Lisa Miscione - Twice

Christian Striker was waiting for photos back from the lab they used down in SoHo and she knew it was important he have them for tomorrow even though he was already gone. So she fixed her makeup, peering at her flawless pink skin in the Clinique compact mirror and waited, watching the elevator climb by the tiny numbers alternately lighting green as it climbed to their floor. She quickly pulled a brush through her silky blond hair and applied a berry shade of Princess Marcella Borghese lipstick to her full lips.

The stainless steel doors opened and a wiry bike messenger with long curly dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail, dirty, tattered bicycle shorts, and a tight white T-shirt with just do it emblazoned in orange across his chest walked into the elevator lobby and headed toward the door. A large messenger bag was slung across his shoulder and she noticed he was wearing soccer cleats when he pushed through the glass doors.

“Speedy Messenger?” she asked.

“You got it. Sorry for the delay,” he said, removing a bundle of packages from his pouch.

“Last stop of the night, I hope,” she said, looking down on her desk for a pen to sign his clipboard.

“Not quite,” he said. There was something in his voice that made her look. She looked into ice blue eyes and caught sight of a few wisps of red hair peaking out from beneath the black. She realized too late that she was looking at Jed McIntyre.

Before Jeffrey could react to Lydia flying back and hitting the ground hard, he saw a bright white flash and heard the unmistakable sound of the Desert Eagle firing off rounds. The basement exploded with the sound, as loud as a bomb, followed by a sharp report. The smell of gunpowder filled Jeffrey’s nose as the assailant roared in pain or terror or maybe both. Jeffrey dove for Lydia as the monster got up and ran for the stairs, moving impossibly fast. Dax, a large cut bleeding on the side of his face, got up in a heartbeat and gave chase.

“I missed! I can’t fucking believe it. He was right on top of me,” he yelled as he disappeared into the darkness. Jeffrey heard the sound of the gun again as he pulled Lydia into his arms. His heart lurched with relief when she moaned. A line of blood trailed from her nose, and the light shadow of a bruise that he could see would flower into a deep purple and cover most of the right side of her face was already making its debut.

“Jesus,” he said, filled with anger, fear, and a painful love for her. He wanted to lock her in a padded room for the rest of her life. He hated himself a little for it… and hated her for not allowing him to do it. He had known it would come to this if they weren’t careful. And they hadn’t been.

“Dax,” she said, opening her eyes when more shots rang out upstairs. “I’m fine. Go. He needs help.”

She sat up and gave a smile to show she was all right. Her head throbbed and the room seemed to lurch and blur.

“Don’t move,” he said, kissing her on the top of the head. Then he raced after Dax, taking the stairs two at a time, the Glock in his hand. When he was out of sight, Lydia leaned over and threw up the coffee and bad food she’d eaten at the Rusty Penny. It tasted even worse the second time around.

When she was reasonably sure that the room had stopped spinning, she reached for the flashlight that had rolled away from her and turned off. She pressed the black rubber button beneath her thumb and the beam sliced into the darkness. She could hear Dax shouting in the distance outside and she tried to struggle to her feet, but the floor wouldn’t stay solid and she figured she’d be more a liability than a help to them in her present condition. It was probably the first smart decision she’d made all day. Another shot rang out, and she made herself believe that as long as she could hear them, they were okay.

Her mind was doing cartwheels, her heart racing, and her hands were still shaking from the adrenaline coursing through her veins like an Indy 500 race car. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out the photograph she’d been looking at upstairs. What she had seen in that photograph right before Dax entered the room was a young boy and girl standing side by side under a glade of trees. They were so alike, their features narrow and refined, the same bright green eyes, the same slight smile. The boy was much taller, much wider through the shoulders than the girl. He draped a protective arm across her shoulder and glanced at her, a mischievous glint to his expression. The girl was Julian Ross, the boy, Lydia deduced, her brother, possibly her twin. Why she hadn’t thought of it before, she wasn’t sure. If Eleanor was a twin, and Julian’s children were also twins, it was very possible that Julian could be a twin herself. Lydia would put money on the fact that they’d just met Julian’s other half… in the man who’d attacked them tonight.

She tried again to stand and the room did a little dance, a weird up-and-down, side-to-side kind of action, and Lydia braced herself for another bout of nausea.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the baby, without thinking, patting her stomach and grabbing one of the steps to try to haul herself to her feet. It didn’t quite work and she sort of hung there halfway between standing and falling. She tried not to think about the damage she might have done to herself; she just willed herself to be strong and solid, to walk it off. And as soon as she could stand, she was going to do that.

Thunderous footsteps broke the silence as Jeff and Dax ran down the stairs like a herd of buffalo. Lydia felt the sound on every nerve ending in her rattled brain.

“What happened?” she asked as Jeffrey helped steady her.

“Gone. Into the woods. I think I hit him, though,” said Dax.

“You can’t shoot a fleeing suspect, for Christ’s sake,” said Jeffrey, his face red from exertion and his brow knitted with concern for Lydia and anger at Dax.

“I didn’t shoot him for Christ’s sake,” Dax shouted. “I shot him for my sake. He scared the shit out of me. He practically killed me. He hit Lydia. I’m not the fucking cops . I play by my rules.” The adrenaline was clearly making him more aggressive and less reasonable than usual.

Jeffrey shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

“Let’s put our philosophical differences aside, shall we, and get the fuck out of here before Julian’s evil twin comes back?” said Lydia.

“Julian’s twin?”

She handed the photograph to Jeffrey. “More information not provided by our client,” he said, handing the photograph back to her.

“Sounds like it’s time to fire the old hag,” said Dax.

“I want to make one more stop before we do,” said Lydia.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Jeff, taking her arm. “The emergency room.”

At first glance, Dr. Franklin Wetterau had the look of a man who had swabbed a million throats, delivered a thousand babies, and listened to endless lists of symptoms and ailments ranging from the common cold to stomach cancer. He looked as though he’d offered countless words of comfort, advice, and reprimand with the same gentle smile and knowing eyes he now turned on Lydia as she sat bruised and tired on his examining table. Dr. Wetterau was an old-fashioned country doctor, with his small office in the back of his old Victorian home on Maple Street.

The nearest hospital was over thirty miles away, so Dr. Wetterau was apparently the man to call with minor emergencies day or night, or so they were told at the gas station where they stopped for directions, the very same gas station, in fact, where they’d stopped earlier. There was a different slack-jawed attendant now on shift. The young man-Hank, if the embroidered name on his striped uniform shirt was to be believed-gave them the good doctor’s number. Of course, the earlier attendant had also worn a shirt with the name Hank embroidered on it. Were they both named Hank or were they sharing a shirt? Lydia wondered pointlessly, as “Hank” stared into the Rover at her and Dax, whose bruised and bloody condition was definitely notable.