by Angie Martin
Stopping at a red light, Liz turned to face me. “Are you crazy? We don’t have our bags or—”
“We’ll call the concierge. He was totally flirting with you. I’m sure he’d arrange for our bags to go to the new hotel.”
“So, you won’t call the cops, but you want to do all this cloak and dagger stuff?” She shook her head. “Sure, why not? Life isn’t exciting enough as it is.”
I rested my hand on her forearm. “Thank you so much, Liz. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”
A smile cracked her otherwise solemn expression. “Shopping?”
“You know it,” I said, grinning back at her. “All day, if that’s what it takes.”
“Cloak and dagger it is.”
Chapter Four
T he new hotel Liz found for us was more to my liking than the modern work of art we stayed in the night before. Bricks comprised the historic building that housed the Westchester Hotel. Far less ostentatious décor – clean, sleek, minimal – filled the lobby. I preferred simplicity to luxurious surroundings, even though the cost of our stay remained the same.
We stopped for dinner on the way to the new hotel, giving the concierge of the old one plenty of time to have our luggage delivered. I tipped him twice as much for the helpful and fast service and retired to my room. Our last-minute reservation forced Liz to stay in the only other available room on the second floor. She opted for that room versus my suite on the top floor. Something about the chi of that room being more favorable for her. I didn’t argue.
In my room, I unpacked my suitcase and readied myself for bed. I desperately wanted a bath to relax after my exasperating day, but with a deadline from my publisher looming, I opted instead to work on my next book. I long-ago learned that a book tour was the best time to squeeze in some precious writing time.
As soon as I reached for my laptop, my cell phone rang. The ringtone belonged to my parents, and I cringed inside. With everything that happened during the interview with Mr. Smith, I had forgotten to call them. With my fingers crossed that Mom wouldn’t ream me too much, I answered the phone.
“Madison,” she said. “I was starting to worry that something happened to you. You were supposed to call me right after your event ended.”
“I’m fine, Mom. I just got caught up in my schedule today.”
“You can’t do that to us, you know. That city is such a dangerous place to be. I just hate it when you go there. We don’t know if something’s happened to you, or…”
We went through the same routine every time I stayed in New York. No other city I visited concerned her as much. Even Los Angeles was a breeze compared to the perils of the Big Apple.
“Honey!” my mom said on her end of the phone. “Madison’s on the phone!”
I plopped down into the living area recliner and sighed. Depending on the day, it could take anywhere up to five minutes to get my dad on the phone.
“Did you hear me, Roger?” my mom called out. Then, into the phone, she said, “Holly’s getting bigger, you know. From the way she’s carrying low, I just know it’s a boy.”
Holly had married my older brother, Miller, six years earlier. She was a doll of a girl, petite, barely over five feet tall, and six months pregnant with their third child.
“Are you going to be back from your trip by the time the baby comes?” my mom asked.
I wanted to tell her for the umpteenth time that I wasn’t on a trip; it was a book tour – my job. Instead, I said, “I wouldn’t miss it.”
I rose from the chair, wandered into the kitchenette, and pulled out a paring knife from the drawer. When we had arrived at the hotel, I had snatched a couple lemons from the bartender downstairs for my water. Cutting them up would provide a nice distraction from my mom’s rants and lectures.
“Well, I hope you’re right.” Her tone of voice vocalized her doubts, justifiably so due to my many flakes on plans to visit home. “Sometimes your trips last so long—”
A click on the phone indicated my dad had picked up the other line. “Magpie! How is your tour going?”
“It’s good, Dad,” I said, setting my phone down on the counter and pushing the speaker button. The knife sliced through a lemon. “We leave New York in two days and start heading down the coast.”
“I saw you on that morning show yesterday,” he said. “You did good. Really handled those questions well.”
I smiled at my always supportive dad. “Thanks.”
“I thought she looked tired.” My mom never resisted chiming in with her opinion. “I was just telling her about Holly and the baby. Madison, when are you going to settle down? Maybe it’s all these trips you take. You’re never going to find a good man who will put up with all that traveling.”
I rolled my eyes and worked away on the lemon, cutting it into smaller pieces than needed.
“It shouldn’t be hard to find a husband,” she continued. “You’ve got perfect birthing hips, and men look for things like that. You only need three things in life: birthing hips, good breasts, and strong shoulders. But, you have two out of three, so you should be fine.”
The paring knife cut into my index finger. I yanked my finger up and stuck it in my mouth, stifling a yelp. The metallic tang of blood coated my tongue as I surveyed the red all over my perfectly good lemon and contemplated my mom’s assessment of her only daughter. Larger hips and smaller breasts. My apparent legacy, according to Mom. At least she thought I had adequate shoulders.
“LeAnn,” my dad said, addressing my mom. “I think the cookies are burning.”
“Oh, my!” she said. “Love you, Madison. Call me tomorrow.” She hung up her receiver before I could respond.
“Thank you for saving me yet again,” I said to Dad.
He chuckled, and I could envision him shaking his head. “Your mom means well, Magpie.”
“I know, but it doesn’t make her any less overbearing.”
“She just wants you to be happy. Of course, her idea of ‘happy’ is much different than ours.”
Dad knew me too well. We were always close, while Mom and Miller were joined at the hip. Miller was always the one to please her, too. The perfect son: a medic in the Army, a pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon as a civilian, married to a beautiful woman who used her tiny birthing hips the right way. Mom still wasn’t sure if being a romance author was a real career. Not that I didn’t love my mom – and Miller and I were as close as siblings could be, so I wasn’t jealous of his standing with her. I just wished she was a bit less demanding of my “womanly duties,” as she called it.
I wrapped a strip of paper towel around the still-gushing wound on my index finger. “I’ll settle down eventually,” I said, “but I’m only twenty-eight. My career is more important to me right now. In a few years, I’ll be established enough that I can be pickier with how many book tours I go on.”
“You have eight books out already,” Dad said. “I think you’re pretty well established. And, your fans love you. Don’t be so hard on yourself, but you also have to balance your life. Now, I’m not saying rush out and find someone to marry, but if you need a little time off for yourself, take it.”
He was right. He always was. The past six years had taken its toll on me, jetting around the country – and sometimes out of it – to meet with readers, partake in interviews, and trying to keep myself relevant as an author. I needed to sit still long enough to find me, as cliché as it sounded.
“I’m not saying this to guilt you into anything,” he said, “but we haven’t seen you in over a year. I know you were sick with that flu bug over Christmas, and that’s not your fault, but we miss you. We never know what might happen tomorrow, and, well, it would be wonderful to see you more often.”
Though he said he wasn’t trying to guilt me, regret for not seeing them more filled my soul. “Maybe after this tour is done, I’ll come out there for a few weeks.”
“That’d be nice to have you home for a bit.”
There were a thou
sand things I wanted to say in that moment, each one of them on the tip of my tongue, but the only thing that came out was, “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, Magpie. Give us a call tomorrow.”
I disconnected the call, but lingered for a moment in the kitchenette, still holding the phone. I hadn’t realized a year had passed since I’d last visited my family. Life had taken hold of me and made me think there were far more important things than my loved ones. Standing there, I made a promise to myself to rectify that and to never go more than a few months without visiting home, no matter where my career took me.
My cut finger throbbed under the paper towel bandage, so I removed it to assess the damage. The wound had stopped bleeding. I tossed the bloody towel in the trash along with the tainted lemon and wandered back to the bedroom to do some writing. The itching at the back of my head nagged at me once more, followed by a new sensation: burning. Though slight at first, it soon bored deep inside, as if a laser sliced through my skull.
I stopped next to my bed and dropped my hand away from my burning skin. Mr. Smith had said it would burn, and that I should call him when it started. I grabbed my purse off the dresser and rifled through it until I found his unusual business card. As I picked up my cell phone off the bed to call him, I realized the ridiculousness of it all. There was no possible way he could have known it would burn. He saw me itching at the book signing and again at the café, and he used that to get to me. I probably experienced the burning as a psychosomatic response to his suggestion. My subconscious always worked overtime, my overactive writer imagination filling in blanks where it could.
I didn’t know what his angle was. Why would he be deceitful and pseudo-threatening? No matter his intentions, I didn’t want to indulge his potentially dangerous delusions. I threw his card in the trash can next to the bedside table and climbed into bed, where I could dive into my imaginary world and leave Mr. Smith far behind, despite my burning scalp.
Chapter Five
M y eyes flickered open, and I yawned audibly. My sight adjusted to the darkness, and the lack of light around the balcony door informed me it was sometime in the middle of the night.
I pushed myself up from the bed into a sitting position and looked around the room. Another yawn controlled my mouth, drowsiness not letting go of me quite yet. I sighed and spotted my laptop next to me on the bed. I often woke up next to my laptop after a long night of writing, and its presence comforted me. Unlike other women who preferred the company of a man, my laptop reminded me of my only purpose in life: writing.
Sliding out of bed, my bare feet sunk into the cold carpet, and a shiver raced through my body. My toes sought out my cozy slippers and found them next to the bedside table, right where I had left them.
I stuffed my feet into the slippers and zombie-shuffled to the bathroom. My thoughts picked up where I left off in my writing before falling asleep, and I mentally worked on an issue with my plot’s timeline. After using the restroom, I decided to open my laptop for a few more minutes to finish the scene. I didn’t have to be anywhere until nine in the morning, so a little more work wouldn’t hurt.
As I walked into the bedroom, the burning in the back of my head started up again. I reached for it and tried to massage the pain away, but it had no effect. A chill breezed through the room, and I stopped short before reaching the bed. Squinting my eyes, my heart racing, I crept toward the balcony door. It was ajar, the wintry night air pushing through the slight crack and driving straight into my soul.
My gaze traveled to my bedroom door, which was also open. I had shut it prior to going to bed. Staring at it, wondering how it opened while I slept, I heard a noise in the living room area.
Someone was in my suite.
I tried to control my ragged breaths and think through my situation. The only exit from my suite was in the main hallway, past the kitchenette, off the living room, but I couldn’t run through there without whoever had broken in seeing me. I could scream and pray someone came to my aid, but my suite was the only room on the top floor. By the time someone on the floor below me heard my cries, it would be too late.
What to do, what to do? My frantic mind panicked in the moment, but one small part still ran on logic.
Call for help.
With light footing, I made my way back to the bedside table. I picked up the telephone receiver and dialed 911. No ringing. I clicked the hook switch several times, but no dial tone sounded, even when I pressed zero for the hotel’s front desk.
My trembling limbs threatened to slow me down, but my brain worked overtime on how to get to safety. My cell phone. Where had I put it? I remembered leaving it at the end of the bed, but I didn’t touch it after that. I moved to the front of the bed, and my hands traveled across the messy bedspread, but I couldn’t find it. I dropped to my knees and searched the floor in case it fell off while I slept, but I came up empty.
I froze at the prickling of hairs on the back of my neck. A sensation of not being alone in the room overwhelmed me. I opened my mouth to scream for help, but a hand clamped down over my lips, shutting me down before anything could escape.
“Don’t scream,” the gruff voice whispered. “Stand up slowly.”
Terror pounded through my veins, and I did as the man ordered. His arm wrapped around my waist as soon as we stood. He held me close against his body, his calloused hand still covering my mouth.
“I need to know you’re not going to make a sound,” he whispered in my ear.
I nodded my head, with no intention of following his instructions. I’d rather die screaming my head off and clawing my way to safety than to stand still and let him kill me, kidnap me, or – God forbid – rape me.
As if reading my thoughts, he said, “I’m not going to hurt you, but there are others coming who will. I need to get you out of here.”
With his last words, I recognized the voice. Mr. Smith. His earlier statements in the café weren’t empty threats after all. He had come there to kill me.
Adrenaline surged through my body. I wiggled and squirmed and fought him with everything I had, but he was much stronger than I could have imagined. Still holding me tight, his chest muscles contracted against my back while his arm tightened around my waist, giving me the full scope of his strength. I would never get away from him like this. Maybe, I couldn’t get away from him at all.
My fatigued muscles surrendered, and I collapsed against him. My brain hadn’t given up on escaping, but my body refused to respond to any commands.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” he said, annoyance lacing his words. He let go of my mouth, and his arm circled my chest, binding my arms to my body. “I told you to call me as soon as the burning started.”
I had only met him earlier that day, but for some strange reason, he brought out the sarcastic, bitter side of me – even after breaking into my suite. Through gritted teeth, I said, “I make it a habit not to call potential kidnappers and murderers.”
“I’m not the one you have to worry about.”
My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“They’re heading up here right now. I’m going to release you, but I need you to do as I say if you want to survive this.”
That was the second time he used that phrasing, but my mind had shifted from being afraid of him to terrified of whoever might come into the suite next.
Mr. Smith loosened his hold on me, but kept one hand on my waist and the other on my upper arm. I twisted around to see him, and he adjusted his grip accordingly. His narrowed blue eyes flashed anger and urgency underneath ruffled strands of dark-brown hair.
“Who’s coming up here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper in case “they” could hear me.
“Blood seekers.” He spoke so matter-of-factly that I almost didn’t question him.
Almost.
“Blood… what?” My tone rose as the ludicrousness of his words hit me. “What are you—”
A loud banging came from the door of my suite.
I stepped forward and grabbed his shirt in my fists, instinctively seeking protection from the stranger.
“They’re here,” he said. His fingers under my chin lifted my head until I looked up at him. “Do exactly what I say. We need to get downstairs.”
“How?” I whispered. “There’s only one door.”
“Fire escape.” He grabbed my hand and led me to the balcony. “It’s the only way.”
My gaze traveled over the railing, down to the dizzying asphalt in the poorly-lit alley behind the hotel. My deep-rooted phobia of heights tugged his hand in the opposite direction. “I… I can’t. It’s too high up and—”
He turned to face me, his stern eyes conveying authority. “It’s either heights or torture and death. For both of us.”
Out of the depths of insane fear, my sarcastic nature reared up again. “Oh… Well, if you’re giving me a choice—”
A crash came from the front of the suite, much louder this time, as if the door had blown inward to let “them” in.
Mr. Smith knelt, dragging me down with him. Crouched down, we moved back inside the room and behind the dresser. He peeked around the door leading from the bedroom to the living area. Out of curiosity, I poked my head around his body. Two large shadows moved across the room, past the bedroom, one of them holding the distinct outline of a gun.
“She’s in here somewhere,” one of the men said. “I can sense her.”
I ducked back behind Mr. Smith, the reality of the situation taking hold of my racing heart. No matter who he was, he couldn’t be any worse than the two men in my room. And, at least one of them had a weapon. Just as Mr. Smith had attempted to warn me about that afternoon.
“Check the bedroom,” a second voice said.
Mr. Smith turned to me and mouthed, “Stay here.” He motioned to the area behind me, indicating he wanted me to hide.
I tiptoed across the bedroom and hid behind the dresser. Crouching, I tucked my body down, making it as small as possible, and forced only shallow breaths into my lungs so the intruders couldn’t hear me. A strange odor wafted into my nostrils. Pungent and rancid, it curdled in my stomach, and I fought against the rising bile in my throat.
