Blood of Saints Page 33

  Eighty-four

  The beam of her flashlight finally found purchase. A set of stairs. Metal treads painted a matte black. She aimed the Mag to her right and its beam reflected back to her, dulled by gray cinderblock. To the left, the beam reached a short distance before being swallowed by the black.

  Whaddya waitin’ for? You aren’t scared are you?

  Wade’s words came to her—half taunt, half dare—forcing her through the hatch, onto the narrow landing that topped the stairs. Lifting the Kimber off her hip, she aimed its barrel through the open doorway, taking them slowly, panning the light in a slow sweep in front of her, assessing her surroundings before each step.

  Strickland would be so proud of her.

  She thought of her old partner—the way he mothered her, pestered her into prudence. He was the voice of reason she so often lacked. She’d give anything to have him here with her now.

  She realized something was wrong a split second too late. Stepping on the next stair tread, she planted her heavy-soled boot in its center but it gave way, folding beneath her foot like it was made of paper. She flung her arm out, grabbing for anything that would keep her upright, but the railing had been removed. There was nothing left to stop her fall.

  Her boot sank, hooking into the frame that held the bogus stair tread in place. She pitched forward, Maglite flying from her grip, its beam a bright wing beating against the dark. She heard it land on the floor, watched the light of it spin below her even as she tumbled—face, shoulder, hip—each rotation jarring bone. Battering flesh.

  She landed on her back, hitting the ground so hard her lungs seized in her chest, head ringing, joints screaming. She forced out the breath that was trapped in her lungs. Pulled in another, letting it out on a soft groan.

  Don’t be mad at me, darlin’. You had to know trusting me was a bad idea.

  Her gun hand was empty, fingers clamped around nothing but air. She turned her head, searching for it, but it was gone. Swallowed by that field of black.

  Get up. Get up. Get up.

  This voice did not belong to Wade. It was hers, and hearing it inside her own head was a comfort. She struggled to obey. Rolling on her shoulder, she pushed her foot against the floor, urging the two of them to work in tandem. To get moving. Get herself upright. The cool concrete bit into the bed of her foot. She’d lost her goddamn boot on the staircase.

  “You don’t know how happy we are that you accepted our invitation, Melissa.”

  She was half off the floor when she looked up, her eyes wheeling upward to catch sight of his face. Again, she was struck by how little he’d changed in the years since she’d known him. It was like he’d been suspended in time, waiting for her to come back.

  “Hey, Manny. How’s it going?” she said, spitting out a mouthful of blood while her hand crept slowly along the floor, searching for her gun. The wedge of sky visible through the open hatch above them opened up. A thunderous crack reverberated in her chest.

  “We’re better,” he told her, matching her tone, “now that you’re here.” He smiled down at her. It was the last thing she saw before he delivered a vicious kick to her face. After that, all she saw was dark.

  Eighty-five

  Manny Robles. The busboy from Luck’s. He’d been a foster kid back then, bouncing from placement to placement, marking time until he aged out and could start life on his own. Until he was no longer at the mercy of people who claimed to have his best interests at heart. Obviously, there’d been something broken in him, but she’d missed it, too caught up in her own nightmare to see the monster lurking in her peripheral. So many monsters …

  He was dragging her down a dimly lit corridor, her arm jerked over her head, stretched painfully, his fingers clamped roughly around her wrist. She was groggy and her face felt fat. Her bare foot was numb, ankle swollen.

  “… gotta tell you, I didn’t think it’d work,” he told her, casting a quick look at her over his shoulder. “When Wade laid out the plan to get you here, I was sure you wouldn’t be stupid enough to take the bait.” He smiled. “I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.”

  The DNA under Stephanie Adams fingernails. He’d planted it in an attempt to lure her out of hiding. And Wade told him to do it. He’d been talking to Manny, just like he talked to her. But it was more than just talk, apparently. Wade was driving him. Influencing him. That’s when she realized Wade was gone from her head. Not just quiet, but gone.

  But he hadn’t gone far.

  “Fuck off,” she muttered, rolling the eye that wasn’t rapidly sealing itself shut to catch glimpse of her captor while her free arm dragged and stuttered along beside her. She thought maybe her left shoulder was dislocated, which meant her dominant arm was pretty much useless.

  Manny rounded the corner, pulling her along behind him, through an open doorway into a long narrow room, lit with a hanging shop light. He stopped dragging her, dropping her arm as soon as they breached the doorway. There was a bed shoved against the far wall, a small dark figure sprawled across it.

  Ellie. It was Ellie. Sabrina felt her throat close, a saltwater sting in her sinuses, but she pushed it back, focusing her attention on Ellie’s chest, watching for the rise and fall that would tell her there was still hope. She counted to twelve before she caught sight of her rib cage expanding, slight and slow. She was alive but barely.

  Manny finally looked down at her. “Do you believe in miracles, Melissa?”

  Instead of answering him she averted her gaze, focusing on trying to lift her left arm. It wouldn’t budge.

  “I do,” he told her in a companionable tone, leaning into her field of vision. “I believe in miracles. Want to know why?”

  She stared through him, refusing to play his game. The knife Michael gave her was in her left-side pocket. As soon as she got the opportunity, she was going to stab him with it.

  Like he could read her mind, his expression darkened and he straightened himself with a nod. “Okay,” he said, making his way over to where Ellie lay. Manny placed his hand over her nose and mouth. Within seconds she started to twitch from lack of oxygen. “Do you want to know why?” This time his tone was hard, his black glare drilling holes in her face.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “I want to know why.”

  He smiled. “Because my life has been filled with them.” He lifted his cupped hand from Ellie’s face. “My mother. You. Wade. I’m surrounded by the unexplainable. My very existence defies logic.”

  “She’s not your mother—Magda Lopez.” Her mouth lifted slightly, drawn tight by her cold tone. “She’s not your mother, Manny. Paul Vega isn’t your brother. Father Francisco isn’t your father. Graciella told me how you heard the family story about the twin boys, one raised by the family and one given away. How you latched on and believed it was you. Needed to believe it was you.” She shook her head. “But it’s not. You’re not a miracle. Graciella realized it, but you wouldn’t listen. You’re just another sad, sick asshole with delusions of grandeur—just like Wade.”

  His face went dark again. Reaching down, he fisted his hand in the hair at the top of her head and yanked her upward, jarring the ball and socket joint of her separated shoulder. The pain of it pushed in on her vision, squeezing it until all that was left was a field of white. He flung her forward, her swollen ankle as brittle as cracked glass that gives way as soon as pressure is applied.

  She caught herself, fingers digging into the mattress Ellie lay on. “Do you believe in miracles, Melissa?” he said again, his words followed by a loud, sharp SNAPBANG! a moment before she felt the hard press of metal at the base of her skull.

  Eighty-six

  “Well, do you, darlin’?”

  The words had been spoken out loud, the breath of them fluttering against the nape of her neck. Sabrina nodded, her right arm inching slowly toward the edge of the mattress she was pressed against. Right hand, left poc
ket. Tricky but not impossible.

  “Yes.” The knife dug into her thigh and she shifted, lifting her leg against the bed, trying to wedge its frame under the knife enough to raise it from her pocket. “I believe in miracles, Manny.” Her fingers brushed against the top of the knife and she leaned forward, pushing it up until she could close them around it. She pulled it free, concealing it beneath her hand on top of the mattress.

  “Good,” he said, the pleasant tone at odds with the application of pressure to her skull. “That’s good, Melissa. Now I want you to give her a part of what you’ve been given. I want you to save her.”

  Save her.

  Again, the voice she heard was her own. This time she nodded in response before bowing her head, trying to buy herself some time. Her left arm was useless. Her ankle too. If she struck, she had to be quick and she had to be sure, because there was little chance of her getting away.

  She focused on Ellie, the shallow expansion of her chest. The pale bluish tinge that stained her mouth. She was dying. Slipping away, right in front of her.

  Save her.

  “We both know I can’t do that.” She curled her fingers around the short hilt of the blade, tucking it tight against her stomach to conceal it. “Don’t we, Wade.”

  The pressure against her skull intensified.

  “I know you’re in there. I know Manny isn’t running the show, not anymore.” She raised herself slightly onto the ball of her good foot, pushing back against the sting of metal. “Probably hasn’t been for a while now. How long did it take before you realized Nulo wasn’t his real name? That he lied to you in case you came after him? Manny never trusted you.”

  He dropped the bolt gun. Gripping her shoulder, spinning her around, his empty hand raised and fisted—already rocketing toward her face.

  She spun, using the momentum he created to swing out with the blade even as she evaded the punch. It grazed her temple, catching her in the ear. The blade in her hand arced upward, separating the fabric of his shirt and the flesh beneath it.

  She missed her target, slicing his chest instead of his throat. He roared, the hand on her shoulder gripping her, pulling her closer before throwing her into the wall, her hip slamming into the cinderblock. Her knife clattered to the floor, spinning out of reach.

  She didn’t scramble for it. She didn’t assess the damage she’d caused. She didn’t wait for him to attack. She just turned and fled.

  Eighty-seven

  She fought to stay upright, her abused ankle wobbling and bowing with each heavy footfall. Down the corridor he’d dragged her through. Around the corner. Past closed doors.

  Like Sabrina hoped, he followed her.

  “Just like old times, right, darlin’?” The words chased her down the hall, spoken out loud.

  She ignored what hearing Wade’s tone and cadence carried by the voice of another actually meant. “You’re right—Manny ain’t drivin’ this bus no more. I let him have his fun with all his miracle mumbo jumbo. But now that you’re here, it’s my turn.”

  Keep moving. Don’t look back.

  Her own voice again, urging her to focus. The sound of rain grew louder and louder until the sound of him behind her became lost in the clamor of it. The doorway came into view and the staircase beyond it. She looked past it, concentrating on the beam of her flashlight that still spilled across the floor.

  Hands planted themselves on her back and he shoved her with a roar that sounded like her name. She stumbled into the wall, flinging herself to the side, through an open doorway.

  She fell face first at the foot of the stairs. Her landing was followed by a bright, breathless pain she recognized instantly. Manny fell with her, the bulk of his body pressing her into the floor, the knife Michael gave her lodged in her back.

  “You’re mine, Melissa,” he screamed at her, spittle hitting the back of her neck. She felt the shift of his hand, repositioning his grip on the hilt of the blade as he readied to lift it. Drag it from her to stab her again. “You’re mine and there ain’t—”

  She rolled, burying the blade even deeper, ripping it from his hand. As she rolled, she swung, crashing her right fist into his jaw, breaking teeth. Fracturing bone. The force of the blow lifted him, created space between them, and she planted her boot in that space, kicking out.

  Suddenly she was free. She rolled over again and started to crawl.

  Get the flashlight. Find the gun. Save Ellie.

  Behind her, he laughed, jagged and gleeful.

  “You know where we are, darlin’? This room is special,” he said, giving her a bloody grin. “This is where I fucked you the last time.”

  She kept crawling, attention focused on the wash of light in front of her.

  “Where I killed you.” He’d found his feet. She could hear the shuffling limp of him coming after her. Moving faster than he should’ve been able to.

  It didn’t matter. She had work to do.

  Get the flashlight. Find the gun. Save Ellie.

  He was standing over her now and he planted his foot in the small of her back, pushing her flat against the floor. “The way you bled for me … the way you fought me.” He stooped, gripping the hilt of the knife, jerking it from the meat of her shoulder. “And now here we are again, just like the good ol’ days.”

  She stretched, arm and hand reaching out, fingers brushing against the long handle of the flashlight. Pushing it farther out of reach. Above them, the rain fell. A torrent of water poured through the open hatch and ran down the stairs in sheets.

  He hooked his foot into her armpit, flipping her over, arms flopping above her head. Kneeling, he straddled her hips, grinning down as he ran his empty hand over her torso, pushing her shirt up, exposing her belly. He bowed his head, running reverent fingertips across the collection of scars that splayed across it, reading what they said. “I gotta admit,” he said, dragging the tip of the blade across her flesh, leaving a thin, red ribbon of blood in its wake. “I’m a little nervous, darlin’. It’s almost like our first time all over again.”

  Sabrina stretched her right arm into the dark, her fingers splayed wide, the tips of them digging into the hard floor beneath her. The tip of her middle finger brushed against something round and smooth. The trigger guard of her gun.

  She dragged the Kimber toward her even as she lifted it, swinging the barrel of it toward him, burying it in his chest. The smile on his face dimmed. His eyes flared. She pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession. Slugs slammed into his chest, blowing out the back of his rib cage.

  Sabrina kicked him off of her and started crawling. Hands and knees, one after the other. Her shoulder had snapped back into place when Manny threw her into the wall, but it was still slow going. It still hurt like a bitch.

  You think it matters, darlin’? You think you’ve won?

  He was in her head again. Heavy with rage despite the flippant tone of his words.

  You’re mine, Melissa. You belong to me.

  She’d made the stairs and started up, fingers gripping stair treads as she clawed her way upward, toward the open hatch.

  I’ll just find another pony to ride. Eventually, you and me, we’ll dance again.

  Rain lashed at her face and hands, harder and harder with every inch she climbed.

  Until then, I’ll be right here. I’m always gonna be here.

  She made the landing and tucked her chin into her chest against the rain that battered her, the voice inside her head growing fainter and fainter.

  Wait. Where you think you’re goin’? You can’t leave me here.

  Wade’s tone was barely a whisper, edged with something that made her smile.

  Fear.

  “Watch me,” Sabrina said, her hands and knees sliding over the lip of the hatch. She fell forward, through the open doorway, battered face pressed against rain-cooled concrete, head blissfully si
lent.

  She’d made it out. She was free.

  Eighty-eight

  Sabrina sat in a blue plastic chair rather than on the bed she’d been ordered into. “Put this on,” the nurse said, tossing a johnnie onto the bed beside her before rushing out, yanking the curtain closed behind her. As soon as the woman was gone, she hobbled over to the supply cabinet and jimmied the lock. Finding an ACE bandage, she used it to wrap her ankle. It was still swollen. Not broken, but the sprain was bad enough to slow her down. Afterward, she wadded up the hospital gown and used it to stop the blood weeping from her shoulder blade.

  Now she waited. Truth was, she’d have left hours ago if not for the fact she’d been stabbed in a place she wasn’t able to stitch up herself. So instead of making a slick getaway, she sat, pressing her shoulder into her wadded-up hospital gown wedged behind her against the wall, watching CNN with the captions on because she couldn’t reach the remote.

  “Wanna play doctor?”

  She looked up to see Church in the space between the curtain and the wall, wagging a surgical staple gun in her direction. In her other hand was a paper bag. She was wearing scrubs—bright purple bottoms with a multicolored, tie-dyed top. Her hair was in a ponytail. The badge clipped to her shirt front was turned backwards to hide the ID photo on it. If Sabrina saw her in the hall, she’d have walked right past her without a second glance.

  Beyond her, nurses and doctors buzzed around, soft-soled shoes squeezing against worn linoleum while they tangoed with an assortment of uniform officers and reporters. It was starting all over again. Santos had already called twice with interview requests from local news stations—his superiors were pushing him to hold a press conference. It was only a matter of time before the story went national.

  “Yeah,” she said as she repositioned herself against the wadded-up hospital gown. “The sooner I stop leaking, the sooner I can get the hell out of here.”

  “Amen to that, Kitten.” Church slipped into the curtained room to circle behind her, snagging another chair. A moment later, Sabrina heard the snap of surgical gloves being pulled on.