Blood And Roses: Fallen Part 5

"Lost him already, sweetheart?" the man on the other end of the line asks. Rebel. f.u.c.king Rebel, not Zeth. Again! He makes a soft chuckling noise, breath distorting the line. "You need me to send out the search party?"

I can't f.u.c.king believe it. This guy just doesn't seem to know when he's not welcome, be that in person or on the other end of a phone. "What the h.e.l.l do you want, Rebel?"

"Just checking to see what time you're gonna be arriving. I'm having trouble keeping your sister in bed. Strange, really. I've never had that problem before. Usually I have problems getting her out of it."

"Oh my G.o.d, you did not just say that." I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling sharply. Tonight just keeps getting better. First I've totally screwed things up with Zeth, and now my brand-new brother-in-law is spilling about his s.e.x life with my a.s.shole of a sister. Something else is bound to happen, something utterly horrifying-they do say these things happen in threes. I don't even want to think about what the third thing might be.

"Rebel, I'm not coming. I already told you-"

"Check your email," he says. And then he hangs up.

"f.u.c.king-f.u.c.k you, a.s.shole!" I glare at my phone, grinding my teeth together, wishing just for a moment that the guy was standing in front of me so I could punch him in his face. Unbelievable. And he wants me to check my email? How on earth did he get my freaking email address? I don't give that to anyone. I only have my work account, and the only people who have that are the hospital and Pippa. Not even my folks have it. But sure enough when I check the mail icon on my cell, there, among the numerous unread notices from St. Peter's, is a message from an address I don't recognize: Fastf.u.c.k83? Seriously? That sounds like a spam account from a s.e.x site. The subject line is the only reason why I even open the d.a.m.n message. It reads: body temp: 102, 140/90, PaCO2 36 mmHG. Only someone wanting to get a doctor's attention would send numbers like that. They're patient stats...and they're bad ones.

Inside the email, the message reads: 3412 Freemantle Ribera, NM 87560.

There's nothing else. I google Ribera, New Mexico, and quickly find that it's a tiny community not far from Santa Fe. The population is only just over a thousand people. It's obviously where Rebel's taken my sister.

Those stats are terrible. They indicate my sister has a seriously bad infection that's affecting the rest of her body, on the brink of shutting it down. Her blood pressure is dangerously high, and her temperature is through the roof. Plus those CO2 levels are reduced, too. It all points to sepsis. Either Alexis is in really bad shape, or Rebel's figured out how to make it look like she is. Regardless, I still just can't bring myself to hightail it over there. I just can't. Ever since we left the hospital in San Jacinto, I've been trying so hard to let go of the anger that's been gnawing at me. The anger that Lexi caused when she lied and consciously made a decision to let me, Mom and Dad live through h.e.l.l the past few years. It was unforgivably selfish. And then to tell this guy that I didn't care about her, that my work was more important, after everything I did and gave up to try and find her? No. Just no. I hit reply.

Take her to a hospital.

That's it. That's all I give him. If he wants to keep things short and sweet, then I am more than happy to return the favor. If he loves her as Lexi claims he does, he won't risk not getting her the attention she may or may not need. To have even gotten those CO2 readings in the first place, he would have needed access to a doctor and a lab, so I'm clearly not the only person he can turn to.

Outside, the skyline is lit up in the distance, all oranges, reds and whites. The sight of all those people only serves to make me feel even more alone. I moved out to the sticks to get away from everyone. To hide. And now I desperately don't want to be hidden away. It's not safe for starters, but I want to be seen again. I want to feel like I exist. I want to know that someone will actually notice if I go missing. By ten o'clock, Zeth still hasn't shown up and I've had enough. I grab my bag and my jacket and I head out the front door. I lock up behind me, not sure when I'll ever be going back.

A car engine is a beautiful thing. The way it works is so organized, so accurate-one mechanical part working in harmony with a mult.i.tude of others in order to create motion. The human body is the same. A chain of reactions monitored by organs that are so delicately tuned, cooperating, functioning together in a delicate balance. If one of those organs fails, the body fails. If one of the engine parts fails, the car fails.

However, everything is working well as I steer the Volvo in the direction of the city; it feels as though my body and the car are almost one machine, coordinating in unison. Left. Right, left, right. I pa.s.s the other vehicles on the freeway, the wet whooshing sounds of tires on wet blacktop growing louder and fading away as I pa.s.s and leave them behind. The squeaky drag of the windshield wipers; my breathing; the low hum of the radio; radio announcers talking in lulling deep voices; the rain lightly drumming on the roof of the car. The drive is almost hypnotic.

I know where I'm heading and it isn't back to Pippa's. I may have been a little socially distant around my work colleagues, but I was never a complete shut-in. I have Oliver, and I have Suresh. And I have an on-call room at the hospital that I can easily spend the night in without anyone bothering me. It won't be a problem; everyone else seems to live in the hospital already as it is. I'm due back to work later in the week, so no one will be all that surprised to see me, anyway.

I feel more and more confident about my decision as I travel in the direction of St. Peter's. I'm even hoping that maybe the night shift will need covering and I can get some hours in the ER. The hustle and bustle, the rush of reviving someone. Yeah, that's exactly what I need. Outside of the hospital I feel less in control. Inside the walls of my work place, everything changes. Everything solidifies, becomes more real. I'm in control there. I am the one with the power.

I change lanes, pa.s.sing more vehicles. The bright headlights of the other cars create white spears of light into the darkness, illuminating individual raindrops for a moment before they vanish in the blink of an eye. An intense light glares at me in the rearview-some a.s.shole with his high beams on. I angle the mirror down, but the lights seem to grow even brighter.

"Back up, buddy. What, you wanna climb right up into my a.s.s?" It's not safe that he's so close. I move back to the right-hand lane, growling a little under my breath as I give the b.a.s.t.a.r.d room to move past me. He doesn't move past me, though. He follows me into the other lane.

A sinking chord of dread pulls taut inside me as the car behind creeps even closer this time. Far, far, far too close. I'm being followed. Adrenalin pulses into me, and it feels as though my veins are carrying electric currents through them, like there are too-hot wires burning just beneath my skin. This is bad. This is really bad. There's no way for me to pull off the road, no exit for me to take that will lead me to safety. I've forgotten all about getting to St. Peter's now; the first store, gas or cop station I come across, I'm getting the h.e.l.l out of this car and in front of some witnesses. Charlie's guys can't shoot me in front of witnesses. Can they? My foot hits the accelerator, making the Volvo roar. Screw the speed limit. Screw safe driving in the rain. I am getting the h.e.l.l away from this guy. It seems he might have other ideas, though.

Crunch.

The Volvo lurches as the car behind makes impact. The sound of crumpling metal blocks out all other sound. No more tires on wet blacktop. No more raindrops pattering on the roof. Only the screech of complaining steel.

"s.h.i.t!" The car jolts forward, skidding a little, and I almost lose the back end. "What the f.u.c.k!?"

My foot slams down on the gas again as I steer into the spin. "Go, go, go!" I shout it, as if sheer will power will right the car and make it move faster. But it's not moving faster. If anything it seems to be moving slower. A string of expletives that would make my father blush rush out of my mouth as I lean forward in my seat. "Come on!"

The car behind is still right on my tail. Through a brief break in the rain, I can see it a little clearer for a moment-a black, sleek thing, low to the ground. Looks like a sports car. I'm gonna be killed by someone driving a freaking hairdresser's car. Seriously?

Car horns blare as I rip past them, trying to shake the guy off, but it's no good. One mile, and then two, and he's still right on me, stuck like gum. I have to do something. I have to do something. Ihavetodosomething!

Fumbling, I reach for my purse on the pa.s.senger seat. My cell is in the small pocket at the side where I always keep it, close at hand. Thank G.o.d it's not buried underneath all the c.r.a.p inside. I hit the number 1 and then the green call b.u.t.ton.

It rings. Nothing. Rings...

"h.e.l.lo?"

Relief breaks out in a cold sweat across my shoulders. "Oh, thank f.u.c.k."

"Romera, is that you?" Oliver. Dr. Oliver Ma.s.sey, who jokingly stored his cell number as speed dial number one when I first got my phone, because he knew I didn't know how the h.e.l.l to change it. f.u.c.k. I should have changed it to the emergency services. I should hang up and dial 911. I should- "Sloane? Hey, are you there?"

Hearing his voice makes my heartbeat slow a little. Oh, f.u.c.k it. "Oliver? Oliver, yes, it's me. Listen. I need you to do me a favor. I need you to come down to the lobby and come outside. I think-I think I'm being follow-"

Another almighty crash rocks the car. This time I do lose the back end. Panic means my reaction times are slowed, even though my body is trying to counteract that by pumping me full of adrenalin.

I'm suddenly spun one hundred and eighty degrees, facing the wrong way down the freeway, and I've slammed on the breaks. Cars tear past me, swerving, inches away from the hood.

"s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t." My body won't work. I'm fumbling for the keys, trying to turn the engine over, but I just can't seem to make it happen. My hands feel like rubber gloves filled with ice water, completely numb and boneless.

I finally do it, finally get the car started, just in time to look up and see another set of headlights, headed straight for me. I know the face I make-I've seen countless people in the movies wearing it, just before their car is involved in a horrific collision that generally smears them across the sidewalk. This car's too close to swerve. I freeze; I wait. I see the other driver-a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. I see the look of panic in his eyes as he realizes what's about to happen, too.

And then he hits me.

The car twists around, and for a moment it feels like I'm trapped in a b.u.mper car. Except this is a b.u.mper car on crack. My body is rag-dolled sideways; my shoulder hits the driver door. I register an unpleasant crunch come from my arm-please don't be broken, please don't be broken-and the world becomes black and white and red as night and headlight and taillight take over. Around and around, it feels as though the car's never going to stop. I close my eyes, shield my head as broken gla.s.s rains down on me. I breathe; I pull in breath after breath, my ribs flaring with pain, my heartbeat slamming in my ears.

And then I realize that it's over.

The Volvo is still the right way up. My vision wavers as I try and focus on my surroundings-the car that hit me is crumpled against the barrier. There are already people out of their vehicles and running toward both my car and the other guy's. Black shapes flicker in my vision as a hand reaches inside the car and unclips my seatbelt.

"Are you alright? Miss? Can you hear me? Are you hurt?"

My ears are ringing. Firm hands help me out of the car. The rain is coming down harder now, slamming into the roadway, rising back up again like flowers blooming right out of the blacktop. A slew of questions are thrown at me, but I don't hear any of them. I'm looking back up the other end of the freeway, where a streamlined Aston Martin is idling on the shoulder fifty yards ahead. It's definitely the car that hit me first, I'm sure of it.

It pauses there, as if the person inside is a.s.sessing the damage, and then its engine snarls and it burns off into the night.

"If you have a headache, don't go to sleep. You need to let someone know as soon as-"

"Seriously? Olly, I'm a freaking doctor."

Oliver stops swabbing the mult.i.tude of tiny cuts that mark my face, pausing to give me a displeased look. "Oh, you are, are you? Funny, that. I haven't seen you around here for a while now. I thought maybe you'd ditched all of this and joined the circus or something."

I try to smile, but my face hurts. "Wouldn't you? Better hours, and the food's actually edible."

"Yeah. I bet." He chucks the swab into the HAZMAT bin and folds his arms across his chest. With me sitting on the gurney in the emergency room, I suddenly get to see how disconcerting it is when a stern-looking doctor is looming over you. I'm never this grim, though. At least I hope I'm not. "Are you going to tell me where you've been, Sloane?" Oliver asks.

I cringe. "Hawaii?"

"Alright, fine. You've been in Hawaii." He snaps his rubber gloves off and throws them in the bin, too. He turns to leave.

"Oliver, wait? What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you?"

He spins around, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor. I find myself leaning away from him when I see his drawn-together brows and the firm set of his jaw. "Remember that kid we treated for photodermat.i.tis last year?"

"The kid who was allergic to daylight?"

"Yeah, that one. You look like her right now. You haven't been sunning yourself on a beach in Hawaii, Sloane. You look like you haven't stepped foot out of Seattle in the last ten years."

"Well, you're wrong. I did leave Seattle."

"But you didn't go on vacation, did you?"

I bite my lip. I hadn't expected the third degree from Oliver. He's a friend, a good one if I'm honest with myself, but I've never considered that he'd be this bothered about what I'm doing with my time. "So what, Ol? Does it matter?"

He leans down, placing his hands on his knees, bringing himself lower so that his eyes are level with mine. "Yes, it matters, Sloane. It matters when I receive a panicked phone call from you, and then I find out you've been brought into the ER in a f.u.c.king ambulance. It matters when I see a circular of a guy, a dangerous f.u.c.king guy, tacked to the notice board in the locker room and I recognize him, Sloane. I recognize him as someone I've seen you talking to in the hallway. It matters when the Monterello guy who was shot and brought into the ICU, the one the cops were warning us that very same guy you were talking to might want to kill, is then murdered the same night. It matters when you disappear from work unexpectedly without telling anyone where you're going, when you don't answer your phone or reply to your email, or let anyone who cares about you know that you're safe. And it especially matters when you then lie to me."

f.u.c.k. Monterello was killed? And Oliver did recognize Zeth. That stupid circular that the cops brought around-Oliver hadn't seen it properly when they pulled us aside, but I hadn't even factored in the possibility that Zeth's mug shot might be pinned to a d.a.m.n notice board. That Oliver might see it later on after pa.s.sing me and Zeth in the corridor, and recognize him. I don't say anything. I'm too busy trying to come up with a way to get out of this without compromising myself or Zeth.

Oliver straightens up. "You don't want to deny the fact that you know this guy?" he asks.

"No. I do know him. And I know he didn't kill Archie Monterello."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he left town right after seeing me. I watched him drive away."

"Oh, right. So you watched him drive away. And there's absolutely no way he could have parked up somewhere, gone and eaten a delicious steak dinner and then come back and slit one of our patient's throats later on, then?"

"Someone slit his throat?"

Oliver's body tenses, his arms folded across his chest again. "There was arterial blood on the f.u.c.king ceiling, Sloane."

My stomach twists. We see a lot of things in the hospital, but I've never seen someone who's had their throat cut. Shot and stabbed, but never that. "He didn't do it, Oliver. You have to trust me on that."

Oliver laughs. "I do trust you. But I don't trust that you realize what you've gotten yourself into here. You can't know this guy properly, Sloane. The police have an APB out on him. They told us he spent time in prison for killing a guy, and guess what? His throat was cut, too. Doesn't that ring any alarm bells for you?"

So that's why Zeth was in jail. He killed a man? And in the exact same way Monterello was killed. And I already know he killed Frankie. My head suddenly feels very full, packed tight from the inside, like a huge, living pressure is trying to force its way out. "Am I okay to leave?" I ask.

Oliver huffs out a deep breath. "You should probably stay overnight, but I know you're not going to."

"No, I'm not."

"Then will you at least go back to my place. You can crash in my bed; I'll take the couch. At least that way I know I can check on you when my shift is up."

I get to my feet, trying to usher some strength into them as they threaten to buckle straight out from underneath me. I'm lightheaded and my ma.s.sively bruised shoulder is throbbing like a b.i.t.c.h. "I'm gonna be fine. I'm not in any danger, Oliver."

He shakes his head, rubbing his hand across his jaw in a frustrated fashion. "But you obviously are, Romera. You just can't accept it yet."

My phone begins to ring; it rang at least eight times on the way over here but the EMTs wouldn't let me answer until they'd finished checking me out. I collect my purse and rifle amidst the tiny square cubes of windshield gla.s.s that have found their way inside. My cell seems to have survived the crash in one piece. I was hoping for Zeth, but the single letter on the screen is an M instead of a Z.

"I have to take this, Ol."

Oliver rolls his eyes, sighing. "Just...the moment you realize that you're in way over your head, come see me, okay? Don't leave it too late." He gives me one last unhappy look, and then he turns and walks away.

I don't waste any time; I hit answer. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Where are you?" It's Michael. The sound of his voice is a relief, but then I register the clipped tone and panic sets in again.

"What's going on, Michael? Someone just tried to run me off the road. I nearly died!"

The line is silent for a moment, as though the man on the other end of the phone wasn't expecting this news and it's complicated matters. "Are you okay?" he eventually asks.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm fine. I didn't hear from Zeth, so I was on my way to the hospital. My car's a write-off, though. Where the h.e.l.l is your employer?"

"He's been hurt. He needed a doctor. I tried to get ahold of you but no one answered."

It feels like my heart stops dead in my chest. "What do you mean, hurt?"

"I mean stabbed in the abdomen. Where are you?"

A feeling overcomes me that I've never experienced before. I felt something like it the day Lexi went missing, but it was nowhere near as intense as this. A panic, mixed in with a falling, nauseous, paralyzed feeling gripping hold of my senses. Zeth's hurt. He's...he's been stabbed? Oh my G.o.d. Was that why he didn't come for me? How bad is it? Where is he? But I don't have time to ask these questions. I can't. I just have to get to him. "I'm at St. Peter's."

"Thank G.o.d. We need blood. Can you get it?"

My mind feels like it's firing blanks. Can I get blood? Can I get blood? The answer to that is simple, but it raises a hundred more questions. Will I get caught taking the blood? Are there cameras in the corridor outside the blood bank? Will I get to Zeth in time to administer it?

"Sloane? Sloane!"

"Uh...yes, sorry. What's his blood type?"

"I don't know."

That's just throwing another variable into the mix. Will I even be able to get type O negative? I suppose I'll just have to hope for the best. "Okay. Alright, I'll sort something out. Come and get me."

Michael exhales down the phone. "Good. I'm already on my way. And Sloane, there's one other thing."

One more thing? I don't think I can cope with one more thing. One more thing is probably going to be enough to break me. I can tell by the serious note in Michael's voice that this is important, though. I hold my breath. "What is it?"

"Charlie knows where your parents live. He went there, dropped your father's car off. But don't worry. I have two guys watching them at all times. They're okay. They're safe."

I call my mom while I'm stealing blood. I can't...I just can't believe it. Charlie was there, at their house. Drinking my mom's stupid Lady Grey tea. The thought is so terrifying that I'm contemplating jumping on a plane and heading straight back there, just to see with my own two eyes that they're fine. It feels like I can't f.u.c.king breathe. I still feel that way, even after I hear my mom's voice and she starts wittering on about the early Christmas party they're holding at Dad's hospital.

"It's only halfway through November. What's wrong with having a Christmas party at Christmas? That's what I want to know. Sloane? Sloane, are you there?"

I grab a second bag of O neg from the fridge and stuff it into my purse, trying to think through the crippling headache that's pounding at my temples. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here, Mom."