by Trisha Telep
“Jesus,” he whispered as she crumpled against him. It occurred to him that he’d seen no wounds on her, no incisions at all on her torso, no bruises on her face, no cuts or scrapes anywhere at all.
Which isn’t possible, he thought. She nearly died in a car crash. I cut her open myself, for Christ’s sake. She shouldn’t be here . . . she can’t be. None of this can be real.
What the hell’s going on?
Laura fell asleep within moments, spooned at his side. Moving slowly, he managed to lift her and gently reposition her on the couch. He reached for the fallen blanket and pulled it over her to keep her warm. As he did, he couldn’t help but look at her again, head to toe, and note the glaring absence of any wounds on her body.
“This can’t be right,” he whispered, raking his fingers through his hair, bewildered.
He heard a soft plink! like something hitting one of the windows behind him. With a frown, he glanced toward the patio, but saw nothing except the reflected glow from the nearby lamp and impenetrable darkness beyond. Then he heard it again.
Plink!
Leaving Laura to rest on the couch, he rose to his feet, tugging his pants back into place and zipping his fly.
Plink!
He saw a wink of light off one of the windows and his frown deepened as he realized the source – a sliver-like crack that had formed in the glass.
What the hell? he thought, then – plink-plink-PLINK! – the crack grew right before his eyes, racing in a crooked, jagged diagonal toward the upper right and lower left corners of the pane.
“What the . . . ?” he whispered, reaching up, brushing his fingertips lightly against it. When the window abruptly shattered, sending in an explosive burst of splintered glass, he had less than a second to backpedal in startled alarm, jerking his arms reflexively up. He hit the floor, diving headlong against the hardwood, trying to keep his face covered as a sudden shower pelted him, thousands of shards tearing into his back and shoulders, shredding skin and shirt.
As he sat up, he felt blood streaming down his face from dozens of shallow cuts in his scalp. From the kitchen, he heard a sudden, noisy clattering and, when he looked, he saw all of his cupboard doors swinging open wide, then banging shut again, over and over, with a furious, deafening cadence.
“Holy shit,” he gasped, and then all of the drawers suddenly shot out from the cabinets, literally rocketing from their recesses. They smashed into opposing walls, the stove, the base of his breakfast bar, and their contents – silverware, plastic containers, knives, spatulas – scattered in all directions.
He cried out as the cabinet doors on the living-room entertainment center flew open and DVDs began shooting out, the plastic jewel cases launching themselves as if out of a machine gun. Behind him, one by one, the windows framing his deck began to burst, sending fresh new showers of glass flying through the house. Scrambling to his feet, he dove for the sofa and found Laura crouched on the floor, her eyes flown wide with terror.
“Jack!” she screamed, ducking as a DVD whipped directly for her face. He threw himself on top of her, trying to use his body as a shield. From the kitchen and bathroom, he could hear banging, thudding, a thunderous din as cans, bottles and boxes shot out of cupboards and cabinets, flying through the air, smashing into walls.
A horrific screech ripped through the air, terrifying and inhuman, like metal scraping against metal. At the sound of it, Laura panicked beneath him. Her elbow rammed back into his gut, whoofing the breath momentarily from him, forcing him to loosen his grasp enough for her to break free.
“Laura,” he gulped as she stumbled to her feet. He tried to grab her, but she darted frantically for the patio door.
“Laura!” he cried out, hoarse and breathless. Either she didn’t hear him or she didn’t care; that hideous shriek had pushed her over the edge from frightened alarm into full-blown hysteria, and she darted outside, into the darkness. Jack moved to follow her, made it halfway from the couch to the door when an airborne electric skillet – catapulted from the kitchen – connected solidly with the back of his head. The blow stunned the senses from him and knocked him to the ground – and out cold – instantly.
When he came to, he found himself on the floor, surrounded by broken glass. His head ached miserably, and he grimaced when he touched the tender spot at the base of his skull where the skillet had struck him, his fingertips coming away blood-smeared.
I need to go to the emergency room, he thought as he staggered to his feet. Dazed, he surveyed the trashed remains of his house. In the kitchen, the refrigerator door listed open wide, a carton of milk lying on the floor in front of it, surrounded by a large, white puddle. Half-empty cartons of Chinese takeout had been violently hurled at the opposing wall, leaving splattered patterns of hoisin sauce and barbecued pork stains on the back-splash above the sink. Cans of green beans, tomato soup and French-fried onions had rolled into the far corners. A litter of plastic bowls, mismatched lids, potholders, dinner plates, soup bowls, flatware and a loose scatter of elbow macaroni covered the polished pine floor. Paintings and framed photographs that had once graced the walls were now smashed, shattered and strewn across the floor, along with overturned houseplants, scattered magazines and books.
It looks like a tornado hit this place.
He limped into the bathroom and groped for the light switch. The fixture cover had been knocked askew, and the fluorescent bulb above the mirror buzzed loudly, then blinked several times before coming to life.
“Jesus,” he whispered, staring at his reflection – because he looked like he’d been thrown head first out of a plate-glass window from the top of a twelve-story building, and had lived to tell the tale.
His face and neck were smeared with blood, his shirt torn and stained. Glass shards glittered in his hair like stardust. When he touched the back of his head again, he felt a knot the size and consistency of a hard-boiled egg rising.
I need to go the emergency room, he thought again. I don’t know what the hell just happened here or what the fuck is going on, but I know that much for sure.
Leaning over the sink, closing his eyes as a wave of vertigo washed over him, he did his best to rinse the blood from his face. He stumbled upstairs to his bedroom and found even more mess. Like those in his kitchen, the drawers to his bureau had flown open wide, as had the doors to his closet. His clothes lay tumbled and heaped haphazardly around the room. He found a clean shirt among the mess and, moving slowly, painstakingly, he put it on.
He limped back downstairs and went outside. Once behind the wheel of his Jeep, he sat for a long moment, struggling to clear his head. I think I have a concussion, he thought, pressing his fingertips to his brow. I probably need a CT scan.
But when he fired up the Jeep, he didn’t head for the hospital. Instead, ignoring the nagging little voice of reason that recited a litany of possible dire complications – subarachnoid hemorrhage, subdural hematoma, cranial contusion – he followed the winding, two-lane highway that led around the outer edge of Lake Tahoe.
She started singing down at Harrah’s about a month or so ago, Frank Bennett had told him of Laura. It stood to reason if she’d been there a while, then surely she’d made some friends along the way, a co-worker or two. Someone who might be able to help me, he thought. Someone who might know what the hell is going on.
Harrah’s Casino was located in the heart of Stateline, Nevada on the south-western shore of the lake. Tourist season was underway and, upon Jack’s arrival, he found the brightly lit resort filled to overflowing with guests.
“Excuse me,” he said, having shoved his way through the boisterous crowd in the lobby to reach a young woman at the guest-services counter. “I’m trying to find out about one of your . . .”
His voice faltered as he caught sight of a flat-screen display near the desk. On it, he saw a promotional video for the casino’s nightclub in which scantily clad women performed circus-like aerial acrobatics above the neon-illuminated dance floor.
He recognized one in particular. “That girl,” he said, pointing to the screen as a close-up on Laura’s face panned out to show her twirling slowly, upside down, on a trapeze. “Her name is Laura Bennett. Do you know her?”
“No,” the woman replied. She studied him with undisguised wariness, and he knew despite the clean shirt he still looked like hell. Hesitantly, trying to be polite, she added, “But all the Vex Girls look alike in those dresses they wear.”
“The what?”
“Vex Girls. They perform shows here during the week.”
She told him how to get to the nightclub, and he worked his way back through the throng to reach it. Given his battered appearance, he half expected her to be on the phone to alert security the moment he turned around, but was pleasantly surprised to reach Vex without incident.
Like the lobby, it was packed, the lights dimmed low, which helped disguise the fact his face was cut and bruised. The enveloping darkness was broken only by the staccato pulsations of strobe lights and lasers set in time with music that blared, deafening, from all directions. More by luck than anything, he caught a waitress passing by and asked about the Vex Girls show.
“They don’t start for another hour,” she yelled over the din.
“How can I find out about one of them?” he shouted and, to make it worth her while, he gave her a twenty-dollar bill.
“Look for the cages. That’s where they go when they’re not in the air.” She cocked her head, directing his gaze to a nearby stage, small and round, encircled with bars so it resembled a birdcage. Inside, a young black woman in an all-too familiar dress wiggled and gyrated. Red with spaghetti straps, trimmed in sequins, it looked exactly like the dress Laura had been wearing at T. Bomb’s.
When Jack approached the cage, curling his fingers around the bars to look up at her, the woman shimmied in his direction. He tried calling up to her, but she just smiled and shook her head, cupping her hand to her ear as if to tell him there was no way she could hear him over the music. He shouted again and, this time, she must have caught the name “Laura Bennett”, because, all at once, her smile faltered. She stopped dancing and crossed the narrow circumference of stage to squat down in front of him.
“Do you know Laura Bennett?” he asked again.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Jack Harris. I’m a doctor. She was in a car crash last night.”
“I know,” the black woman said. “It was all over the news today. Is she going to be all right?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, because it was easier than trying to go into a lengthy discussion of her diagnoses and prognosis over the pulsating din of the music. “Listen, I thought she was a singer here. In the piano bar, her dad said.”
The dancer laughed. “Yeah, she told her folks that so they wouldn’t freak. But a girl’s got to make a living, you know? And record producers from LA come in here all the time. She’s been hoping to meet one, slip them a demo tape, get her big break.”
“You know if anyone was pissed off at her?” he asked, and the woman shook her head. “You sure? Maybe she was dating someone with a jealous ex?”
She’s after me, Laura had told him more than once, never hinting as to who “she” might be.
“Laura? No way. She wasn’t seeing anyone. She would’ve told me. Said she’s waiting for her Prince Charming, or some such bullshit.” The dancer said this with an eye roll. “You know, like in Sleeping Beauty or Snow White.”
Left with more questions than the answers he’d hoped to find, Jack went back to his Jeep and climbed inside. Again his head swam and he closed his eyes until the momentary dizziness passed, wondering if his next stop should be the ER. As he slipped the key into the ignition, he glanced up into the rear-view mirror and yelped in surprise. A woman sat in the back seat, unmistakable despite the shadows.
“Laura?” he gasped and whirled around in the seat to face her. “Jesus Christ, where did you . . .”
“I’m cold,” she whispered, and now he could see that her eyes were glossy, swimming with tears. She wore only the red slip dress again, her arms wrapped around her narrow frame as she trembled. “Please, I . . . I’m so cold.”
“Here.” Shifting his weight, he unzipped the front of his coat. He shrugged it off and leaned over the center console to tuck it around her shoulders. “Laura, listen to me.” He smoothed her hair back and cupped his hand to her face, drawing her gaze. “How did you get in my car?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Where did you come from?”
“I don’t know,” she whimpered again. “I can’t remember.” Then, with a hesitant glance over her shoulder out the back window, she said, “But she’s after me again. She was chasing me.”
“Who?” Jack pressed.
Her bottom lip drew in beneath the edge of her upper teeth. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “But she can fly.”
“What?” Jack cocked his brow, dubious.
“I heard her,” Laura insisted, her eyes round and urgent. “In the tree tops. She was flying through the trees, trying to find me. I heard her laughing.” She blinked at him, mournfully. “You don’t believe me.” Covering her face with her hands, she began to cry.
“Hey.” Leaning further in the seat, he touched her face again. “I didn’t say—”
“Help me.” She caught his hand between her own, clutching at him with a frantic sort of desperation. “Please,” she whispered, her cheeks tear-streaked and glistening. “Help me.”
The car stereo snapped on all at once, completely of its own accord, tuned to a sudden, ear-splitting volume. A shrieking guitar riff tore through the Jeep at what sounded like at least one hundred and eighty decibels.
“Shit,” Jack exclaimed, reaching for the radio, pawing at the control as Laura shrank back in her seat, clapping her hands over her ears. No matter which direction he turned the knob, the volume only spiked higher, thrumming through the entire chassis. At the same time, all of the dashboard lights began flashing and blinking, manic and strobelike, while the dome light overhead burst into life. Its dim yellow glow grew progressively brighter and brighter, until the little bulb inside burst, shattering the plastic fixture cover, sending a spray of broken, jagged fragments flying.
Jack yelped. From the back seat, Laura uttered a shrill wail. He glanced up past the dash, beyond the windshield, just as something enormous came swooping down directly at them. He didn’t get a good look at it, no more than a split-second glance, but he could have sworn it was a woman, her skin as alabaster as the surface of a glacier, her body nude, her lips pulled back in a gruesome snarl to reveal a mouthful of wickedly hooked teeth.
And she had wings.
“Shit!” He threw his arms up to protect his face as the winged woman crashed headlong into the windshield, shattering it in a sudden spray of high velocity glass shards.
The Jeep’s alarm went off, the horn blatting out in a disharmonic din to accompany the blaring stereo. The headlights blinked and flashed, the wiper blades flopped crazily back and forth against the gaping maw where the windshield had once been and, all at once, the airbag deployed. It sounded like a shotgun blast leveled squarely at his face, and Jack’s head snapped back as it knocked the breath from him, stunning him momentarily senseless.
Reaching blindly, he pawed for the door handle. He tumbled out of the Jeep, his ears ringing, his head swimming. As he staggered away, he looked around wildly for the winged woman who had struck his car. Somehow he’d lost sight of her after she hit the windshield, and there was no sign of her now – no body crumpled against the hood or roof of his Jeep, or on the pavement nearby. There was no blood, nothing except a small crowd gathering nearby to watch the spectacle with curious expressions.
“Where’d she go?” he cried to the nearest bystander. “The woman who hit my car! She just . . . Jesus Christ, she flew right into the windshield. Did you see her? Where did she go?”
The man shook his head, mute and dumbfound
ed, as he backed away nervously, as if Jack were foaming at the mouth. Laura hadn’t gotten out of the Jeep yet, and he floundered back toward the truck.
“Laura?” To his surprise, he found the cab now conspicuously empty. Like the winged woman, Laura, too, had seemingly vanished.
“Laura?” Stupidly, he reached out, leaning past the driver’s seat and patting his hands against the upholstery, as if he needed palpable evidence to be certain. Against the interior of the Jeep, he caught sight of a new batch of reflected lights flashing – red and blue. Biting back a groan, he turned to find a South Lake Tahoe police cruiser pulling in to the parking lot immediately behind him.
Oh shit, he thought, as a uniformed officer stepped out to face him.
“Step away from the vehicle, sir,” the officer said, dropping his hand conspicuously toward his belt, where his pistol was holstered.
“It’s all right,” Jack said, holding up his hands. About that time, he felt the landscape side-slip like he’d just stepped foot on a gigantic Tilt-A-Whirl.
“I . . . I’m a doctor . . .” He’d hit his head hard too many times that evening and, with a groan, he crumpled, his eyes rolling back, the horizon within his line of sight listing at a dramatic but blessedly short-lived angle.
“Have you had anything to drink tonight?” Margot Williams asked as he sat before her in the emergency room.
It was a legitimate question, given the circumstances of his arrival, but he frowned anyway as she drew her penlight laterally inward, shining it briefly in his eyes. “No.”
He’d tried to explain what had happened to the police officer and paramedic crew who had arrived at Harrah’s. He’d been semi-lucid and dazed, rambling as they’d loaded him, strapped to a stretcher, into the back of an ambulance. By the time they’d reached the hospital, he’d regained his senses enough to realize he needed to keep his mouth shut, but by then, the damage had been done.
Margot nodded as if accepting his denial, but he still noticed that one of the blood samples she drew after that had infused into a phlebotomy tube with a royal-blue rubber top – which indicated it would be used for a toxicology screening. He would have ordered the same had he been presented with a patient in his condition.
