James Patterson - You’ve Been Warned

I don’t know if the cabbie gets the hint, but the Ponytail sure does.

Dumb move, Kris!

“I told you not to get cute,” he says, reaching inside his coat. “How many times do you have to be warned?”

THE PONYTAIL’S GOING to kill me. Right now, right here. That’s what this is. Everything’s been leading up to my death, my murder.

The thought seems to reach every nerve ending in my body at once. All of a sudden I’m shaking all over.

But it’s not a gun that comes out of his jacket. It’s his wallet.

“Stop the cab!” barks the Ponytail.

He pulls out twenty bucks and pushes the money through the slot in the divider as the taxi swerves over to the curb. It happens so fast.

“Consider this your last warning, Kristin,” he says. “Go home and pack your things. Move out of town. Disappear from the Turnbull family before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” I ask.

“I think you already know. There are four people involved, Kristin. Don’t hurt them!”

He steps out of the taxi, slamming the door hard behind him. He stares at me through the side window. Murmurs a few words. I’m pretty sure the last one is warned.

“Friend of yours?” says the cabbie sarcastically.

“JUST GO!” I yell. “PLEASE, GO! GO!”

He hits the gas and we take off, those bald tires screeching again.

I spin around and gaze out the rear window as the Ponytail stands there watching me. He starts to blend into the night until all I can see is the white of his teeth. He’s smiling a sick grin.

There are four people… Don’t hurt them.

CONSIDER THIS your last warning, Kristin.

But who’s warning me?

And why?

Somebody from the police? Is Detective Delmonico involved?

“So are we actually going somewhere?” asks the cabbie, interrupting my manic train of thought.

“ Manhattan,” I answer. “Please.”

I barely manage to give him my address before sinking down in the seat, ready to pass out. I’ve been awake for a day and a half. I’d almost find it funny if I had the energy to laugh anymore.

“Hey, you sure you’re okay back there, lady?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just another day at the beach.”

Any mild relief I’m feeling is squashed by my lingering fear. It’s as if he’s still sitting next to me, warning me about the Turnbull family.

I’m shivering and feeling dizzy. What’s more, my body is one big itch. Hives again? Whatever it is, I’m scratching all over like mad.

In fact, it’s going from bad to worse. I feel as if my skin’s crawling. What’s going on with me?

We pass a streetlamp, the backseat filling with a hazy yellow glow. I quickly push up my sleeve to look at my arm. I expect to see bright red from all the scratching.

Instead I see something else. Something is moving!

I jolt up in the seat as the rear of the taxi goes dark again. I’m swatting at my arm, at what exactly, I don’t know. But I definitely feel something.

“What the hell are you doing?” asks the cabbie, surely wishing he had run me over at this point.

“There’s something on me!” I shout.

He flips the overhead light on. I immediately see it and scream my head off. It’s a cockroach… except it’s not on me.

It’s in me.

The thing is crawling under my skin, the ghastly shape unmistakable – legs, body, antennae – marching up toward my elbow. I keep striking myself, beating my arm.

Then I see another roach and another after that, forcing their way beneath my flesh. And what I can’t see, I feel. In my legs, my stomach, my face. The cockroaches are everywhere!

I’m thrashing in the backseat, my arms flailing. I have to get out of this taxi! But as I reach for the door, the locks snap down. At least I think that’s what just happened. I pull in vain on the handle. I’m trapped.

“UNLOCK THE DOOR!” I yell at the cabbie, but he doesn’t. Maybe because I’ve succeeded in scaring the hell out of him.

Up ahead, I see the brick wall of a building getting close in a hurry. It’s a dead end in the worst sense of the word.

I can’t bear to look at this. I close my eyes and cover my face with my arm.

Then WHACK! BAM! CRASH! As though my life is a cartoon.

Everything goes black.

“WHAT’S THE NAME of this hospital?” I ask the thirty-something doctor as he looks up from the clipboard in his lap.

“Our Lady of Hope,” he answers.

“And how did I get here again?”

“A cabdriver dropped you off. He said you started screaming in his backseat so he slammed on the brakes. That’s when you hit your head on the divider. Apparently, it knocked you out.”

Dr. Curley, as his name tag reads, squints at my hairline. “Now, are you sure I can’t get you some more ice for that nasty bump?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m okay.”

But I’m clearly not, and he knows it. The nurses and doctors in the emergency room were quick to grasp it too. All it took was five minutes of my rambling on about bizarre photographs, devils, a recurring dream, the Ponytail, and subdermal cockroaches before the consensus concern for my head officially had nothing to do with the nasty bump on it.

Kristin, say hello to Dr. Curley – our staff psychiatrist here at the hospital.

I’m sitting across from him in a small office near the waiting room. There’s no desk, no pictures on the wall, no phone – just two folding chairs. Cozy.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” I ask.

Dr. Curley, a warm and fuzzy type with a mop of longish blond hair, taps his pen a few times on his clipboard before shrugging. “Do you think you’re crazy?”

“I must be if they called you down here to see me. Don’t you think so?”

“Don’t read too much into that.” He leans in as if sharing a secret. “Between you and me, the hospital is usually just trying to get their money’s worth from having a shrink on staff. And they like to protect their butts.”

“Though I suppose I can’t blame them in my case,” I say.

He glances down at the notes he’s been taking. He certainly seems nicer than my ex-therapist, Dr. Corey, and from what I can tell, he doesn’t smoke a ridiculous pipe.

“Well, you’ve definitely had an eventful week,” he says, looking up again with a reassuring smile. “I’d like to try something if you don’t mind. Won’t take long, I promise.”

I listen to him explain his “simple exercise.” All I have to do is fill in the blank.

“For example,” he says, “I consider myself a blank person. And you would answer…?”

Nothing.

I sit there like a lump. “It sure would be easier if this were multiple choice,” I say, stalling, trying to figure out what the game is here and if I really want to play.

He chuckles. “I suppose you’re right. Just remember there are no wrong answers, so don’t overthink it. All I ask is that you be as honest with your answers as possible.”

“Because there are no wrong answers,” I say.

“That’s right.”

He repeats the sentence for me. I consider myself a…

“Decent person,” I answer.

“See? Nothing to it. Okay, next one,” he says, picking up the pace. “The world is getting moreblank. ”

“Dangerous,” I say. No indecision about that one.

“I think most people are…”

“Lonely.”

“When I’m under stress I like to…”

“Work in my darkroom.”

“If I could change one thing about myself it would be…”

“My career. I mean, I’d like to be more successful at it. I’m a photographer.”