Dying to Know (15 page)

staring into them, uncertain of what to do.

The man slid from the van and took two steps, stopping out-

side the cone of Angel’s headlights and behind his own. He wore

a long overcoat with its hood drawn over his head. He pointed

toward her front wheel and patted the air. The rain and his hood

shielded his face.

He pointed at her front tire and motioned for her to cut the

engine.

Her tire was flat—flat to the rim.

Angel tried to roll the Explorer back away from his van. It re-

sisted and its sluggish steering fought her until she heeded. She

yanked the shift back into park and grabbed her cell phone from

the console. With an unsteady finger, she stabbed speed dial 2.

“Please, Bear. Answer …”

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He didn’t.

“Angel, stay in the truck. Try to …”

The man went to her door and pul ed his hood tighter around

his head. When he stepped closer to the Explorer, I saw his

face—or what should have been his face. It was veiled behind the

dark material of a balaclava.

“No, you bastard, no.”

“Leave me alone.” Angel shook her head, her eyes unable to

hide the panic. She looked around. There was no one to come to

her rescue. She dialed Bear again, cursed, and punched redial.

Voicemail.

Before she could redial, the assault began.

The hooded man’s hand lashed out in a vicious circle and

smashed her window with the butt of a knife.

Angel jolted. Her cell phone tumbled out the shattered win-

dow onto the ground. She tried escaping across the seats, clawing

for the passenger door handle to pull herself free. She fumbled

for the door lock and handle. Terror blunted her success.

She screamed.

“Jesus, no,” I yel ed as the hooded man grabbed her hair and

hauled her back behind the wheel. He grappled through the win-

dow, fought for control, and twisted her head backwards. His

strength was overpowering.

With little hope, I tried to intervene. I swung at him, tried

pulling his hands from her. My fists found no bone, my grip

found no flesh. I swung again and again—cursing and yelling at

my own impotence. I was watching my wife’s death and was help-

less to do more than cry.

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“No, you bastard, no!”

He wrestled through her flailing arms, twisted her hair, and

slammed her backwards. His silent, focused assault was deafen-

ing. And what was most precarious was his foray, which came

not from trepidation or any spontaneous rush, but from an obvi-

ous familiarity with violence.

“No.” I felt it. The rage began careening inside me. Singeing

heat surged into me in a rush of angst and rage. Exhilaration

shuttered me as sparks ignited inside and the power flashed.

“No, let me go.” Angel thrashed and tried to claw his hands

loose. “Please … no …”

He cursed and pulled her into the window. Twice, he struck at

her but didn’t land a solid blow. He struck her again. This time he connected with her temple. She went limp. He reached inside

and tore the ignition keys free.

“No.” The energy in me burst into rage. “You bastard.”

I grabbed him by his throat and whipped him backwards. His

body spun and I propelled him to the ground. He crumbled four

feet from the Explorer and Angel’s ignition keys dropped to the

pavement. “Angel, the keys—get the keys.”

The hooded man froze. He lay on his back, staring at the Ex-

plorer. He looked around, unsure of who attacked him.

The shock didn’t last. He recovered faster than I expected.

Angel lurched from the Explorer hunting her keys. He sprang up

and grabbed her. He took hold of her arm and stopped her in

mid-stride like a marionette on his string. He shoved her back-

wards and pinned her arms to her sides. He kneed her in a vio-

lent strike. She coughed and cried out.

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She was done.

“No.” I kicked hard into the back of his knee but there was

little impact. His head spun around, but he was unfazed. I kicked

at his knee again. Nothing. Something was wrong.

Jesus, no. I was draining, losing focus … losing the surge of

energy … losing.

The hooded man hammered her against the Explorer and she

coughed again. He tightened his grip on her hair and shook her.

He spun her around and wrapped his knife-hand around her

neck.

The blade pressed her cheek. She stiffened. “Please, no …”

I tried to grab him but couldn’t find a hold. Then, I saw my

chance. Angel’s cell phone lay at my feet, open. The screen was

bright and alive with power—I grabbed it. My fingers tingled and

the energy gushed into me. I grew stronger and stronger as my

anger boiled and sought an outlet.

“Angel, drive yourself against him. He’ll loosen his grip. Then

smash his bal s. Now, Angel, now!”

Time froze.

She stared—stared right at me. Her eyes exploded and her

mouth went agape. It wasn’t her attacker’s knife she saw, it was

me. “Tuck? Help me.”

The hooded man twisted her sideways and pinned her again.

She cried out for me again and his head spun around. His eyes

found me and he gasped; surprise loosened his grip.

“Angel, now.”

She growled a war cry and thrust her body against him. Her

legs went limp and she dropped her weight against him. As his

135

grasp loosened, she slipped down, momentarily free. She

dropped to one knee, pivoted, and hammered her fist into his

groin—once, twice.

He howled and released her.

She twisted free and sprang up. She kicked him hard in the

groin.

He exploded with a guttural slur of pain and surprise. He

sunk to his knees and clutched his crotch. The knife clattered to

the pavement. His eyes never left mine—they remained fixed on

me—uncertain and terrified.

Angel screamed, “Help me.”

I swung as hard as I could and drove the cell phone into the

hooded man’s face. The phone crushed into pieces and blood

erupted through the ski mask from his face and nose. As I reared

back for another strike, the surge faltered. The phone’s screen

dimmed and with it, my strength. The blow struck and I felt

flesh, but it was weak and without steel.

“Go, Angel. Drive as fast as you can. Forget the tire—drive.”

She leapt into the Explorer, fumbled with the keys, but started

the engine. The Explorer lurched forward and she floored the

gas. The steering fought back but she forced the vehicle to obey

and lumbered from the lot.

She never looked back.

“Oh my God, was that real y you? Tuck, please?”

I sat beside her in the front seat. I was drained and fading. My

entire body was numb as my strength ebbed away. There was a

hole in my being and the energy was oozing out. A moment ago,

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I’d struck down her attacker. Now, I was spent—slipping away in

a steady, murky stream.

“Drive Angel, drive. Go somewhere safe—a gas station, a

store … anywhere with people. Call Bear.”

She had a death grip on the steering wheel and her foot hard

on the accelerator. Crying and near hysteria, she shot glances at

me as she strained to control the injured vehicle. Her face was

ashen and she trembled in jerky, uncontrolled spasms.

“Tuck … if you’re real y here. Stay … I need you.”

She wanted desperately to believe.

For a few brief moments, we bonded. It seemed so simple

now. Emotions allowed it—love and terror—with some help

from Ben Franklin’s kite. That’s how I reached her. When her

heart was breaking or when danger was close, somehow, she

found me. Death and life are separated by so many plains and so

much unknown. Yes, it was love and terror—the strongest emo-

tions—that bridge the two worlds and somehow let us bond

again. Even for just a brief tryst.

This time, though, it had been enough. Just enough.

Darkness was swallowing me and yet there was no darkness.

There was nothing. “I love you, Angel. You’re safe now.”

“Was it really you? I’m not sure—I just don’t know. Tuck?”

She crushed the brake pedal and the Explorer lurched to a stop.

“No, come back, it’s all my fault!”

137

t went y-four

“I told you to lighten up, Oliver.”

Doc Gilley was somewhere nearby. I couldn’t see him—I

couldn’t see anything. Emptiness enveloped me. I felt suspended

in darkness without footing and without frame of reference.

“Focus, dumbass. Focus on me and it’ll pass.”

I did and it passed. As I concentrated on his voice, the dark-

ness shifted, and the light ebbed toward me like the dawn. When

the blackness evaporated, I was back in my den. This time, I was

flat on my face in the center of my expensive Persian rug. I felt

sick like I had the flu. The room was teetering and disorientation welled inside me.

I sat upright and the greasy ball in my stomach eased. “Doc?

Did you call me a dumbass?”

Doc Gilley was standing behind my desk. He smirked and

folded his arms in that classic, “I told you so” pose. A lecture was coming.

138

“Stand up, you’re embarrassing.”

With effort, I rose to my feet and fell back into the leather re-

cliner normal y occupied by Hercule—who, I might add, was no-

where around. I felt winded, frail, and if it were possible, starved.

My limbs were rubbery as though I’d just risen for the first time

after weeks in a sickbed.

“Doc, what happened?”

“You pushed too far, too fast. You weren’t ready for that stunt

with Angela and it cost you.”

It cost me? “What does that mean?” My head ached—wel , at

least I think it did. If I were alive, this would be the worst hangover in my life and I’d be wishing I were dead. Funny how that

works now.

“You never listen.” Doc didn’t feel much pity for me. “You

drained yourself almost dry. Don’t ask me what would have hap-

pened then. It never happened to me. I’m smarter than that.

You’ve been gone for two days. I just now …”

“Two days?”

“Wel , two days for Angel.” He frowned. “She’s been pining

over you. You made a mess of things. You stirred her up and now

she’s lost and confused—more than before. Dumbass, I told you

not to do things like that.”

Dumbass? Was it proper spirit etiquette to call me names?

“Come on, Doc. Quit griping. I saved her life.”

“I’m not sure.” He sighed and looked at me like a teacher

scolding a student. “You bonded with her and that’s okay. It

doesn’t work that way every time. Bonding is one thing; contact

is different. In fact, it’s downright unheard of. You were Angela’s 139

love and those emotions allowed you to intercede in the parking

lot.”

I remembered. “Doc, I hit the guy. I actually hit him. You

said …”

“Dammit, Oliver, putting words in her head is different than

appearing—or fighting. You can’t do that.”

“Can’t or shouldn’t?”

“Both. You’re lucky I got to you when I did. If you don’t go a

little slower, I can’t be responsible. If you go too far, I may not be able to bring you back.”

“From where?”

“Hell only knows. No pun intended.”

I shrugged. “Two days? What’d I miss?”

“Your funeral. It was quite nice, too.”

“What?” I noticed his smug expression. “I missed my own fu-

neral?”

“Yes.” He waved in the air. “Just a small affair, mind you. Very

tasteful. It’s best you missed it. She looked rather …
content
.”

“Content? Oh, sure, because she knows I’m still around.”

“If you say so.”

I got serious. “Doc, is Angel all right?”

“She’s fine—for now. Oliver, you’re dead. Your senses are

gone. You have to stop fighting that.”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember—no concentrating, no thinking. Be

there and all that.”

“Then do it.” He folded his arms and lost clarity. “And stop

screwing around.”

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“Doc, the last thing I heard was Angel say, ‘It’s all my fault.’

What did she mean?”

For a moment, he started to fade, but it wasn’t his leaving that

unnerved me, it is what he said next.

“I’m so sorry. I real y am.”

“For what?”

“You made a mistake, Oliver.” His voice was hushed and sad.

“You misunderstood your premonition. It’s already too late.”

141

t went y-five

Doc’s voice faded and he was gone.

So was I.

I stood up from the recliner and walked toward voices in my

foyer. But, once again, it wasn’t my foyer anymore. It was a

strange dining room with a smal , round table in the center. The

voices were coming from another room. I walked through a

kitchen and an adjacent breakfast nook, then into a large living

room. The apartment didn’t look familiar, but the eerie déjà vu

throbbed in my head.

Bear was standing across the living room with an arm

wrapped around Angel. She was flushed and upset. “Oh, my

God, not again. When will this stop? Poor Carmen.”

Not again? This was Carmen Delgado’s home. No, oh no.

Captain Sutter stood beside Bear speaking on her cell phone.

Amid hushed comments, she looked up and barked orders at

Clemens; his sidekick was nowhere to be seen.