What the hell?
And then it all came back to her: the knock at the door. The three men. The fight.
Those bastards!
“She’s awake.” Emily looked for where the voice had come from, but her eyes were still blurry, her head swimming. Each time she moved she felt as though she were going to throw up. God! She hoped she didn’t have a concussion. She tried to ask who was there, but all that came out was a scratchy croak, her throat as dry as sand.
A shape began to materialize beyond the bars—bars? Where the hell was she? Her eyes gradually began to focus, and she could now make out the shape and features of Fisher.
Jesus! That motherfucker! Now she remembered everything. He was the one who had hit her. So much for being a stand-up guy.
Her eyes swept the room. She was in the brig, she realized now. They had knocked her out and brought her here while she was unconscious. Not only was she a big-enough threat that they had to throw her in the brig, they also needed to handcuff her to the gurney they had brought her in on too. Like she was Harry fucking Houdini or something.
A second shape appeared from beyond the edge of her cell. Valentine! The queen bitch herself.
“Hello, Emily. How are you feeling?”
“Fuck you,” Emily tried to yell, but it came out as a mumbled mess, but by the dismissive smile on Valentine’s face, Emily’s sentiment had been made abundantly clear.
Emily sank back down onto the gurney, her chest heaving, her head throbbing.
“Why don’t we get Mizz Baxter some water,” Valentine said.
A key turned in the latch of the cell gate, and then a man was standing over her.
“Here,” the voice said, shoving a red plastic cup of water under her nose. It was the blond guard who had come to arrest her earlier. Emily could see a bruise, purple and angry, on the side of his face where she had clocked him. But it was the look in his eyes that worried her. Cold. Angry. This was not a happy man.
She took the water from his hand and drank it down in two deep gulps. It was warm but dear God it was so good. She could already feel the tightness in her head beginning to loosen.
“More,” she said. The blond guard looked at Valentine, who nodded. Grudgingly he brought a second cup.
Emily looked at her feet. What the hell? The laces from both her sneakers were missing.
“Is this really necessary?” she said, rattling the handcuffs against the metal security bar of the gurney.
“You were unconscious when we took you to the infirmary,” said Valentine. “Dr. Hubbard insisted that you be treated there. We wanted to make sure you wouldn’t try to harm yourself . . . or anyone else.”
Well, that explained where her laces had gone. Emily shook her head in disgust. “Right, because I have a history of that.”
Fisher spoke next. “Emily, where is your son?”
“What do you mean? I’ve already told you where he is.”
“You told us that an alien spirited him away from a locked room in the middle of a heavily armed camp. My men searched your apartment and found no indication of any kind of break-in or—”
“Because they’re fucking aliens,” Emily interjected.
“—any signs of a struggle. We searched the entire compound and the perimeter, and, again, my men found no sign of Adam.”
“Well maybe you need to employ better men,” Emily said, shifting her gaze to the guard leaning against the cell bars.
The blond guard pushed away from the bars, his fists balled.
“Curtis!” snapped Valentine. The man froze and stepped back to his position. Interesting, thought Emily, that it is Valentine and not Fisher issuing commands here.
“As I was saying, Emily, we have found no evidence that your son was abducted by any kind of exterior force. Which leads me to my final question: How did you dispose of your son’s body?”
“What?” Emily gasped. “I didn’t harm my son. You think I’d hurt him?”
“Here’s what we think happened, Ms. Baxter,” said Valentine, stepping closer to the bars of her cell. “We think that the last few years have finally caught up to you. That your delusions of an alien menace somehow being responsible for the devastation we see beyond the safety of Point Loma has slowly grown over the time since the red rain first fell. We think that your husband’s willingness to leave you and your son behind was the final straw.”
“You are out of your Goddamn minds.”
“We think that in a fit of paranoia, you killed your boy, strangled him in his crib, and then took his body and dumped it in the ocean.”
Emily was stunned almost into silence. “That’s your story?” she said eventually. “And you think I’m the crazy one.”
Valentine stepped closer, grasping the cell bars with both hands. “Why don’t you just make it easy on yourself and your family—what there is left of it, of course—and admit it.”
“You are out of your minds. Fisher, for God’s sake, you don’t believe any of this, do you?”
Fisher just stared back at her, his arms folded across his chest.
“You believe her? Jesus! She’s making this shit up, because she wants to frame me. Can’t you see that?” Even as she said the words, Emily realized how paranoid she sounded.
Valentine smiled, the bait she had laid for Emily taken. “Yes, of course that’s what’s happening. I’m setting you up, because . . . ?” She left the question hanging. “Because I don’t like you? I see you as a threat to some plan I have schemed? Or . . . or maybe I’m working for the aliens? Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”
Curtis cackled to himself.
“That’s enough!” Fisher snapped. He stepped closer to the bars, took a deep breath, and said, “Emily Baxter: I hereby charge you with the abduction, murder, and illegal disposal of your son, Adam Baxter-MacAlister. You will be held here until such time as a jury of your peers decides your fate.”
Emily shook her head in disbelief. “And if I’m found guilty?”
“The punishment for murder is death, Mizz Baxter,” said Valentine. “The punishment for murder has always been death.”
Fisher nodded at Curtis. The guard pulled the metal gate closed behind him.
“Curtis will be standing guard. If there’s anything you want, ask him,” said Fisher, then both he and Valentine turned and vanished down the corridor.
The guard lingered for a second, watching Emily, then he smiled a dark, lascivious smile and he was gone too.
Dr. Hubbard showed up some time later. Emily couldn’t tell how much later, since the cell, which measured only about six by ten feet, was windowless on all three of its reinforced-concrete walls. The bars that made up the fourth wall had a view of the narrow corridor beyond and a single tiny oblong window near the ceiling made with what she was sure was shatter-proof glass.
“How are you feeling, Emily?” Hubbard asked as he was ushered into the cell by Curtis. The guard leaned against the wall and watched Emily and the doctor as though they had already hatched some preemptive escape plan.
“Been better,” said Emily, her free hand rising to the bump on her head where Fisher’s pistol had connected with her skull.
Hubbard parted her hair around the wound and gave it a close examination. “You’ve got a nasty bump, and it’s a bit bruised. No double vision? Do you feel nauseous?”
“Only over the way they’re treating me,” said Emily, rattling the chain of her handcuffs against the restraint of her bed like Jacob Marley’s ghost.
Hubbard smiled apologetically and turned to speak his next words directly to Curtis. “Yes, hardly the most optimal of environments for one of my patients.”
“Mrs. Valentine says she’s a suicide risk,” said Curtis. “It’s for her own safety.”
“Oh, and Mrs. Valentine’s qualified to make that kind of clinical observation, is she?”
Curtis stepped up close enough that the two men were almost face to face. He was a good head taller than the doctor and must have had at le
ast fifty pounds on him. “Just do your fucking job, doc,” he spat.
“Do you have any pain pills?” Emily asked. “My head hurts from all the bullshit this idiot is spouting.”
Curtis threw a meaty hand between them before the doctor could even reply. “No pills! Fisher’s orders. And you,” he poked a finger in Emily’s direction, “better watch your mouth.”
Hubbard raised both his eyebrows and shook his head. “Well, I suppose that answers that. I’m sorry, Emily.”
Now Curtis shook his head. “This bitch murdered her own fucking kid, and you’re apologizing? A headache’s the last of her problems right now. Are you done?”
The doctor turned back to Emily. “I’ll be back to check on you in the morning,” he said, smiling bleakly. “Try to get some rest, okay?”
The doctor turned and walked out of the cell with his escort. Emily had turned her back on them and was staring at the blank wall as the cell door clanged shut.
Emily woke to the sound of her cell door rattling open. She squinted hard against the overhead lights that seemed to be permanently on.
“Sit up.” It was the guard, Curtis. He held a tray with a bowl of food and a glass of water.
Emily did as she was told, carefully swinging her legs over the side of the gurney so as not to wrench her wrist. Through the narrow window in the corridor beyond her cell she could see night had descended once again.
“Good girl,” Curtis said, setting the tray to her right.
“How about you unlock my cuffs, so I can actually eat.”
Emily tried to hide her surprise when the guard said, “Okay,” and pulled the cuff keys from his pocket, dangling them from his fingers. “Turn around and put both hands on the gurney. I don’t want you trying anything funny.”
This didn’t feel right, but what was she supposed to do? The guy was twice her size and she only had one free hand. Emily turned and leaned both hands on the cushion of the gurney. Besides, what was he—
The thought was cut short as she felt something slipped over her head and pulled tight around her throat. Instantly her air supply was cut short. Her hand flailed uselessly, knocking the tray off the bed, the plastic mug of water bouncing noisily across the floor. She started to push away with her one free hand, but the full weight of the guard’s body was suddenly pushed against her, forcing her painfully into the gurney. Her free hand reached for whatever was around her throat. Her fingers clawing at it . . . it felt like laces . . . her sneaker’s laces.
“Dr. Valentine told me to make this quick,” Curtis whispered in her ear. “But I say why rush it, mmmm? No reason I can’t have a little quality time first, right? I mean, why should that fucking Scotsman have all the fun?”
The lace was pulled just tight enough to cut off most of her air.
She tried not to vomit as she felt his hand slip between her legs, rubbing hard as he ground himself against her backside. “Oh yeah, you like that, don’t you?”
This could not be happening. She gasped, flailing uselessly at him, her free hand arcing back over her shoulder in a vain attempt to find his face, but she just could not reach. What little breath she did have suddenly felt even thinner as she felt the buttons on her jeans popping open as Curtis undid them one after the other.
Emily tried to scream, but only a high-pitched hiss came out. She tried to mule kick him, but he had her bent too far over the gurney to be able to swing her leg hard enough. So she stomped down hard where she thought his toes should be and heard a satisfying grunt of pain. She didn’t have time to gloat as she felt his fist smash into her kidneys and her world exploded into reds and blues of pain. All her strength left her, and she collapsed facedown onto the gurney, the guard’s full weight pinning her.
“Bitch!” he yelled into her ear. “Now I’m gonna make it real fucking slow.”
His hands found their way back to the waistband of her jeans. He tugged hard, popping the remaining two buttons as he pulled the jeans down over her right hip.
Emily tried again to scream but felt bile suddenly fill her throat. She was choking to death as this bastard tried to rape her. It was just unbelievable. Her eyes clouded with hot tears as the maniac groped to the other side of her jeans and began tugging them down.
“So sad, the little baby killer hangs herself. So, so sad.” Curtis laughed, it was a maniacal cackle of utter delight. “Oh, and when I’m done with you, maybe I’m gonna go and pay that little bitch of yours a visit next. Mmmm! Mmmm! This is gonna be so mu—”
The pressure around Emily’s neck relaxed suddenly, the guard’s oppressive weight gone too. She tried to suck in air but instead vomited onto the gurney, her legs now made of Jell-O, her arms barely able to maintain her grip on the gurney. She stared at the pale-gray wall, waiting for the assault to start again as she gasped in giant gulps of air, her brain trying to think of a way out, but it kept being distracted, trying to rationalize why this was happening to her.
When Curtis next spoke, his voice was outlined by an edge of fear. “Okay, okay, don’t do anything stupid, I was just having some fun,” Curtis said.
Even through the haze of terror that still flooded her body, Emily could tell something had changed dramatically. She reached up and tried to slip her fingers between the noose and her throat, but it was embedded so deeply she couldn’t get a grip until she pushed her nails in and pried it loose.
“Emily? Emily, are you okay?”
“Rhiannon?” Emily managed to gurgle, her throat feeling like she had swallowed acid. It took a couple of seconds, but finally her limbs decided to obey her and Emily pushed herself slowly to her feet, pulled her jeans up as best she could, and turned.
Curtis stood about three feet away, his hands above his head. Rhiannon was in the open doorway of the cell, her pistol pointed at the man’s head.
The strangest feeling came over Emily, a swelling pride and love for this child, this young woman with whom she had shared so much. She had so much love for her. But she was mad at the girl too, angry that she would put herself in this situation.
“Emily, are you okay?” Rhiannon asked again, snapping Emily back to reality.
“Okay,” she croaked. “Keys. Give her the cuff keys.”
“Not happening,” Curtis sneered. “This little bitch isn’t going to shoot me. We can stay here all fucking night until my relief gets here. I don’t give a shit.” Curtis reached down and slowly zipped his pants back up, his eyes fixed on Rhiannon. He waited a beat then yelled, “Fuck you!” at the girl, spittle flying from his mouth.
Rhiannon flinched and took a step backward, and Emily realized the girl was terrified beyond all limits. She had to think of something fast.
“Okay,” she said, finally finding her voice again. “Why don’t we do that.”
Curtis’s head swiveled in Emily’s direction, his smile faltering slightly.
“Then you can explain to Fisher exactly what you were doing to me. And maybe I’ll tell him how you’re in bed with Valentine. I’m pretty sure this will all be news to him, right? Asshole.” It was a gamble. For all she knew Fisher was as much a part of this . . . this assassination attempt as the guard, or he might just try and call her bluff.
The guard’s mask of cockiness started to falter, then crumbled altogether.
“Okay, okay,” he said as he reached into his shirt pocket and produced the cuff key. “Here,” he said to Rhiannon, smiling as he held it out to her.
Emily was too slow with her warning. Rhiannon had already taken a step forward and extended her own hand before Emily could even say no.
Curtis dropped the key to the floor and his now-empty hand flashed out, grabbed Rhiannon’s outstretched arm by the wrist, and yanked hard.
Rhiannon, surprised, flew forward, stumbling as her feet tangled. Curtis’s free hand grabbed the girl by the hair and pulled her close to him, then threw her to the floor, his right hand pulling back for a sledgehammer punch aimed directly at Rhiannon’s face.
“No!” Emil
y yelled, helpless to do anything.
The back of Curtis’s head exploded, sending brains and blood in a splatter across the ceiling and walls of the cell. His body collapsed to its knees, arms limp at his side, and his chin sagged to his chest, exposing the bloody hole in the back of his head. It remained in that position, as if in some final unholy act of contrition.
Emily tried to process everything that had happened in the past few seconds. The sound of the gunshot had not registered with her, but it had happened; she could see the smoke rising from the barrel of Rhiannon’s pistol that she still held outright, and her ears sang with a high-pitched ringing.
Rhiannon’s hand quivered, and then the pistol dropped to the floor.
The girl did not move.
“Rhiannon!” Emily said. “Rhiannon, sweetheart, you have to stand up. Can you stand up, baby?” While Emily could not remember hearing the sound of the gunshot that had killed Curtis—Oh my God, so much blood. So much blood—it did not mean that others nearby had not. Emily had no idea how thick these walls were, but in the darkness beyond the walls of the brig sound would carry much farther through the silence of the night. There could be others on their way to investigate even as she sat here trying to comprehend what was happening
At the sound of Emily’s voice, Rhiannon seemed to fall back into her body. Her head turned to face Emily. “Hi, Emily,” she said, and smiled, the shock of what had just happened visible in the teenager’s wide, unblinking eyes.
Emily smiled back as best as she could. “Hi, baby. Listen, I need you to get the key to these handcuffs. It’s right there, do you see it?” She pointed with her free hand to where the tiny silver key had fallen, about a foot or so from Rhiannon’s right knee.
Rhiannon followed Emily’s finger. She reached down and picked up the key.
“Now bring it to me, okay?”
Genesis Page 7
