Two Weeks' Notice (28 page)

In the drawer she found the bundled-up clothes she’d had on when she arrived, and she wiped most of the blood off her with the ruined hospital gown before pulling the pants and shirt on. Then she retrieved the spoon, used a wadded-up old, thin pillow under the discarded bloody gown to at least hint at a body lying in the bed, refastened the restraints, and turned off the overhead lights. Before she did, though, she looked up at the spider’s web, at the little hunter sitting in the center with infinite patience.

At the lumpy mass of the insect she’d caught, hanging
trembling in the corner. It was bigger than the spider.
Good for you,
Bryn thought.
Good for you. Wish me luck.

She wedged herself into the narrow bathroom cubicle next to the door, and waited.

Jane didn’t come back for so long that Bryn started to shiver; the chill was, she knew, a sign that the nanites were struggling to compensate for all the damage done. She needed a booster shot. The tiny machines were repairing tissue, organs, generating blood, but their power supplies were burning up fast.
Doesn’t matter,
she thought.
You can wear Jane’s skin as a coat if you get cold.
It was a macabre joke, but it made her feel better.

And she wasn’t so sure she
did
mean it as a joke, after all. Something savage had been let loose in her, and she wasn’t ready to cage it just yet.

It wasn’t Jane who came back. It was Mr. Smith, with his diamond saw looped casually in one hand. Whether Jane had tired of the game, or she’d just sent him to check, Bryn didn’t know; it didn’t matter. As the door swung shut behind him, Bryn lunged out of the dark, knocked him against the wall, and buried the spoon with brutal precision in his neck. It was blunt, but one thing Jane had taught her: apply enough force, and even a spoon could cut through flesh, and slice deep enough to cut through the thick rubbery surface of the carotid artery.

It was the second time today she’d been bathed in hot blood, but this time, at least it wasn’t her own.

As his blood jetted out in panicked, high-pressure spurts, Bryn grabbed the commando saw, shoved him down, and knelt on his chest as she searched his pockets. He had a gun, too. She took it, checked the clip—full—and waited until the bleeding had faded to weak, barely perceptible wellings from his neck.

Then she got up and washed off in the bathroom as best she could. His leather jacket was bloody, but that sponged off; she put it on over her stained shirt, used a torn piece of his shirt to tie her hair back in a ponytail, and slipped out into the hallway.

It was never quiet here, and she tried to filter out the talking, arguing, crying, or banging from other cells on the corridor. No sign of nurses or—if they existed—doctors. No sign of Jane, either. Bryn made sure her shoes were clean on the bottom and left no perceptible gory footprints, then put the gun in her pocket. She held it ready to fire through the leather, if necessary.

She walked as confidently as she could toward the exit.

The clock in the hallway read three a.m. Had it been that long? She’d been brought here around sunset. Her shot had been at noon, so fifteen hours had already passed. Nine to go before her tracking nanites came online.
Screw that.
She’d find a phone, or steal a car, walk into traffic—anything but stay here.

The door at the end of the hall claimed to be an exit, but it was keypad locked and alarmed. Opening that would draw instant attention, unless…

She heard a thin squeak of wheels behind her, and looked back to see a wheelchair slowly rounding the corner. The man in it was ancient, withered, and had a blank, vague terror in his eyes that struck a chord with her. She knew how that felt now. At least hers could end, but his kind of torment wouldn’t.

He came creaking down the hall very slowly. No one was with him. No one was following him. He headed straight for Bryn like a tortoise-speed heat-seeking missile, a desperate kind of hunger in his face. When he reached her, he stretched his hand out to her and tried to speak.

She took his hand, very gently, and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. But you can help me.”

He made a sound she didn’t understand, and his clawlike fingers gripped hers with desperate strength. She managed to pull free, and pushed him to the door.

Then she opened it, ducked outside as the alarm began to sound its shrill noise, and left him with the wheelchair propped in the opening, as if he’d stuck trying to get out.

Then she ran.

Her hope was that they’d assume he’d somehow opened the door and not check further. Jane wouldn’t be fooled long, but it might be a few minutes’ grace before Mr. Smith’s body was discovered, and Bryn needed every second of distraction she could get.

Outside, she found a plain expanse of grass that really didn’t qualify as a lawn; it was choked with weeds, its green color deceptively healthy. The exterior of the building was plain painted cinder block, functionally ugly. This particular building was cut off from the other, larger, more gracious facility; that part had an ornate garden behind it, with an ornamental gazebo and fountains. The more functional inmates of this prison stayed there, Bryn assumed: the ones who had family to visit them, and who for public relations purposes couldn’t be penned up like convicts for the convenience of the staff. She had no idea if there was safety in that more graciously styled structure; could be that they had no idea what went on out here in the internment camp, but she couldn’t rely on that. On
anyone
.

The entire property—and it was large—was ringed by a high fence. There was a drive-through gate, but it, too, was locked up tight, and there were surveillance cameras watching. A few staff cars sat in the parking lot, but Bryn was fresh out of hot-wiring skills.

Phone. She needed a damn
phone
.

And the best place to find one would be inside the central building.

Bryn raced over the open area, trying to keep to the shadows as much as she could; the moonlight was traitorously bright out, but she made it to the garden and hid in the dark overhang of a still-blooming rosebush for a moment. Lights were on in the secured-facility building, and she saw into the windows at the front; there were at least three or four burly, sour-looking nurses who were off to check the rooms. Someone would find the “body” soon.

The patio doors off the garden were locked tight. No way inside. She followed the curve of the building around, testing windows, and finally found one that was open to admit a cool night breeze. She slid it up, careful of the noise, and cast a quick look inside to scout the footing. It was clear beneath, and she slithered over the sill and down to the carpet without much noise.

The old woman sleeping on the gurney—unrestrained, except for the metal railings—didn’t stir. She looked as frail as a dandelion, but someone cared about her—there was a thick, hand-knitted afghan tucked around her, and a pillow nicer than anything available in the facility. Bryn scanned her bedside table, but found no trace of a cell phone or landline. She eased the door open. This facility had wider hallways, nicer carpet, big windows, and—unfortunately—more nurses. These were going door-to-door, methodically checking beds; when one went into a room, another came out, as if they’d planned it that way to cover any eventuality.

Bryn closed the door with a faint click and looked around. The bathroom wasn’t big, and she had the distinct feeling they’d be looking inside it anyway as they searched. Likewise the narrow closet. She went back to
the window and closed it, and heard footsteps approaching.

Time to decide.

She dropped to the carpet and rolled into the shadows cast by the dangling afghan on the far side of the gurney/bed. There was no way to get all the way underneath, so it was the best she could do. Her heart hammered as the attendant stepped inside, opened the bathroom, the closet, and came over to check the window.

He never glanced her way. The woman on the bed, as Bryn had guessed, would be of no real interest to him, and he’d be focused instead on the concealed places, not the open ones.

Bryn let out a slow breath as he finished his search, exited the room, and shut the door behind him. She stood up and followed him, peeping out the narrow crack of wood to check the hallway. She waited until the staff had completely finished their search of the hall. One went back to the round nurses’ station desks; the others moved on, presumably to the next set of rooms.

“Thanks,” Bryn whispered to the sleeping lady, and slipped out. She hugged the wall, watching the nurse at the station. This one was a woman, and she had her back turned as she spoke on the phone.

“No sign of anyone,” the nurse was saying. “We’re clear in here. Blanton’s checking the parking lot out front. The gates haven’t opened, and we haven’t had any motion detectors go off. Nothing on surveillance in the front. I think she must still be on your side.” That, at least, answered the question of whether the nurses in this building of the facility would be sympathetic. “I’m telling you, we already checked the rooms. Every room. Either she’s in your building or she’s out on the grounds.
Yeah, we’re searching the garden. Keep your knickers on. She won’t get far.”

The nurse hung up the phone, and Bryn backed up and into another room. This one held a sleeping man with an oxygen mask and an IV drip. Colorful, angular drawings were taped all over the walls—grandkids’ or great-grandkids’ projects, Bryn assumed. It was still a sterile, grim room, but it was trying to be cheerful.

There was a cell phone plugged in on the nightstand.

Bryn’s heart leaped. She eased over to it and unplugged it, trying to move as quietly as possible. The thing was shut off, but once she’d touched the power button, it gave out a nice, loud, musical tone she couldn’t muffle.

The old man opened his eyes, removed his oxygen mask, and gazed at her blankly for a moment—and then he began yelling, shockingly loudly,
“Help! Help! Murder! She’s taking my phone! Help, help!”

Bryn cursed under her breath and headed toward the window, but it was latched tight, and the catch was stubborn. She finally racked it up with a shriek of metal just as the door opened, spilling light into the room. Even then, she would have kept going, except that Jane said, very softly, “I’ll kill the old man if you try it, Bryn.”

Bryn turned her head. Jane was standing by the old man’s bedside; he’d stopped yelling, and was staring at her with mute terror, because she was holding a silenced semiautomatic pistol to his temple. Jane’s face was pale and hard as bone, and the dark shadows pooled in her eyes. She looked…inhuman.

“I mean it,” she said. “Try anything, and he dies.
Then
I put a bullet in your brain. You can wake up. He won’t. Either way, I shoot the holy fuck out of you before you can use that phone or make it off the grounds, so there’s
nothing to gain here. But by all means, go ahead. I’m sure it’s a mercy killing, shooting this old fart.”

There wasn’t any doubt at all that she meant every word of what she said.

Bryn shut her eyes for a second, then opened her fingers and let the cell phone drop to the floor.
Damn it, damn it, damn it
…

“Good choice,” Jane said. “I’m really pretty upset about losing Mr. Smith, but then again, nice use of the spoon. You’re learning. Now, just hold still.…If I do this right, it shouldn’t really hurt much at all.”

Oh
hell
no. Bryn let her knees go loose, dropped, rolled, and put the phone in her left pocket as she did. Her movement startled Jane into firing, but she missed, and Bryn shoved her right hand into her pocket, rose to her knees right in front of Jane, and fired, point-blank, through the leather of her jacket.

Three times.

Jane fired back, which was an impressive feat considering Bryn had scored three direct chest hits, but her bullet hit Bryn in the shoulder—not enough to slow her down. She felt it, but pushed the pain aside. Jane had taught her that, too—how to push the pain away.

Jane stumbled back against the wall, and the fury in her dark eyes was unmistakable. Her black shirt showed the bullet holes, and beneath, Bryn saw the flash of blood. Jane caught her balance and aimed, not for Bryn, but at the old man on the bed. She was going to kill him out of sheer spite.

Bryn took the gun out of her pocket, advanced, and fired twice into Jane’s face.

The woman’s trigger finger still convulsed, but the shot went wild, into the floor on the other side of the bed, and Jane went down hard.

Dead for sure.

Bryn wanted to keep on shooting her, just for the hell of it, but there wasn’t time. She flipped open the cell—one of those easy-to-use kinds for older people—and quickly dialed Patrick’s number.

She was talking as soon as she heard the connection click in, even before his voice made it over the distance. “It’s Bryn. Don’t ask any questions right now, just trace this phone and come heavy; I’m leaving it on and hiding it. I’ll be around here somewhere. I have to find Carl and Chandra.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, just opened a drawer and dropped the phone in. She
couldn’t
talk to Pat just now; he’d infect her with his worry, make her less focused on sheer survival. It had hurt to even hear his voice begin to say
hello
; the idea of having him say anything else, anything to comfort her, made her think she might break apart into tiny pieces.

The old man was still staring at her with blank terror. He was gasping for air. She reached over and fitted his oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and said, “Sorry for all that, sir. You’ll be okay.”

Then she pushed herself up, opened the window, and headed into the darkness. There was nothing here now for her except the certainty of being caught by the staff of the regular, presentable side of the business; rescue was coming, and they’d find Jane’s body soon enough. Bryn didn’t have a whole lot of time, and although hiding out was a good option, she knew Carl, at least, was still being held on the lockdown side of the complex where she’d been kept.