Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2)

by Kory M. Shrum

  Even if really I don’t, they’d only be in the way. But that isn’t the point. The point is I am not one of them.

  I never will be.

  Seething, I climb onto the van. It’s still on its side, a redneck truck with ridiculously large wheels, pushes up against its belly. I climb up the side and peek into the van first. There’s John’s body, unmoving, Lane beside it. He’s crawled through the broken windows separating the seats from the back into the front cabin with John. Lane has a deep cut down one arm, which he seems oblivious to. He has straightened John out the best he can and is giving him CPR.

  “You’re doing it wrong,” I say. And as soon as I say the words I regret it.

  “I know!” Lane snaps at me. His eyes are saucers, white, angry, terrified. “But it isn’t working.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t do it!”

  My vision changes. It slips from the normal sky is blue, grass is green, vision to the thermal temperature reading. Lane is a blue flame, the way I am a blue flame and anyone else with NRD. But John Jones isn’t the red-orange-yellow of a live one, but a fading green to gray.

  “Shit.” I pull myself into the window, falling into the cab rather clumsily and landing on poor John Jones.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Move back.”

  Lane, though clearly angry, does move back. “Be my guest.”

  I ignore his tone. He’s as unhappy about rolling around in a van as I am, and he’s just spent the last few minutes trying to save someone without being able to. I try to be compassionate but the best I can manage is indifference to his attitude.

  I open John’s bloody shirt and the image of my own destroyed clothes thrown back in my face is clear—closer than you think.

  I push the thoughts back and focus. Here, Jess. Be here now.

  I put my hands on his chest, rubbing his chest as if the friction could warm him.

  A hot-cold chill settles into my muscles and coils around my navel and spine as I push my own flame further into Jones. I try to focus despite the raucous of the overturned animals. Something is getting eaten back there, or trying not to be. I try to block that out too.

  And John Jones warms to my touch as I push that electric part of me through him with urgency, aware I’m running out of time. There—a spark where our flames dance around each other. Against the line showing the division, I push hard. That electric part of me, the one that destroys electronics and makes owning Williams-Sonoma kitchen stuff impossible, is there. I call on it.

  Jones’ chest jerks as if I’ve placed a paddle on his chest. But it isn’t enough. I try harder. I think about the little girl’s look of disgust again. Of the mother’s horror. Of the brick through the window, and my pug shaking with bristled fur against my legs.

  And I pulse again.

  I think of Ally, trying to leave me for some new girl. Ally my best friend in the whole world, who stays up late with me to watch bad television, the Ally who makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches ever and can’t tell a good joke to save her life because she over explains everything and starts laughing so hard she can’t finish it anyway. The Ally who instinctively knows if I need coffee, ice cream, or chocolate just by looking at me.

  Pulse.

  Jesse. I hear my name soft as if carried on a breeze.

  Pulse.

  Jesse. He says again but I’m terrified to look up. I know exactly what—who—I’ll see.

  Tears sting the corner of my eyes and Jones’ chest rises. He gasps for air like gasoline thrown on the blaze. That green grey flame inside him burns bright orange, tinged with red. Lane’s voice can barely be heard over the stridency of the animal screams. “Are you crying?”

  I shrug off what I assume is his soft hand on my shoulder. I want to remind him emergency crews must be called, hospital arrangements made. The other driver has to be checked on, the crowd controlled. I have a moment to miss Ally and how she handles these situations so thoroughly. She makes it so easy for me to just fall because I know she will catch me.

  But only a moment before I feel him. Terribly close.

  I look up.

  There outside the car, in all his black-winged glory is Gabriel. And I swear I can feel him wrap those wings around me as I fall back into the darkness of Jones’ death.

  Ally

  I’m running through the hospital. It’s hard to do in the traffic of wheelchairs, nurses escorting patients and the slow shuffle of the ill. But I keep moving deeper and deeper into the building until I reach the intensive care ward.

  Lane texted me room 203 and I’m counting down. 211, 209, 207, 205 on each square plate beside the dark doors.

  203. I screech to a halt, my wet boots squeal against the tile. I rush into the room and Lane’s head snaps up. He’s sitting beside the bed, holding her hand. Someone has already cleaned Jesse up and put her into a hospital gown.

  “Ally,” he says. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s relieved to see me. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t know what—”

  “Has Kirk been called?” I ask.

  “No,” he admits. The appreciation in his smile dims. “I didn’t think to call him.”

  I call the funeral home immediately and tell Kirk what’s happened. I ask him to come as soon as he can. But I am not done with Lane.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “She was just supervising my replacement,” he says. “I tried but—.”

  “So, it should be you in the bed?”

  His jaw clenches. “I tried, I really did. He wouldn’t—accept me or whatever.”

  “Accept you? It isn’t a dinner invitation.”

  He closes his mouth and again I see the line of his jaw tense.

  My voice rises. “You couldn’t do it yourself, so she’s just supposed to come in and fix everything? She’s just supposed to wave her magic wand and make it all better?”

  The room blurs with my anger. I feel I am yelling at Jeremiah who isn’t even here. Lane stands from the chair and walks past me.

  “Hey,” I call after him. “Hey!”

  He turns slowly back and for the first time I get a good look at him. Tall, hair even darker than Jesse’s and really blue eyes.

  His anger is apparent in the deep crease of his brow. “You won’t let me tell you what happened and you aren’t a death-replacement agent. Don’t act like you understand.”

  “I’ve accompanied her to every replacement for the last three years and you can count on one hand how many times you’ve watched her die.”

  His ears are bright red. “I wouldn’t have asked her to come if I thought she’d get hurt.”

  I see blood on his shirt. “Is that hers or yours?” I’m losing control again. Breathe Ally. Breathe.

  Lane opens his mouth to say something only to close his mouth again. The jaw clenches, unclenches, clenches. Then he turns and walks out of the room altogether.

  A moment passes. Then another. And another, but he doesn’t come back.

  I flop into the chair and try my breathing techniques again. I’ve been using them a lot today.

  When I open my eyes I see the dark purple bruise on the side of Jesse’s head. It’s puffy around a deep cut that’s healing.

  I close my eyes and try to calm down. I haven’t felt this out of control in a while. What is wrong with me? I even forgot to ask Lane how the death occurred so I could look up her D.T.

  A soft knock comes at the door.

  I tense instantly until I realize it isn’t Lane. Kirk bends just enough to clear the doorway and enters, carrying his black case. He doesn’t look too happy himself. Maybe this is just a terrible day for everyone.

  “As soon as the doctor gives the OK, you can take her to Mt. Olivet’s,” I say. I sound tired, my voice thick as if I just woke up.

  Kirk stops just short of the bed. He looks like he has something in his mouth.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I can’t take her back with me,” he says
. His voice is deep, booming over the silence of the room. Even the monitors are silent because Jesse has no vitals to record yet.

  “Why?”

  He shifts his weight uncomfortably and rests his black bag at the end of the bed in the space between Jesse’s cold feet and the footboard.

  “I don’t think she’s safe there,” he says.

  “Why?” God, I sound like a broken record. I’m shaken. I wasn’t expecting this replacement and yet here I am. I need to be at home thinking, figuring out what I’m going to do about Jeremiah, Regina and Julia—if anything. I can’t think when Jesse is in danger.

  “First it was a shoe,” he says. “I wasn’t even sure it was stolen, you know how she is with shoes. But then her shirt went missing too and I distinctly remembered putting it aside.”

  “Do you have an idea who it might be?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. The halo of fluorescent light overhead gives him the appearance of a repentant saint. “And that is why I can’t bring her to Olivet’s anymore.”

  I can’t say I blame him. The vandalism to Jesse’s house has increased this year, ever since her identity was released during last year’s attack. If he thinks his funeral home isn’t safe anymore, it probably isn’t.

  “Please don’t tell her,” he says. He sits beside me, dwarfing the little chair. “I don’t want her to know I’ve let this happen.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” I tell him. I put a hand on his. It makes me look so small and pale in comparison.

  “I just want her to feel safe,” Kirk says. He’s watching Jesse, waiting for her to come back as if we could will it ourselves.

  “I know,” I say. “Me too.”

  Regina is clean and presentable when I pick her up outside her sister’s house in Brentwood. The remnants of blood have been washed from her hair and face and only a small Band-Aid appears on her left cheek. She wears her hair down to cover the purple-black bruise just above her temple.

  She clutches her camisole over her flowery dress with a clasped hand as we slip through the gate protecting her home from the street. Her arms are little more than pale little sticks extending from her shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” I ask as I press the doorbell. A prim chime can be heard resonating inside.

  She nods.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. I haven’t agreed to bring Jeremiah in on this yet. I stayed up all night analyzing the hell out of my problems but I didn’t come to any conclusion that would allow me or Jesse to get out of this unscathed.

  She gives me a small smile and it surprises me. “I got a call this morning. Julia says she is fine. That she’s having fun with Uncle Cal.”

  She clutches herself harder as if it hurts to mention Caldwell. Maybe we are not the only ones afraid of him.

  “At least we know where she is,” I say, trying to comfort her. I touch her shoulder blades through her pink camisole for the briefest of moments. “We have that much to go off of.”

  When no one comes to the door, I knock harder.

  “Maybe he’s already left,” she says sheepishly.

  I try the handle and the door opens. Regina starts to protest about entering her own home but I walk in before she can formulate an argument. Gerard is on the first floor, sitting behind maplewood desk, pen in hand. I can see the kitchen beyond him and behind that the sliding glass door leading to the yard where the birthday party took place.

  “Who are you?” he asks. His gaze fixes on me without so much as a cursory glance at his wife. When

  I don’t answer he turns on her. “Who the hell did you

  bring into my house?”

  The “my” irks me. “Alice Gallagher. I’m Jesse Sullivan’s personal assistant. I’m responding to a complaint that you were not satisfied with the services rendered here.”

  His face burns bright red. The red that is common only in men with histories of high blood pressure. A flustered red. “Get out of my house.”

  Instead I come closer. “If you are unhappy with our services, we are required by law to offer compensation. Can you please describe the nature of your dissatisfaction?” and here is where I let my professional tone slip. “Perhaps you are dissatisfied by the outcome?”

  His attempt at imaginary bill pay isn’t working. His fat fingers bulge around a thick gold wedding band and a pinkie ring bearing a crest I don’t recognize. He looks up.

  Regina breaks in before her husband can answer. Her voice is too high, hysterical and I wished I’d made her stay in the car. A shrill voice like that is bound to torment even the most cooperative of ears. “That tree would have killed her!”

  “There wasn’t a scratch on her,” his voice rising to match hers. He stands and the chair scrapes back.

  I try to redirect the conversation. That’s easier than pulling them apart if they decide to go at it. “Ms.

  Sullivan is responsible for your daughter’s condition.

  You can thank her personally, if you like.”

  “If I ever see her, thanking her will be the last thing I do,” he growls and now he turns those dark eyes on me. He comes around the desk but I’d rather have his attention on me than Regina. I’m not sure what I can or would do if this devolves into a domestic dispute. “She put everything I spent my entire life working for in jeopardy. I’ve proved my loyalty to this organization over and over, and now because of what you did—” He jabs a dramatic finger at Regina. “And she did. I’m being called in for questions.”

  I fight to keep a clear head despite his aggressive posturing and tone. The exhaustion from the last few days of chaos is heavy on my shoulders and having a man yell in my face is not helping. When I told Jess I needed a few days to get my head together, I wasn’t lying. So what was I doing here? Maybe Nikki was right. Maybe I really am a workaholic.

  “You did nothing wrong, Mr. Lovett.” I try to say it with genuine feeling and concern despite what I think of him. “Your wife only wanted to save your daughter’s life.”

  “He doesn’t believe we have faith,” he says. His voice drops but his eyes are wide and feral. I don’t want to be so close to him but I don’t take a step back either.

  “Will you still have your faith when he kills your daughter?” I make my voice a low warning growl much like his own. I can play the body language game too.

  Regina lets out a shriek of terror but covers it.

  “Get out of my house,” he hisses.

  I don’t move. “Eve Hildebrand had a daughter. Surely you saw that on the news. You know what happened to the little girl?”

  I wait for him to defend Caldwell, to defend his honor but he doesn’t

  “You’re lying,” he finally says but no heat returns to his voice.

  “This is public knowledge. You can find Eve’s testimony and charges in public records. Do the research yourself.” When he seems to consider this I add. “I believe Caldwell is going to use your daughter to manipulate you like he manipulated Eve. And he will kill her anyway once he gets what he wants.”

  “That’s preposterous,” he says. “If I can just talk to him—”

  “He’ll be too busy punishing you for imaginary crimes to listen,” I argue, and for the first time Gerard’s face pales.

  “Please,” Regina whispers and she reaches hands out toward her husband. He lets her take his hands into hers. “Please, Gerry.”

  “I will go to Chicago as he has asked. I will talk to

  him and bring Julia home.”

  “What makes you think he’ll let you?”

  “I’ll only say this once more, get out of my house,” Gerard says. He pushes me back and I’m forced to take a step or fall.

  “Gerry, stop this!”

  He pushes me again closer to the door. “You’ve done enough.”

  I think about hurting him. I think about the aikido I’ve learned and know I could hurt him, but I don’t. I won’t stoop to his level.

  Frustrated I storm out of the house and go back to my car. If they don’t want h
elp I can’t force it on them. And maybe Jesse will be better off without us getting involved in anything else. What I really wanted to confirm here was that there would be no repercussions for Jesse’s theft. No authorities. But it seems Gerard wants to keep it as much a secret as Jesse does. This is a relief and a lucky strike for Brinkley, who’s next in line to get a piece of my mind.

  I don’t even make it to my car before the sound of Regina’s heels click after me down the driveway. I turn to see her clutching the cardigan.

  “Wait, wait,” she pleads. Her bone-thin hands clutch mine. “Please help us. You must know people, doing the kind of work you do.”

  “Your husband doesn’t want my help,” I say.

  “I do,” she says in her thick drawl. Her grip tightens and her red-rimmed eyes clamp on mine. “I do.”

  And here it is. My choice. Do I help her? I can’t find anything out on my own. I simply don’t have enough information or even access to information. I could ask Jesse directly, but I want her out of danger, not in it. And anything with Caldwell is bad news. I can’t ask Gloria because she is overworked and I don’t have contact information for Brinkley.

  That leaves Jeremiah and Nikki.

  “I know someone,” I say and pull my hands free of hers. “But I don’t know if he can help you.”

  “Thank you,” she says. Tears well in the corners of her eyes and it’s almost too much for me to bear. “Thank you so much, Alice. Please call me the moment you hear something. Day or night.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” I say, chest burning. I failed to save the little girl last time.

  Jesse

  As soon as I stiffly climb the stairs to my bedroom and push open the door, I find another small yellow and orange suction dart stuck to the window. I wiggle the bugger free and unfold the message.

  Diner at midnight.

  Midnight is only 3 hours away. I think about sleeping but change my mind. My bed seems impossibly large and cold without a cuddle partner. And it isn’t like I have someone to call. Ally’s jumped ship and Lane is probably still mad at me.