Disgruntled and still a little disbelieving, the doctor fished in the pocket of his white lab coat. No name over the pocket of that one, nope. Still … he had the key. She waited expectantly as he came in to free the cuff from the cot frame, and then helped her to her feet when she found herself wobbly.
More wobbly than she’d expected. Not a good thing when those instincts she now relied on so heavily screamed for escape. Escape before that woman came back for another chat. When the doctor took her elbow in a supportive hold, she didn’t hide her flinch … but she accepted his help, shuffling like a little old woman.
Then again, maybe she was a little old woman.
No, she knew that much. Her skin wasn’t old. It didn’t tell her much, but she wasn’t elderly. Her voice told her she spoke English as her native language. If she had a regional accent she couldn’t detect it, but she didn’t set much store in that. Who heard an accent in their own speech? Maybe she’d find a mirror in the bathroom. …
She’d been here at least once before, but it was no more than a hazy memory; she’d barely been awake, and she’d had two people at her side—both of them big and husky and male. She thought they’d left her alone in the bathroom stall. She hoped. Then again, if that had been her first self-powered visit to any facilities, no doubt other arrangements had been made before that point. Maybe she’d been wearing adult diapers for days.
She certainly wasn’t wearing any undergarments now. Just this damn drafty gown.
She hesitated in the doorway, looking both directions down a hallway that could have been in any low-rent corporate building. Stained carpet of a variegated dark blue, off-white walls, fluorescent panels set into more of the sound-dampening tile. No noise to speak of—as far as Mickey could tell, she and the doctor were the only ones occupying this area. Her room was in the middle of the hall; there were exit stairs at one end of the hall and a corner at the other.
The doctor gave her an impatient nudge, directing her away from the exit. Mickey stumbled when they reached the carpet, but straightened herself out and offered up a good impression of a woman moving upright. Each step she took seemed like an opportunity wasted—another step in which she hadn’t escaped. Hadn’t even thought of a way to escape. Really, couldn’t think of anything other than getting closer to the bathroom.
To her dismay, the doctor followed her right through the door marked Ladies. At her incredulous expression, he said, “The stall is privacy enough. Did you really think I’d leave you alone in here?”
Mickey glanced around the room—bad linoleum floors, pale yellow tile on the smooth walls, an empty towel dispenser beside them and … and nothing. Just a row of three stalls, one with a missing door. “Just what kind of trouble do you think I could get into?”
He remained unmoved. “I haven’t the faintest idea, but I’m not taking the responsibility for it.”
Mickey made a face at him. She checked the first stall, gave thanks for the presence of toilet paper, and made use of the facilities without giving his presence much additional thought. If he wanted to listen to her pee, then let him.
And still she hadn’t come up with any great escape. Nothing clever, nothing diabolical. Maybe she just wasn’t any good at this even when she had her memories intact. Maybe that’s why she’d been caught.
Whatever she’d been doing.
Whoever she was.
She emerged from the stall to give the doctor a sweetly insincere smile, and went to wash her hands as he all but tapped his foot in impatience. And there. A mirror. Her chance to learn just a little more about herself without revealing how little she knew.
Whoa.
Hard to sort those first impressions. Too pale, face strained and unwell. Lanky, dirty hair, falling around her shoulders. Collarbones too sharp, a thin look accented by the oversized gown.
But otherwise, she was the girl next door. Caramel brown hair, very straight, cut in layers to curve around her cheeks and a jaw on the long, sharp side. Tiny little smile parentheses at the corners of her mouth. A faint mole, not next to that mouth, but right on the plump curve of her lower lip. Eyes blue enough to grab her attention even though she knew it was her own reflection.
“Forget what you look like?” the doctor asked, all sarcasm.
Mickey cast him a little wrinkle-nosed ha ha expression and turned the water on; the loose handcuff clattered around the sink until she caught it up, shoving her fingers through so it rested above her knuckles like …
Like a pair of brass knuckles.
Ooh.
But it had to be done here. Here, where no one would see them. Or find the good doctor.
Mickey hesitated, testing the thought. Reality check. Just where does this fit on the scale of stupid?
And a little voice answered, How stupid would it be if you didn’t even try?
Mickey ducked her head, splashing water on a face that hadn’t been washed in far too long. No soap here, but the cool water chased away a remaining cobweb or two. And then, somehow before she’d even thought it through, she clutched her hand to her eye and made a startled noise.
“What—?” the doctor said, moving closer. Responding automatically to his years of training.
“Something in my eye,” Mickey said, and frantically splashed more water at her face.
He huffed with impatience, moving close enough to take her head in his hands and lift it with a casually proprietary air that removed any trace of regret she might have been harboring for what she hoped would happen next.
For what did happen next. Because as the doctor planted a thumb and finger to force her watery eye open, Mickey brought up her cuffed hand in a swift, precise punch that had more than desperation behind it.
Training. I know how to hit people.
Her blow landed right on the bridge of his nose; she felt the give of it—and heard the crunch. The doctor cried out in astonished agony and clapped his hands over his nose; blood flowed freely from beneath them, dripping off his chin and onto the lab coat and turquoise scrubs. He staggered backward, cast her one disbelieving look, and turned to bolt.
She reached the door before him, and she turned him casually over her hip to land hard on the cold, dirty tile.
He was a slight man, no bigger than she. He was no athlete. And still, she found herself startled when he looked up at her in fear, his hands leaving bloody tracks on the floor as he scooted back away from her.
“Oh, relax,” she snapped, not happy to have even this unscrupulous and harmful person look at her in such a way. “I’m not going to hurt you. I mean, not really.” But he froze as she dropped down over his legs, knees digging painfully into his thighs while she swiftly searched the lab coat pockets and found the handcuff key with one hand, the other cocked to do damage.
“My nose,” he said, disbelief evident, all signs of fight lost in his pain. “You broke my—”
“Shut up,” she growled. She backed off slightly, releasing the remaining cuff and rubbing her fingers where the improvised weapon had cut into skin. “And take off those scrubs.” He hesitated, and she whirled the cuffs in a not-so-idle threat, nerves and muscles buoyed by sudden adrenaline. “You’re just aching for a swirly, right?”
In moments he was down to boxers and white socks, and she wasted no time cuffing him to the plumbing. It took only a moment to slip into the scrubs, still—ugh—warm from his body heat. They smelled like him, too, and having his scent close to her skin made her feel even dirtier than before. She jammed her feet in his sneakers—they were too big, but better than going without. She managed to tighten the laces enough to keep the shoes from flopping around. She gave him a quick, critical squint of a look, ignoring his flinch, and then took up the hospital gown. The thin, old material ripped easily even in hands growing trembly—the adrenaline rush hadn’t lasted nearly long enough. She jammed the pieces in his mouth and wrapped the ties tightly around the gag, avoiding his gaze. It was his own fault.
It’s just that she was used to helpi
ng people, not hurting them.
Wasn’t she?
As a final touch she dropped the lab coat over him, a strange little touch of modesty.
And then she stuck her head out the door, saw no one and nothing between her and the exit door, and ran.
* * * * *
She ran with her luck, and expected it to run out at any moment. Expected to hear a shout of alarm, to feel a rough snatch at her arm. She found the best combination of stealth and speed she could as she hit the stairs and headed down, but every step brought her closer to stumbling in those big sneakers and every moment drained what little energy she had. The spray-painted letters beside each door told her she’d started on the fourth floor; by the time she reached the first, those letters swam in her vision, a fey enticement to freedom. She flattened herself up against the wall to catch her breath, but only waited until she’d quieted it enough so it didn’t roar in her ears—or anyone else’s.
She pushed on the heavy door bar with trembling hands and excruciating care, trying to ease past the clunk when the latch engaged, and peered out into a hallway that mirrored the one she’d just escaped from.
This time, she heard voices.
She let the door close.
The stairwell promised one more level down. The basement. Surely they wouldn’t be in the basement, and even if she couldn’t find an exit, she could get a better handle on the building layout.
Unless she stayed here, crept out to where she could hear, and tried to understand more about the odd situation into which she’d woken.
Mickey looked at her shaking hands, and down at her wobbly knees and the oversized sneakers. Her heartbeat came fast and thready and the grey mist edged in around her thoughts and her vision. Could she even remember what she heard, if she wasn’t caught?
Be smart. Run away.
Mickey ran. Down to the basement, where the lights seemed dimmer—or the grey mist crowded closer. She bounced around the hallways, past pipes and electrical boxes and phone relays and inexplicable blocky structures jutting from wall and ceiling, and then eventually—she wasn’t quite sure how—she found herself a way out. Out into the bright daylight.
She should have been paying more attention. She might not have run into the over-muscled, neckless man in his perfectly tailored suit. As it was, she didn’t see him until she slammed into him, finding out for herself just how hard those muscles were and just how well that suit hid the gun that dug into a soft, tender spot she had to keep herself from reflexively grabbing in public. But luck stayed with her—because she bounced right off him, and she had the space to turn on her heel and bolt.
She heard his curse—and she heard him bark something into a hand-held radio. If they hadn’t known about her escape before …
Mickey ran.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 2
Heat. White hot summer sun in dry air. Mickey ran into someone, blurted an apology, and ran onward, unsteady and drawing offended shouts. No doubt people stared. At some point she crossed a river, clutching the railing of the bridge pedestrian lane and fighting the impulse to simply jump right in, embracing the cool wetness. The chest pocket of her stolen, blood-spattered scrubs yielded a few folded dollar bills and she lurched past a gas station vending machine, hesitating long enough to buy an iced tea. Somewhere else she got an apple … she wasn’t sure she’d paid for it, but she ate it to the core.
She didn’t know if she’d been followed. She thought not, that she’d grabbed that instant of opportunity between discovery and enemy mobilization and actually made it. But she didn’t know. They could be using teams, they could be hanging back, they could simply be waiting for an opportunity to snatch her up when no one would notice.
When she hesitated, knowing she’d hit the end of her limited resources, she found herself beside a high, ratty chain-link fence. She laced her fingers through the diamond links and held herself steady. In the distance, long hills rippled up into mountain ridges, parched brown formations that made her long for that river. More immediately, she found herself surrounded by city formations—buildings of brick and block crowded together in a variety of tired store fronts, their line-up broken only by narrow alleys and fenced, junky lots like the one she’d stopped beside. A few cars parked along the curb, most of them looking as though they’d stopped here only because they couldn’t go any further. Just like me. Broken glass seemed to be the major decorating theme, but in this particular lot, used condoms ran a close second. Garbage crowded into the corners of the fence, blown there and left to decompose at its own rate. Rather like the stiff, flattened body of the rat sticking out from beneath a crushed six-pack carton.
Mickey swallowed hard against a sudden faintness. All that running … I went in the wrong direction. She should have gone the other way. Any other way.
A silver-grey tabby looked out an apartment window, paw poised to snag the lilac-colored curtains stirring in the breeze.
Mickey blinked. What—?
She blinked again, hard and deliberate, and refocused herself on this grey-edged street. At the end of the block, a signal light went from yellow to red. A shop door swung open with the chime of bells, then slammed shut in a way that spoke of a malfunctioning automatic closer. Scanning to find it, her gaze fell on the building across the street. Glass storefront with a giant hand-printed schedule of some sort, a few flyers spotting the glass, but nothing in the way of professional lettering. Above the door—which was blocked ajar, and couldn’t have been the sound source she hunted—a plain, unassuming sign declared Steve’s Gym.
A gym. Relief tugged at her; she frowned when she realized it, and realized she couldn’t say why. A gym. Safety. Refuge. Strength.
In the end she quit trying to understand the why. What did it matter? Where else did she have to go? And if nothing else, a gym always had a drinking fountain.
Indoors. Out of the sun. Out of sight.
Mickey extricated her fingers from the chain link fence and aimed her big clunky sneakers across the street.
* * * * *
“Big isn’t always better.” Steve Spaneas held his arms wide with the declaration, a Hey, look at me—What could be better than this? gesture that always made the students of this class laugh. Some of them even pointed. “Prepared is better. Smart is better. You stick with me, and we’ll make those nights on the street feel a little safer.”
And at this they always nodded. Fear crept in around their eyes—weary eyes, wary eyes, and often just a little bit unfocused eyes.
They weren’t on drugs. The problem for this bunch was that they couldn’t or wouldn’t take the drugs they should. Local street folks, dressed in old and scavenged clothing, always needing haircuts and shaves and a good solid application of toothpaste and deodorant. During this class, the old gym … well, it smelled like a gym, all right.
But it didn’t mean they weren’t people. That they didn’t deserve to feel safe in the little niche of this world they called their own. The self-defense skills he taught them were basic, but the very fact that he held these free classes let the local toughs know they’d find no easy prey in this section of town.
A tribute to his brother, who might not have died so young if someone had done the same for him.
His other classes were more typical. Young men and woman, drawn to the discipline and fellowship his classes offered—non-denominational, he thought of them, and culled from all fighting disciplines to cater to a street-fighting method. Low-cost memberships that also drew them to the free weights, and friendly competitions that gave them the motivation to follow-through. Kickboxing for those who wanted to get serious.
It didn’t add up to a lot. But it was steady, and it was enough to cover his gym and the apartment above it in this low-rent district. And the neighbors liked having him here. Casseroles and brownies and tomatoes grown in pots outside back doors … there was always some kind of offering on the store front counter just inside the doorway, just beside the open-topped barrel whe
re he kept the donated hotel soaps, toothpastes, feminine supplies and disposable razors.
A doorway he’d propped open for this tangibly odorous class, in spite of a day hot enough to keep the cranky old air conditioners working hard. Unusual for the San Jose climate, but it always happened a couple times a year.
He didn’t need the class reaction—ten of them today, all frequent flyers—to let him know someone had come to that open door, and hesitated there. He didn’t read anything into their suspicion, either—many of them survived on suspicion. But he wasn’t expecting what waited for him when he turned around.
Bright scrubs, splattered with … yes, blood. Bright eyes to match. Utter exhaustion on that face, and a personable haircut that didn’t match the filth factor dulling the honey-brown color. Too thin on a slender frame—and too exhausted to stay upright for long. An old, old story … she’d walked out of a clinic somewhere, wasn’t on her meds, had forgotten to eat … and someone else on the street had sent her in Steve’s direction with the misguided notion he could do more than hand out soap and teach free self-defense. But … surely her feet weren’t really that big?
“I just—” she said, and her voice was hoarse and weary, barely reaching him. “I need—”
And then her eyes rolled up and she folded to the ground in an absurdly graceful faint, just missing the barrel with her head on the way down.
No panic. Not like he hadn’t been here before. His brother’s face, curly black hair damp with sweat, that same dazed and somehow surprised expression …
Steve gave the class a reassuring word and left them long enough to scoop her up—oh yeah, way too thin—and deposit her on the cot in the office. He left a cool damp washcloth on her head, a tall plastic cup of water on the desk, and checked his watch. He’d take just a moment to give the class some familiar warm-up exercises, and then he’d make sure his assessment—that she just needed rest—was on the mark.
He hesitated at the door, looked back at her. Small in those scrubs. Her face wan and pale, her eyes deep with shadows. For the moment, peaceful.
Hidden Steel Page 2
