The Girl in the Mirror (Sand & Fog #3) (41 page)

Sweat.

Hands.

Hard thrust.

No, no, no…

I think of my husband, and then demons slip into my head and hide him from me. Tangled together, love and evil, until I can’t let the happy memories take shape because they are always followed by the ugly moments I want to forget.

The stench on my bare mattress and pillow doesn’t even bother me now. I rub my cheek against the soiled fabric. Even the glide of my flesh against a smooth surface makes pain crash through me.

Moaning, I let darkness slowly cover me.

Dazed and confused, my lids lift. Running steps. Sound. Yelling in Spanish. Bullets. Close, not far away like I too often hear them.

The women are moving. Talking frantically to each other, and I struggle to turn onto my other side facing away from the wall instead of toward it. They’re huddled together, heads covered, in the far corner from the fencing with the locked gate.

What now?

Are the men coming to kill us?

Bright, flashing light and I squint, and somehow I know it’s sunlight pouring in from somewhere, though it’s been so long since I’ve seen it I might even be wrong about this.

The stomping comes louder.

More bullets.

Lots of cursing and shouting in Spanish.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Over and over again, nonstop.

“All clear.”

English?

Or is my mind playing tricks on me?

None of the men speak English.

“I don’t see her, Bray.”

Jacob?

No, he’s not here.

Yes, my mind’s playing tricks on me again.

Before my eyes are shifting patterns of movement, the images fuzzy. My head spins and my leg and my sex burn with pain.

The weapons fire is earsplitting, like it’s right on top of me. My arms won’t listen to the will of my mind. I can’t lift my hands to cover my ears.

“Get me the goddamn cutter. She’s here in this cage but it’s locked,” I hear and my hazy mind pretends it’s Jacob. But it can’t be. He’s in Manhattan. I don’t even know if he’s alive. I don’t know if anyone is alive beyond white wall, white wall, dirty floor, and fenced wall.

Rattling metal.

The cage rattling.

Who is that?

I know him.

Why can’t I remember?

“Fuck, I can’t get this cut.” That sounds like Jacob. “I haven’t any strength in my right arm.”

“Oh Jesus, lie back against the fence and cover me. You’ve taken a fucking bullet in your chest.”

A body sinks back against the metal.

Sandy brown hair.

A red circle growing larger on his back.

That’s not one of the guards.

He’s hurt.

Clink.

Clink.

Rattling chain.

Thud on the floor.

The women run out.

I hear their screams echoing.

Oh God, they’re killing them.

They’ve decided to kill us.

That’s what’s happening.

Bullets.

Stomping feet.

Through my shadowy vision, hands close in on me.

Fight surges upward through my leaden flesh. No, I won’t let them take me. Kill me. I twist and struggle against strong arms.

“Stop fighting. Princess. It’s me. Brayden.”

I’ve lost my mind.

It can’t be…

“Jacob, what are you doing?”

Someone lowers in front of me. “Babe, it’s me. Stop fighting. Let me pick you up.”

My eyes go wide.

The touch of his hands.

The smell of him.

My limbs start to melt…fingers in my hair…I jerk back.

“No, no, no…” My screams burst from my dry throat.

“Shush, babe. It’s all right. It’s me, Jacob.”

“Grab her. We’ve got to move,” Brayden growls fiercely.

More bullets.

An arm closes crushingly around me.

I’m lifted from the mattress.

I can’t stop the men.

They’re stronger than me.
    

At least this one isn’t hurting me.

I’m floating through the air.

“Krystal. Sweetheart, you’re safe. We’re going home, babe. We’re going home,” Jacob’s voice says between labored breathing, but I can’t see him and I know it’s not him.

I don’t know where I am, but I know Jacob isn’t here with me.

The bright sunlight after too many days of dim light from a single bulb makes my eyes burn and keeps my lids shut.

Bullets everywhere.

Rapid voices of men.

My lids lift.

White wall behind me.

Brown brush hills.

Dirt.

Fenced wall in the distance.

Men there.

Shooting.

Running footsteps.

Another set of hands on me.

“Let go of her, Jake. We need to move and you’re shot. You’re bleeding out. Give her to me.”

My arms lock around his neck. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I feel safer with this body close to mine. It didn’t hurt me. Those large hands trying to touch me—I don’t know what they’ll do.

Screaming, I hold on and fight not to be taken.

“Princess, it’s Graham. I’m not going to hurt you. But your husband’s hit. None of us can get out of here unless you let me carry you.”

No, not letting go.

My body is jerked hard, my arms lose their hold, and I’m crushed against an iron chest as my eyes lock on a face that looks like Jacob’s growing smaller in the distance. I’m moving fast away from him.

Struggling, I try to push off the arm clutching me. I want to run back to Jacob. This is a cruel, cruel dream. Don’t let him keep growing smaller until I can’t see him in my dream.

“Princess, please,” I hear a voice as the massive arm tightens around me. “Stop fighting. It’s hard enough carrying you with one arm. Stop trying to break free.”

His gun jerks up at his side.

A shot makes me jump.

“Load up,” is shouted near my ear and I look up at the face. Graham. It’s Graham Carson.

He’s the man carrying me and the jolting agony in my legs is caused by his running. Over his shoulder, I see Brayden with Jacob.

At the cage.

It was my husband I saw.

Leaning against the fence—
you’re shot. You’re bleeding out
—it was Jacob’s back I saw with the spreading red pool. He saved me, but they shot him.

No!

Let me be with Jacob.

I need to be with him.

More gunfire.

Men all around, yelling and running.

Graham settles in the front of a vehicle. Then the sensation of movement again. An SUV bouncing across the terrain. Ripping agony through my leg. Each bounce it gets worse. I close my eyes and count in my head.

“Keep pressure on that wound, Brayden,” Graham orders, looking into the backseat.

“It’s through and through. Chest. He’s lost consciousness. He’s bleeding a fucking lot. I don’t think we can wait until we’re across the border.”

“Steady, Brayden. Keep packing him and pressing hard. I’m not losing anyone.”

Tears stream from my eyes without sound. No, this isn’t a dream. I’m still in a nightmare…

* * *

A bright light shines and flickers in my eyes.

“How is she?” It’s Graham Carson.

“Given what she’s been through, surprisingly good. They’ve drugged her with something. Repeatedly raped, beaten, and God only knows what else they did to her. But she’s a fighter. She’ll make it to LA.” The voice isn’t familiar. Hands on me are smooth and soft, but when they touch me the pain is less. “I’ve given her fluids. I’ve given her something for the pain. I don’t know what they used on her leg, but they’ve shattered her femur.”

He hit it with a bat.

In the cage.

After Alberto kicked him for trying to rape me.

She is special
…but when Alberto left, special meant a beating and a bat to my leg.

“How’s the kid doing?”

“Hanging on. Critical. Him, we shouldn’t wait. He needs a hospital ASAP.”

“We’re ninety minutes out of LA. Can he make it that long?”

“It would up the odds for him if we touched down now.”

My eyes fix on Graham’s strongly carved face. “Help him,” I whisper.

His features tighten. “I can’t, Princess. There’s only one safe stop for this plane. Jake’s got a gunshot wound. We can’t go to a hospital that will report it. He’ll make it to LA. I promise.”

* * *

Normal sounds, but ones I don’t like. Rolling wheels. Women and men on both sides of my bed. I’m whizzing through a hospital.

“Get her into the ER stat.”

Double doors push open.

Bright light overhead.

My head thrashes as too many people rush around me at once.

A masked man in blue.

I start to panic.

“Get her under.”

Something closes over my nose and mouth.

“Breathe in deeply,” a soft female voice says.

Darkness…

* * *

Beep. Beep. Beep. My eyes slowly open.

I turn my head.

Backs facing me, I see my mom and dad standing with a doctor, studying something on the wall. A computer monitor. Is that my leg on the screen there? What’s that I see?

“Her right femur was shattered. We put a rod in her leg. She came through the surgery without complications. Nine to ten weeks for the bone to heal. Then she’ll need physical therapy. She’ll walk again, but the leg won’t ever be strong enough for her to dance. The bruising and the rest of it will heal over time. It’s her emotional state I’m worried about. She should be able to answer simple questions at this stage. While it’s not uncommon for rape survivors to shut down, her lack of responsiveness at this point is a concern.”

“What can we do?” My mother’s voice, breathy from worry.

“Sit with her. Talk to her. She’ll come out of it when she’s ready.”

My dad nods. “Jacob?”

My mom’s crying, burying her face in Alan’s chest.
No
…and I retreat back into the fog that is less scary than here.

* * *

Dawn. They come. One by one. My family. Sometimes I open my eyes to find one of them sitting in the chair. Sometimes they talk to me. They kiss my cheek, and pat my arm, and whisper to me on voices I love, but I don’t want any of them.

They try to sound upbeat.

They never mention Jacob.

Why won’t they tell me what happened to my husband?

Sunset. In the night, it’s always my dad sitting with me. Until morning. Familiar voices are in the hall. I hear Graham Carson, and at other times Dillon. Brayden. Yes, I heard him. But never Jacob and no one talks about him.

It’s not better here than it was in the cage.

It’s worse.

Inside my head the world beyond my filthy cage was the one I imagined.

Maybe I’m not alive.

Maybe I’m dead.

Maybe that’s why this is unbearable for me.

* * *

“Your father says you’re a ballerina,” murmurs a soothing voice from beside the bed.

Eyes open, I stare at the wall.

Paper rustling, likes sheets on a pad. I smile, but not facially. Jacob making a pros and cons list the night of my surprise party. Adorable and weird, but wonderful.

“Miss Harris, I know you’ve been through an ordeal. I also know you can hear me. If you’re afraid to speak, you don’t need to be. You’re safe.”

Silence, and then the chair makes a squeak. He’s stood up. “Let’s try this another way. Maybe you can draw a picture. Or write something here.”

I don’t look at what he sets on my tray table.

The door opens.

Squish. Squish.

The rubber shoes the nurses wear.

They talk quietly.

“That poor family,” the nurse says. “It breaks my heart every time I see her parents outside the door. She looks so much like her mother and father. Gets to me every time they look at me. I can’t imagine what they’re going through, having this happen to their daughter.”

I don’t look like my mother or my father.

They talk quietly between them and I stare at the TV. Who turns it on? Late-night reruns of shows from back in the day.

They discuss some kind of family history about me. Details of my childhood. My parents. Everything. But it’s not completely accurate. Lots of things no one knows about me are missing.

Inside my head, I rewrite the history of me.

“This world makes no sense. Things like this shouldn’t happen. Who could treat her the way she’s been treated? I can’t understand how this happened to her,” the nurse says, confused.

God, I hate that they talk about me like I’m not here. And they never listen when I correct them. They talk and talk about meaningless nothing punctuated by questions.

I’m so tired of the questions.

So tired of people talking at me.

How did this happen?

She’s wondering that?

I didn’t think Milo Bassard was bad.

Brilliant. Eccentric. Flamboyant. Unpredictable. But bad? Never. I thought Jacob was jealous. I thought it was safe to go to dinner with Milo.

My heart starts to race. No, don’t think about that. Those answers make whatever happened to Jacob, whatever it is they’re not telling me, my fault.

Yes, this is a better answer.

Maybe it will make them go away.

Extraordinary people are doomed to live stupid lives.

The nurse stares down at me, shaking her head, and then backs off.

“I know you can hear us,” the doctor says.

Hear us?

He pats my arm. “It’s all right. You’ll talk when you’re ready.”

Talk?

Am I not really talking?

Hasn’t anyone heard anything I’ve said?

Extraordinary people are doomed to live stupid lives.

No response from the doctor. OK, I get it now. My voice is only in my head.

* * *

The door clicks closed behind Alan. Another night of my dad talking to me. Telling me to stay still. How many days have I been here? Words made sound from my mouth today, not only noise in my head.

I asked about Jacob.

I think I did.

Or maybe I didn’t.

My voice made my dad cry, but he only talked about the family being in the waiting room, how I needed to eat, and therapy so I could go home.

Staring at the glass wall, I will myself to pull out of the dream of me dancing with Jacob, and force myself to face the things I don’t want to remember.