I'd been right—she wore very little makeup. Creases formed between her eyes, a trail of tears racing off her face, some finding the corner of her mouth. I could feel her anxiety, her undeniable pain. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't find the words. Flashes of images darted through my mind...the night I came upon Marisa, motionless in our kitchen, blood pooled against her body. I forced the thoughts into another segment of my brain and focused on the here and now.
Another voice yelled out from the crowd. “Check for a pulse!”
The Natural paused, glanced at me, and I nodded. She closed her eyes briefly then put her hand on his hairy neck, the size of a tree trunk. Her tiny hand with a French manicure moved to different spots, each rigid movement contorting her face more and more. A slow shake of her head, her blond hair sliding back and forth across her shoulders...then she cupped her face with her hands.
“He's dead,” said a random voice.
Gasps filled the air, followed quickly by bursts of crying throughout the crowd.
I stared at Gustavo's back and noticed the weapon actually wasn't an ax. It looked more like a meat cleaver, with a shiny metal blade, at least the part that wasn't buried in flesh or coated in his blood. The handle was black with metal edging. How did this man, Gustavo, have the energy to take those last steps? He must have seen The Natural from across the way and was striving to reach her.
“Did anyone see anything? See where he came from?” I asked, looking around. Shoulders shrugged, and people pointed and murmured, but nothing discernible.
The Natural rocked backward, her head bowed, her sobs bouncing her head up and down. An uncontrollable grief. I could feel it all over again. I wanted to reach out and hold her, tell her she would be okay—eventually she'd want to live again.
Instead, I instinctively reached for Gustavo's neck. I couldn't help but learn for myself if there was a pulse, to provide at least a hint of hope for the striking blonde whose psyche was held in the balance. The skin felt clammy cold, the stubble prickly. I must have touched ten places, but not a sign of life.
She looked into my eyes again then dropped her hands.
A chirp, then another chirp. She instinctively grabbed her purse and pulled out her phone. Then someone yelled, “Get out of the way. Paramedics need access to the victim.”
The crowd opened, and two thick-waisted women and one thin man swooped down to the floor. I scooted back and realized I was still holding the towel and water. But I didn't know where to put them.
The medics couldn't get to his chest or his mouth to start resuscitation. They all looked at each other. Finally, the thin man grabbed the handle of the meat cleaver and pulled. Gustavo's back raised a couple of inches. The other two medics then held the body down, providing enough leverage for the next attempt. A meaty, moist suction noise could be heard as the cleaver exited the wound.
They plugged the gaping hole with gauze, turned him over and began their revival process. One performed mouth-to-mouth, the other thumping and pushing his chest. I glanced over at The Natural, her sad eyes dark with mascara, her mouth agape. She seemed catatonic.
Another click came from her phone, a different sound than before. At the same time, the medics, all doused with a layer of sweat, ceased activity. They looked at each and shook their heads.
The Natural fell backward, her eyes moving from the dead man to the phone.
“It can't be,” she said with a bit of defiance.
“Miss, do you know this man?” one of the lady medics asked.
The Natural ignored the question and started crawling backward. She bit on her lower lip, her eyes darting from side to side, as if she was contemplating what to say or do. She seemed absolutely devastated, almost to the point of not being in control of herself. I wondered if the medics should step in and give her a sedative.
“Miss, are you okay?” the other chubby medic asked. “Can we help you? I know this must be difficult for you.“
I almost couldn't bear to watch. My mouth was parched, probably because my jaw had been open for several minutes. I looked down at my hands and again noticed the towel and the water, apparently glued to my fingers.
“Miss, seriously, can you hear us?” The male medic sounded concerned and took a step in her direction.
“Cops just arrived outside,” someone shouted.
The Natural glanced toward the front, a confused, frightened look painted on her wet face. Leaning back on her right arm, I could see her clavicle bulging under her smooth skin, reminding me of my earlier assessment. She had all the refined, natural looks of someone who'd been blessed with a gene—no, a gift—that left others, me included, longing for more. But there was more to her, to her life; that much was obvious. And it didn't match the version I'd seen earlier—her satiny skin and playful spirit, her poise and seeming confidence that life was good and settled.
I had to reach out to the pretty girl in the slate blue dress. I felt it now more than ever, even with a hundred people watching intently. Pushing off my knees with the towel and water bottle, I rose to my feet just as the sea of humans parted to my left. I saw cop hats in the distance making their way toward this scene. I glanced back at The Natural, who spoke at the phone like the person was lurking under the casing.
“You have it all wrong. It didn't...I wouldn't.”
She touched her face and released more tears, then shook her head violently.
“Stop!” I yelled toward her, not knowing how harsh it would sound.
Her eyes looked directly at me, but I wasn't sure what she saw.
“No one can save me now!” She screamed and pulled at her hair. Then she leaped to her feet and pushed through the crowd.
“Get out of my way, dammit!” Her accent grew thicker with each word.
I hopped over the dead man, Gustavo. “Please, wait, we can help you. I can help.”
At that exact moment, she found an opening and burst through the wall of people, running for the door. She was as quick as a squirrel, dodging and spinning around people like they were statues. Without thinking, I took off after her but then heard a distant voice behind me.
“Stop! Do you hear me? I said stop where you are!”
I ignored it. I only wanted to get to The Natural, to console her, to explain what I'd experienced, how I could help her deal with this insane situation, the grief. Tossing the towel and water behind me, I tore through the shocked crowed. I thought I spotted a flash of blue turning right. I headed in that direction, although I seemed far less athletic than she. I flipped a right at the elevators and was forced to halt my movement. Where to? Mammoth walls, six elevators, and an exit door to a staircase. On the floor, two blue shoes. I picked up the three-inch leather heels. They couldn't have been anything larger than a size four or five. She had tiny feet. Quick tiny feet, at that.
I contemplated which door to take, knowing the massive hotel was like a small city. That thought lasted less than ten seconds. I heard loud stomps off to my right. I turned my head and was steamrolled by a pair of San Francisco's finest. Did they play for the 49ers?
“You're under arrest for obstructing a crime scene.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” The cop's knee was jammed into my back, forcing my pitch an octave higher.
I heard heavy breathing, like they'd both run a marathon, although I'm not sure they would still be standing if they'd sprinted forty yards.
“Don't say another word. We saw you chasing after that poor woman.”
My eyes scrunched together. “I was trying to help her. I couldn't save her boyfriend or husband, or whoever he was. She is—”
“You have the right to remain silent. By the way, I'd take that advice.” One officer chuckled, although I couldn't see him since my face was being smashed into the tile floor by a sweaty hand that smelled like salami. “Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.“
I drowned out the rest of the Miranda Rights and closed my eyes, seeking a peaceful res
pite from the entire surreal scene: the dead man, the distraught blond woman to whom I was drawn, and the body tackle. I took in as deep a breath I could with a knee choking off my capacity to breathe.
Ten minutes later, I surveyed the world through the back window of a squad car, rhythmic blue and red lights splashing on the hotel facade, the street, moving cars, even faces all around me. Through the reflection of the window, I could see a nice shiner forming under my left eye.
I still couldn't stop thinking about what had happened to the cute blonde in the slate blue dress—The Natural.
Chapter Five
Today
At first, I just heard her familiar voice. "Don't you get it? We're being chased by a maniacal killer. A hired assassin."
Closing my eyes, I gripped the side of my head and felt the tiny bumps of an ACE bandage wrapped around my head. It felt like I was wearing a turban. I knew I wasn't part of the Sikh faith, although I might have believed it a few hours earlier when I questioned every aspect of my life.
I peeked open one eye then the other.
“Still have a headache?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah.” Cupping a mug of hot chocolate to warm my hands, I noticed three marshmallows melting in the middle. I took a sip, slurping in the marshmallows before they were devoured by the hot substance. They tasted good. “By the way, I don't disagree with your theory. My memory is coming back like the doctor said it would, but it's still patchy.“
“Like a quilt.”
“Huh?”
“Like a patchwork quilt. Bad pun, I know.” She snickered.
“I'm a little slow on the take.” I gingerly touched the bump on the bridge of my broken nose, then gently brushed the wax coating that bridged two sets of stitches, five under one eye, eight under the other. I looked like I just climbed out of the ring with Mike Tyson, or was it The Road Runner, given the egg-shaped lump on my head?
“Looks painful. I'm really sorry. I did tell you to duck.” She covered her mouth to half-hide a reluctant smile.
Andi Osborne. I never expected to wake up from my temporary state of amnesia and see her huddled over me. Former student at the University of North Texas. Former intern turned reporter at the Times Herald. Yes, as the former associate publisher of said newspaper, she was my former employee. But, as she'd reminded me several times in the last hour, and apparently countless other times in the last week, she no longer worked for me and, therefore, was no longer beholden to my instruction or opinion.
“So, again, why didn't we go to the cops?”
Her eyes bugged out a bit, but not in a strange way. They were warm and brown, contrasting beautifully with her olive skin. Her wavy, brown hair had a reddish tint, but seemed full of life, like her. She was cute, in a girl-next-door kind of way.
“You have more than a few holes to fill in that memory of yours.” She leaned on her elbows across the orange-speckled laminate table.
The twenty-four-hour restaurant had just two other patrons: an elderly Asian man wearing black-rimmed glasses, drinking coffee at the bar, and a younger kid with a huge afro, studying intently, books spread across his four-seater booth. Both patrons were on the other side of the restaurant.
“I guess you don't recall your other run-ins with the cops? Apparently, they don't seem to think you're one of the good guys, at least not one of the sane guys. You've been arrested three times in the last month.”
I winced ever so slightly, my recollection still more of a foggy, distant dream.
“At least that's what you told me when we first ran into each other a week ago,” Andi added.
“A week ago,” I said, trying to connect the dots—too many dots at this stage of my recovery.
“Do you need me to give you a recap of what we've been through in the last week?” Andi clasped her hands, her elbows anchoring her weight on the table. She had no problem being straightforward, even blunt. Her behavior seemed very familiar to me, which given my current state of mind, felt comforting, even a tad endearing.
I drew in a slow breath, my pulse reverberating against my four pain points.
“Let's start with how the hell we got away from Meat Hand.”
“Meat Hand, or Meat Head?”
“The guy who landed the haymaker—bone in. He looked like Iron Fist out of The Avengers.“ I tried mimicking the fist by curling fingers into my palm.
“You see, you are remembering more.”
My lips formed just enough of a line to let her know I smiled. She grinned back, flashing pearly whites under naturally red lips, though I could see a slight grimace forming, an unconscious response to my bashed face, no doubt.
I gestured an open hand her way, hoping she'd see I was ready to hear the story.
“Meat Head, believe it or not, actually meant no harm.”
I attempted to raise an eyebrow.
She rested her hand on top of mine, a motherly instinct, it appeared. Her fingers were long, although her nails were clipped fairly short. Feminine, yes, but they wouldn't be called upon to model diamond rings or nail polish. She batted long, plush eyelashes, something I didn't recall from my daily interactions with her more than eighteen months ago. Then again, at the time, she was finishing up college.
Now, she was...uggh. I couldn't recall what she was doing now. More time for small talk later. First, I had to hear about my run-in with Meat Head.
“Apparently, our tumble down the embankment landed within a few feet of the makeshift home of Larry, a former bond trader who'd lost everything during the recession. Then he got hooked on meth. Says he's clean now, but he's living out of a cardboard box and a grocery cart.”
I just stared at her, both amused and amazed at her quest to know everything about anyone who interested her.
“What? I'm a reporter, remember?”
I tilted my head. “Barely.”
“Uh, sorry. Bad choice of words. You'll get there.”
“So, was he also a former heavyweight champion?”
“Actually, a former Golden Gloves champ while growing up in Santa Cruz.” She smiled, enjoying the fact she knew more than me, again. “The one-hundred-sixty-pound weight class.“
“And...”
“And he admitted kind of flipping out. Apparently, kids sneak up to Mount Sutro—”
“That's where we were. Damn.” I curled my lower lip inward and clenched my teeth slightly, creating a blood rush that whipped through my veins.
“Teenagers sneak up there and do everything their parents wouldn't want to witness... smoke weed, have sex...”
“But we weren't doing either,” I explained in a higher pitch, like I was trying to make a case to change a past event. It sounded like whining.
“Well, he thought...ahem.” She fake coughed, bringing a hand to her mouth.
A hint of pink saturated her cheeks as she looked away briefly. Is Andi actually blushing?
Her head still lower, suddenly she raised her eyes. All I could see was white and brown.
“He thought we were having sex.”
“What? We'd just fallen down a hill.”
“You were jostling around, and I was sitting on top of you. Remember?”
“I think so.”
The pink had morphed into deep red and had now invaded her neck. It almost appeared she was having an allergic reaction.
Her chest rose as she took in a breath. "Larry said he thought I had 'mounted' you." Both eyebrows flexed upward, followed by a combo eye roll and two quick bats of her lashes. Impressive dismissal.
I now recalled finding myself at the end of the fall sitting under Andi, her legs squeezing my rib cage like she was a jockey heading down the stretch at the Kentucky Derby. I could see where Larry was coming from.
“He said he was sorry almost as soon as you landed.”
“How kind of him.”
“There's another reason I didn't call the cops. Larry said if we did, he'd be sent to jail, charged with crimes. He'd lose his makeshift home. Turn his life upsid
e down.”
“Wouldn't want that.” My right eye twitched inadvertently, and I felt the stitches tug my tight, fragile skin.
“He had worn, sad eyes. You were waking up, so I knew you'd be okay. He even helped me get you to the nearest twenty-four-hour emergency care center, courtesy of Larry's grocery cart.”
Andi snorted then released an outward giggle.
I tried to smile but reached back and felt my spine. It was tender, likely bruised.
“We had a bit of a struggle getting you out of the cart.”
Andi told me the doctor concluded I'd suffered a concussion when I was knocked unconscious the first time, causing temporary amnesia. The second knockout punch by Larry essentially jarred my memory back to my conscious state, following a brief nap.
“What a mess. This is my life though.” I could only imagine what the nurses and doctors thought when Andi and Larry wheeled me into the facility.
“It's been our lives for the last week.” Andi sipped coffee from a brown mug.
“Lots of questions still. The first concussion. What the hell happened?” I peered over Andi's shoulder and watched the student bury a pen in his afro. My fingers gingerly touched the puffiness under my eyes, just over the stitches.
As Andi opened her mouth to respond, I jumped in. “Before we go back to square one of my fun night, perhaps you could provide some commentary on what made you tackle me in the first place.”
“We'd planned on meeting at Mount Sutro earlier. It was part of the plan when—”
Ding dong.
She jerked her head left, her eyes appearing to shoot instant messages to her brain to determine if the sound meant friend or foe, safety or flight.
The glass front door opened, and a tiny Asian woman entered, calling out to the man at the counter as she waddled like a penguin and lifted herself onto the barstool next to him.
GREED Box Set (Books 1-4) Page 73
