Accidentally Dead, Again

by Dakota Cassidy

  He chuckled, thin and high, reaching for her wrist. Phoebe snatched it away.

  “Ms. Reynolds? You’ll want to cooperate from here on out. Now I need to take your vitals. Please remain still and calm until I’m done.”

  Vitals? Good luck with that. Her feet hit the floor with a slap. Damn them. Her heels had fallen off when Thor had been a caveman carrying his pelt to the van. No purse and no heels made for a very disgruntled Phoebe. “Um, no. I said I want to go home. So call me a cab, saddle up the horse and carriage. Whatever it takes, McDreamy.”

  “I don’t understand, Phoebe,” he drawled, cooing her name, the smile wreathing his lean face easy and relaxed. “I thought you wanted help with your disease? I can’t help you, if you won’t let me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Where am I?”

  “At the clinical trials, of course.”

  As her thoughts began to form, she realized she hadn’t been in the back of that nasty-smelling van for long. Tops, maybe ten minutes, some of which had been spent with the car standing still. Wherever they were, it wasn’t far from Dr. Hornstein’s. Speaking of—what a lying, Hippocratic-oath-taking, donkey-ball-sucking pig. “And where is that? You know, like an address. In case I change my mind and want to come back. I’m abysmal at directions, and that isn’t just my Alzheimer’s talking.”

  “Somewhere safe where we can begin your journey to health without interruption.”

  “Well, I’ve decided I like having Alzheimer’s. It’s not such a bad thing to forget stuff. I’d like to forget my credit card bill—my weight—my senior prom date. That was an event best left in my box of nightmares. What I was thinking when I said yes to Dickey Callum can only be described as momentary insanity. Oh, and that dress I bought at some cute shop in the village because it was on sale for twelve dollars. Made my ass look like the side of a big red barn. So I’ll just be on my way. No journey to health necessary. Now let me out of this room.”

  “Phoebe, don’t make me call for help.” He walked toward the wall, his finger hovering over what she supposed was a button for an intercom.

  She shrugged her shoulders with indifference. “Call the National Guard, if you like. But if it’s that heathen who slapped me over his shoulder like I was a sack of potatoes you’re calling, could you at least ask him to use deodorant? He smelled like a goat.”

  “How unpleasant.” He turned to press the intercom, cool as a cucumber.

  Before she gave it a second’s worth of thought, Phoebe jumped off the table in a haze of movement, grabbing his finger and bending it backward, making him drop his clipboard with a mewling squeak.

  Booooyah! Her inner Fight Club screamed. I am vampire two point O. Hear me roar.

  Clamping her other hand over his mouth, Phoebe reminded herself, physically, she was the superior being. If need be, she’d fight her way out of here. Whatever was on the other side of the door was anyone’s guess, but she was damned well going to have the chance to find out. They needed answers. She was in the maniac’s lair, and finding the head maniac was crucial.

  Rolling her neck to loosen up, she decided to recall all the threats her sister had lobbed at her recently. They’d aid her in putting on her best performance of a lunatic ever.

  With a final glance skyward, Phoebe had one last thought.

  May the power of Nina compel her.

  Phoebe jerked the doctor’s neck hard, hearing the crack of his fine bones and the stretch of sinew as she twisted it. “So here’s the thing. If I were you, I wouldn’t press that button. Because not only will I break off your finger, I’ll eat it as a precursor to, say, your balls. Nom-nom.” She leered, making her eyes wild.

  He bucked against her as she dragged him backward, but she stilled him by clamping her hand tighter over his mealy mouth. “So, let’s talk, yes? Nice and calm—or I’ll make good on my promise. Now, if I let go of your mouth, and you whine like the sissy la-la disappointment you’re turning out to be—it’s on. Got it?”

  He nodded against her hand before she threw him into the chair, remembering to temper the brute force with which she did it like Wanda had lectured her. He slammed against the metal, slipping to the floor with a moan.

  And there was to be no killing unless absolutely necessary. Also the word, according to Wanda. So if this nutball were lucky, he’d only leave limping—maybe bruised, and it was totally okay to draw blood as long as she’d reached a level where she could resist temptation.

  Yet, seeing this insidious jackass made Phoebe see red. Which was a lovely color on him—especially if it was dripping from his head. She fought for control. After all, she made a promise to Wanda. Even when Nina had encouraged her to kill first, ask questions later, she’d sworn to Wanda she’d always abide by vampire protocol.

  Phoebe crouched down on her haunches and glared at her captor. Giving him as little information as possible would be key to keeping herself and the others safe until she could call in the cavalry.

  The trick was, she had to ask the right questions so he’d give her some answers without catching on to how much they’d found so far. “Where am I and who are you, Dr. Horrible?”

  “Who are you?” he whispered, fear lacing his tone. Even his perfect hair quivered, leaving Phoebe feeling the stiff breeze of omnipotence.

  She smiled again, summoning up one of Nina’s menacing smiles that were anything but friendly. She dragged a finger down the side of his face, reveling in his cringe as she taunted. “Oh, silly. You know who I am. I’m Phoebe Reynolds. You know, your walking, talking lab rat with early-onset Alzheimer’s and good hair? Didn’t we establish that when I filled those forms out in triplicate to qualify for Frankenstein’s eighth grade science project? God, that was a chore, FYI, and invasive to boot. But back to the dealio at hand. Who are you? And I’d answer fast or who knows what organ I might go for first. I’m all about the sneak attack.” She poked him in the kidney and giggled, throwing her head back in abandon.

  His lips thinned and his chin lifted in defiance.

  She slid down next to him, folding her legs under her, and nudging his shoulder. “I don’t want to quash your romantic dreams of playing the tough guy here, but let’s be serious. You’re just not cut out for the part.”

  With fingers that almost missed their target due to her speed, Phoebe managed to snatch a handful of his hair in her hand and jerk his head to her lap. His whimper of fear was delicious. His eyes, wide and afraid—delicious-er. “See? Clearly, you’re no swarthy swashbuckling match for me. So let’s do this.”

  Yet, as she talked her smack, the realization hit Phoebe again. She didn’t know what waited for her outside that door. And if he didn’t answer her, she’d have to make good on her threats.

  Still, he remained silent, closing his eyes as if to pretend she wasn’t really there. “Are you really going to make me blow my anger-management recovery? Do you have any idea how many sessions I had to go to to get my crazy temper under control? Swear it. If I lose my fifteen-year chip—there’s gonna be an organ harvesting right here in this room. God, they’re so bloody. And the mess? Your cleanup crew’ll be in here till day’s end unwrapping your entrails like a Christmas present. So speak, douche bag—or die.”

  Just like old times, Phoebe, eh? It was uncanny how easily she’d fallen back into the role of predator. She hadn’t threatened a life in years. Not since Mark’s trouble their junior year.

  Because there were lives at stake, she hoped whoever ruled the universe would forgive her.

  Looking down at this strangely handsome man, she saw he still wasn’t budging. She flashed him a coy pout. “It doesn’t have to be like this, you know. You, silently valiant. Me, really hacked off by it. We,” she gritted out from between her tightly clenched teeth, giving his hair another hard yank, “could have been such good friends.” Her final words were a scream in his face as she rose, dragging him behind her to cross the room and attempt a peek out the door.

  She tried the door handle only to find it was lock
ed. Of course. Why not ruin her manicure, too? They’d all but stripped her of her girly goods anyway.

  A hard yank, and she popped the door open, poking her head out to see rows and rows of fluorescent lights lining a crude, cement ceiling. Cocking her head, she listened until the good doctor struggled again.

  The shake she doled out was hard, silencing him. She hissed instructions at him. “Again. I don’t want to remind you, but a hero you ain’t. So why ruin a perfectly good shirt trying to get away from me?”

  The hall was clear for the moment.

  What to do, what to do?

  Kneeling down, Phoebe gave him one last chance. She drew him up close to her face. “How do you feel about sharing now? It’s your last opportunity before your life light hits the skids.”

  The words he finally did utter chilled her to the bone. It was when she knew she’d been made. “Dear God, you’re not breathing.” His blue eyes shimmered in some sort of twisted excitement and his lower lip quivered. “You’re one of them!” he screamed, a scream flavored with a dash of bizarre delight.

  Ugh. Cover blown.

  If there were Angie Dickinson awards to be handed out—she was going to miss this round of Police Woman 2012.

  Without thinking twice, Phoebe dropped him to the ground with a solid right hook to the side of his head. His eyes rolled back before his shiny blond head lolled to one side and he was rendered unconscious, if she was judging correctly by the speed of his sluggish pulse.

  Dragging him to the bed, she hurled him onto it and covered him with the sheet before racing to the door. A quick glance outside told her the coast was still clear, but it wouldn’t be for long once someone realized the doctor was missing. She swooped up his clipboard and shoved it under her arm before stepping out into the hallway.

  On swift feet, she launched down the long, tunnel-like corridor in far-reaching sprints. Pipes lined the ceiling above, but she only caught brief glimpses of them as they whizzed by her line of vision.

  The goal here was to find something—anything—that might help them stop the agonizing process they were headed for.

  Oh, and get the hell out with the information while she was still upright.

  Double doors caught her eye when she made a left after hitting a dead end. Voices coming from behind the doors raised the hackles on the back of her neck.

  Her legs trembled. Her hands shook, but she couldn’t force herself to look inside the window. Maybe what they needed to figure this out was just behind this door. What if there was nothing they could do to stop the decomposition from happening? What if there was no answer other than the obvious.

  Death. With a capital D that rhymes with C and that stands for casualty.

  She ran trembling hands over her face and waffled.

  Jesus, Phoebe, a voice inside her head scorned. What would Nina say? This is just my personal thought, but I think her rant would be brought to you by the letters F and B, and it would go something like this: Get it together, Fuckwit Barbie!

  Oh, fuck Nina and her name-calling. She wasn’t the one who was damn well in here all alone with no idea how to get out, and worse, shoeless. So let Nina call her whatever she liked. She wanted out.

  But out wouldn’t solve anything. This was the closest anyone was ever going to get to this madness. And there was more than just her to consider. She might have found a reprieve for her Alzheimer’s death sentence, but there was a new vampire death threat to take its place. If something happened to her, what would happen to …

  No. She would not allow that thought to play on her fears.

  Steeling her determination, Phoebe called upon her will of iron. The one her mother said would be the death of her.

  Hah. No truer words.

  Inching along the wall, she clung to the clipboard like it was her lifeline and craned her neck.

  And then she saw.

  The clipboard clattered to the floor, making a sound so brittle against the cement floor it vibrated in her brain.

  She had to close her eyes and force them back open again in order to process what was in front of her.

  Could just this once, the ongoing horror of this freak show not involve any more images that might have to stay with her for an eternity? Why did everything have to be so Nightmare on Elm Street?

  When she finally opened her eyes again, it was still the same mind fuck.

  A man lay on a table, split wide open from stem to stern. Tubes from every direction spilled from his gut and arms. Lights flashed, monitors beeped. She had to shove her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming her revulsion and focus on her mission.

  Phoebe shook off her rage for the inhumane treatment of this poor soul and made her eyes take in the interior of the room.

  If she was seeing right, it was an elderly man, his arm was hooked up to some kind of monitor, and an IV line threaded its way to the front of his hand, dripping fluids at a slow pace. He had those thingamajigs stuck to his head and attached to what Phoebe guessed was an EKG. His wispy, white hair floated down past the edge of the gurney and his gnarled hands were relaxed.

  Two more men in lab coats surrounded the gurney while another sat at a computer and typed. Printer paper spewed from a printer in thick, endless stacks. Vials of what appeared to be blood sat in containers in the far corner of the room where yet another man looked into a microscope, examining the samples.

  She didn’t know what any of the monitors were meant for, nor did she understand any of the words she saw clearly on the computer monitor. None of them made sense, making her wish she’d at least spent part of a semester in chemistry not half asleep.

  Though, what she did see clearly was one thing.

  The man on the table.

  The man on the table who was talking to the doctors surrounding his bedside.

  CHAPTER

  14

  “Stinky?” Sam barked into the phone while rain pummeled the pavement at his feet. “Whaddya got, and it better be good.”

  Stinky’s sigh was shaky before he spoke. “Holy fuck, cowboy. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Tell me what you’ve got,” he ordered while Nina paced in time with a worried Darnell.

  “Oh, my friend, the stank I’ve got. Look, here’s the score. This Dr. Hornstein? I found shit for shit on his office comp, but I hit the mother lode when I tapped his personal PC. It took me a minute, but I followed a couple of IP addys and …” He paused on a grating sigh. “Never mind. It’s too involved for your all-brawn, cowboy mind to absorb, Sammy. Let’s just say, no one’s safe from Stinky Malone’s superior hacking skills. No one.”

  “I’d clap, but my hands are going to be too tied up wringing your fucking neck if you don’t get to the point and stop tinkling your own chimes!”

  “Whoa-hoe. Easy there, Violent One. I got your back. Anyway, he’s got all sorts of files labeled Project Eternal Clinical Trials. It sure the hell isn’t an FDA-approved trial, and that means something hinky’s goin’ down with these bogus trials. Serious hinky. Which is why I’m guessing you’re calling me to begin with?”

  Stinky’s brilliance was going to be the death of him one day. Sometimes, he just knew too much. Right now, he was valuable to many people. He’d better keep it that way for all the secrets he knew. Sam couldn’t afford to reveal too much, because if the op presented itself, Stinky’d sell him out. Which meant, if the FBI came looking for him via Stinky, he’d spill with the first loaded syringe they waved under his nose. He’d never make the fingernail-pull round. “Get to the point, Stinky.”

  “Each one has a name attached to it, and they’re all what he considers candidates for this bogus clinical trial he invented for his Alzheimer’s patients. And they don’t all have Alzheimer’s. A couple of ’em are just terminal. But they’re not just his patients, Secret Agent Man. He’s in on this with a couple of other freaks. Which makes sense if these people are disappearing. If they all disappeared from one doc’s joint, eventually someone’s going to fi
nd that a little too coinkydink. One of the dudes works at some hospital in the emergency room, but he doesn’t have a private practice. The other one’s a retired oncologist, if I’m reading this doc’s version of a sentence right.”

  Instantly, Sam was on alert, his grip on the phone tightening. “How did you know these patients are disappearing, Stinky?”

  Stinky’s response was one of disgust for Sam. “Well, the word expired on three of the files sort of tipped me off. I can’t believe how underestimated I am. I don’t have a high IQ because I’m a dummy, Sam. I ran a comparison of all the potential candidates’ files, another one of my too-technical-for-your-simpleton-brain-to-wrap-around programs I use, and I found two common denominators. One was, none of these poor fucks had any family. There’s always less red tape that way because it isn’t too many friends they’ll give out patient files to. You know from experience, they don’t even like to give ’em to the cops without a whole bunch of rigmarole. Two was, they’re all headed for the Highway to Heaven but this one. I’ll be damned if I can figure out why she was chosen for the trial. She has nothing in her file other than she bit it. No contacts. No medical history—no stats—not shit, and I can’t find a damn thing out about her. Not a one. But the notes in this file say she’s knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door.”

  Fuck. Three people dead. Alice Goodwin, the guy at Alice’s apartment, and his one-night stand. He had to wonder if the third person was the woman who’d shown up at Phoebe’s apartment. “Names. I want all of their names,” he spat.

  “Alice Goodwin, Raymond Schaffer, and Meredith Villanueva. Meredith is the chick with no history.”

  Sam staggered back as if he’d been hit in the chest. He leaned against the side of the building, absently watching the rain run off the arm of his jacket while he composed himself. “Are you sure about the name Meredith?” Had someone else escaped and they didn’t bother to record it? If there were only three that quite possibly made Meredith the woman who’d died in his arms … But Meredith Villanueva couldn’t have been the woman at the apartment … Yet, it made sense if Stinky couldn’t find any history on her …