by Julie Daines
So Scarlett’s dreams would all come true. If we were talking about most people’s dreams, that would be a happy thought. But it wasn’t with her dreams. For Scarlett and me, it meant death. Scarlett on the operating table. And me, here in this room. Regardless of Wyden’s schemes to experiment on me, I had Scarlett’s dream to tell me I would avoid the surgical knife. The two dead bodies behind me and Simon’s gun were enough to convince me that this was the scene of my death. Soon, I would be the one lying on the floor with my blood staining the tiles.
I strained my hands against the silver tape, twisting and pulling. They didn’t give. Dad, call for help! I pleaded in my mind. He’d probably gone to bed. Gloria wouldn’t be home from Bunco for hours.
I had left my father—twice in the last few days—with the intention of never seeing him again. But as I sat taped to a chair with permanent separation in my very near future, I knew I’d been lying to myself all along.
I’d always wanted to see him again. I’d just wanted him to suffer like I’d suffered. Then maybe he’d realize he cared about me. I craved his attention now as much as I did the day I swallowed the bottle of pills. Earlier this evening, I’d thought he was finally ready to try. But I hadn’t let him, and now it was too late. I groaned, remembering what I’d said to him in his office. I wished I could take back my words. Tell him how I felt.
If he really did want a second chance, my death would torment him the rest of his life. What would he do? Turn on Gloria? That wasn’t what I wanted, but I grinned anyway then shook my head. I could live with Gloria, if I got a chance to live.
I had to change fate. Undo Scarlett’s dream. I was in control of my own destiny, and it would not end here. Neither would Scarlett’s. I worked on the duct tape again, twisting and pulling to loosen the bonds.
I lowered my head to bite the tape, but I couldn’t reach it. I scanned the room for anything I could use. A cabinet with a big vat of something next to it stood against one wall. The vat plus the drain in the middle of the floor and the strong smell of formaldehyde gave me a pretty good idea of what this room was used for.
I scooted toward the cabinet, using the weight of my body to lurch the chair across the floor. I tried to be stealthy, but the clanging of the metal legs sounded like a stampede of linebackers wearing steel cleats. I finally got close enough to open the cupboard door with my teeth. I stared, momentarily transfixed by the bottles and boxes of embalming supplies. Lots of hexaphene—whatever that was—a metal jar of Leakproof Skin, a tub of mortician’s wax, and an ominous carton with a photo of a spiky-looking mouth guard labeled Natural Expression Mouth Former. Yuck. There was one potential profession I could cross off my list.
On the opposite side of the room was a small chest of drawers made of steel. I crossed the room again, sweating with the exertion, even in the freezing temperature. I wore my coat, and a weight in the pocket gave me hope that my dad’s gun was still there.
They had to hear me clattering around, but maybe they didn’t care. I opened the first drawer. Inside, a tray full of surgical instruments rattled. One was a scalpel with a long, thin blade. Again, with my mouth, and bending at a very uncomfortable angle, I got it out of the drawer, seriously hoping it had been sterilized since its last use. But I wondered, because if they were dead, what was the point of preventing cross-contamination?
I transferred the blade to my hand, twisting it in my fingers until I had it aimed backward at the tape on my wrist. I sawed through, slicing open a few spots on my skin in the attempt. When I got one hand free, it took only seconds to finish the job. I pulled the tape off my wrists—along with a layer of skin—and then undid my feet.
I had to check the bodies. Wyden could have lied about Scarlett’s still being alive. I lifted the sheets off their faces, one at a time. The first one was an elderly Asian man. He looked normal—for a dead guy. No dangling eyes or blood seeping out his ears from a fried brain.
My mind flashed back to my mother’s funeral. Her pale face blank and lifeless. My dad had lifted me up in his arms so I could see into the casket. I’d tried to tell him it wasn’t her. It didn’t look like her. I buried my head in his shoulder and cried while he stroked my back, one of his silent tears falling on my face. The next day, we were strangers.
I reached out to feel the dead man’s skin. It was like touching a refrigerated grapefruit.
I slipped the sheet off the second body and jumped back. It was a woman with black holes where her eyes should have been. She looked maybe Gloria’s age, and other than the vacant sockets, she seemed undamaged. If I didn’t hurry, that would be Scarlett.
The door to the cold room was thick and solid. I pulled it open and stepped into the stairwell. To my left, stairs led up to another door, and straight ahead, there was an elevator. I figured they must use the elevator for transporting bodies up and down from the cold room. I grabbed my dad’s gun out of my pocket. I’d never fired one before and was probably no better than Simon. With my luck, I’d shoot my eye out. At least then Wyden wouldn’t be able to practice on me.
I crept up the stairs and cracked the door. The hallway was deserted, as was Scarlett’s room—her gurney was gone. They must have started the operation next door. Katie and possibly Maggie might also be in there. In Scarlett’s dream, Katie was watching, helping. Probably like Scarlett, she didn’t have a choice.
I paused with my hand on the knob. What now? Open the door and shoot? I didn’t want to kill anyone—except maybe Simon. But how else could I get Scarlett out alive?
I took several quick breaths and gave the handle a silent turn, opening it to a tiny slit and peeking in. Dr. Wyden was bent over some tiny equipment, jabbing at something with a pair of tweezers. Gary stood poised over Scarlett, ready with a needle to hook her up to the IV again. A girl Scarlett’s age sat on a folding chair in the corner. She had a frizz of red hair and more freckles than skin. I couldn’t see Simon, but I knew he was in there, out of sight, blocked by the door.
When I pulled the door open, Simon was the first to respond. He reached for his gun on the counter behind him. I aimed at his torso, hoping to incapacitate rather than kill. I squeezed the trigger and the explosion cracked the air, my ears ringing with the blast. He slammed back into the counter and fell to the floor.
Gary turned on me, throwing punches. “Run, Scarlett,” I yelled while trying to block him.
“Katie!” Scarlett screamed.
Katie jumped from her chair and started working on the tape that secured Scarlett’s hands and legs, slicing through it with a scalpel. I threw myself on Gary, shoving him into the medical equipment that lined the walls. He lost his balance and fell backward.
Katie grabbed Scarlett’s hand, and they ran for the door. Wyden cut them off, pointing Simon’s gun at Katie. In the midst of all the commotion, I registered Wyden’s instincts. She lived with a blind daughter and knew that pointing the gun at Scarlett would do nothing. Katie, however, came to a halt.
Wyden slipped her gun into her lab-coat pocket. She grabbed Katie and Scarlett and towed them from the room. Scarlett struggled against her, trying to jerk her arm out of Wyden’s grip. Katie withered. Maybe she’d been with them too long and had already given up.
Gary scrambled off the floor, and I turned my gun on him. “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”
He flashed a wild grin. I pulled the trigger. My shot grazed his side but didn’t stop him. He came at me again, one fist slamming into my face and the other into my gut. I doubled over, and he cracked something heavy across my back.
I staggered to the side, fighting to aim my gun at him. I fired again, and Gary spun around, hitting the floor face first. He moaned but didn’t get up.
“Christian!” Scarlett called.
I ran into the hallway, hunched over from the blow to my back. Wyden was dragging the girls toward the back door and the carport.
“Stop, Wyden. Stop right there.”
She released the terrified girls. I didn’t dare shoot with Scarlett
and Katie so close. My hesitation gave Wyden time to point her gun at me.
“Run away, Scarlett,” I said. “When you find someone, tell them to take you to my dad.” He liked Scarlett, and he’d look out for her—in case Wyden pulled the trigger first.
The girls turned and went down the hall toward the front of the building, Katie tugging Scarlett along.
“What do we do now?” Dr. Wyden asked in her cotton-fluff voice.
“You drop your gun, and I call the police. Now where’s that roll of duct tape?”
She chuckled, but her eyes were bricks. “I don’t think so. You got Scarlett. There’s no reason to kill me.” She bolted through the door.
I threw a quick glance behind me. Scarlett and Katie were gone. I followed Wyden through the door. She climbed into a car and threw it in reverse, backing out like a maniac and then grinding her engine when she slammed it into gear.
She sped down the driveway. Something smacked across my head, and the world went black.
* * *
Not again, I thought in the haze of waking. I expected to open my eyes and find the ceiling tiles, feel the chill of the refrigerated room in my bones. I didn’t. I opened my eyes and found myself face-to-face with Detective Scott Parker.
“He called for help,” I said, my voice shaky.
Parker nodded. “He did.”
I was sitting in one of the plush chairs in the lobby, a paramedic holding a cold compress to my head. Red and blue flashes of light circled the room from the ambulances and police cars outside.
“She got away,” I said.
“Who?” Parker asked.
“Dr. Wyden. She got away.”
The detective shook his head. “We got her.”
“Good.” I grinned at him. “You know, you really need to work on your timing. Always five minutes too late.” I leaned my head back against the wall and breathed deeply. My shoulders ached, and a steamroller slowly crushed my head. I looked at the paramedic. “Where’s that morphine I had last time?”
It wasn’t the same guy, and he didn’t smile.
“I got this,” I said, taking the cold compress. He walked away. My gaze fell on Parker, meeting his eyes. “I shot two people.”
“I know. Gary Wyden is dead.”
So there it was. I killed a man. I thought I should feel worse about it than I did. Maybe it would hit me later, when the vision of Scarlett being prepped for death surgery cleared from my mind. At the moment I’d pulled the trigger, I’d known it was the right thing to do.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
It was Parker’s favorite question.
I recounted the events, starting with my visit to the grave. Parker was impressed that I’d figured it all out while his men were still scouring the clinic. I told him I hadn’t figured out anything. I’d been doing what I do best—wandering aimlessly—when I happened to notice the Tahoe in the driveway. “Providence,” I said. He asked about Dr. Wyden’s experiments. And that’s when it hit me that something was missing.
“Where’s Scarlett?”
Detective Parker shook his head. “Sorry, slugger. We didn’t find Scarlett. Or Simon Lawrence.”
Chapter Twenty
Christian vs. The Second Half
“No.”
“I’m sorry.” Parker looked tired. It was the middle of the night, and he was still out chasing murderers and telling kids the people they loved were dead. Well, gone, and most likely dead.
I slowly paced the carpeted floor of the entrance, limping. “How can that be? I shot him. I watched Scarlett and Katie get away.” Maybe I didn’t injure him as much as I’d thought. Note to self: Aim to kill. “What about Katie?”
“He got a few rounds into her. They already took her to the hospital.” Parker shook his head. “It doesn’t look good.”
Why would Simon take Scarlett and leave Katie? Katie was the genius. The chosen one to help bring sight to the world. Did Simon really have a thing for Scarlett? Maybe he had once. Apart from his wife for months at a time, a man can get desperate. I’d assumed they’d chosen Scarlett instead of a local blind person because of her dreams, to keep her from telling. Now everyone knew his crimes anyway. It didn’t make sense.
“I shot him in the operating room,” I said again. “I saw him go down. And you’re telling me he got away with Scarlett?” She would have fought back, right? Now that she knew who Simon really was.
“We’ve searched the entire place, top to bottom. I’ve got men combing the grounds. She’s not here.” Parker laid his hand on my shoulder.
I jerked away. “No. He didn’t get her.” I pointed a finger at him and yelled. “He did not get her again!” I threw my cold compress to the ground. It smacked with a hollow thunk against a cupboard at the base of a large end table.
Remembering the bathroom at Shari’s and the garbage can at Mount Hood, I opened it. Empty.
“She’s here,” I said. “I know it.”
“We’ve looked everywhere.”
“No. This is what she does. She hides. And she doesn’t come out. No matter what.” She was here. “Scarlett,” I called.
I walked the halls with Detective Parker at my side. I think he thought I might collapse any minute, and he was probably right. Every part of me ached. “Scarlett!”
I checked every room, opening cupboards and looking under desks and rows of pews.
“She’s gone,” he said again.
I turned on him and roared, “She’s not gone!”
He stepped back, and his eyebrows rose.
“Sorry.” It wasn’t his fault; it was mine. If I had done anything right, Scarlett would be in my arms right now. “This is what she does. I’ll find her. She’ll only come out for me.” I hoped.
I checked the operating room. Gary’s body was gone, but blood covered the floor. “Scarlett! You can come out now. I promise it’s safe.”
Nothing.
I thundered down the stairs, back to the refrigerated embalming room. She wasn’t there either.
I rounded the corner and headed toward the doors where I’d first entered the building however many hours ago that was. I searched Gary’s office, pulling books and files from every possible hiding place, my desperation rising with every empty closet. She wasn’t there.
I went into the viewing room. “Scarlett! If you don’t come out right this second—” I didn’t finish the threat.
The lid to the coffin rose a few inches.
I ran over and flung it open.
She was there.
Somehow, she’d climbed the metal scaffolding of the rolling table, scrambled into the casket, and worked her way under the lining. If you glanced in quickly, you wouldn’t see anyone there, just an empty coffin.
I ripped the silky white padding all the way off and lifted her out, ignoring the searing pain in my body. “You are in so much trouble.” I hugged her as hard as I could. “We had a deal.”
“’Bout time,” she said. She held on tight, her arms around my neck and her feet dangling a foot off the ground.
The paramedics came in after us, wanting to take Scarlett to the ambulance to be checked out. I wouldn’t let go. Not again. She put her hand in the crook of my arm. I loved it there.
After another half hour of probing by the medical personnel—and questioning from Parker—I was pronounced banged up, but okay. Parker said we could go. Actually, what he said was, “You look like a cat in the blender. I’ll take you home.”
He confiscated my dad’s gun for evidence and said he’d come by tomorrow to see how we were. He loaded us into the back of a police cruiser.
We were home in ten minutes. Lights shone from my dad’s study, even though the green digital clock on Parker’s dash said two a.m.
Parker walked us to the door.
“Thanks,” I said to him. “I owe you my life. And Scarlett’s.”
“That’s twice now.” He grinned. “Let’s not make it a third, all right, cowboy?”
“A
ll right.”
I opened the door and stepped inside. I’d never been so tired in my whole life. My head pounded, and my ribs burned. I’d been shot and beaten up and had some kind of medical prop broken across my back. All I wanted now was to go upstairs, take one of every pill on my nightstand, and sleep for at least twenty-four hours. And then—shower.
My dad stepped out of his study. His steely gray eyes locked on me. I looked away.
I whispered into Scarlett’s ear, “He’s waiting for me. You go up. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Okay.” She climbed the stairs and disappeared into her room.
I took a deep breath and then lifted my gaze to my father’s. He’d always been so tall, taller than me by a good two inches. Tonight, his shoulders drooped, and he seemed old and tired. Worn out. Afraid. Probably how I looked too. He didn’t speak, waiting for me to say the first words.
“Parker said you called.”
He nodded. “When you didn’t come home, I worried.” His voice broke, and he pinched his lips together.
“Thanks. If he hadn’t shown up . . .” I didn’t need to finish. We both knew the ending.
“Are you all right?”
I could see the effort it cost him to keep his eyes on mine. He wanted to look away, relieve the tension.
I felt the same way—encumbered by guilt and shame for my cruel words. Those were hard things to face eye to eye. And he had so much more to face than I did. I shrugged with my good arm. “I didn’t get shot, so that’s good.”
He huffed a feeble laugh then rubbed his eyes. “Son, I am so sorry.”
I think I would have been okay if he had said anything besides son. But he didn’t. He said it like he meant it, like he was proud to be my father, and I lost it. I broke down, my body shaking as I tried to get back in control. I was a kid again. A child. Not the guy who’d shot a man to save the girl he loved but the one who needed saving.
I lowered myself onto the stairs, sitting with my head in my hands, blinking hard. He came and sat beside me, putting his arm across my shoulders, squeezing, pulling me close. I let it all go—leaning my head in and crying like I hadn’t cried since I’d watched my mother die.
