Muffled Echoes

by G. K. Parks

  She looked thoroughly confused and rather wary. “I’m sorry. Access like that is kept under lock and key, and unless you can provide the CI’s name or alias, there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Thanks, anyway.”

  Feeling dejected, I returned to the car. A few plainclothes officers were standing nearby, smoking and examining my ride. One of them snuffed out the butt and sauntered over.

  “Nice wheels,” he said. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, noticing my bruises and scrapes. “Did someone do that to you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Did you file a report?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know who did it.” I unlocked the door and tried to step past him. “I was hoping to make some progress, but I hit another dead end.”

  He stood in front of me, continuing to push the issue. “What’s your name? I’d be happy to look into it.”

  “Here,” I pulled out one of my cards and handed it to him, “ask your pals if anyone remembers speaking to me. We were collaborating on a case. If something surfaces, I’d appreciate a call.”

  He read my name. “That’s a fancy ride for a fed. I didn’t realize you were paid that well.” His tone had gone from concerned flirtation to cold and arrogant. “Guess that’s why you came to ask the real cops for help.”

  “You got me,” I said sarcastically. “You know we can’t find our asses with both hands and a map.”

  He snorted, stepping to the side. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured.” I got into the car. “Have a nice night.” I closed the door and put the key in. With any luck, Officer Arrogant would ask around or, at the very least, retell the story to his buddies. Maybe my name would ring a bell with one of them.

  Eleven

  By the time I got home, Martin was back from work. Confused by this turn of events, I gave him an odd look and took a seat across from him at the kitchen table. He was on the phone, taking notes and otherwise wrapped up in some ongoing corporate crisis. Sometimes, I wondered why I’d been so unhappy in the private sector. Things were safer, and the pay was better. Unfortunately, I hated it. I never learned how to do things the easy way; although, from Martin’s half of the conversation, he’d disagree on business being easy.

  “Thanks, I’ll get on that,” Martin said. He hung up the phone and leaned back in the chair. “This is fucking bullshit.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He looked up, as if he hadn’t noticed my presence until now. “Hey,” he smiled, “you’re here. Are you staying?”

  “I made a promise, didn’t I?”

  “Not that I remember.” He dropped the pen and scratched at his stubble. “Was I supposed to shave?”

  “I like you either way, handsome.”

  His eyes danced, enjoying the compliment. “Why are you being so nice? Did you scratch the car?”

  “No,” I shrugged, “but those douche bag cops might have drooled on it.” I shook my head before he could ask a follow-up question. “Aren’t you working nights?”

  “Days, nights, nonstop. Frankly, it’s hard to tell at this point.” He glanced down at the legal pad. “This is a shitstorm, but the evaluation of the international offices concludes tonight. Luc’s handling the Paris branch for obvious reasons.”

  “Sure, your VP ran that place. He knows how to get things done, but isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “Don’t you start, too.” He glared at the paper. “Luc isn’t the problem. Francesca’s the problem.”

  “Bitch.”

  Martin grinned. “You’ve been dying to say that.”

  “Well, it’s true.” I yawned and put my head on top of my arms.

  “How are you? We haven’t really had much chance to talk.”

  “It’s been a long day.” I didn’t want to have another conversation about what I couldn’t remember. I’d been going over it all day. I didn’t have it in me to do it again. “I’m home. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Do you want to go to bed?” It was early, but he knew I was beat.

  “Are you trying to seduce me?” I teased.

  He smirked, running his fingers through my long brown hair. “Sweetheart, if I was, you wouldn’t be asking. You might be begging.”

  “Cocky bastard.”

  “Come on,” he gently nudged my arm, “you need your rest. The sooner you recover, the sooner I can seduce you.”

  * * *

  My eyelids felt heavy. I wanted to sleep, but something told me I shouldn’t. I had to keep my eyes open. I had to focus on what was important. I blinked a couple of times, but it was getting harder and harder to force my eyes to remain open. The room was bathed in a red glow, and I stared down at the tile floor. Something felt wrong.

  “Martin?” I called, but there was no answer.

  I moved deeper into the room, noting the sink and a drain in the floor. The red glow was coming from a light in the upper corner of the room. When did he get that? I wondered, continuing my search. The sound of metal scraping caused me to pause. I tried to turn, feeling dizzy and faint. Hold it together, Parker, my internal voice warned.

  Gruff male voices echoed against the hard surfaces, and my eyes shot upward. Anger and annoyance were being conveyed by a demanding voice, but I couldn’t make out the words. I forced my eyes to lift upward. My vision was blurry, but I made out a gloved hand and a gun. My gun.

  “No,” I screamed, struggling to move. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I was being restrained. I twisted and turned, tugging and pulling to get free. I had to stop the gun from firing.

  For a brief moment, my vision focused on a man, helpless and bound. He let out a pitiful scream, muffled by a gag. Clawing to get free, I threw everything I had into knocking the gun from the shooter’s hand. Somehow, I got a hand free, and I grabbed for the gun. Bang, bang. The weapon discharged twice, and I was backhanded so hard that my head knocked into the countertop. Before I blacked out, I heard another shot and saw blood trickle toward the drain.

  Waking with a start, I looked down. I was covered in blood. My hand and cast were red, and I shoved the covers aside, finding my clothing soaked in the coppery stickiness. Turning to the side, I was alone in bed.

  “Martin,” I screamed. “Martin?” Leaping out of bed, I tripped over the tangled covers, landing hard, but I was only down for a second before dragging myself off the ground and racing into the attached bathroom, terrified of what I would find. “Martin.” I kept calling his name, flipping on the light with a shaking hand. The only thought in my mind was he was dead.

  The bathroom appeared empty, but some areas were obscured from view. Cautiously, I continued moving forward while my mind considered the possibilities of a shooter being present. The room was clear, and in a brief moment of clarity, I realized it had been a dream. That calm was shattered when the reality of my blood-drenched hands crashed through my forethoughts. Oh my god, I killed him.

  The sound of rushed footfalls sounded behind me, and I spun, slipping on the floor and landing in a heap. Someone was here.

  “Alex,” Martin burst through the door, and I dug my heels into the tile, pushing myself backward, “sweetheart, I’m here.” He looked about as terrified as I felt. “Hang on, we’ll get help. You’ll be okay.” He moved toward me, but I continued to scoot backward, studying every aspect of him.

  “Are you okay?” I choked out.

  “Yeah,” he looked confused and frightened, “but you’re not. Let me help you.”

  “Don’t touch me,” I snapped, seeing the fear grow on his face. “Oh, god.” I continued scrambling backward as far from him as possible, stopping only when my back hit the shower door.

  “Okay,” he held up his hands, “I won’t touch you.” He leaned back on his haunches, keeping his distance. “Sweetheart, you’re scaring me.” That much was apparent by the l
ook on his face. “Talk to me. How did this happen?”

  “I thought,” I fought to steady my voice, “I thought someone shot you.”

  “Nightmares,” he said, nodding. His eyes continued to search my face. “It was just a bad dream.” His gaze settled on my bloody hands and shirt. “That’s a lot of blood.”

  I shook my head, gazing down at my trembling hands. It was a dream. A part of me knew it, but waking up to the blood, I thought I had killed him. It was my gun that was fired. Where did the blood come from? Why was I covered in blood?

  “Whose blood is it?” I squeaked. My world had been turned upside down far too much for anything to make sense. “Did I do this? Did I kill someone?”

  “Alex,” he scooted closer, “it was a dream. You must have ripped a stitch or something.”

  “Stay back,” I insisted, feeling the panic rise. I was a monster. A killer. I’d taken lives, two in this house alone. After tonight, I was certain that number was higher. “You weren’t in bed. I thought…” I couldn’t say anything else.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep. I went downstairs to get some work done. Had I known this would happen, I never would have left you.” He watched as I pulled my legs to my chest and hugged my knees. “Please, you need help.” That was the understatement of the century. “You’re bleeding,” he said patiently, nodding at my side.

  “Just give me a minute,” I said, fighting to process the irrational fear and incongruent thoughts that my mind kept supplying. “Just leave me alone.”

  He sat back, leaning against the vanity. Reaching over, he flipped the switch for the towel warmer but remained on the floor across from me. I don’t know how long it took before my breathing stabilized or he decided it was safe to attempt to approach me again, but at some point, he doused a washcloth with water and eased his way over to me.

  Wiping the blood off my hands and chest, he resisted the urge to lift my shirt which was still slightly wet and stuck to my skin. Instead, he rinsed the washcloth again and gently ran it against my neck and face.

  “Alex,” he whispered, watching as I continued to tremble, “talk to me.”

  “I thought I killed you. When I realized it was a dream, I thought I shot you.”

  “Sweetheart, let’s get off this floor and get you checked out.”

  “No.” It was the middle of the night, and in my sleep deprived state, I was paranoid that any sane medical staffer would have me committed. The scariest part was I figured I deserved it. “There’s something wrong with me.”

  “You’ll be okay.” His voice was soft and soothing. “You must have been thrashing about like you normally do, and you probably ripped open your side.” The way he said those words convinced me he wasn’t actually feeling as calm as he was pretending to be.

  Shaking my head, I curled up on the floor, and he scooted closer, lifting my head onto his thigh. He was safe, and that was enough. Other than that, I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to face reality because I was afraid that I no longer had any idea what that was. Reaching for the warmed bath towel, Martin took it from the rack and draped it over me. Then the two of us remained on the bathroom floor for the next few hours.

  I must have dozed off at some point because when “Bruiser” Jones, Martin’s bodyguard, entered the bathroom, I almost jumped out of my skin. Bruiser had his gun drawn, but he tucked it away with one look from Martin.

  “Jones, tell Marcal I need to speak to him,” Martin said, “and wait for me in the bedroom.”

  I sat up, stiff and sore. Until now, I’d been numb. The physical pain was a relief. It was a tether to reality, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I hadn’t had a complete psychotic break a few hours earlier.

  “Martin,” I looked at him, desperately wanting to apologize and explain my erratic behavior, but I had no excuse, “I’m a mess.”

  “We’ll figure this out.” He ran his thumb across my cheek and kissed me. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He stood, giving me a tentative glance before leaving the bathroom and pulling the door closed behind him.

  Standing, I went to the sink to wash up. The side of my shirt was caked in blood and a few smears streaked from the side upward. Other than that, the damage appeared to be contained. In my hysteria, it seemed far worse, but it still wasn’t good. Washing my hands, I ignored the theory of not getting the cast wet. Quite frankly, I wanted it gone. Why couldn’t this entire ordeal be nothing more than a nightmare?

  Shutting the water, I dried my hands and attempted to pull my shirt free. Apparently, the blood had dried and congealed, bonding whatever was left of the bandage and my t-shirt to my skin.

  “Ouch.” I stopped tugging on the cotton, afraid of reopening the wound and relapsing into the hysterical insanity.

  From beyond the door, I heard Martin’s voice. “Have Rosemarie clean the room. If we need new carpeting or a mattress, get it done. I want everything cleaned or replaced by the time I get home. I don’t care what it costs or what it takes, just do it.”

  Great, it sounded like Martin was covering up my crime scene. A horrific thought coursed through my brain that I had actually committed a murder last night, and he was covering it up. But I knew how illogical that was. No one was here last night, and the three people that worked for Martin were all alive and well. Obviously, the blood was mine. It all made sense. The thing that didn’t was the fact that my mind wouldn’t accept that the dream was nothing more than a dream.

  “It was real,” I said when Martin stepped back into the bathroom with my clothes.

  “Alex,” his patience was wearing thin, “you had a bad dream. You must have tore at your side. I know you’re scared, but it’s over. It’s morning. You’re okay.” He didn’t understand my point, and he was tired of dealing with me. He reached for the hem of my shirt, carefully lifting it as high as it would go. “Soak it in water. It might help loosen it.” He pulled gauze and tape from underneath the cabinet. “Get cleaned up and get dressed. I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked suspiciously.

  “I have to go to work, and there isn’t a chance in hell that I’m leaving you alone. So you’re coming with me.”

  “Martin,” I protested, but I had no argument to make.

  “I spent the night on the bathroom floor, worried sick over you. So shut up and do this for me.” He took my face in his hands and searched my eyes. “Honestly, are you okay now?”

  I nodded. What was wrong with me couldn’t be fixed by Martin or a doctor. I needed to talk to Jablonsky. There was a lot more to my memory gap than either of us realized. With any luck, the team had made some progress since yesterday afternoon.

  Twelve

  The bedroom looked like the site of multiple homicides. The sheets were streaked in blood, and the carpet was stained where I’d taken a tumble. No wonder Martin had wanted the room cleaned. He had tried to cover up the bloodbath by pulling the covers over the bed and placing a towel on the floor, but my curiosity had gotten the best of me.

  “Miss Parker,” Bruiser said from the doorway, “did you lose something?”

  “My mind.”

  “It happens to the best of us.”

  Before becoming Martin’s bodyguard, Bruiser had seen action in the Middle East. He’d been a navy corpsman, but originally, he intended to become a SEAL, allegedly washing out on the last day of training. I’d seen his shooting scores and had practiced some hand-to-hand techniques with him, and I wasn’t quite convinced that he couldn’t have been a SEAL. Mark Jablonsky had thoroughly vetted him, and Bruiser was one of the few candidates that I had approved to replace me as Martin’s personal bodyguard.

  “Can you do me a favor and stay close to him,” I asked.

  “Sure.” He studied me for a moment, but he didn’t ask what happened or what led to the room of horrors. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “I wish there was.” I checked the bedside table for my back-up, remembering that it was downstairs. I’d
never been more relieved to have left my weapon somewhere in my entire life. “Shall we?” I gestured to the door, but he waited for me to exit before following me down the stairs.

  * * *

  Upon arrival at the Martin Technologies building, I was greeted by Jeffrey Myers, the head security guard. He had been of great assistance when I worked as a security consultant here, and we were friendly.

  “I haven’t seen you in an age,” Jeffrey greeted, tapping a few keys on the computer to reactivate my old MT ID card. “Are you here for more consulting work?”

  “No,” I glanced at Martin who was waiting at the elevator, “but apparently today’s bring your girlfriend to work day.”

  “Damn, no one bothered to tell me,” Jeffrey said. He handed back my ID “You have the usual run of the place.” He nodded at Martin who was holding the elevator door. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Thanks.” I strode across the lobby and into the waiting lift.

  We didn’t speak until the doors opened on the seventeenth floor. Martin led the way down the corridor and swiped his card through the slot, unlocking his office. Holding the door, he pressed his hand against the small of my back, and I shuddered.

  “Sorry, I forgot.” He sounded exhausted. “Look, if you would rather see a doctor or get checked out, that can be arranged. The company has a physician on retainer. I can have someone contact him.”

  “Martin, go to work. I’m all right.” Taking in the changed appearance of his office, I realized things were a lot worse than he’d made them out to be. “You have enough to deal with. I need to make some calls and get things sorted out. Just stick me in an empty room somewhere, so I can stay out of everyone’s way.”

  “Nonsense, I have meetings. You stay put.” He jerked his head toward one of the leather couches. “You should be comfortable here. I know how much you adore a nice sofa.” He smirked. “Charlotte’s down the hall if you need anything.”