Michael Prescott: In Dark Places

It was happeningdeath by asphyxiation, just as Wolper had said. She'd come this far. No farther. And Meg amp; she couldn't help Megcouldn't do anything except cough and spit up black gunk and gasp out shallow, useless breaths and die amp;

"Fuck, Doc Robin. You're a mess."

A hand on hers. Strength lifting her. Arm around her waist, propping her up.

Justin.

He hustled her out of the waiting room, into the hall, and laid her down on the floor, where she endured a final stint of bronchospasms that cleared out the last of the mucus. She was breathing again, pulling in oxygen and feeling it work. Her eyes focused. Her mind cleared.

"What are you amp;? How amp;?" Her voice was hoarse, every word a separate pain.

"It's the cavalry to the rescue, Doc. Just like in the movies, only I don't use no stuntman. Now let's get you outside."

He lifted her again. As she stood upright, she remembered the last clear thought she'd had.

"Meg amp;"

"What about her?"

"I know where she is."

"Yeah. Where's that?"

"Take you amp; I'll take amp;"

"Okay, we'll find her. No sweat. I'm on the job."

"Now. She's in trouble. It may already be too late."

"Then let's you and me get a move on."

Somehow she still had the purse in her hand. She used her key to open the rear door. Gray led her into the parking lot. She wondered how they would get out through the gate, which was locked at night, then saw that it wouldn't be a problem. On his arrival. Gray had rammed the gate with his car and popped it open.

He hustled her into the Volkswagen on the passenger side, then got behind the wheel and pulled away with a howl of tires.

The little car rattled, the hood loose after the collision with the gate. The VW must have been stolen, but right now Robin didn't care.

She noticed Gray watching her. "You okay, Doc?"

"I'm better. I'm all right."

"So where are we headed?"

"It's a factory on South Central Avenue. An old bottling plant."

"Wolper tell you that?"

"How did you know about Wolper?"

"Sergeant Brand told me. Right before he had an accident."

"Brand is dead?"

"Chill, Doc. It was self-defense. He pulled a piece on me. But only after he told me most of what I needed to know."

"But how did you put any of it together?"

"I'm smart, Doc. Not book-smart like you. People-smart. When a thing needs doing, I know how to get it done. Now what's the name of this factory?"

"He didn't tell me the name."

"What's the cross street?"

"He didn't say that, either."

"That ain't a lot to work with."

Robin moaned. "You mean we can't find it?"

"Hey, hey, keep it together. We'll ride south on Central Avenue till we spot the place, is all. Then we'll go in the same way the bad guys did."

"The bad guys." Robin looked at him, a new awareness taking shape. "You're not one of them anymore. You've changed."

"Changed my clothes, for sure. Changed cars a couple times too."

"Wolper said you would never change. He said a leopard doesn't change its spots."

"Cynical dude."

"Knowing we made a difference in our work together amp; it means a lot, Justin."

"Don't get all weepy on me, now."

"It means there's hopehope for people like you. People like amp;"

"Like?"

Like my father , she almost said. "All the others. The ones behind bars. They don't have to rot their lives away. They can be reintroduced to society without risk. It's a whole new world."

"Don't go saving the world just yet, Doc Robin. Let's find your baby girl first."

Detective Tomlinson was groaning again.

For a long time he'd lain silent, and Meg had been convinced he was in a coma or maybe dead. He had stopped moving, might have even stopped breathing. She hadn't been sure whether or not she should be glad he was so far gone. She didn't want him to be dead, but she sure didn't want him waking up, either.

Now he was stirring. The dose of heroin hadn't been enough to kill him, not when he weighed twice what she did. It hadn't even been enough to keep him out for the whole night.

When he was fully awake, he would take care of her. And it wouldn't be quick or easynot after what she'd done to him, nearly killed him.

She tugged at the handcuffs still chaining her to the railing. All she accomplished was to chafe her wrist even worse than before. A warm ooze of blood trickled down her arm. Maybe if she pulled hard enough, she could slice her wrist down to the vein and then she would bleed to death. It was a better way to die than what he would do to her, that was for sure.

But maybe she could fight. She still had the hypodermic, empty now, but a weapon even so. She patted the pocket of her blouse, where she had stowed the thing after giving up on it as a locksmith tool. Just let him come close and with a little luck she could amp; she could amp;

She could do nothing. She knew that. He would be expecting a second attack. He would deflect it easily, take the syringe, and use it on her.

Tomlinson issued a grunt and started to rise.

She watched him in paralyzed horror. He thrust out both arms and pressed his palms to the floor, pushing himself up off the concrete. His eyes remained closed, his face blank. Somehow those details made it worse, as if she really had killed him and now he was a zombie rousing himself from the grave.

He was on his knees now. He swayed a little. His eyes opened. His head turned and he stared at her. His pupils were pinpoints of ink. The whites of his eyes were huge, horrible.

He lunged at her, and she screamed

He fell on his side. The egg-white eyes were still open. He was breathing noisily, each rise of his chest accompanied by a wet suction sound. But he wasn't staring at her anymore. He was unconscious or semiconscious or something. In a stupor, anyway.

And he was close to her. Not lying on his stomach anymore. She could search the inside pockets of his jacket, maybe find a handcuff key.

She willed herself to squat next to him. Her heart was drumming in her ears. If he came to, she would be easily within his reach. But if he came to, she was dead no matter what, so it made no difference.

She touched the flap of his jacket, expecting him to rise at any second, as if the brush of her hand would be all the stimulus he needed. There was no reaction. She wished his eyes had closed. They unnerved her, open wide and gazing into the glow of the flashlight at the top of the stairs. She didn't like the way those round, almost pupilless whites caught the light.

With an effort, she peeled back the flap of his jacket and groped in the pocket. It was empty.

There was still the other pocket. That one was harder to reach. He had fallen on that side, the jacket bunched up under him.

She snaked her hand under the flap and felt around for the pocket. Her hand moved over his shirt, filmy with sweat. She could feel the low tremors of his heartbeat.

She couldn't find the pocket, but it had to be there. She ran her hand over the outside of the jacket, and down low near his ribs she felt the shape of a gun, holstered to his side, a handgun with a long barrel. She thought about retrieving it, using it to hold him off, but it was mashed under his body, unobtainable.

The key was still her best chance. She risked pulling at the jacket, knowing that any movement might rouse him. She dug deeper into the folded fabric and finally found a slit, a cavity. Inside amp; something small and hard and metallic.

A key, the key she needed.

It was tucked at the bottom of the pocket, inside creases and folds in a narrow space too small for her hand. She tried closing two fingers over the key and easing it out. It slipped away. A second try, a second failure.