Daddy's Little Killer

by LS Sygnet

  My wrist moves again, the pain dull all the way to my elbow, like a good whack to the funny bone. Haha. Funny bone, aptly nicknamed after the humerus. Most people misspell that bone. Humerus. Humorous. Very different. Misery. Happiness.

  Focus, Helen. Dad isn't here.

  Where is here?

  My fingers journey inward, brush against something softer than wool. Clothes! Well thank God. I'm not being slowly crushed by a car with a wool mix upholstery on some backwater dirt road in Peru naked.

  Speaking of humor, check. Stop it. This isn't funny. Someone will find me. Someone will miss me.

  Not Rick. He's dead.

  Not David. He believes I hate him. Do I hate David? We've been closer than Rick and I ever were for years now. Then again, that's not saying much, is it, Helen? You don't let people get too close. It's all a game, always a mind game. How close can I make someone believe we are without revealing anything important? Great fun. Good times.

  Why isn't anyone coming to rescue me?

  A sliver of light above pushes the axe blade a smidgen deeper into my gray matter. Oh boy. This is it. This has got to be it. Look, Dad. We were wrong. You really do see a white light when you die.

  On second thought, I'm way to rational to fall for that folie a deux. More than deux. Ninety some percent of the world. My eye, the left one, it's open just a slit, just enough for light to filter into my pupil and hit the retina just so. Pain. Yippie. More of it.

  Okay, Helen. Focus. Not just on where you are, or what sort of upholstery is in this foreign car. Focus your eye. Move the lid. Up, up and away. That's right.

  Blurry reality filtered into my field of vision. I see shapes. Movement. This must be what legally blind looks like. This isn't good. I don't even need reading glasses, though at times, they make a decent disguise.

  Darkness, different shades from jet black to sort of fleshy tan hover above me suddenly. "Helen?"

  The lips are stuck to my teeth. Sandpaper tongue makes a valiant effort to dislodge them. "Who are you?"

  Sounded more like, blue blar blue?

  "Lie still. You'll be fine. I'm not sure what happened to you. Are you thirsty?"

  And how. But I'm not about to complain. This is real progress. Consciousness. Comprehension.

  I nod, way on the feeble head-lolling side, I'm sure. His face is a little clearer now, enough for me to distinguish worry lines around his eyes. Why can't I make out his face? Wonder who the heck he is, and how he knows who I am, but I can't seem to remember meeting him. Ever.

  "You've been pushing yourself too hard. I called George and told him about this episode. He's very concerned. I believe he's calling Haverston to come pick you up."

  Great. Who is George, not to mention this Haverston? Why can't someone give David a jingle instead? Good plan. He might be royally pissed at me for my behavior this morning, but he'd come if I called for help. David isn't like the men in my world. He's truly good.

  I decide to give it a go. "David. Call David."

  The fuzzy caterpillars on his forehead inched into one long beast of a worm. "Who?"

  "David. Levine." Tongue thick or numb, I wasn't sure of either. The end result was the same. Not-half-bad looked like I had spoken to him in Aramaic. "My ..." I knew that supervisory special agent would come out of my mouth bordering something obscenely suggestive. I opted for simple. "My boss."

  The smile sent a chill straight to my bones.

  "Yes, Helen. David, your boss. Excellent. You rest while I see how long it will take for him to arrive."

  My eye drifted shut. So tired. David is coming. He'll make sure I'm safe. No matter what I do, he'll help me. Won't he?

  Consciousness drifted away on a pillow of oblivion.

  The next wave of awareness came, and the axe was gone, replaced by the only slightly less painful distant jackhammer to the back of my head. I heard the groan, felt the vibration rumble from my throat, but felt distant and disconnected from it somehow. My only tether was the throbbing agony jostling its way forward through the sulci in my brain. Weaving, twisting, winding, dipping deep, resurfacing. Shuddering inexplicable torture.

  I hesitated before drumming one finger on the flat surface beneath me. It was slick and ice cold. Speaking of which, I wasn't feeling so warm myself. As if on cue, the tiny hairs on my body stood at simultaneous attention.

  This was new.

  It took a moment to register the fact that it didn't hurt to move my finger this time. There was no heavy pressure on my chest. David must've found me.

  I've got to be safe now, but whatever is beneath me sure doesn't feel like hospital linen. No matter at the moment. I can move!

  My arm tentatively lifted, the hand crawling over more satiny fabric. Not a hospital gown. This feels like ... it feels like my nightgown. What the hell? Have I been dreaming? Oh please let this be a dream! Not just the funeral, all of it. Maybe I'll open my eyes and find Dad staring down at me, ready to explain that I've been ill. Mononucleosis perhaps. Yes! I've been so tired, burning the wick from both ends of the candle.

  Then again, delusions have never suited me much.

  My fingers find temples and start massaging gently. Ah, yes. That feels better. If only I can rub this dratted stupor away.

  The bed dips beside me. "Dad?" I want to cheer at the clear word my lips make, that my tongue doesn't slaughter into a mushy garbled mess.

  "Doc, it's me. You're gonna be fine."

  My eyes are still closed, yet I'm keenly aware of this new presence. Maybe it's his voice, the gentle concern, the steadfast reassurance. Whatever it is soothes the bubbling bejesus back into the pit of my stomach where it can be contained and controlled with all my other irrational emotions.

  I don't know who me is, but I'll sure as hell take his comfort in a heartbeat. Almost as soon as my brain processes safety, another realization creeps over me. I'm cold, and barely dressed. Some strange guy is reassuring me, making me believe in something other than death in Peru, and I'm not sure how the two facts can peacefully co-exist.

  Don't misunderstand. Helen Eriksson is not a prude. She does have a body image issue or two. She also, incidentally hates people who refer to themselves in the third person.

  I shake off the creepy self condemnation and bent toward bizarre self-conversation and try to figure out if I should protest, demand answers or lie here and let myself be soothed back into oblivion.

  "Charlie is here. He's worried sick. We've called a doctor to come see you. I wasn't sure if you'd rather have us take you to the hospital or not."

  "Doctor?"

  "She swears her bedside manor is best suited for the dead," is that grinning I hear in his voice? "But when word spread that you were ill, she offered to come over right away."

  I have no clue who Charlie is, but something in Suave Guy's tone tells me that they've called the undertaker to certify that I'm not dying. Talk about irony.

  "Who?"

  "Maya."

  "Maya."

  "Doc ... "

  "Don't call me doc." God how I despise that nickname! Speaking of body image problems, an old memory – at least I think its old – flits through my mind. My mouth is too big. Fat lips, big teeth, tad bit of overbite that unfortunately wasn't corrected until the invention of invisible braces (God help the world if I'd worn the metal kind and drawn even more attention to my mouth). One of my so-called peers in my doctoral program used to mime Bugs Bunny at me and ask what's up, doc? He almost landed on a hit list for his taunting.

  I hear a warm, low chuckle. The hairs on my arms stiffen more, but this time, I like how it feels. Excitement. Thrilling. I can feel his eyes on me. If I peek, will they look as adoring as they feel?

  "That's my girl. You're gonna be fine, I promise."

  Oh how I want to believe him. That word, that feeling, belief is almost non-existent in my psyche. I'm one of those annoying folks who demands proof. Dad drilled that into me harder than he realized. Demand proof. My context had evolved to more tha
n accusations of criminal behavior as he intended the message.

  Something slender and calloused strokes lightly at the inside of my wrist. It draws another moan, this one building from a much deeper place than the back of my throat. Nice. Feels so very nice.

  "Am I hurting you?"

  "Mmm. No."

  I hear his breath draw in quickly. Funny how the senses adjust when one is deprived. I can hear everything he does, every emotion he conveys, and my eyes haven't fluttered a millimeter. I ponder for a moment how much nicer this is than my usual way. Dissecting everything I see. Maybe I should start closing my eyes and feeling the world around me once in awhile.

  The pressure on my wrist increases, not in a bad way. It strokes downward. Long fingers pluck at mine before closing gently over my hand for a light squeeze.

  "How do you feel?"

  Great right now. This lovely sensory distraction has all but muted the jackhammer. "Okay."

  Now why did I do that? He asked a valid question. Why not tell the truth? "I feel great. You make me feel so much better."

  "I think you just told me the truth for the first time." The words are soft, reverent, full of wonder.

  This too is cause for serious consideration. I'm not in the habit of lying to complete strangers, am I? Not without a good motive. Good motive loosely translates into a perceived threat.

  "Maya who?"

  He laughs again. This one tickles my insides, starting at the navel and working its way outward, like a stone creating a ripple in a pond. I shiver.

  "Maya Winslow. Are you sure you didn't hit your head?"

  Maya. Maya? I haven't seen her in ... gosh, it's been at least two or three years. What in the world am I doing in Baltimore of all places? How did I get from Rick's funeral in Arlington all the way up to Baltimore?

  "What time is it?"

  "After five."

  Ho boy.

  "What happened?"

  "We're not sure yet. This isn't the time for that conversation, Doc. You can tell me what you were doing at Jerry Lowe's house later."

  "Who?"

  Suddenly his playful relief evolved into something quite different. "Doc, do you know where you are?"

  "Please don't call me that. I hate it so much."

  "Fine. Helen, do you know where you are?"

  I drag my lower lip through my teeth. At least that's what I think I'm doing. Maybe my sensation isn't quite right yet. "Baltimore?"

  "Why would you be in Baltimore?"

  "I ..." I really don't want to have this discussion, because then you'll know that I don't know, don't have the first foggiest clue in hell what's happened to me, and then you will insist on taking me to the hospital.

  Remain calm. Think, Helen. This guy must know me. He had the common sense to realize that the last place I want to be is in a hospital.

  "Helen?"

  "I'm fine, really. Groggy. I'm not sure I've been sleeping."

  Another voice joins his.

  "Mr. Orion?"

  God bless whoever you are. Now I've got a name!

  "Johnny," he says. "Please. I've seen you, but I think this is the first time we've actually met."

  And I have a first name. Thanks again, Invisible Sky Monster, Pink Unicorn or whichever unseeable entity is throwing bones my way. In my delight, I almost miss the subtle sound of flesh pressing. They're shaking hands.

  Wait a minute. I remember that voice. Maya Winslow, forensic pathologist extraordinaire! "Maya ..."

  A chuckle aborts my greeting. Johnny has a wicked sense of humor. He really was telling me that the undertaker was coming to tell me I'll be fine.

  "Hey kiddo."

  The bed dips again. I can smell lavender and vanilla, and the mattress isn't displaced as much as when Johnny Orion sat beside me.

  "How you doing?"

  "I feel ... disconnected. Disoriented maybe. I thought we had to be in Baltimore if you were coming to see me."

  "I'll say you're disoriented." A cool hand pressed to my forehead. "You don't feel feverish. Then again, that's no proper way to check a temperature. Johnny, do you have a thermometer?"

  "No, but I'll send Charlie out for one. Do you need anything else?"

  "I think that'll do for now. I suspect I know what happened to our friend."

  "You do?" My brain starts tingling in anticipation. Please tell me. I need to know what's happening to me.

  "When I saw you this morning, you were practically toxic on caffeine. I know for a fact that you've slept very little since you got to Darkwater Bay."

  Bless you, Maya. Keep talking.

  "And given the other issues I know you've endured over the past couple of weeks, I suspect this is stress and sleep deprivation."

  "I'm going to be all right?"

  "My prescription is a solid eight or more, of uninterrupted sleep."

  "She's got an interview scheduled tonight. Charlie doesn't want to go without her."

  "It'll have to wait until tomorrow, Johnny. She won't be able to function if she keeps pushing herself like this."

  "So all I have to do is sleep?"

  "That's right, kiddo. Easy as pie."

  Permission given, order accepted. I sighed into the bed, rolled to my side and hugged the pillow to my chest. Good doctor. Great news.

  Chapter 26

  I woke to sunlight streaming into the west facing window of Orion's guest room. An ache rippled in waves from the top of my skull to the tip of my spine. Good lord, what happened?

  The duvet on the bed was tangled around my legs. I swam my way free, groaned deep discomfort and pulled myself up into sitting position. My shoulders rolled forward, creating an arch of my vertebrae, a cat hissing at crickets perhaps.

  "Jesus. What the hell happened to me?"

  "You're awake."

  My eyes took a regrettable rapid motion toward the voice. "Orion. It's you." I pulled the duvet to my chest and glanced at him warily. Amend that. Any movement of my eyeballs felt like hot knives stabbing into my brain.

  "How are you this morning?"

  "Hung over as hell. What happened last night?"

  He crossed his arms over his chest, frowned and said, "You tell me, Doc."

  Palms ground into my face. "I have no clue. God, I feel like death warmed over."

  "Do you remember Maya coming to see you late yesterday afternoon?"

  I peeked through fingers. "No."

  "And I don't suppose you can tell me why you were found in this condition at Jerry fucking Lowe's house."

  "Don't take that tone with me."

  "Answer the question, Doc."

  "Don't call me –"

  "Yeah, you said that last night too. Frankly, I don't give a shit if you like it or not. Why were you at Jerry Lowe's house?"

  "Technically, I am a detective, and he is the chief of detectives."

  "You don't answer to that moron."

  I also didn't remember going to his house for any reason under the sun. The whole damn day was a bit foggy. Everything after my conversation with Maya about the missing teenagers and those I suspected were survivors of sexual assault.

  "Oh dammit! I was supposed to talk to someone last night!"

  "Yeah, I know. Charlie brought you home."

  "This isn't my home, Orion. My home is ..."

  "Is where?"

  Something vital was on the tip of my tongue. What was it? Why couldn't I remember yesterday? Maya. Her tantrum over the messy condition in the wake of my night of research. Scrubs. Central. Oh yeah, Danny Datello implied that I'd be burning in hell soon with my dead ex-husband.

  "Datello."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I talked to Datello yesterday morning."

  "You personally spoke to him?"

  A bit of my usual wariness returned. "I can't talk to you about this, Orion."

  He huffed a bit, muttered something about liking me a hell of a lot more last night. "So where is home, Helen?"

  Blonde hair and a perky, utterly annoying ima
ge flashed before my eyes. "Theresa something."

  "You're still sick."

  "I'm fine, dammit. She's a realtor. I met with her yesterday. I found a house. She was supposed to drop the keys off for Michel last night. I live in Beach Cliffs." Ha! Take that Mr. You're-Still-Sick.

  "Great. What happened next?"

  I wasn't quite sure why he looked so morose that I remembered something. "It's blank."

  "Completely?"

  "Not even there. You said I was at Jerry Lowe's house when Charlie found me?"

  "Yeah, somebody made an anonymous 9-1-1 call about a woman passed out in front of his house in her car."

  "He wasn't there?"

  "Were you snooping?"

  "No!" Was I?

  "How can you be sure if you don't remember?"

  "Because I know me. And there is absolutely no reason for me to spy on my boss."

  "He's not your boss."

  "You know what I mean."

  Orion filled the doorway with his massive frame. "Well, new house or no, you're not leaving here until I'm sure you're not still under the effects of whatever caused this little fugue state."

  "I did not suffer a fugue." Then again, I wasn't sure of much, just that I'd lost a day, and unless Charlie found Caroline Blevins and talked to her, the momentum of our case took a serious hit. "Did Charlie talk to my ... appointment last night?"

  "No, he wasn't comfortable going alone. He rescheduled."

  I jumped from the bed, staggered a step and sat down hard. "We've got to have that conversation right away."

  "You're in no condition to do jack shit, Doc. Go back to bed. I'll see if Michel got your keys and order up something for you to eat. God only knows the last time you've done more than nibble and feast on caffeine. By the way, whatever you did yesterday, you forgot to shut off the warmer under the coffee pot. Burned the hell out of the damned thing."

  "I'll buy you a new one." Orion was already gone when my sarcastic retort fell. Fine with me. If he was going to be high handed and controlling about where I'd go, what I'd do and who I'd see, I'd work from home.

  Another memory filtered through. I replaced my stolen laptop yesterday morning and installed the software that would let me work on the fly whenever I damn well pleased. I stumbled out of bed with renewed determination.