Tyree and Daniel Kingston.
With Jess at his side, he could do it. Hell, if Tyree didn’t wipe that shit-eating grin from his face, Devon might just do it.
“Hear you want to buy the Tower,” Tyree said, absently snapping his fingers. Instantly, two women emerged from the shadows. Both wore shear negligees, a throwback to the 1970s like the rest of the cheap bordello decor. Tyree had obviously seen Shaft one time too many.
One girl bent over to insert a cigar into his mouth. The other lit it for him as he puffed, his lips pursed like a fish, teeth clamped down. “I reckon it’s better to work with you than that white mofo, Kingston, so,” he blew out a lopsided smoke circle, “you have my permission.”
Devon held back his laughter. He didn’t need anyone’s permission. And the more he thought about taking over the Tower, massacring Tyree and his crew, sticking it to Kingston, the more he liked the idea. “Er, thank you.”
“Yeah, I think it’s fine. You kick back ten percent of the rents you collect, and my boys will continue to provide protection and other services.”
Services like mugging old folks, terrorizing women and children, selling drugs and sex.
“That’s mighty kind of you.”
Tyree narrowed his eyes. Not so dumb after all, he’d caught Devon’s edge of sarcasm. “You want to see my sister while you’re here, I suppose.” He chuckled. “Bitch is gonna drop a cow she hear you back.”
<<<>>>
Typical of Tyree, after their royal audience, he wouldn’t let Devon and Harold use the elevator, instead sent them down the stairs to the third-floor apartment Tyree had once shared with his grandmother and sister. The apartment had been Devon’s second home while growing up. He’d pretty much been raised by the entire collective of the older generation of women in the Tower. Cece, Jess’s gram, had been one of the best of the bunch. Would tan his hide if he cracked wise, but also quick to encourage his natural abilities, got him reading, learning about money, how the real world beyond the Tower worked.
After Jess’s accident and everything that followed, he’d promised Cece he’d take care of them. And he’d tried, sent back money after Tyree ran him out of town. Enough so Cece and Jess could have left the Tower. But they hadn’t. Even after Cece died last year, Jess still wouldn’t leave. He was certain the fault lay with Tyree, who’d never relinquish control over his family, allow them to escape.
Jess had made Devon promise to never come back. At the time, Tyree had vowed to kill them both if he did. He’d also sworn to protect Jess if Devon stayed away.
Yet, she’d called Devon this morning. Not Tyree. And she’d been terrified, sounded afraid for her life.
Tyree wasn’t a man of his word.
Unlike Devon. If he shook on a deal, that deal was done. If he said he’d come through, he came through.
If he said you were a dead man, you’d best pick out an outfit for the casket.
After a business associate had defaulted on a loan and Devon had inherited a Laundromat and its contents, that had become his calling card: sending a nice suit, compliments of Devon Price. Your first and last warning to make things right before the funeral.
Even the Russians got a kick out of that.
As he strode from the staircase down the dimly lit hallway toward Jess’s door, he wondered, not for the first time, if Tyree was setting him up. Forcing Jess to call him home, making him break his vow, only to find a funeral suit waiting for him.
No red carpets here. Just bare concrete floors trumpeting his approach to residents huddled behind triple-locked doors. Walls covered with Royale graffiti, the stench of onions, dirty diapers, and surrender.
By the time he reached Jess’s door, his chest was heaving—from fear? Or the excitement of seeing her again after eleven years? Both. He was glad Harold was too far away to notice him run his palms against his suit jacket. Sweat gathered in the scars, constant souvenirs of his childhood here in the Tower.
Get with the game. Her phone call hadn’t been a booty call—she’d been panicked. No, terrified. Had to be to reach out to h
im after all this time.
He knocked on the door. Stopped when he saw it wasn’t latched shut. He stood away from the threshold, nodding to Harold, who sidled down to a position where he could cover both Devon and the stairs. Drawing his gun and hugging the wall, Devon pushed the door open.
The smell hit him first. Not a good smell. Copper, salty, tangy-sweet. The smell of death.
The hairs on his arms stood at attention as he edged a glance around the doorframe. A single light bulb burned in the room beyond. It was more than enough to show him what he didn’t want to see.
Jess lay on the floor, arms sprawled toward him. She could have been welcoming him home.
Except for the blood.
CHAPTER THREE
No one knows how long it takes to die. Not even us doctors. We know that once blood stops flowing to the brain, it takes only a few seconds to lose consciousness—but that could mean a faint, a coma, or death.
If it’s a faint, gravity helps out and once the brain falls below the heart, blood rushes back to it and you wake up. If a coma, all bets are off on when or if you’ll regain consciousness. And death? Well, much as the surgical hotshots might argue, there’s no cure for death.
Dead is dead. Science’s best guess is that it takes around four to six minutes without blood flow and oxygen for a brain to die.
Which means that when the nun spoke to me, she wasn’t quite dead yet. Only in a coma. Her heart might have been stopped, but her brain still had some electrical activity. Neurons gasping their final breaths, firing off random impulses hurtling down synaptic connections.
Figuring that out didn’t make me feel any better.
The surgeon arrived in a breathless rush, swearing at the primitive conditions inside the suture room. He shoved me aside to explore the “mess you made” and found a gash in Sister Patrice’s vena cava. Then he stripped his Tyvek gown and mask away, told me to call sooner next time, and stalked out.
“Jesus,” Ryder said, the nun’s blood mixing with his own on his clothing. “Who would want to shoot Sister Patrice?”
I had my own cosmic questions. Why had I frozen like that? Where had that voice come from?
Staring down on the ravaged body of my patient, I didn’t think I was going to like the answers.
Then it was only Ryder and I left in the room. And the dead nun. The one who shouldn’t have been talking—especially with me being the only one who could hear her.
Ryder surprised me by taking her hand for a brief moment. Technically, once there was a corpse and foul play was suspected, the cops weren’t supposed to touch the body, only the medical examiner. But he wasn’t a cop right then. He looked down, his lips moving as if praying, then he dropped her hand and stepped back.
His shirt and jeans were covered in blood, as were his hands. Ribbons of it streaked his face, but as his gaze scoured the scene and his posture straightened, I could tell that Sister Patrice had now become a body, evidence.
“We need to secure this room until the medical examiner gets here. I don’t care how busy you are, I’m not taking any chances with losing evidence.” He didn’t wait for me to nod. “I need to talk to those guards, check out the security cameras.”
He stepped past me to leave, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm. His muscles bunched tight beneath my touch. “You knew her?”
“Yeah. She was a good person. Worked with Father Vance over at St. Timothy’s.” He shook his head, as if shaking away the memory of the nun as a person. “You’ll get someone to stay with her?”
“I’ll stay with her.”
He met my gaze, nodded solemnly, his lips tight. “Thanks, doc. I’ll be back.”
He strode out of the room, leaving me alone with the corpse.
I stared down at the dead nun, wishing I could cover her up, embarrassed by her nakedness, but she was evidence now. Less than human.
The only thing that marked her as a nun was the small cross around her neck, stained with blood. Her eyes were open; they were brown. Despite her short-cropped gray hair, she didn’t look very old. Maybe mid-forties. But I remembered that when I was a kid, our priest had never appeared to grow old, never had the worry lines and fatigue that made other adults seem used up before their time.
I stared at Sister Patrice, and she stared back, saying nothing. That was good. A step in the right direction.
I was half-tempted to rap on her skull with my knuckles. Knock-knock, anyone home?
Instead, I wrenched my gaze away and began cleaning up at the sink. My scrubs were ruined. I’d change into my regular clothes as soon as the coroner’s folks or a police officer arrived to stand guard. But right now it was just me and the dead nun. And my maybe-sorta-could-be crazy head.
Stress. That’s all it was. Cracking a chest is the biggest adrenaline-rush you could ask for. Holding someone’s heart in your hand…that had to be it.
Overworked, overtired. Same excuses I’d created for my other symptoms: the not sleeping for months, the occasional stumbling gait, the unexplained fevers, the new more worrisome tremors. Stress. Nothing a vacation wouldn’t cure.
Except with not-quite-dead nuns talking to me, I had to wonder if any vacation plans should include a trip to the psych ward. I was tempted to call Louise despite the fact that she’d be in the middle of her holiday family dinner.
If it had even really happened. I held my hands out in front of me. Steady. Not a quiver or shake.
I was about ready to believe it hadn’t happened. Just my imagination.
Except... who was the kid who needed help? Help the girl. Save the girl. That’s what Sister Patrice had said. Why would my mind conjure a hallucination it couldn’t understand?
As the warm water swirled over my hands, I tried to re-create those few seconds when I’d been catatonic. I didn’t even know what to call the episode. Partial complex seizure? Given the auditory hallucinations that had accompanied it, temporal lobe epilepsy was most likely.
Except, when I had stood frozen, holding Sister Patrice’s heart, it hadn’t been only her voice that had filtered into my brain. It had started with the bone-aching, beautiful music along with flashing lights that morphed into images blitzing by at super-speed, too many for me to process. I tried now to focus, to relive the episode in slow motion, dissecting it.
Sounds crazy, dissecting a hallucination, but what else was I going to do, trapped in a room with a dead nun?
If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s weeding out the nonessentials to zero in on what’s important. Mental triage. And right now, understanding my… event… seemed very important. To me, to Sister Patrice.
To an unnamed girl.
A single, pure note pierced my soul. High B in a warm timbre coaxed from the G-string on a violin. My fingers curled to form the note as if I held my fiddle, but as the tone grew in volume and depth, bright lights whirled around me, and suddenly I was frozen once more, locked inside my body.
Images swarmed my mind, skittering and buzzing, clamoring for attention as I strained to bring them into focus. This time I didn’t have the feeling of someone talking to me, rather it was like searching a musical score, notes and chords moving back and forth, rewinding, then slowing to a note-by-note replay.
A girl, too-skinny, with dark skin, gaunt cheekbones, black hair braided into an intricate pattern. She was a sparkling A-string glissando. Maybe eight, ten, twelve—like the nun, it was hard to tell her age. The music dropped, grew low and ominous. The girl looked scared. Blood streaked her clothing as she held Patrice’s hand, and they ran.
I shivered, felt physically there, with them in the dark. The music faded, leaving behind only the dull thud of rain against pavement. It was an alley, nighttime, cold wind knifing through my wet clothing. My? Patrice’s.
The girl yanked as I—Patrice—stumbled. Then I was fumbling with a key, my hands slick with blood. Shot, I’d been shot. The key finally turned, and I opened a heavy metal door, shoving the girl inside. “Climb high,” I told her,
but it was Patrice’s voice I heard. “Watch for Tyree’s traps.”
No time to say more, they were almost here. Urgency scratched my nerves, a misfingered minor chord. I closed the door and turned back to face the darkness. I took one step, two. Now I could feel the pain my panic had blocked. Every breath agony. I stumbled away from the door, away from the girl, toward the darkness at the end of the alley.
“Where is she?” A voice screamed at me, loud and angry, I wasn’t sure if it was a man’s or a woman’s. Too close, it was too close. Fear clouded my mind. I reached for the one thing that had always provided comfort. Prayer. Dear God. Save her, please.
I—Patrice—expected an answer. Nothing came. Only the grim rain drumming on a dumpster’s lid.
I tried to keep running but ended up on my hands and knees, crawling, still praying.
Whispered voices came from behind me. “The girl saw us. We have to find her.”
A rat scrambled out of my way as I tumbled into a trash can, dumping it on its side. They stood over me, crowding out all light. “Last chance. Where is she?”
I closed my eyes, denying them answers. A shot sounded, crashing through my mind. As darkness descended, a sudden calm overtook me. My fingers searched for my cross, but my body was beyond my command. All I could do was pray.
Help the girl. Please, Lord. Save her.
The pound of a tympani crashed through me along with a rush of heat that left me gasping. Me, not Patrice. But her shadow clung to my psyche. My chest burned where she’d been shot. I fell forward against the sink, the water still running over my hands. That wasn’t me praying, that wasn’t me getting shot, dying.
Patrice. Somehow her memory had been embedded into my brain, worming its way into my consciousness.
My hands, no, every part of me shook at the realization. I could barely manage to turn the water off before slumping against the wall, staring at the nun’s body. I’d somehow become the answer to her prayers.
