L.L. Foster - The Awakening

The children at play paid her no attention at all. It would have been disgustingly easy for her to harm any of them—if she'd had that intent. Still at a fast pace, she went over the fence again, this time toward the back, then beyond the empty school.

When her lungs burned and sweat smothered her skin, Gaby drew to a pause. She'd allowed herself to run freely, trusting a sixth sense developed through pain and purpose, to guide her in pursuit of the archfiend haunting her.

When she perused her surroundings, she found herself in front of a hospital, facing the entrance for the emergency room.

Abhorrence overtook her. Her detestation of all things medical squeezed her throat in a viselike grip, making deep breaths problematic. Chills chased away the sweat. Revulsion churned in her belly.

She remembered being here—not at this specific hospital, but to her wounded psyche they were all the same. Misery hung heavy in the air. Fear, desolation, and anxiety wafted in and around the human cattle. As many security guards as medical personnel mingled through the masses.

Through constantly breached doors, Gaby detected the voices, elevated in both pain and anger. A hacking, wheezing body bumped her as it passed, making slow, stooped progress into the unit. Ambulances came and went; people of all sorts talked, ate chips or cookies, and swilled caffeinated adrenaline.

It should have been chaos, but to Gaby's jaundiced eye, it appeared more like frigid, choreographed efficiency.

She stood there, taking it all in, letting it stir her memories until it became a part of her.

And hurt her. Again.

Gathering her wits, she studied the ambulance drivers talking as they replaced a gurney, then the nurse in her tidy white uniform, sharing amicable conversation with a woman in a suit. Her impulses tightened. Her stomach knotted in dread. She curled her hands into fists.

Then she went in to find the fiend who'd led her here.

Angry black clouds filled his vision. When he got his hands on her, he'd throttle her. Twice.

Luther tried for a calming breath, but calm remained well out of reach. Gaby had done him in, and it hadn't even taken much effort on her part.

Where the hell was she going in such a hurry? And how had she gotten cut?

"Son of a bitch."

Cursing didn't make him feel any better, and in fact, it only served to bring Morty Vance scuttling out of his cubbyhole.

The scrawny landlord gaped down at Luther in disbelief. "Detective Cross. What are you doing on my stoop?"

Luther sat up and dusted off his hands. His leg hurt. His head pounded. Trying not to growl, he said, "Taking survey."

Mort looked around the dark, deserted streets and along the dirty sidewalk in confusion. The baking sun amplified the rancid scents of God-knew-what. Discontent buzzed in the air. "Survey of what?"

"My bones. I wouldn't swear to it, but I think they're all in one piece still." Had Gaby missed his crotch on purpose, or did she have faulty aim? Somehow he doubted the gangling barbarian ever missed unless she meant to.

Luther worked his jaw, tamped down on his blistering temper, and got off his ass. "Gaby leveled me."

Mort's mouth drooped open, then snapped shut. "She did what?"

Nodding toward the uneven doorframe where Mort hovered in trepidation, he said, "She came barreling out of the building, damn near ran into me, then laid me low. All without so much as a how-do-you-do."

"But…" As if seeking explanations, or looking for Gaby, Mort rubbernecked around. Finding nothing but the same old dirty surroundings, he shifted his bony shoulders. "Well, I'd say that doesn't sound like Gaby, but I guess it does. She's not much for small talk."

"You don't say." A dirt stain marred the front of his gray slacks. "She was bleeding." He looked at Mort. "From the throat."

His curled hand pressed to his mouth. "Much?"

"What?"

"Was she bleeding much?"

Luther wanted to punch a hole in something. "You're not surprised that she was bleeding? You just want to know how much? Does that mean you're the one who hurt her?"

"No!"

Crossing his arms, Luther waited. Silence had a way of making small-minded people spew their innermost thoughts. He doubted it'd work with Gaby. No, she'd just stride away. But Mort…

"I would never hurt her. I swear, I wouldn't. She's a friend."

"Then who did?" He looked beyond Mort to the shadowy entrance. He could see the peeling paint on the battered walls, the chipped wooden floor. "Is there someone else in your building?"

"No way." Mort shook his head in surety. "Gaby never has anyone over."

"Never?" That was a pretty long time. But it didn't surprise him.

"Not since I've known her. Not even once."

"Hmmm." Pondering that, Luther said aloud, "I suppose she could have done it to herself. Hopefully an accident. It didn't look too serious—"

"Thank God."

Luther drew back, perplexed at Mort's reaction. Had he been in an agony of suspense, not knowing how badly hurt Gaby was when she fled the building? But why assume such a thing anyway? "Why all the relief, Mort? You've seen her hurt worse, have you?"

Showing some belated spine, Mort straightened. "No. And why are you bothering Gaby? What did she ever do to you?"

Luther did an abrupt and unplanned about-face. "I'm not bothering her. Actually, I came to see you."

"Me?" Astonishment and worry muted his pleasure. "But… why?"

"You've lived in this area for a long time, right?"

Excitement made his voice stronger. "About a decade now. My mom used to own the building and I lived with her." He realized how that sounded and cleared his throat. "I took care of her, made sure she had what she needed…"

"Yeah, I get it. That's real noble of you." Putting an arm around Mort's shoulders, Luther led him inside and toward his apartment. With a slow groan of rusty hinges, the entry door crept shut behind them. "Where's your mom now?"

"'She passed away about five years ago."

"Two years before Gaby moved in?"

Nodding, Mort stepped to the side and allowed Luther to enter his apartment. Everything looked the same as it had two days ago: cluttered, meager, and impoverished. "I'm sorry about your mother."

"Thanks." Mort ran his hands up and down denim-covered thighs. "Why d' you care how long I've been here?"

"There's been some trouble in the area and I figured you had to know people, right? I thought maybe you could lend me a hand."

"You want my help?"

"Sure, why not? The police can always use a little outside assistance. Given your proximity to things, you're a good candidate to help now." Luther stared right at him while telling the lie. "I can trust you, right?"

"Yeah, I mean, sure. I'm glad to help however I can." Shifting in nervous ebullience, he stirred the air, sending the odor of unwashed skin to Luther's nose. "You want something to drink, maybe?"

After a discreet cough, Luther nodded. "If you make it strong, coffee would be good."

Mort's thin face lifted. "Cool. Let's go in the kitchen."

Rushing ahead, he emptied dirty clothes off a chair and piled them in the corner, then began clearing the tabletop of comic books and unpaid bills. Luther sat down and, trying to be subtle, asked, "You said Gaby keeps to herself, but you don't get much company here either, do you?"

"Nah, but it's okay. When I have the store open, I stay plenty busy."

Luther pictured the ramshackle store that abutted the two-family structure. Enough filth marred the windows to impede a view beyond the bent, stained, and faded signs crookedly hung. Handwritten messages pronounced the sale of comic books and other fan magazines. "You own the connecting building, too?"

"Yeah. I inherited both this place and the comic book store from my mom. But I didn't feel like opening the store today."