“AB?”
“Aryan Brotherhood. The white supremacist gang that has an alliance with the EME. They should’ve covered that in your training.”
“I remember now. But what does that have to do with me?” Her bewilderment, a deliberate fabrication. The vile note from last week had met its end in her garbage disposal.
Fitzpatrick smiled without showing his teeth, the way he always did before he planned to say something inappropriate. “Good question. I was going to ask you that. It seems they believe Mr. Cullen is fond of you. Perhaps in a romantic way, a sexual way.”
“A sexual way? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Dr. Keely, you can’t deny this drawing is overtly sexual.” He tapped his finger on the crudely drawn breasts. “Now, I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, but perhaps we should reassign Mr. Cullen to another clinician. A male.”
“I shouldn’t be penalized for the way an inmate depicts me in a drawing. And neither should Mr. Cullen. He’s making real progress. You’re welcome to take a look at my session notes if you’d like.”
“I already have.” Clare had the thought again. If only I could blow your brains out. It hit her like a wave, disoriented her. She wondered if Neal had been right that this kind of work would change her. They’re sick men, he’d said. Monsters. And now she was thinking like one of them. “I found nothing of concern,” Fitzpatrick admitted.
“Then … ” Screw off. That’s what she wanted to say. “I’m not sure what else I can do. But I’ll address this with Cullen in our next session.”
“Very well.” Clare was partway out the door when Fitzpatrick called her back. “I know these incidents can be overwhelming, especially for a young therapist. If you ever want to grab dinner to talk off the record, my offer still stands. It’s my treat.”
“I’ll let you know,” Clare called out, glad Fitzpatrick couldn’t see her face. Inside the safety of her office, she locked the door behind her and opened her notebook. She flipped to yesterday’s date, where she’d written:
Sexualizing him again. Maybe he reminds me of R. T.??? But I feel safe with him, pulled to tell him things about me, to show him I understand him.
She scrounged through her desk until she found a fat black marker, then obliterated the lines. It felt necessary to make them disappear even though she’d already decided. From now on, Fitzpatrick’s sanitized session notes would be the only record Clare kept.
chapter
ten
la hija de puta
Cullen?” There I went again, parroting Levi. “Why would Cutthroat Cullen be after me?” The sheer ridiculousness of his suggestion brought me back to my senses. I walked over to the dresser, where I’d left my wallet, and plucked out Officer Guthrey’s card.
“I already told you,” Levi said, haphazardly stuffing his things inside his backpack. “But you don’t believe me.”
“Don’t say this is about my mother. That lady, Clare Keely, I looked her up. She is not my mom. No way. And where are you going? We have to call the police and tell them about Marco and Ginny.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “The not-on-administrative-leave police.”
“If you want to see Ginny alive again—that is, if Cullen hasn’t killed her already—I wouldn’t recommend that.”
Levi, as handsome as he was, was obviously delusional. Ginny always said the hot ones had issues. Nature’s way of evening things out, she’d teased. “Then what would you recommend, Officer?”
“Let me handle it.” I felt his eyes on me as I typed the phone number, 4-1-5. “Nobody knows Cullen like I do.”
“What the heck is that supposed to mean? You sound crazy, you know?” 7-9-3. A hollow knocking on the door stopped my fingers and my heart. “What time is it?” I demanded. “8:30? Crap! She’s early!” I tossed the phone on the bed and grabbed Levi by the arm. “Go in the bathroom.”
“And I sound crazy?”
“It’s my mom, okay? She’ll have a coronary if she sees you in here. Just give me a second to get rid of her and then you can sneak out the front.” Ignoring my instructions, Levi walked toward the door and peered through the peephole. He cursed under his breath.
“Told you,” I chided. “Now seriously, get in—”
He held up his hand to silence me. “It’s not your mom.” Joking, pancake-gobbling Levi disappeared. This Levi turned full-on policeman. “Get my gun. Now.” Somehow, my legs wobbled to the bathroom, where I’d left the gun on the counter with my makeup, and back again. More knocking. Insistent, this time. Then a voice. A snarl. More animal than human.
“Room service.” I stood next to Levi, squinting my eyes to watch the action flick unfolding outside my hotel room. Five men stared back at me. The one nearest had oil-slick hair pulled into a tight ponytail. A large tattoo looped around the front of his neck, the letters EME. Beneath my palm, the door felt paper thin, and I felt certain he could hear my heart beating.
“What the fuck, Garcia?” He bludgeoned the door with his fist, and I stumbled back. “I thought you said she was in here.”
“She’s in there,” another man replied. “Aren’t you, niñita. La hija de puta. Probably right on the other side listening. El lobo feroz está aquí.” Two years of Spanish taught me enough to be horrified. El lobo feroz. The big bad wolf.
“Sam, help me move the dresser.” Levi set the TV on the floor and positioned himself on the other end of the drawers, giving them a shove toward me.
“Who are those guys?” I whispered as we pushed the dresser flush against the door. My hands shaking, his steady. “Do you know them?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re here for you.” Levi secured his backpack and tugged me toward the privacy door for the adjoining room. “La hija de puta. Do you know what that means?”
“Uh … daughter … something?”
“Whore’s daughter,” he said. “And they look like Mexican Mafia. EME. It’s a gang.”
Levi was completely insane. Certifiable. The Mexican Mafia—any Mafia for that matter—did not belong in the same sentence with Samantha Bronwyn. Not the same paragraph, not the same chapter, not even the same book. And he was talking about my mother again. Like she had something to do with this. Bonkers, as Ginny would say. I opened my mouth to tell him but—a scream and a gunshot!—no words came out. Then the sound of heavy black boots—that’s how I imagined them—beating against the front door like oversized paws.
“They’re coming in,” Levi told me. “We need to go through there, okay?” I tried to nod my head as he pointed in the direction of the adjacent room. “Okay? Sam? Are you with me?”
“Okay.” Levi took my hands in his and placed them over my ears like beach shells. I pretended I was listening to the ocean, not the pop-pop-pop of his gun striking the deadbolt. He pulled me through the open door into Room 404. There was no one inside. I ran my hand over the smooth bedspread, the perfectly tucked sheets, wishing I was sleeping beneath them. And this was all a bad dream. “Now what?” I asked.
“We wait.”
“For the police? I mean, for more of you?”
Levi shook his head. “If we wait for the police, we’ll both be dead before they get here. These guys aren’t afraid to die for what they want.” He walked toward the outer door and watched from the peephole.
“And they want … me?”
Two more forceful kicks rattled the walls. “It looks that way. As soon as they get into our room, we’re going to make a run for it. The stairwell is straight ahead and to the left. When I tell you to go, go like hell. I’ll be right behind you. Got it?” My head felt like a wind-up toy, agreeing without my permission. Levi kept one eye zeroed on the peephole and one hand on the door. I measured the seconds with shallow breaths. Another kick and Levi shouted, “Okay, go! Go, Sam!”
Go, Sam! I heard Coach Crowley shouting from the sidelines. Fourth quarter in th
e state semifinals, ten seconds remaining. We were down by two to the Dixon Devils, when I poked the ball from their point guard’s hands. It rolled down the court, both of us in hot pursuit. She wanted it. But I wanted it more. Sometimes that’s the difference between living and dying. Between the and-one to win the game and a long bus ride home. I wanted to live. More than the EME wanted me dead.
Just like that hardwood court, the hallway seemed to extend forever. Legs churning under me. The feeling of someone just behind. In the blur of it all, a man lay on the ground. His once white button-down—Westin St. Francis Security—spotted with a vibrant shade of red. In a last gasp of effort, his hand extended toward me, begging for something I couldn’t give. His fingers grazed my leg. His mouth released a sigh of surrender. It was the worst thing I’d ever seen, the kind of thing that should turn you to stone. Frozen, right there, forever. But I kept moving.
A bullet zipped past me, piercing the wall. “Keep running!” Levi urged, returning fire. And I did. Through the door and into the stairwell, where the air was as cool as the marble beneath my feet. I made quick work of the first flight before my chest started to burn. “Faster!” Levi’s prodding was muted by the boots stamping above us. They were close. Too close. I concentrated on every step. Do not fall. Do not fall. Do not fall.
Another flight down, a gunshot sliced the air, pinging off the ornate rail next to me. “Keep your head down!” At the sound of Levi’s voice, I turned back for a split second. And I went down hard, bones juddering on impact. My wrist bent beneath me, but there was no time to assess the damage. Levi pulled me up by the arm and steadied me.
“Almost there.” His calm tone obliterated by another gunshot. Then the horrified yelp of a businessman, mid-sip on his morning coffee, outside one of the meeting rooms. “Get down!” Levi yelled. The man dropped to the floor and covered his head, whimpering. Still, I kept moving. Two more flights of stairs, and we were smack-dab in the middle of the lobby.
I expected chaos. I expected panicked faces. I expected the police. But the lobby had the look of a meeting interrupted. A few suited men lingered near the staircase, looking upward with confusion. Early morning tourists raised their heads from their cell phones, perplexed. All their questions answered by a spray of bullets. Then came the screaming, the stampeding for the exit. This was what I expected.
I followed Levi’s finger straight ahead to the hotel’s side entrance. “We’ve got to get out of here. We’ll lose them on the street.” As we busted out into the San Francisco morning, sirens wailing past, I heard the EME find me.
“There she is!” It was the voice from behind the door. La hija de puta. And he pointed at me.
****
Huddled behind a rack of folding fans, I stared at Levi’s back for ten minutes. There were worse things to look at. Finally, he turned to me. “All clear.”
“Are you sure?” The last we saw the EME, they walked right past us, after we’d ducked inside the China Bazaar. Still, I kept looking out the oversized windows, expecting them to be there—hiding, waiting, stalking—in the crowd. Inside, I prickled with pins and needles, but truthfully, I felt kind of exhilarated. So close to being dead, I’d never felt more alive.
“I’m sure. C’mon.” Levi reached for my hand, and I winced. My wrist had already swelled. Probably sprained. “Sorry,” he said.
I shrugged, half-smiling. “It’s okay. It’s not my shooting hand.”
Levi chuckled. “Thank goodness for that, because if those guys come back, I’ll need you to pull your weight around here.” He gestured to his side, where his gun was concealed under his T-shirt.
“Not that kind of shooting.”
“I know, I know. Your career as the next Sheryl Swoopes is intact. Now let’s get out of here.”
My stomach flip-flopped with the thought of walking out those doors, returning to the Westin. I’d traveled so far from the girl who checked in last night, there was no going back to her. “To the hotel?” In my mind, I saw my mother’s face. Clare Bronwyn. Clare Keely. Who was she really? I wasn’t ready to find out.
“Not yet. There’s someone I want you to meet here in Chinatown.” My face betrayed my utter confusion. “He knew Clare.”
chapter
eleven
snip, snip
Snip Bailey’s studio apartment smelled like Chinese dumplings. Which made complete sense. It was a short stair climb above Mr. Chow’s Palace, where the all-you-can-eat buffet is only seven dollars. “Worth every penny,” Levi joked, producing a small white slip of paper from his pocket, apparently a remnant of dinner the night before. You have been poisoned. “They do funny fortunes.”
Snip himself smelled of car grease and chocolate cake. Not entirely unpleasant. He stood smack-dab in the middle of the doorway. His arms were thin, his skin like crepe paper, but when he extended them wide to block our entry, I took a step back. Just over his shoulder, inside, a uniform—labeled Edward Bailey, automotive technician—draped over an ironing board.
“Back so soon?” Snip asked Levi, an unspoken I told you so in his voice. Levi shrugged, but said nothing of our near-death experience with the EME. “I suppose you want to come in.” Stalemate. Absolute silence. I shifted from one foot to the other, wondering who would break first. Mercifully, the relentless beeping of a timer interrupted their staring contest.
“I’m baking,” Snip said, directing his explanation to me and only me. He extended his hand, calloused and weathered from the sun. Then gave me a once-over like he’d been expecting me—recognized me, even—but didn’t trust me.
“Snip, this is Samantha.”
“Well, well, well. Samantha Keely?”
I groaned. Levi shook his head vigorously. “Bronwyn,” he corrected. “She doesn’t know any Keelys.”
“I see.” Snip didn’t seem convinced either, but he lowered his arms, allowing us entry. That single concession seemed to diffuse the tension. “Well, you look a lot like her anyway. Real pretty, ain’t she, Levi?” Avoiding Levi’s eyes was a losing battle. He gave an exaggerated shrug, noncommittal, then smiled at me.
“I assume you’re talking about Clare Keely. Levi said you knew her.”
“That’s right. Dr. Keely.” He gestured to his kitchen table, where a cake was cooling on a wire rack. “It’s time to ice this beauty. How do ya feel about cream cheese?”
“I feel really good about it.” Levi answered for me.
“I’ll bet you do. This boy has his father’s appetite.” He winked at me, and I grinned back, trying to keep up. Until I saw Levi—stone-faced—strike a whipping glare in Snip’s direction. “And you, young lady? Ms. Bronwyn?” I nodded. “Pull up a chair.”
“Do you bake often?” Of all the questions sprouting like weeds, it seemed the safest one to pluck.
With the care and precision of a surgeon, Snip transferred the cake to a serving plate. “A fair bit, I’d say. Being down as long as I was, it’s the simple pleasures that mean the most.”
“Down?”
Levi cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. “It means being in prison. Incarcerated.”
“Oh. How long were you … ? I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t ask.” I busied myself, inspecting the bluish bruise on my wrist. It ached with dull persistence.
“Nonsense.” Snip laughed, plunging a spatula into a can of cream cheese frosting. “Of course you should ask. I was in prison for thirty years. March 15, 2014. That was my release date. I like to think of it as my second birthday.”
“Wow. That’s a really long time.” You must’ve done something really bad. I kept that to myself, but Snip seemed to guess my thoughts.
“Murder.” He didn’t flinch, and neither did Levi. I stayed quiet, but my eyes gave me away. “Don’t worry,” he said, spreading a dollop of icing across the surface of the cake. “I’m guilty.” He smoothed the frosted edges until they were perfe
ct swirls. “It’s the innocent ones you have to watch out for. They’re either bold-faced liars or the most desperate men you’ll ever meet.”
Levi rolled his eyes. “Since when did you get to be such a philosopher?”
“I still got a few marbles rollin’ around up here.” He tapped his head, shaved as smooth as an acorn. “Dr. Keely would’ve given this old noggin her seal of approval.”
“Was she your therapist?” I asked.
“No.” Snip side-eyed Levi. “But my cellie was awfully fond of her.” Taking a sudden interest in my arm, Levi reached over to me and examined it. It throbbed with each prod of his fingertips, but I didn’t complain. “It looks bad. You should probably put some ice on it.”
Snip chuckled. “Is that any way to comfort a beautiful lady? Especially since that bruised wrist has misadventure with Levi written all over it?”
“It’s okay. I just fell.” Snip offered a sympathetic smile, then turned his attention to Levi, giving a deliberate jerk of his head toward the freezer where he’d pinned a business card underneath a 49ers magnet. I couldn’t read the name, but the logo read California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, Parole Office. Taking his not-so-subtle cue, Levi stood up from the table.
“Attaboy,” Snip ribbed, prompting a grumble from Levi.
“So how do you know Levi’s dad?” At the freezer door, Levi stiffened, as if the cold air iced him solid. “Was he a cop too?” Tight-lipped, he tossed a bag of frozen peas in my direction.
“A cop!” Snip guffawed.
“I’m guessing that’s a no.”
“Well, that’s a story for Levi to tell.” Snip placed a strong hand on Levi’s shoulder. “You know, his appetite ain’t all he got from his daddy. Stubborn as an ox. Both of them. And real quiet.”
“They say still waters run deep,” I teased, hoping Levi wouldn’t be too upset with me for prying.
Solemn, Snip nodded. “Deep enough to drown in.”
****
Five minutes and one giant piece of chocolate cake later, I’d been exiled to the sofa. My own fault for asking too many questions. And now, not even the scrumptious cream-cheese icing could smooth the uneasiness between Snip and Levi. They’d excused themselves to the only other room in the place—Snip’s bedroom—partitioned by a makeshift bedsheet curtain. Lucky for me, voices carried right through it. I clicked the remote and settled on a soap opera, adjusting the volume to prime eavesdropping level.
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 9
