by Sarah Wynde
Time started to stretch, slowing as her brain moved into a clear-headed lightness that encompassed everything around her: the crisp chill of the air, the smells from the vegetarian restaurant two doors down the street, the glow of light from the streetlamp, the darkness of the shadows under the trees that edged the lot, the metal glint on the handle of the car door, and the bitter tang of her pursuer’s emotions . . . and then as he reached her, she swiveled, swinging her bag out and up, hoping to hit his face. There was nothing heavy in the bag, only gym clothes, so it wouldn’t hurt him, just confuse and disorient him long enough for her to put him in a wrist lock.
But, oh, shit. This guy wasn’t the guy she’d brushed off earlier, she realized.
Her bag had missed his face, tangling instead in his already raised right arm. She took two steps forward, making a rapid adjustment to her plan, and grabbed his left arm, twisting and spinning. Leaning into her hammerlock, she shoved him forward into the car door. His surprise let her get a decent grip on him, but it wasn’t going to do a damn bit of good in the long run.
Bodybuilder, she thought, fatalistically. Or steroids. Or both.
Definitely both, she decided, as he roared with fury and tried to push back off of the car. “You fucking bitch!”
Her bag had fallen to the ground, along with whatever he’d been holding in his hand. She’d heard the clunk, but hadn’t seen what it was. If it was a gun . . . .
She forced all of her weight against him, but her feet were already slipping on the smooth asphalt. “You shouldn’t get near strange women in parking lots,” she said. “You never know what they might do.” The words came out more breathless than she liked, and she tried to steal a glance at the ground. If she let him go, could she get the bag and retrieve whatever he’d been holding?
No, she decided regretfully. He was too close, she wouldn’t have enough time. Choke hold? No, the bastard was too big. And too tough.
She felt the snap more than heard it, but his scream of rage could have been heard halfway down the street if there’d been anyone around. Damn. She dropped his arm and then kicked her bag and whatever was beneath it under the car as she danced backwards and dropped into a combat stance.
Had the break even registered with him? He turned to face her, his arm dangling at his side. Pale skin, hair in a buzz cut so short it was almost shaved, probably 280 pounds of muscle. She noted the details automatically, hoping she’d need them for a police report later.
This guy was huge, fast, and too hopped up on steroids or something else to care about the pain of his broken arm. Her best bet was to get help. And quickly.
Ty would kill her for being so over-confident.
“Now I’m gonna kill ya’, bitch.”
Okay, Ty would have to get in line.
The car alarm on the car they’d been leaning against finally started sounding, a “hoo-wa, hoo-wa” klaxon that blared through the darkness. Sylvie ignored it, aware that everyone else who heard it was likely to do the same.
She smiled tightly at her assailant, a tense baring of her teeth with no real humor, as she said, “You can’t kill me. I’m too pretty for God to let me die. Check out my chiseled jaw.”
A look of confusion crossed his face, his eyes narrowing in puzzlement.
“Malcolm Reynolds?” Sylvie offered. “No? Firefly?” When he still looked lost, she couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. “Great, I’m being attacked by a cultural illiterate.”
He glared at her and she felt the flicker of doubt that entered his mind. He growled, “Not gonna to be too pretty when I’m done with you.”
Behind Sylvie another car alarm went off, from a car closer to the door of the gym. She resisted the temptation to glance backwards as he looked past her, over her shoulder, his scowl deepening.
And then farther down the parking lot, in the other direction, a third car alarm started. And then a fourth. It was a chorus of annoyance, a clashing mass of sirens and klaxons. But the parking lot was empty. Sylvie tried not to let her reaction show as she realized what must be happening but her smile went from fake to real.
“Dillon,” she said, as loudly and clearly as she could, not sure how far away he might be. Did he have to be next to the car to make the alarm go off? “Call 911. My phone’s in my pocket.”
The situation had changed, and her foe recognized it, too, but he wasn’t smart enough to cut his losses and run. Sylvie felt his fury grow as he decided to attack.
He charged forward, but instead of retreating, she waited, hands up, body evenly balanced on her feet. When she felt him start to swing, she ducked instead of blocking, diving under his arm and heading straight for his center. She’d never done this move before, not for real. Simulated, sure, in LINE training, the Marine close combat techniques that she’d learned much too long ago, but not with genuine intent.
Fortunately, he was wearing sweats, not blue jeans. She turned her head to the right to shield her face and neck, raising her left arm to protect her exposed side from his flailing fist, as she reached with her right hand, searching, grabbing, and squeezing as hard as she could, then pulling down the same way.
Wow.
It worked just as advertised.
He reeled backward and his sound this time wasn’t so much a scream as a high-pitched wail. Then he toppled, falling to the ground and curling around his groin as he wheezed with pain.
From her pocket, Sylvie heard the voice of the 911 dispatcher. “911, what’s your emergency?”
*****
Much, much later, Sylvie leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Bodyguards and Marines were good at waiting patiently, but the post-adrenaline downward spiral had her securely in its grip, and she was so tired that her bones felt as if they were melting. If the cops didn’t make a decision soon, she might beg them to throw her in a cell, just so she could lie down without fear of being stepped on.
“What the hell is going on?” Sylvie would recognize that voice anywhere.
She didn’t open her eyes, but the corners of her lips pulled up. “What are you doing here?”
“I got a text. Mom’s in jail, it said. Has our past finally caught up with you? ”
“Ha.” She opened an eye in protest and then pulled the other one open as well at the sight of Lucas. He’d obviously slept. He looked well-rested, freshly shaved and showered, dressed in business casual slacks and a gray button-down shirt. “The statute of limitations is long past and you know it.”
Her senses had been dulled by exhaustion, hunger, and the sheer overload of sitting in a crowded police station for hours, or she would have felt Lucas come in, but now that she was paying attention, she could feel his worry.
‘What did you do, Syl?’
“Won.” She grinned at him and rubbed her hands over her face, trying to force herself awake. Ouch. She grimaced as her action reminded her of the one hit her attacker had gotten in. It was probably accidental, but he’d managed to bang her right cheekbone at the edge of her eye on his way down.
Lucas reached out and touched her cheek with a gentle finger. She let him turn her head, tilting her eye to the light. “Does he look worse?”
“Oh, much. That’s why I’m still here. They’re a little confused about who to charge with assault.” Sylvie yawned and stretched, locking her fingers together and pushing, palms out, toward the ceiling.
The balding cop seated at the desk across from the bench where Sylvie had been waiting hung up his phone. “Statute of limitations?” he asked. Sylvie just looked at him. Hastily, he waved his hand in the air as if erasing the question. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Is this your lawyer?”
Sylvie’s eyes narrowed. Something had changed. She could feel it. “No,” she said slowly, trying to understand the officer’s emotions. He’d been annoyed at her earlier, then resigned to her refusal to talk. Now he was excited. Or was it happy? Jubilant? His feelings didn’t make sense. But maybe they had nothing to do with her. Had he gotten good news from home? She con
centrated. With Lucas here, maybe she’d be able to pick up his thoughts.
“Does she need a lawyer?” Lucas pulled a phone out of his pocket. “I can have one here within the hour.” He started to tap.
“No,” said the cop and Sylvie simultaneously.
“I left a message for a friend. He’ll be here when he gets it.” Sylvie’s response sounded abrupt, even to her ears, but she didn’t need Lucas to rescue her.
“She doesn’t need a lawyer.” The cop stood, scooping up a pile of papers from his desk. “If you insist on immunity in writing, you’ll have to wait until someone from the Commonwealth Attorney’s office can get here, but I’ll put it in on record in the interview room if you’re willing to talk now.”
“I don’t understand.” Sylvie frowned, unsure of herself. The police and ambulance had arrived with efficient dispatch after her conversation with the 911 operator, but events had gone downhill from there. “Is the surgery done?”
“I don’t give a shit about the surgery.” The cop gestured with his head for her to follow and Sylvie stood uncertainly. She glanced at Lucas.
‘Can you read him?’
‘No words. He’s happy, though. It’s like he’s humming.’ Lucas joined her as she followed the police officer into an interview room. The room looked suspiciously warm and friendly for Sylvie’s taste; the walls painted a cheerful yellow, the table and chairs standard office furniture. Something closer to the stereotypes she’d drawn from too many ancient episodes of Law & Order would have made it easier to stay on her guard.
The officer gestured Sylvie to a chair, looked at Lucas, shrugged and pointed him to a chair against the wall, saying, “Eh, we’ll call it moral support. Sit over there and keep quiet.”
“Did you find the weapon?” Sylvie asked the cop. Whether or not her attacker had been armed had been the source of most of the night’s doubt. She said yes, but he’d claimed no, and by the time he’d started accusing her of attacking him without provocation, everyone had left the scene: the goon in an ambulance, Sylvie to give her statement at the police station. Sylvie knew that he’d been holding something in his hand, but she’d kicked whatever it was under a car. They’d sent a crime scene team to search, but no one had retrieved it yet. That, plus the results of her attacker’s surgery for a ruptured testicle, had been what everyone was waiting for.
“Doesn’t matter,” he told her.
“Oh, yeah?” Her skepticism must have showed, but instead of scowling at her, the way he had for most of the eight hours she’d been sitting next to his desk, he smiled, a smile that looked genuine, not forced. A smile that even looked happy.
“You can rest assured, ma’am, that we’ll find the object you mentioned. However, during the course of our investigation, we obtained a search warrant for the vehicle of the suspected perpetrator and while I cannot, at this time, provide you with further information about the nature of our discoveries, I can assure you that we are no longer in any doubt but that you made a good call earlier this evening.”
Sylvie scrunched up her face involuntarily while she tried to weave her way through the police officer’s long words and complex phrases. What had he said?
He leaned forward a little and said softly, “Ya’ done good. Let me just get your statement and you can go home.”
She glanced at Lucas. He nodded at her. She wavered, uncertain, doubtful.
‘It’s okay, go ahead and talk to him,’ Lucas reassured her.
Sighing, Sylvie sat down and did as she was told.
Chapter Seven
Dillon watched his father silently reading a paperback, flipping through the pages at a speed that suggested Lucas barely saw them. They were sitting at Sylvie’s table, Lucas in one of the plastic chairs, Dillon cross-legged on top of the table.
After leaving the police station, Lucas brought them straight to Sylvie’s apartment. She’d complained, saying that she wanted to get her car, but she’d been falling asleep on her feet, and Lucas hadn’t bothered to argue with her. She’d walked straight into her bedroom, dropped onto the bed, and mumbled something that sounded like, “See yourself out.” Then she was asleep.
Lucas hadn’t left, though. Dillon had watched as his father looked around Sylvie’s apartment, checking out the refrigerator, the bookshelves, even the space under the television, before finally plucking a book off a shelf and settling down at the table. Every so often, he answered a phone call or responded to a text message, but they mostly sat in silence with only the brush of paper from the turning pages to disturb the quiet.
Dillon wished he could talk to Lucas. Really talk, not just text. His exertions of the evening and night had exhausted his ability but even if he could send another message, what could he say? How could he describe what it was like? The confusion, the fear, the frustration at his own helplessness. The speed at which Sylvie moved, the smile on her face that didn’t meet her eyes. The exhilaration he felt when he realized he could set off the car alarms, the relief when the mugger was curled up on the ground.
And then the police station. That had almost been worse. Sylvie had been giving her statement to one officer, as calmly as if she did this kind of thing every day, when another officer hung up his phone and said, “He’s claiming you attacked him, that he was just walking by.”
The police officers had been smiling as if it was a joke but Sylvie had stilled and said, “Oh, did he?” She’d leaned back in her chair. Dillon had been annoyed. He’d been there, he’d seen the whole thing. The guy was lying! Why didn’t his mom defend herself?
Instead, at the officer’s next question, Sylvie smiled, looking regretful, and responded, “I’m afraid I’m unable to answer any more questions without a lawyer present. Or immunity from prosecution.” The words sounded rehearsed. She’d said them often enough over the next several hours that maybe they were.
Dillon had been frustrated beyond belief. Why didn’t she just talk? Why didn’t she just tell them what had happened? When he finally had enough energy to send a text, though, he knew better than to send it to her. He’d always thought his grandpa was stubborn, but he bet Sylvie could teach Max lessons. He texted his dad instead. Lucas could fix it, he knew.
And maybe he had. Dillon didn’t really understand what had happened after Lucas had arrived, but it didn’t matter. They were home and safe. At least for now.
Was his dad ever really safe, though? His job seemed even more dangerous than Dillon had realized. And if his mom was working for a guy who was mixed up with drug dealers, well, she wasn’t really safe either. Dillon didn’t know anything about the cartels his dad had been talking about, but he knew his mom must be in danger.
He didn’t like it.
He wished Akira were here. She could talk to them for him, tell them to stop doing scary shit. He was definitely not going to stop haunting them until they did. Maybe he could use one of his parents’ phones to text her when he got enough energy back and ask her to come to DC? But then he remembered what his dad had said about Zane not wanting her to travel and sighed. It didn’t surprise him that Zane was being over-protective; his uncle had gone a little goofy over Akira. Still, it was awfully inconvenient.
Being a ghost had never been harder. Somehow he had to get his parents—both of his parents—back to Florida so that he could get Akira’s help to communicate with them. But how? He rested his elbows on his knees, cradling his chin in his hands as he stared at his dad and tried to think of a plan.
From the next room came the sound of the shower starting. Lucas looked up from his book as Dillon looked toward the closed door. Good, his mom was up. Now maybe something would happen.
Several minutes later, Sylvie emerged dressed in casual clothes with her hair wet and dangling loose around her shoulders. She paused in the doorway, seeing Lucas at the table.
Lucas dropped the paperback he’d been reading, a shiny-coated thriller, on the table before him. “That book sucks.”
Sylvie glanced at it as she crossed into
her tiny kitchen. “I haven’t read it.”
“Gaping plot holes, bad characterization,” Lucas continued and then paused. “Oh. Why is it so beat-up?”
“Bought it at a garage sale for a quarter,” she answered, pulling a mug out of her cabinet. “What are you still doing here, Lucas?”
She pulled the coffee pot out of the machine and poured the final dregs into her mug.
“That’s cold,” Lucas pointed out, standing up and moving to where he could watch her.
“I’m not picky.” She took a sip, looking at him over the top of the mug. Her expression showed no reaction to the taste of the bitter beverage, but she put the mug down on the counter. “Why are you still here?”
He leaned against the wall, and for a moment, there was silence. Damn it, Dillon wished he could swear at them. They were talking to one another without words again, he recognized. But he wanted to hear what they had to say.
“And did you learn anything?” Sylvie asked, turning back to the coffee maker and opening the top.
Lucas also turned away. He looked out into the Spartan living room. “No DVDs,” he said. “So I don’t know anything about your taste in movies. No CDs, so ditto music. Books a mix—you’ve got some of everything, and no way of telling which you really like.”
“I like them cheap,” Sylvie answered. “I buy them at garage sales, and get rid of them when I’ve read them.”
“No photos on the walls, no mementos, no souvenirs,” Lucas continued. “White walls. I’d say you didn’t paint, just left the place as the landlord had it, so no idea about your taste in color. Refrigerator almost empty, so you don’t cook.”
Sylvie made a noncommittal sound as she dumped the old coffee grounds into the trash.
“Sherlock Holmes couldn’t learn anything about you from this place, Syl. Except maybe that this is just a bed to sleep in, not a home. You might as well be living in a hotel.”
“So why were you trying?” Sylvie scooped coffee grounds into a fresh filter.
“Because you were right before.”
