by Lotta Smith
“What happened?” Archangel said. “A spontaneous combustion?”
“Mr. Archangel, you should have seen Kelly breathing fire. It was in self-defense, you know. She saved me by burning the heck out of the murderer.” Karen spoke up. “She was totally awesome!”
She also showed him the glass of eyeballs on the table. “Will you look at those eyeballs?” Then she pointed at Alan on the floor. “Meet Eyeball Snatcher. He killed my BFF, along with many people.”
“I know.” Archangel crossed his arms. With a hard-to-read facial expression, he stared at the eyeballs and the barely-breathing killer. Then his gaze fixed on me. “Kelly, I’m impressed,” he said.
I opened my mouth in a vain attempt to say something clever, smart, or sassy.
“Kelly, are you all right?” Archangel took a step toward me with something that looked like a concern in his eyes. “Oh!” He backed off.
Words failed to come out of me. Before I could say, “Barf bag!” my half-digested lunch started coming out of my mouth. Abby Sciuto, I was not. Sassiness wasn’t my strongest suit.
“Omigod, Kelly, what did you eat for lunch?” frowning and pinching her nose, Karen asked.
“Aaaarrrgh!” I doubled over, shed tears, and retched like a drunken Charlie Sheen. “Bwaaaaaayp!” Puking uncontrollably, I comprehended the true meaning of projectile vomiting for the first time.
Hell, I should have resisted the cannoli temptation.
Chapter 41
The night was young and the crescent moon was silver. The street was relatively quiet on an account we went out the back door, which was free of media satellite vans and law enforcement vehicles.
It was a good residential area just five blocks from Alan’s shop. Also, it happened to be less than two miles from where Dr. Julia Stewart had lived. I was truly grateful Michael Archangel didn’t head for the West Virginia border, the falsely provided location by the killer. By all means, West Virginia was far from where I was being trapped.
When I was done puking, Archangel made a call to Henderson, asking if the FBI wanted to see the missing eyeballs taken from the victims. He also mentioned that he was with the true culprit of the Eyeball Snatcher cases and an unscathed Karen. He requested Henderson to arrange two ambulances; one for Karen and the other for the killer.
Henderson and a bunch of law enforcement officers arrived, and everything happened fast. They didn’t seem to be very happy that I had burned Alan Hamilton—a.k.a. Eyeball Snatcher—to near-death, or that I had spewed regurgitated Italian food all over the crime scene. Still, they didn’t complain. Perhaps because I made it clear that, if it were not for their premature closure of the Eyeball Snatcher cases, I would never have been abducted or puked all over the crime scene in the first place.
Also, they didn’t want to mess with a woman who breathed fire and torched a serial murderer.
Karen was immediately hauled into the ambulance and rushed straight to the hospital. She was scheduled to receive a checkup and reunite with her mom.
Before Henderson and the FBI had arrived at the crime scene, Karen confided in Archangel about how she had stumbled upon the killer. She also came clean about her special ability to see visions. While listening to her tale, Archangel didn’t deny her story or get skeptical about it. He just asked if she wished to share her story with the law enforcement. When she said she wasn’t sure about it, Archangel told her it would be best to keep that particular part of her tale from the feds and the police, at least for the time being. Without arguing, she accepted his suggestion.
Alan the serial murderer was carried out of the house on a gurney, but I was positive his ambulance ride wouldn’t be fun. Partly because he had sustained serious burns. Not to mention, his ambulance came with guards who also happened to be skilled martial artists with big guns ready to kill.
Archangel and I spoke to Henderson about what had happened, and I had to answer some questions, like how I had ended up coming face-to-face with the poked-out human eyeballs.
Thirty minutes later, we were free and walking to the corner of the block where Archangel had parked his Camaro. Henderson wanted to ask us whole lot of additional questions, but Archangel made a point that we had no such obligation considering his consulting contract with the FBI had been revoked. Henderson didn’t look happy, but he let us go, saying he’d be in touch.
By the time we left the crime scene, Archangel had developed a killer limp. I asked him if he was all right, and what he did to his leg, but his answer was a curt, “I’m good” to both questions. He gave exactly the same answer to Henderson when asked if he needed another ambulance. Obviously, he wasn’t in a peachy mood.
Several feet from the car, I called out, “Mr. Archangel, we need to talk.”
He stopped. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking about. What a coincidence. So talk.”
I sensed sarcasm, plenty of it.
“First of all, thank you very much for coming at the right moment.”
“My pleasure. And?” His eyebrows rose slightly. Reflecting the street light, his eyes were hard, icy blue.
“And I finally realized that you’ve been right about Warren all this time. He’s a pathological liar, and the only person he’s ever cared for is himself, and he will only care for himself for the rest of his life. There’s nothing I could have done or can do to change that,” I confided. “I was a pathetic loser, clinging to the memory of good times, totally turning a blind eye to reality.”
“How did you realize the obvious?” He cocked his head. This time, his voice didn’t contain sarcasm. At least, not much.
“When Alan came up on me with a knife, telling me that plucking the eyeballs out of me was the only way to make me immortal, I realized his gaze was identical to that of my ex-husband’s. Every time he was at work persuading potential new clients that entrusting their money to his business was in their best interest, he had that gaze.”
“Good thing you finally came to accept reality. You’re a slow learner, but still, better late than never.”
He crossed his arms and let out a dry chuckle, but his face was unreadable.
“Mr. Archangel, are you angry?” I asked, feeling like an idiot asking the obvious. I could think of many reasons that should have ticked him off. For starters, I withheld Karen info, and then I regurgitated my lunch all over the crime scene. Then again, it was difficult to figure out what had angered him the most.
He gave an exasperated sigh. “Angry is an understatement. Clusterfucking-infuriated is more like the term.”
Under the light of street lamps, he looked pale. Indeed, much paler than usual.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “It was the fear and the disgusting aroma. I didn’t mean to ruin the crime scene, but I took a sniff of his burned flesh and scorched clothes, and then the eyeballs jumped into my view. I couldn’t hold it anymore.”
“No, forget about the puking episode. I’m just annoyed with myself,” he confessed.
“For what?” I was confused.
“Misjudgment, overlooking the situation, and withholding critical information from you,” he listed.
“I’m not quite following.”
“A woman’s corpse missing the eyeballs was discovered in London. It was three months before they started turning up in D.C. neighborhoods. I knew about the incidence in London since visiting the city. Various forensic evidence, such as the shape of the slashed nerve endings, suggested this isolated incident in London was highly likely to be committed by the same person who killed the women here in the U.S.”
“Uh-huh.”
“My associate in Scotland Yard had finally ID’d the dead woman today. He emailed me the photo of her that was taken decades ago. Finally, I realized the eyeball-plucking was just a process in-between and the killer’s true intention was to obtain an eyeless-body to host his mother’s eyeballs. In addition, I had overlooked the fact that you share critical physical features with the previously murdered victims, such as hair and eye colo
r and the shape of your face. Those clues were enough to lock you up to avoid the risk of having you dragged into the sick ritual, but I completely missed the chances to share that information with you. Until the photo of Kelly Dowson, Alan Hamilton’s biological mother, turned up, I turned a blind eye to the possibility that you were in danger, and look what’s happened.” He sighed. “I know an apology won’t make it better, but I’m sorry; I really am.”
Wow, I was stunned. He didn’t admit his faults often.
“You don’t need to apologize. I guess we’re kind of even about withholding info,” I suggested. “Actually, in retrospect, I should have called you when Karen contacted me. She told me not to tell anybody, especially you, but she was pretty ticked off when I told her I hadn’t called you. Guess what? I didn’t interpret her code very well.”
“Oh yeah, that should have made my job way easier.” Now he seemed positively annoyed. “Now I’m not that sorry.”
“Anyway, let’s look on the bright side. I’m here, alive and unscathed,” I said with the perkiness of a cheerleader.
“Okay, so I thought there was no way you could find the killer, completely ignoring the outside chance that the killer would find you,” he commented. “And you scared me shitless.”
“I’m glad you care so much about me.”
“I didn’t exactly say that.” He snorted. “With your special skill and everything, I wasn’t worried all that much but—”
“But—?”
“Hey, I need to call my attorney to rewrite your contract,” he said abruptly.
I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. I saw it all coming, and I hoped to keep my cool and maintain what little dignity I still had.
I tried to smile and be calm, but instead a Minnie Mouse shriek popped out of me. “Omigod, you’re firing me!”
Forget coolness, ditch the dignity; my freak-o-meter was indicating a gazillion out of ten, and I was wailing like a hysterical toddler. “Okay, so I might not be the world’s most perfect assistant, but isn’t it a little bit cruel to get rid of me just like this? In case you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not a big chunk of kidney stone. I’m a human, and I have something called feelings!” My voice reached the pitch of a dog whistle. “On top of all that, can’t you see I’m shaken, traumatized, and mentally scarred after that fiasco? I can’t believe you’re—”
“Chill.” I felt hands on my waist as he pulled me close. “Kelly, there’s a serious misunderstanding.”
I looked up and our eyes met for ten seconds. I saw something that looked like warmth and gentleness in his baby blues. I almost thought he was going to kiss me… but he didn’t. Of course he didn’t kiss me. Go figure. I used Listerine, but he saw me puking. No, not just puking, but projectile vomiting.
Archangel said, “I’m going to revise your contract because you’ve just earned a 20 percent base salary raise.”
“Did I?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Yup, Sherlock, congratulations.” He patted my back. “Anyway, you did a semi-descent job at nailing the killer. I’m sure that burn hurts more than any other penalty, such as death,” with a suppressed grin, he added somewhat teasingly but I didn’t miss the hidden sincerity. “I’m proud of you.”
Instead of muttering, “Gosh, I should have asked for a 50 percent raise rather than a 20 percent,” I clung to him in a bear hug. “Mr. Archangel, it was a pure, dumb luck, and you know what, I would have been dead if it weren’t for your B&E. Thank you again for coming!” I said in a muffled voice.
“Okay, you can hug me for two more seconds. One, two. Now, time’s up,” he said, but I refused to let go for several more seconds. Just the heat and the feel of him, and the subtle scent of Higher Energy, reminded me I was alive. That feeling flashed back the very possibility I could have been dead already.
“Let’s go,” Archangel said.
As I ripped myself from him with a good amount of restraint, he shook his left leg, as if to shed off the kinks. But as soon as he stepped on it, he stumbled.
“Damn it,” he groaned, trying to maintain his balance.
I scurried to prevent him from falling. “Mr. Archangel, you’re hurt!”
“I’m good. It’s just my foot happens to be asleep.” He tried walk, but as soon as his left leg touched the ground, he gasped.
Slipping myself underneath his arm, I helped him to the car and opened the passenger side door. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” He groaned as he lowered himself onto the passenger seat. “Okay, let’s go home.”
“Hey, let me take a look at your leg.” I crouched beside the open door.
“I don’t think so.” He tried to pull back, but I took off his boot and sock anyway. “Yow!” He cringed. “Easy, that hurt!”
“Uh-oh,” I muttered.
“What uh-oh?” I could hear him grimacing without looking up.
“I think it’s broken,” I said, looking at his swollen ankle and then up at his face.
“You’re joking.” He gnawed on his lower lip. “And that’s not even funny. Where’s the punchline?”
“Seriously, look at your ankle. I can’t believe you’ve been walking on this until now.”
Indeed, it was unbelievable that such a huge ankle had been kept within the limited space of a boot. His whole foot was swollen with a baseball-sized knot forming on the outer side of his ankle. Besides that, his leg was turning reddish purple.
“It’s broken,” I said again.
“Hey, it’s not as bad as it looks,” Archangel insisted. “So I might have twisted it a teensy bit in a funny way. But hey, it’s just a sprain, and walking it off is the best rehab for that.” Gasping through gritted teeth, he deliberately avoided looking at his battered leg. With the interior light of the car, I could see he was getting even paler.
“It’s as bad as it looks, if nothing else. It might be worse than it looks. You can’t just walk it off. Seriously, you need to see a doctor immediately,” I declared. “I’ve never seen such clear textile patterns printed on a leg. Remember, Karen was telling you to watch your step? She also said you don’t want a broken leg. Gosh, she saw it all coming in her vision. You know, that the girl sees visions, right?”
“Come on, so Karen sees visions and she was right about the killer, but that doesn’t mean her visions are 100 percent accurate. And it’s not like I had a heart attack or anything serious. Besides that, did you know the hospital’s full of sick people with lots of germs and cooties? I don’t want to catch anything contagious.”
“Hello? You had no problem visiting a hospital in London,” I pointed out, sprinkling the towel handkerchief with the bottled water. “A broken leg is a serious injury.”
“Visiting a London hospital was just work and…ouch!” He sucked in air when I put the cold compress on his swollen ankle.
“Can you wiggle your toes?” I asked.
“Of course.” He took a deep breath.
“Your toes are not wiggling.”
“You missed it. Just look carefully.” His toes moved slightly.
“Oh, that’s more like a twitch,” I commented.
“Seriously, it’s just a sprain. An icepack overnight will do magic, and in the morning, my leg will be good as new. After all, it shouldn’t be broken. Look, I was walking without problems. If it’s really broken, I wouldn’t be able to walk on it, right?” He was talking as if he were trying to convince himself, not me.
“For your information, you were not walking very well.”
It was amusing that someone who was capable of tracking a killer without information, such as a residential address, could be so blind when his own health was concerned.
“Come on, I’ve never broken a single bone. Not even once.”
“There’s a first time for everything. So why don’t we check it out with technology, like an X-ray?” I suggested. “Then we’ll know who guessed it right.”
“I’m beginning to think being concerned about you might have been the stupidest mi
stake I’ve ever committed,” he muttered under his breath.
“So you admit you care for me. That’s sweet. Thank you.” I settled myself in the driver’s seat, took the ancient phone out of my purse, and speed-dialed one of the ex-faux-dads who was a professor of orthopedics at a prestigious medical school. He picked up my call on the second ring.
“Hello, this is Kelly, your ex-faux-daughter. How have you been? Oh, that’s great. Mom’s just fine. Yes, happily remarried to a count of Scotland. Of course, I’ll send her your love, sure. By the way, I need a very good orthopedic surgeon who specializes in foot and ankle injuries in the D.C. vicinity, immediately. No, I’m totally unhurt and well, but my employer needs immediate medical attention. Thank you so much for asking. Right now, we’re in Lake Ridge, Virginia, but he’s based in McLean. Yes, swollen with a baseball-sized knot and very painful. An ice bag? Oh yes, I’ll buy that and ice his leg on the way. Yes, I’ll keep him comfortable. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
By the time I had arranged a rendezvous with a hotshot foot-and-ankle specialist at a medical center close to Archangel’s home, he was audibly cursing. “Trust me, it’ll turn out as nothing serious. And with making such a big fuss and all, you’ll make a fool of us,” he muttered.
“Speaking of trust, I completely trusted that you’d come and prevent the killer from killing me all the while I was there. Maybe it’s your turn to trust me,” I mentioned.
He snorted, but didn’t complain further. I took it as a good sign.
Chapter 42
EXCLUSIVE! – Kelly Kinki Strikes AGAIN, Whacks a Serial Killer with her Godzilla Breath (as in, literally)
By Sebastian McDonnel
The Daily Holler
Washington D.C.—America’s got Kim Kardashian, but mind you, don’t forget we’ve got a K.K. of our own by the name of Kelly Kinki. The fire-breathing, short-tempered, former wife of Britain’s most notorious Ponzi schemer Warren Bernadoff Estevez, with nicknames such as Vicious B**** and Dragon Lady, and the only daughter of Lady Yoko—the countess of Scottsdaleshire—who’s got heavier punches than that of Mike Tyson’s. Yes, that’s the Kelly.
