Accidentally Dead, Again Part 20

Rolling her neck to loosen up, she decided to recall all the threats her sister had lobbed at her recently. They'd aid her in putting on her best performance of a lunatic ever.

With a final glance skyward, Phoebe had one last thought.

May the power of Nina compel her.

Phoebe jerked the doctor's neck hard, hearing the crack of his fine bones and the stretch of sinew as she twisted it. "So here's the thing. If I were you, I wouldn't press that b.u.t.ton. Because not only will I break off your finger, I'll eat it as a precursor to, say, your b.a.l.l.s. Nom-nom." She leered, making her eyes wild.

He bucked against her as she dragged him backward, but she stilled him by clamping her hand tighter over his mealy mouth. "So, let's talk, yes? Nice and calm-or I'll make good on my promise. Now, if I let go of your mouth, and you whine like the sissy la-la disappointment you're turning out to be-it's on. Got it?"

He nodded against her hand before she threw him into the chair, remembering to temper the brute force with which she did it like Wanda had lectured her. He slammed against the metal, slipping to the floor with a moan.

And there was to be no killing unless absolutely necessary. Also the word, according to Wanda. So if this nutball were lucky, he'd only leave limping-maybe bruised, and it was totally okay to draw blood as long as she'd reached a level where she could resist temptation.

Yet, seeing this insidious jacka.s.s made Phoebe see red. Which was a lovely color on him-especially if it was dripping from his head. She fought for control. After all, she made a promise to Wanda. Even when Nina had encouraged her to kill first, ask questions later, she'd sworn to Wanda she'd always abide by vampire protocol.

Phoebe crouched down on her haunches and glared at her captor. Giving him as little information as possible would be key to keeping herself and the others safe until she could call in the cavalry.

The trick was, she had to ask the right questions so he'd give her some answers without catching on to how much they'd found so far. "Where am I and who are you, Dr. Horrible?"

"Who are you?" he whispered, fear lacing his tone. Even his perfect hair quivered, leaving Phoebe feeling the stiff breeze of omnipotence.

She smiled again, summoning up one of Nina's menacing smiles that were anything but friendly. She dragged a finger down the side of his face, reveling in his cringe as she taunted. "Oh, silly. You know who I am. I'm Phoebe Reynolds. You know, your walking, talking lab rat with early-onset Alzheimer's and good hair? Didn't we establish that when I filled those forms out in triplicate to qualify for Frankenstein's eighth grade science project? G.o.d, that was a ch.o.r.e, FYI, and invasive to boot. But back to the dealio at hand. Who are you? And I'd answer fast or who knows what organ I might go for first. I'm all about the sneak attack." She poked him in the kidney and giggled, throwing her head back in abandon.

His lips thinned and his chin lifted in defiance.

She slid down next to him, folding her legs under her, and nudging his shoulder. "I don't want to quash your romantic dreams of playing the tough guy here, but let's be serious. You're just not cut out for the part."

With fingers that almost missed their target due to her speed, Phoebe managed to s.n.a.t.c.h a handful of his hair in her hand and jerk his head to her lap. His whimper of fear was delicious. His eyes, wide and afraid-delicious-er. "See? Clearly, you're no swarthy swashbuckling match for me. So let's do this."

Yet, as she talked her smack, the realization hit Phoebe again. She didn't know what waited for her outside that door. And if he didn't answer her, she'd have to make good on her threats.

Still, he remained silent, closing his eyes as if to pretend she wasn't really there. "Are you really going to make me blow my anger-management recovery? Do you have any idea how many sessions I had to go to to get my crazy temper under control? Swear it. If I lose my fifteen-year chip-there's gonna be an organ harvesting right here in this room. G.o.d, they're so b.l.o.o.d.y. And the mess? Your cleanup crew'll be in here till day's end unwrapping your entrails like a Christmas present. So speak, douche bag-or die."

Just like old times, Phoebe, eh? It was uncanny how easily she'd fallen back into the role of predator. She hadn't threatened a life in years. Not since Mark's trouble their junior year.

Because there were lives at stake, she hoped whoever ruled the universe would forgive her.

Looking down at this strangely handsome man, she saw he still wasn't budging. She flashed him a coy pout. "It doesn't have to be like this, you know. You, silently valiant. Me, really hacked off by it. We," she gritted out from between her tightly clenched teeth, giving his hair another hard yank, "could have been such good friends." Her final words were a scream in his face as she rose, dragging him behind her to cross the room and attempt a peek out the door.

She tried the door handle only to find it was locked. Of course. Why not ruin her manicure, too? They'd all but stripped her of her girly goods anyway.

A hard yank, and she popped the door open, poking her head out to see rows and rows of fluorescent lights lining a crude, cement ceiling. c.o.c.king her head, she listened until the good doctor struggled again.

The shake she doled out was hard, silencing him. She hissed instructions at him. "Again. I don't want to remind you, but a hero you ain't. So why ruin a perfectly good shirt trying to get away from me?"

The hall was clear for the moment.

What to do, what to do?

Kneeling down, Phoebe gave him one last chance. She drew him up close to her face. "How do you feel about sharing now? It's your last opportunity before your life light hits the skids."

The words he finally did utter chilled her to the bone. It was when she knew she'd been made. "Dear G.o.d, you're not breathing." His blue eyes shimmered in some sort of twisted excitement and his lower lip quivered. "You're one of them!" he screamed, a scream flavored with a dash of bizarre delight.

Ugh. Cover blown.

If there were Angie d.i.c.kinson awards to be handed out-she was going to miss this round of Police Woman 2012.

Without thinking twice, Phoebe dropped him to the ground with a solid right hook to the side of his head. His eyes rolled back before his shiny blond head lolled to one side and he was rendered unconscious, if she was judging correctly by the speed of his sluggish pulse.

Dragging him to the bed, she hurled him onto it and covered him with the sheet before racing to the door. A quick glance outside told her the coast was still clear, but it wouldn't be for long once someone realized the doctor was missing. She swooped up his clipboard and shoved it under her arm before stepping out into the hallway.

On swift feet, she launched down the long, tunnel-like corridor in far-reaching sprints. Pipes lined the ceiling above, but she only caught brief glimpses of them as they whizzed by her line of vision.

The goal here was to find something-anything-that might help them stop the agonizing process they were headed for.

Oh, and get the h.e.l.l out with the information while she was still upright.

Double doors caught her eye when she made a left after hitting a dead end. Voices coming from behind the doors raised the hackles on the back of her neck.

Her legs trembled. Her hands shook, but she couldn't force herself to look inside the window. Maybe what they needed to figure this out was just behind this door. What if there was nothing they could do to stop the decomposition from happening? What if there was no answer other than the obvious.

Death. With a capital D that rhymes with C and that stands for casualty.

She ran trembling hands over her face and waffled.

Jesus, Phoebe, a voice inside her head scorned. What would Nina say? This is just my personal thought, but I think her rant would be brought to you by the letters F and B, and it would go something like this: Get it together, f.u.c.kwit Barbie!

Oh, f.u.c.k Nina and her name-calling. She wasn't the one who was d.a.m.n well in here all alone with no idea how to get out, and worse, shoeless. So let Nina call her whatever she liked. She wanted out.

But out wouldn't solve anything. This was the closest anyone was ever going to get to this madness. And there was more than just her to consider. She might have found a reprieve for her Alzheimer's death sentence, but there was a new vampire death threat to take its place. If something happened to her, what would happen to ...

No. She would not allow that thought to play on her fears.

Steeling her determination, Phoebe called upon her will of iron. The one her mother said would be the death of her.

Hah. No truer words.

Inching along the wall, she clung to the clipboard like it was her lifeline and craned her neck.

And then she saw.

The clipboard clattered to the floor, making a sound so brittle against the cement floor it vibrated in her brain.

She had to close her eyes and force them back open again in order to process what was in front of her.

Could just this once, the ongoing horror of this freak show not involve any more images that might have to stay with her for an eternity? Why did everything have to be so Nightmare on Elm Street?

When she finally opened her eyes again, it was still the same mind f.u.c.k.

A man lay on a table, split wide open from stem to stern. Tubes from every direction spilled from his gut and arms. Lights flashed, monitors beeped. She had to shove her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming her revulsion and focus on her mission.

Phoebe shook off her rage for the inhumane treatment of this poor soul and made her eyes take in the interior of the room.

If she was seeing right, it was an elderly man, his arm was hooked up to some kind of monitor, and an IV line threaded its way to the front of his hand, dripping fluids at a slow pace. He had those thingamajigs stuck to his head and attached to what Phoebe guessed was an EKG. His wispy, white hair floated down past the edge of the gurney and his gnarled hands were relaxed.

Two more men in lab coats surrounded the gurney while another sat at a computer and typed. Printer paper spewed from a printer in thick, endless stacks. Vials of what appeared to be blood sat in containers in the far corner of the room where yet another man looked into a microscope, examining the samples.

She didn't know what any of the monitors were meant for, nor did she understand any of the words she saw clearly on the computer monitor. None of them made sense, making her wish she'd at least spent part of a semester in chemistry not half asleep.

Though, what she did see clearly was one thing.

The man on the table.

The man on the table who was talking to the doctors surrounding his bedside.

CHAPTER 14.

"Stinky?" Sam barked into the phone while rain pummeled the pavement at his feet. "Whaddya got, and it better be good."

Stinky's sigh was shaky before he spoke. "Holy f.u.c.k, cowboy. What the h.e.l.l have you gotten yourself into?"

"Tell me what you've got," he ordered while Nina paced in time with a worried Darnell.

"Oh, my friend, the stank I've got. Look, here's the score. This Dr. Hornstein? I found s.h.i.t for s.h.i.t on his office comp, but I hit the mother lode when I tapped his personal PC. It took me a minute, but I followed a couple of IP addys and ..." He paused on a grating sigh. "Never mind. It's too involved for your all-brawn, cowboy mind to absorb, Sammy. Let's just say, no one's safe from Stinky Malone's superior hacking skills. No one."

"I'd clap, but my hands are going to be too tied up wringing your f.u.c.king neck if you don't get to the point and stop tinkling your own chimes!"

"Whoa-hoe. Easy there, Violent One. I got your back. Anyway, he's got all sorts of files labeled Project Eternal Clinical Trials. It sure the h.e.l.l isn't an FDA-approved trial, and that means something hinky's goin' down with these bogus trials. Serious hinky. Which is why I'm guessing you're calling me to begin with?"

Stinky's brilliance was going to be the death of him one day. Sometimes, he just knew too much. Right now, he was valuable to many people. He'd better keep it that way for all the secrets he knew. Sam couldn't afford to reveal too much, because if the op presented itself, Stinky'd sell him out. Which meant, if the FBI came looking for him via Stinky, he'd spill with the first loaded syringe they waved under his nose. He'd never make the fingernail-pull round. "Get to the point, Stinky."

"Each one has a name attached to it, and they're all what he considers candidates for this bogus clinical trial he invented for his Alzheimer's patients. And they don't all have Alzheimer's. A couple of 'em are just terminal. But they're not just his patients, Secret Agent Man. He's in on this with a couple of other freaks. Which makes sense if these people are disappearing. If they all disappeared from one doc's joint, eventually someone's going to find that a little too coinkyd.i.n.k. One of the dudes works at some hospital in the emergency room, but he doesn't have a private practice. The other one's a retired oncologist, if I'm reading this doc's version of a sentence right."

Instantly, Sam was on alert, his grip on the phone tightening. "How did you know these patients are disappearing, Stinky?"

Stinky's response was one of disgust for Sam. "Well, the word expired on three of the files sort of tipped me off. I can't believe how underestimated I am. I don't have a high IQ because I'm a dummy, Sam. I ran a comparison of all the potential candidates' files, another one of my too-technical-for-your-simpleton-brain-to-wrap-around programs I use, and I found two common denominators. One was, none of these poor f.u.c.ks had any family. There's always less red tape that way because it isn't too many friends they'll give out patient files to. You know from experience, they don't even like to give 'em to the cops without a whole bunch of rigmarole. Two was, they're all headed for the Highway to Heaven but this one. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I can figure out why she was chosen for the trial. She has nothing in her file other than she bit it. No contacts. No medical history-no stats-not s.h.i.t, and I can't find a d.a.m.n thing out about her. Not a one. But the notes in this file say she's knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door."

f.u.c.k. Three people dead. Alice Goodwin, the guy at Alice's apartment, and his one-night stand. He had to wonder if the third person was the woman who'd shown up at Phoebe's apartment. "Names. I want all of their names," he spat.

"Alice Goodwin, Raymond Schaffer, and Meredith Villanueva. Meredith is the chick with no history."

Sam staggered back as if he'd been hit in the chest. He leaned against the side of the building, absently watching the rain run off the arm of his jacket while he composed himself. "Are you sure about the name Meredith?" Had someone else escaped and they didn't bother to record it? If there were only three that quite possibly made Meredith the woman who'd died in his arms ... But Meredith Villanueva couldn't have been the woman at the apartment ... Yet, it made sense if Stinky couldn't find any history on her ...

Once more, Stinky was offended. "Well, I'm lookin' right at it, and last I checked, my high IQ came with literacy skills."

He'd have to table his astonishment at hearing that name for later. It was more important to find Phoebe now. "What's the timeline on these people entering the bogus trial?" He was hoping, in the midst of everything else, to get some perspective on how long they had before both he and Phoebe, quite possibly, died like Meredith and Raymond had.

"A week and a half from the time Alice and Raymond entered the trial until they were of the doornail persuasion. Meredith doesn't have an entry date-just an exit. November first."

The day he'd shown up on OOPS's doorstep.

Leaving them at best, another day until decomposition. "Who's in on this with Hornstein, Stinky? Names. I want G.o.dd.a.m.n names." Names so he could find the f.u.c.ks and rip their throats out with his bare hands.

"I don't have any names yet, just the initials. TDB. No clue what they mean, either."

The initials on his memo pad from O-Tech. s.h.i.t. "A location where this is all goin' down? You have one of those, Stink?"

"Not yet. But I'm on it."

"So what did you find at O-Tech?"

There was a pause, and some keyboard clicking and then Stinky said, "Now that's the strange thing here. I didn't find a d.a.m.n thing. They're right as rain, pal. Not a solitary blip. No files that look even a little suspicious. I can't believe it myself, but O-Tech is legit. They really are in the business of pest control. Don't find that often in my line of work. Can't find a single connection between O-Tech and Dr. Crazy Train."

Then why had Alice Goodwin's body been at O-Tech and why had the woman who'd shown up at Phoebe's place been there, too? "And what did you find on Phoebe Reynolds?" Sam had to force her name from his mouth without going into a fit of rage. Yet, alerting Stinky to his involvement with Phoebe would only give him the opportunity to rat him out if Stinky needed to save his own a.s.s.

"She's thirty-three. Diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. What a s.h.i.tty rap at such a young age. She's single, and marked as a possible candidate for the trial. But the funny thing about her is, she does have family. Finding them took some digging, too. Her mother and father are dead, but she has a sister-"

"Right," he muttered, cutting Stinky off. A sister who was going to gnaw off his limbs from the bottom up if he didn't find Phoebe.

Stinky must not have heard his interruption. His voice droned on with more facts about Phoebe. "Her sister's twenty and lives in Highland Hills. You know, that facility for long-term brain injuries? But that wasn't in her patient files. I found that by hacking into her personal PC."

Sam's eyes went wide. Phoebe had another sister? Nina tugged at his arm with impatience. "Tell the dork, if he doesn't have a location for the kid, I'm going to sniff his genius out and eat his brains. Got that, Smelly?" she yelled into the phone, stalking up and down the sidewalk.

There was laughter from the other end of the phone. "You got a partner now, Sammy? She sounds saucy. I thought you worked alone?"

He held up a hand to Nina to thwart her. Darnell saved him by putting one of his big paws on her shoulder and pulling her away. "No. Not a new partner. Listen, are you sure about the info you just gave me?"

"One hundred percent. Phoebe's sister, Penny Reynolds, was in a hit-and-run when she was ten. Got nailed on her bike right on her street. They never caught the s.h.i.t stain. Kid's paralyzed from the waist down, and suffered brain damage she never fully recovered from. Needs care twenty-four-seven, but she's semifunctional. I found a bunch of emails from the director of the facility to Phoebe. They went back and forth about who'd take care of Penny when Phoebe couldn't anymore because of her Alzheimer's. This Phoebe was worried about how she'd pay for Penny's care when she bought the farm. She's a pretty decent chick, for the most part, not bad lookin', either. No record other than some fighting and mandatory counseling way back in high school, and I really had to dig to find that. No tickets. Nothing. She lives in Manhattan, personal stylist ..."

Stinky's voice warbled in Sam's ear as he rambled on about Phoebe's stats.

He wasn't the only one with secrets. But his gut a.s.sured him, Phoebe's reasons for keeping this so close to her chest were much different than his. She'd kept Penny from Nina due to Nina's outrage-her anger at finding out she had one sister was a lot. Two would have sent her over the brink.

She'd done that to protect Penny until she thought it was safe enough to tell Nina. In the same way she'd kept her Alzheimer's to herself. She was looking out for everyone concerned, revealing only what she had to in increments to consider all the emotions involved in finding out about Penny.

This wasn't just about saving herself, it was about saving herself so someone could always be around to look after Penny.

Christ.

He brought his focus back to Stinky's voice. "Stinky! Shut up. I don't need to know the woman's shoe size. I need you to put a track on Phoebe Reynolds's phone. Find it. Find it now. While you're at it, send me everything you've got. All the files on the expired patients and potential candidates, every single note this freak's written, and anything else you can get your hands on."

"Dude-I'm smart, but I'm software smart. I don't know a whole lot about some of the medical c.r.a.p this guy's got goin' on. How the h.e.l.l are you going to figure out what this all means? You want me to send it to my contacts?"