by Kim Falconer
He didn’t laugh. ‘Where are you?’
I pushed the down button. ‘In an elevator. Where are you?’
He paused, apparently waiting for a different answer. Great.
‘I’m heading for the library,’ I said.
He was silent at that response too.
‘Downloading microbio slides and catching up on missed labs. Anything else you want to know?’
‘Are you healing?’
I rolled my right shoulder, still out of the sling. ‘Good enough.’ I heard traffic in the background. ‘Where are you again?’ Had he gone to my apartment? That would be on the creepy side of surprising.
‘Hospital. No sign of your stalker?’
‘Plenty of signs.’ Since when did the ER lose its soundproofing? ‘But I haven’t been stalked in over twenty-four hours, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I wanted to make sure you had this number.’
You and Cate both. ‘I do. Thanks.’
‘Stay safe.’
‘No argument there.’ I ended the call and turned off my phone. Perplexed didn’t begin to describe it, but I wasn’t going to let it addle my brain. I had too many other things on my mind. The biomedical library was a hike from Tom’s student housing. Good. I wanted the exercise to loosen up healing muscles and joints. Also, it would give my tail something to do too. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the green Subaru start up. I took in a lungful of air, and coughed it straight back out. Smog levels were high, and I smelled every murky particle; I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. On the up side, it would probably make for a spectacular sunset.
I stuck to the sidewalk most of the way, then cut across a green strip to Charles E Young Drive South. Fifteen minutes later, the doors to Louise M Darling Library slid open, and the cool, dry, canned air hit me. I went straight to the reception desk with my request and ID, ignoring the stale scents. It was better not to think about where those nitrogen and oxygen molecules had been. The middle-aged librarian scanned my student card into his machine, clicked a few times and asked for my digital signature and password. I tapped it into the handheld, and went to the nearest bank of computers. I did a quick check for Tom. He didn’t appear to be around.
There was a free machine in the back row so I wouldn’t have too many distractions. It wasn’t easy, resisting the temptation to search for more info on Rossi’s work, but catching up on studies had to come first. I was deep into it when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped out of my seat, found my balance and readied for a front snap kick to the jaw. By then, my internal facial recognition software clicked in and I relaxed.
‘Hey, it’s me.’ Valery had both hands on her chest, her mouth slightly open. ‘Remind me never to surprise you again.’ She gasped a few breaths.
I laughed. ‘Sorry.’ Val and I were lab partners in embryology and had spent some productive nights studying for exams. She was a house cat, though, not much for adventure. The mere mention of the word MMA frightened her, let alone clubbing. She’d make an awesome pathology team very happy someday. That was her aim. We hugged briefly, me staying as far away from her personal space as possible.
‘You missed labs this week.’
‘Out of town. Do you have notes?’
She did, and wasn’t opposed to sharing them. She also had a lot to say about Daina and Poseidon. In the end, it wasn’t much more than I already knew, save for the lab notes. Those were helpful. We did a few practice tests online, compared results and chatted some more.
‘I gotta go, Ava. I’m on my bike and don’t have a light.’
When had the sun set? Time flies when you’re studying ribosomes, cytoplasm and chemotaxis mobility. My stomach growled and I wondered what Tom was cooking for dinner. I saved my files, shut down the comp and walked out with Val. She unlocked her bike and headed toward Manning Drive. We waved goodbye and I turned the opposite direction to catch the bus home. Five minute ride, perfect timing.
The footpath took some navigation. People were going every which way, crossing the streets, all in a rush. In contrast, traffic crawled alongside, at a near standstill, brake lights flashing green, or to the rest of the world, red. Rush hour. A breeze came through the hedge of acacias, shaking yellow blossoms to the ground. I caught the scent of pizza. Somebody had just gotten takeaway.
I spotted the green Subaru parked two blocks from the Amtrak bus stop, sandwiched between a Volkswagen and a white SUV. It was tempting to walk over and tap on the window, lean in and have a little chat with Lee and co., or whoever was in there, but Rourke would chew me a new one if I pulled anything that silly. This was as much about catching the perp as protecting me. I couldn’t resist glancing back. Two in the front, both reading newspapers. Classic.
The foot traffic thinned near the bus stop, and the cars started speeding up. I took a seat on the bench to wait. Everyone else hustled by. A lot of students would walk it and save the bucks. I probably would too, but couldn’t resist the chance to be dropped ten feet from Tom’s apartment complex. I checked messages on my phone, for something to do.
Cate had sent one. She wanted to meet up soon. I replied with a quick 4 sure .
Tom had messaged asking if I still liked salmon. I texted back, Hell yes, home in ten . I was feeling quite demonstrative this evening.
He messaged again, My friend’s here … k?
I answered, Cool. No heart. My stomach growled again.
Val sent a few more pages of notes straight to my Cloud-Box. She was thorough. Before I could respond to her, the bus pulled up bringing a gust of dried leaves, diesel fumes and litter. I had to wait while a dozen people got off, then I climbed aboard, swiped my pass over the scanner and looked for a seat. Wow. Empty. It was just me, the driver, and someone sleeping in the back, head resting against the window, dark blue hoodie pulled over their face. I wondered if the driver would wake them up at their stop. I swung into the first available seat, front row, opposite the driver’s side. The turn indicator went on, and the driver waited for a gap in the flow. Finally, we pulled out, moving through the gears and up to speed with the traffic. Streetlights flashed by, along with building fronts, trees and rushing pedestrians. I stayed at the edge of my seat. It was a short ride.
My stop was practically on top of Tom’s Westwood Plaza apartment, four or five minutes, max. When I reached for my phone to check messages, my shoulder tweaked and it slipped out of my hand. Saved by the shockproof case, yet again. I bent to pick it up. My shoulder yelped this time and I fumbled the phone again. While I was down there near my boots, something caught my eye. A rubber band? No, a ribbon. I dropped the phone back into my bag. Seeing the ribbon had the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, not that it would trigger a bomb or anything. I mean, a delicate bit of satin? I had to force my hand to keep steady as I picked it up and examined it: yellow, new, thin.
Someone sniggered behind me. I snapped around and faced a dude, only an arm’s length away. He hung onto the overhead railing with one arm, head tilted down toward me. The hoodie obscured his face, brown hair falling into his eyes, but it didn’t hide the markings painted on his chin. ‘That’s for you, Ava.’
Reflexes screamed at me to act, but I kept it under control. I glanced at the ribbon and made to pocket it, then lightning fast went for my ankle holster, the one that wasn’t there. Shit.
He pulled a gun and pointed it between my eyes.
‘Don’t shoot,’ I said, my hands flying up without thinking.
The driver turned. ‘Hey!’ He was reaching across the dash. Couldn’t see what for.
Psycho-stalker fired.
Three shots rifled past me, straight at the bus driver. My ears rang as the driver slumped over the wheel. Dark patches bloomed on his shoulder, triceps and under one arm. I needed to breathe, but my lungs weren’t responding.
Stalker laughed as he hung there, sighting the gun back at my face. The mask was skin smooth, like war paint. It covered his eyes in black, making them look hollow. Lines ran fr
om his scalp to his brow, his lower lip to his chin. He started to speak, but the bus thumped over the median strip, clipped a tree branch and launched straight toward oncoming traffic. I ended up on my hands and knees while blue hoodie tumbled down the aisle. The driver spilled to the floor, freeing the wheel to spin.
I gripped the seat, pulling up, ready to spring for the driver’s seat. Before I could make a move, the bus sideswiped a truck. My head cracked into the window and everything blazed white. I tried to blink the overexposure from my eyes. We hit the kerb. The bus groaned and tipped on two wheels. Grinding sounds came through the metal and jarred the back of my teeth. Sparks flew and the smell of hot steel shot up my nose. A tyre popped as we pitched over.
The bus skidded on its side. I tumbled, hands and arms cradling my head. Twisting metal and breaking glass rolled with me. I smacked the wall, then floor, went airborne for one awful moment and landed on my back. The bus screeched to a halt. I shot forward, but the driver’s body blocked me from smashing into the dash. When everything stopped, I found myself face to face with a corpse. His dead eyes still held a look of pain and pure terror. As my vision shrank further and further away, I couldn’t help wondering about the spiritual ramifications of experiencing such an intense emotion right before death. Can’t be good.
* * *
BangBangBang. What was that? Not gunshots. More like someone hitting a tin shed with a baseball bat. It mixed with the growing sound of hissing steam, water spraying and a rattletrap, spitting engine about to die. Bus crash. I registered that much. My eyes opened to a blurred reality, the world fuzzed-out, not a hard edge to be seen. BangBangBang. I blinked and wobbled to my knees, checking behind me for the sound. The bus rocked, moving in time with every kick of psycho-stalker’s leg. He was trapped under a crushed seat and bashed it with his free foot, trying to break free. The impact stretched the metal like taffy. He’d nearly wrenched himself lose. Holy fuck.
I couldn’t move, but I needed to, fast. Go, Sykes! Get out! I turned back to the windscreen, which was on its side, along with the rest of the bus. Escape, damn it. Or you’re dead next. It took everything I had to struggle to my feet. My back hunched, unable to fully straighten. The windscreen was laced with fractures, but the laminated safety glass held. BangBangBang. Metal snapped as the seat finally gave up. He was free. ‘Aaa-vaa.’ His singsong voice was a blast of adrenaline to my brain.
Without looking back, I dove over the driver’s body. A small fire extinguisher was mounted under the dash. I ripped it free and threw it at the corner of the windscreen. The glass popped like a cat food can lid and I flung myself out, hitting the street hard on hands and knees. Sounds and sensations blurred. Nothing registered. Where the hell is this? I stood. Keep moving.
Slowly the world came back into focus. The bus blocked a crossroads. Cars were gridlocked both ways, horns honking and sirens whirling in the distance. Someone broke free from the gathering crowd and started toward me. I felt panic mode take over again as I turned away from the scene. Lumbering in a drunken gait, my knees kept threatening to buckle. Get the hell out of here! It was my only clear thought.
I picked up momentum, orienting myself as I limped-ran toward a side street. ‘Okay,’ I said with an exhale. ‘Familiar territory.’ This connected up with Charly E so the UCLA police station was only a block or so away. If my perp followed, I’d lead him straight there. I started to hope the bastard would chase me now. They’d actually catch him then. Best-case scenario, for sure. I was getting real tired of these surprise hook-ups.
Half a block later, the street turned into a minefield of concrete, rebar, flights of stairs leading to nowhere, broken windows and freestanding walls. A real Escher nightmare. Right, the construction site. Of course. They were demolishing these ruined buildings. As I navigated the rubble, the floodlights that were usually on all night went out. Gee, wtf? On the positive, it gave me a chance to check over my shoulder. Just me, so far. I focussed ahead, tightened my backpack straps and ran hard, but not for long.
The environment came at me, throwing up obstacles like only a demolition site can. I took a hard left and leapt up a brick wall, teetering for a moment on top. From there it was a fifteen-foot hurdle to a stairway. Too far … couldn’t make it. So I jumped, hit the ground and tore across the broken glass and cement, up the stairs to the second storey of a gutted building. I could make better speed up here, stay hidden, then drop down on the station. I raced to the other side of the skeletal building. The light from the street behind came slanting through empty window frames. If I had my bearings right, the police station was straight ahead, a block away, two storeys down. As I took off, I caught a scent and made to veer the other way. Too late. Someone leapt from above and arms wrapped around my knees. The ground came up; I slapped it hard.
Dust rushed into my lungs and I coughed while trying to scramble away.
‘You’re a slippery fish, Ava Sykes.’ His voice was rough, sure of himself. His breath came in and out in gasps, his grip holding tight to my legs.
I freaked as he went for my waistband. Psycho-stalker-perv tugged at my pants, grunting. His lusty thoughts shot straight to my head. I jerked one leg free and shot it like a pile driver into his face. While he cursed, I scrambled to my feet and tore across the warehouse to a broken window. The glass was shattered, sharp angles jutting out like front teeth. I barely looked before I jumped, bending my knees on impact. I rolled to my feet and sprinted away. Unfortunately, it took me a while to realise I’d gotten turned around. The police station was behind me now, receding further with each stride. I vaulted over a series of slabs, all impaled with spikes of rebar. I could hear my assailant right behind me.
The next set of stairs was an old fire escape missing more than a few rungs. I gained the third storey where the wall was blasted to bits. The climb to the roof was out of reach so I dove over rubble into another gutted-out level. Halfway to the other side, I heard the click of a gun.
‘Stop right there, Sykes.’ The laughter that followed came in gasps. Glass crunched as he kept walking toward me.
I feinted left, then rolled over a shoulder-high divider and immediately tried to slow my breathing.
‘I have a present for you.’
My nostrils flared, taking in the scents. Fear mixed with concrete, mildew and oil. I had to take this guy down, but I had to remove the gun from the equation first. I waited until his footsteps were parallel with me and leapt. I flew over the top of the wall and smacked straight into him, clashing heads and entangling limbs. He broke free and swung hard, trying to cold-cock me with his weapon. I blocked with a head-high kick. The gun spun into the air, its alloy surface giving off bright pulses of reflected streetlight.
I had plenty of momentum from the kick. I let it spin me toward the flying weapon. My eyes caught its last flash before it clattered to the ground. Three steps and a superman dive and it was mine. My fingers closed around the trigger just as the stalker grabbed my ankle. Face down, gun clutched to my chest, I kicked like a branded horse. Not enough. He jerked my body toward him. More thoughts of his lust and cravings bombarded my mind as he flipped me onto my back. I could see his other victims screaming underneath him, looking up into that creepy, painted face. Without hesitation, I tilted the barrel up and fired.
The sound hammered my already shattered ears, the kickback slamming my shoulder blades into the ground. As the gunshot echoed through the empty building he fell, face first, on my chest.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. There was nothing but roaring in my head. I pushed him off and crab-crawled backward, getting away as fast as I could. He looked dead. No! The air was thick and tainted metallic. Blood. A lot of it. I started coughing like I was going to spew. Unable to let go of the gun, I checked behind me, in case he wasn’t alone. When I looked back, I screamed. The freak show was struggling to his feet!
‘Ava!’ His voice gurgled. ‘You forgot this.’ He held up a different coloured ribbon. Apparently he had quite a stash.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Couldn’t move. He was coming after me. Had I only clipped his shoulder? Bulletproof vest? Then why all the blood? My chest was wet with it. He lunged. I pulled the trigger. Automatic response. He went down, more blood seeping, thick and black across the ground. When he didn’t move, I doubled over and threw up.
I wiped my mouth and, hands shaking, went to check for a pulse. I had tears in my eyes. Emotions welling. He had no pulse. Blood everywhere. I wanted to take him down, yeah. Apprehend his ass, not murder him. I started CPR. In the distance, sirens fired up. This can’t be happening. I kept pumping his chest until the blue lights were whirling under us, cops’ voices shouting on the street below. Still no pulse. The guy was dead. I rocked back on my heels. Dead because I killed him.
I sat next to him, me and my would-be killer together in some gutted hell dimension where my dreams were being sucked into a black hole. In my mind, I watched this man’s life draining away, along with my cover, my goals of doing good, and any hope I ever had of saving the world. Saving myself. Tears flowed freely, running down my face, soaking my tee-shirt, mixing with his blood. I wanted to drown in them. I wanted to die. I staggered to the window and yelled for the cops to call an ambulance. I guess the sobbing kept me from hearing any noise behind me. When I turned back to my victim, he was gone. Not at all possible.
I was over there in a flash, pulling out my phone and using it as a flashlight. A bucket’s worth of blood pooled on the dusty concrete floor. Wet boot-prints led to the opposite row of broken windows. I raced after them, leaning over the edge, scoping the alley below. For an instant, I caught a glimpse of him, jogging away. Jogging! What. The. Freak? I leapt over the edge and followed, tucking the gun into my waistband and tapping my phone. ‘Call Rourke!’ I panted.
