Scry Me A River: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (Blood Visions Paranormal Mysteries Book 2)

by Donna White Glaser

  After Alan gave the all clear, Arie scooted down the hall to poor sleeping Marty Kowalewsky, who had no clue that his newly wheeled and probably very expensive wheelchair was about to be heisted.

  On the positive side, Marty was the quietest sleeper Arie had yet to come across, and he certainly didn't appear about to wake up.

  That was good because Arie almost dumped his snazzy chair on its side when she forgot to disengage the brakes. As she bent over the chair, her ears picked up a steadily louder squeak-squeak-squeak heading down the hall. With a gasp, she bounded to the bathroom but slammed to a halt. What if the squeaky nurse needed to check the bathroom for some reason? Instead, Arie detoured to the tiny three-foot-wide closet and squished herself in. The thin plywood door wouldn't shut all the way, so she held it closed with one finger. She was panting so hard she was afraid she would use up all the oxygen and be found asphyxiated the next morning when poor Marty Kowalewsky needed a new shirt.

  The squeaky shoes stopped well before Marty's room, however. Arie heard the low murmur of two people—one male, one female. Their voices grew more muffled as they apparently went into a bedroom—not Grumpa's, though. They were at the wrong end of the hall for that. After a few minutes, the voices grew clearer and seemed to be moving down the hall again. As far as Arie could tell, they weren't going into every room, but she suspected that Grumpa’s, because he was a new intake, would be one of them. Would Marty's?

  Arie struggled to control her breathing as both squeaking and voices drew closer and closer.

  "…on earth is she coming in?" said the male. "She doesn't even like working on this side. She can't stand to get her hands dirty."

  Their voices seemed to be right outside Marty's room. Arie held her breath.

  "Who knows? She says she wants to make sure the new admit gets settled in," said the female. "Doesn't make any sense, though. I told her he was sedated."

  They seemed to move away, farther down the hall toward Grumpa and Alan.

  "Why? Is he gonna be a problem child?"

  They both laughed.

  "I don't know. He was fine at first, but then—"

  Their voices grew muffled again as they entered one of the rooms between Marty's and Grumpa's.

  Oh crud. They had to be talking about Grumpa, which meant they would surely check in on him. Arie didn't think Alan could fold his lanky, brittle frame into the closet.

  Arie heard the nurses leave the room, then a loud, high-pitched beeping tone sounded—two, actually.

  "Who is it?" the male said.

  "Merilee Adams," the other nurse said. "Crap, I hope she didn't take another tumble. I don't need a busted-up hip right before I'm supposed to get out of here."

  Arie heard them hurrying down the hall toward the desk, the squeaky shoe rapidly receding until it disappeared altogether. She jumped out of the closet, grabbed the wheelchair, and took off at a run down the hall to Grumpa's room. Alan held the door open, and she scooted past, running over his foot in the process.

  "Ow!"

  "Shh! They'll hear you."

  Alan stood like a flamingo, rubbing his injured foot. "Don't be stupid. Everyone's going to be down helping Merilee with her heart attack." He let go of his foot and twitched air quotes over the last two words.

  Arie gasped. "Merilee's having a heart attack?"

  "Did you not see me make the quote signs? Of course she isn't having a heart attack. But when Sam and Kelly started coming this way, I almost did. And that kind of aerobic activity isn't good at my age. I could have died."

  He didn't know how close to dying he still was because Arie wanted to kill him.

  "What happened to 'Oh, no problem. Don't worry. You've got twenty minutes, easy'?" she asked.

  "We don't have time for this. Merilee isn't that good of an actress. Let's get Harlan rolling."

  Alan was right. Killing him would have to wait.

  "Has he woken up at all?" Arie asked as she hurried to Grumpa's bedside.

  "No, but he let loose a fart that could have dropped a rhino. Sounded like a shotgun. And the smell? Ooh, don't get me started."

  "I won't." Arie fastened the brakes on the wheelchair then stood, trying to figure out how to transfer her unconscious grandfather from bed to chair.

  "Just grab him. Come on! He won't feel anything till tomorrow."

  Okay, let's do this. Arie grabbed Grumpa under the armpits and aimed his body toward the wheelchair. "Get his legs."

  Grumpa started sliding. His body, entirely limp, gave her very few places to get a grip. She wrapped her arms around his skinny chest and hauled him backward. She kicked the chair, and it rolled sideways. Dang! Must have forgotten to set both brakes.

  "Alan, get his legs, huh?" Arie managed to slide Grumpa's upper half onto the wheelchair, but his legs were still half in, half out of the bed, bridging the distance between it and the chair. "Alan! His legs!"

  One leg fell off the bed and hit the floor with a thud. Grumpa's arms were sticking up in a Y over Arie's head and flopping aimlessly. He started slipping out of her grip again, so she hoisted him up with a jerk and tried to resettle him in her arms. She had three-quarters of him half slid onto the wheelchair.

  "Alan, can you... Can you just...?" He was slipping again. Cursing silently in her head, Arie gave one last desperate heave, and her grandfather settled into the wheelchair, scrawny butt where it was supposed to be and most of his appendages in the right spots too. True, one leg had hooked over the armrest, and he was slumped sideways, curled over on himself. One bump of the chair would probably send him slithering to the floor.

  Arie hung onto the chair holds, breath heaving and her back singing with pain, but she'd done it. She was saving Grumpa.

  He farted.

  Ugh. Arie straightened and turned her nastiest glower on Alan, trying to incinerate him with her eyes. He was sitting in a side chair, still rubbing his sore foot.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Why. Didn't. You. Help. Me?" Each word had to squeeze past gritted teeth, making it sound as if she'd chewed them into tiny pieces before speaking them.

  He flapped a hand at her. "What? Why? You did fine." He stood. "Are you ready? We need to go."

  For the first time, Arie wondered if saving Grumpa was her first priority, because killing Alan might just have taken the lead. It just...

  Alan snapped his fingers. "Wake up, would you? This isn't the time to be all wishy-washy."

  ...might...

  "You act like we have all night. Let's go, princess." Alan headed for the door.

  ...have.

  Grumpa snorted in his sleep, and Arie pulled herself together. If nothing else, Alan was right again. It was way past time to get out of there, especially if Jane was coming in to check on her "new admit." She pulled Grumpa into a seated position and rolled him toward the door.

  At least they didn't have far to go.

  "Almost there, Grumpa. Almost there."

  He farted.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  After the difficulties of getting the old man in the wheelchair, rolling Grumpa down the hall was like sliding on ice. Alan had picked up her shoes and was holding the door to the rec center open. Arie breezed past then slammed to a halt. She'd forgotten how dark that side was. Alan caught up and handed Arie her shoes, which she slipped back on.

  "Let me go first," he said. "I know this place like the back of my hand."

  Apparently, the back of Alan's hand was less familiar to him than he thought. He ended up using his quad cane as a blind man would, sweeping it back and forth in front of him as he made his way across the hall. Their pace was considerably slower than when Arie had made the trek, but with Alan clearing the way, there was far less bumping into things—for her, anyway. She hated to admit it, and certainly wouldn't do so out loud, but having Alan along was definitely helpful.

  About halfway across the seemingly endless room, Grumpa began to stir. He would lift his head, only to have it flop down again, but he kept tr
ying. His hands started twitching, too.

  "Grumpa? Can you hear me? You need to wake up."

  He snorted at the sound of her voice, and his legs gave such a jerk that he almost fell out of the chair.

  "Grumpa, wake up. We have to—"

  The window!

  Arie had forgotten about the window. Even with Alan's help, she didn’t know how she was going to get Grumpa through that window. They were nearly to the short hallway that led to the break room, the offices, and thank goodness, the library just beyond. Arie shook Grumpa's shoulder in earnest. He had to wake up. However, with only one of her hands pushing the chair, it skewed sideways, and she ran Grumpa right into a table. The chairs that had been stacked on top clattered to the floor with an awful crash.

  Alan spun around. "What the heck are you doing? Are you trying to get us caught?"

  "Wha? Wha' hap'nin'? Wha' goin' on?" Grumpa flailed his arms and legs helplessly.

  "Never mind. Just go," Arie said to Alan. She leaned down to Grumpa and said in his ear, "Grumpa, you have to wake up. We have to get you out of here."

  They got rolling again, only having a little trouble when Arie got the wheelchair hung up on the library's doorframe. From the front, Alan gave a hard jerk on the wheels, and they shot inside. As Arie caught her breath, she could hear Alan stumbling around the room.

  "What are you doing?" she hissed.

  In answer, a small lamp on the table next to the ready armchair flicked on.

  "Turn that off! Are you crazy?"

  "If they didn't hear that god-awful noise you made with the chairs, they aren't going to see a little light."

  Whether the light would alert anybody or not, it was at least serving to rouse Grumpa. He was rubbing his eyes and smacking his lips.

  Oh fudge! Arie had forgotten his dentures back in his room. Well, there was no going back for them then. Once everything got sorted out, he'd get his teeth back. Hopefully. Right then, they had other problems.

  "Okay, Alan. Why don't you scoot through the window, and I'll help Grumpa—"

  "Oh, hold up." Alan braced his hands on his hips. "This old man doesn't 'scoot' through anything. My scooting days are long past."

  Arie's hands went to her own hips. "There's no other way we’re going to get Grumpa through that window. Unless you want me to go first. Then you can stay here, lift him up, and thread him through the opening."

  Grumpa swayed in the wheelchair. He gripped the armrests as if to rise. "Stop it. No one's helping me," he said. However, since he was still woozy and dentureless, it sounded more like, "Thtop it. No oneth he'pinme."

  Arie put a restraining hand on Grumpa's shoulder. "Just wait a minute. We have to get Alan through the window first. Then he can catch you."

  "Catch him?" Alan said. "Have your bats deserted your belfry? There's no way—"

  "Alan! Either help me get him through the window, or go back to your room. We don't have time for this. Besides, are you saying Bernie and all those women could get through here and you won't even try?"

  Alan's head reared back. With a dark scowl, he pulled and tugged at an armchair until it slid across the room and under the window. Very gingerly, he stood on the seat then pulled the top of his long body through the window. With a move that showed far better dexterity than Arie had managed, he twisted his legs through the frame and lowered himself to the stool beneath.

  Arie sighed. Now for the hard part...

  "Okay, Grumpa. It's showtime."

  Arie grabbed the old man under the arms and pulled him up. Grabbing onto her shoulders for balance, he managed to stand upright. His knees buckled once, but then he managed to support himself—kind of. He still had to hold on to Arie, and she wasn't sure how he was going to manage the soft cushions of the armchair he'd have to stand on to reach the window, not to mention getting through the window and safely to the ground below.

  Alan stuck his head through the window. "Hey, Harlan! Look at you. Back in the land of the living, huh?"

  "Mmmfff..."

  Arie helped Grumpa over to the window. She patted the cushion on the seat of the armchair. "Okay, Grumpa. Here we go. You need to climb up to that window."

  Grumpa looked up at Alan then down at the chair then back up at Alan. "Are you inthane?"

  Alan reached a hand down. "Come on, Harlan. Let's get you home."

  "Thith ith crathy," Grumpa said, but he lifted a foot up onto the cushion and grabbed Alan's outstretched hand. Arie got behind and pushed on Grumpa's bony butt. Alan pulled, Arie pushed, and Grumpa farted.

  "Oh my gosh, Grumpa. Really?"

  "Eggth for breakfatht," he said.

  Arie gave a mighty heave and shoved the old man halfway through the window. He was hanging half in and half out when the door to the library slammed open. Arie screamed and spun around.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Viv was standing in the doorway. Merilee must have filled her in. She wore bubblegum-pink pajamas with multicolored peace signs sprinkled across the fabric, and her hair was up in curlers. The elderly lady was obviously upset about Grumpa's unorthodox departure, but if she made a fuss, she could ruin everything.

  Striving for an element of calm in her voice, Arie said, "Viv, it's okay. Why don't you—"

  Viv shot across the tiny room and tackled her. They fell against the armchair, Arie on the bottom. Arie screamed again. Viv had her by the hair with one hand and was punching her with the other. Arie yelled, "Stop! Ow! Stop it!" Grumpa's feet paddled wildly in the air above their heads. Arie felt his foot whiz by her ear and then heard a crunch. Something warm and sticky spattered across her face. She knew blood when she felt it. She shoved hard, and Viv fell off. The older woman was holding her nose, blood running from under her palm.

  Score one for Grumpa's flailing foot!

  Arie scrambled to her feet, and the two stood panting, staring at each other to see who would make the next move.

  "You're not going to get away with this," Arie gasped.

  "I'm not the one trying to get away." Viv smiled.

  Arie almost vomited at the amount of straight-up crazy in the woman's eyes.

  "Just a few loose ends to tie up, and then I'm back on track." On the last word, she dove forward and grabbed one of Grumpa's still-flailing legs.

  "You let him go," Arie growled. She jumped on Viv, and the two women went down again. They thrashed around on the floor, a flurry of screaming, kicking, scratching, punching, hair pulling, and eye gouging. Above their heads, Grumpa still dangled in the window—a groggy geriatric teeter-totter. Alan had him by the shoulders and was trying to ease him through the frame. They both jumped as Arie let out a screech. Viv had her teeth buried in Arie's forearm. Arie hauled off and punched the old woman in her already broken nose, which proved highly effective. Viv rolled to her feet and backed up to the door. Arie jumped up and prepared herself for another attack. Viv's feral gaze shifted up to the two elderly men still struggling to get Grumpa through the window without him falling on his head. She smiled again then slipped out of the door and out of Arie's sight.

  Arie's chest heaved, and she again felt like throwing up. She couldn't believe Viv had given up. But had she?

  Of course she hadn't. She was either going for a weapon or heading outside to attack Alan and Grumpa, both vulnerable. Arie had to get out there. The only way that was going to happen was if Grumpa went first.

  Headfirst, as it happened—but Arie tried to slow his descent by hanging on to his pajama bottoms and easing him down into Alan's waiting arms. The plan worked for three exhilarating seconds... then Grumpa slid out of his pajama bottoms and crashed onto Alan, taking them and the stepstool to the ground in a clatter of clanging metal and breaking branches.

  Please God, don't let me have just broken my Grumpa's neck.

  Arie stuffed herself through the window and lowered herself to the ground, which she accomplished by also falling.

  She leaped to her feet. "Grumpa, are you okay?"

  "Of course he's ok
ay," Alan said. "He landed on something soft. Me!"

  Arie helped Alan up, then they both hauled Grumpa to his feet. On the positive side, he was more alert. On the negative, he was cradling his left arm, tears of pain running down his face, and he'd lost his pajama pants.

  "Grumpa, you're hurt."

  "No time for that," Alan said. "We have to get out of here before that whack job comes looking for us."

  None of them was in any shape to run, but they managed a hobbling sort of shuffle across the lawn to the parking lot.

  "Where's your car?" Alan asked. He was wheezing and having a hard time catching his breath.

  "A couple blocks up. I didn't want to park too close."

  "Oh, of course not. Why would you want to do that?"

  Arie opened her mouth to answer, when some primal alarm system, perhaps fine-tuned after having been mugged, alerted her to danger, and she spun around.

  Viv. And she had a knife.

  Arie really wished she would stop smiling like that. Blood covered the lower half of the woman's face and circled her neck like a collar. Arie moved to stand between Viv and the two old men. "Just... stop this. It's over. You can't kill all of us, and that's what you have to do to get away with all this."

  As she spoke, she dug her keys out of her pocket and held them behind her back. One of the men plucked them from her hand. It must've been Alan because, in place of the keys, she felt the chill of a metal cylinder and pulled his cane out from behind her back to hold in front of herself. The men eased away, their steps erratic and shuffling.

  Good. Get to the car.

  Viv wasn't having any of it, though. With a screech, she flung herself at Arie, blade out. Arie swung the cane and connected with her wrist with a solid, satisfying crack reminiscent of Arie's high-school softball games. She'd always liked that particular sound.

  Viv didn't appear to appreciate the sound as much as Arie did. The knife went sailing, landing in the shrubs on the edge of the sidewalk. Viv fell to her knees, clutching her wrist and keening. Arie liked the sound of the keening, too.