Uncaged (12 page)

Waving his hand, Mitchell winced. “Please don’t….”

People craned their necks to look. A few rose from their seats to get a better view.

Mitchell appeared terribly uncomfortable. “Maybe we should go?”

“It’s okay. Be cool. I’ll order the pizza.” She slipped away.

Within moments, a crowd gathered around Mitchell, waiting for their chance to take a picture with him or ask for an autograph.

Christy ordered an XXL four-cheese pepperoni with black olives pizza while Mitchell handled the rush of attention like a pro. He indulged all photo requests and even managed to appear dignified while some teenager boys shot video.

The moment the finished pizza slid across the steel countertop, she paid, grabbed the box, and headed toward the front door. “Come on, Mitchell, let’s go.”

He looked weary. “Thank God.”

***

Sitting beside Mitchell on the couch, she finished her second piece of pizza. They were well into the evening’s second episode of
Doctor Who
when the phone rang. Her mother’s number displayed. She clicked.

“Hi, Mom, what’s up?”

“Christy.” Mara’s tone was terse. “Are you watching TV?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m worried.”

“About what, Mom?”

“About the horrid breaking news exclusive TM3 exposé I’m watching!”

“Mom, I don’t watch scandal news shows. It’s exploitation. Celebrity DUI mug shots. Kardashians having wardrobe malfunctions in airports. Who cares?”

“You should care. Tonight’s breaking news is about you and that young man.”

“Hold on, Mom.” She turned. “Mitchell put on TM3. Something is going on.”

Mitchell looked disappointed. “I would never watch that crap.” He changed the channel.

The TM3 set was designed to look like an editorial bullpen of a legitimate news agency except the “journalists” all had pumpkin-colored spray tans and hipster clothing. The two women were cute but whiny.

The man’s big-capped teeth made him look like crocodile doing its best Walter Cronkite impersonation. “TM3 exclusive! Tonight, we dig deeper into a lurid case that captured the nation’s attention and put fear in every parent’s heart. After nearly four years of court-ordered silence, we now know the face and name of that poor girl involved in the infamous Reverend Simon kidnapping….”

A photo flashed on the screen of Christy, carrying the pizza.

“Oh no!” She groaned.

“Christine Killgaren is now a healthy, happy eighteen-year-old college freshman, living off campus, but she can’t seem to stay out of trouble. TM3 has this exclusive footage of her cuddling at a campus pizza parlor with another of South Dakota’s infamous characters, Wail’n Waya, the controversial ex-cage fighter and scandal magnet. These two sure look like an item.”

A bubble-headed blonde in a tight pink T-shirt interrupted. “Rumor has it Wail’n Waya testified in court against Reverend Simon and his henchmen, and that he is, in fact, the man who saved Christine Killgaren from an execution-style slaying in a dark business park.” She made duck lips at the camera. “I think it’s pretty heroic.”

She stared in horror at the screen. “Somebody videoed us walking back to the apartment. They showed the building’s address!”

“Christy!” Mara shouted. “Are you still there? I want you out of the apartment ASAP.”

“Try to stay calm, Mom. I’m going to go.” She clicked the phone off. It immediately rang again. It was her roommate. She allowed the call to go to voice mail.

“Christy, it’s Alex. I’m seeing some weird shit on Facebook about you and some martial arts guy. I know how freaked you get about privacy. Our apartment number is posted. Just check it out.”

The phone rang again. Leonora’s number displayed. She clicked. “Hi.”

“Christy, I have to bring a serious safety concern to your attention.”

“I know. I’m watching TV.”

“Honey, this goes beyond the footage on TM3. A twitter thread has popped up of mostly your classmates offering their support, which is great, but several are giving away your schedule and location on a typical day. It’s done in innocence, but they do mention teachers, classes, and places you meet. Be careful.”

Her hands shook. “I will.”

“Is Mitchell with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Change your routine. Don’t go to class next week. I’m going to call Mara. We’ll make other plans, okay?”

“Okay.” She clicked the phone off and looked at Mitchell. “Leonora sounds worried. I wonder if she’s not telling me everything. After Reverend Simon’s conviction, the FBI received dozens of letters from crackpots blaming me and promising revenge. I’m not sure the letters ever stopped.”

***

A long fitful night gave way to a clear Sunday morning.

She woke with Mitchell’s arms locked around her.

He drew her close to his chest with an expression somber as the morning chill. “I’m not leaving you alone. I want you to come with me.” He smoothed the hair from her face and kissed her forehead. “Christy, I’m going to pick up some breakfast for us. While I’m gone, I want you to pack everything you’ll need for a few weeks and be ready to go.”

“Go where?”

“We’ll figure it out. All I know is the safest place for you is with me.”

She took hold of his wrist. “Then I’m going with you to get breakfast.”

He looked nervous. “There’s something important I want to talk to you about.”

“What?”

Mitchell reached for his boxers on the floor and stepped into them. “I planned to wait, but the situation forced me to reconsider.”

She hunted under the bed and pulled out a duffel bag. “The look on your face is alarming me. Could you give me a hint?”

His expression melted. “I’m different in a special way. I suspect you’re a little different, too. Once I say what those differences are, everything changes.”

“Mitchell, I think we’re alike.”

Stepping close, he cupped the sides of her face. “You’re right. Looking back it’s probably how we found each other. I’m waiting to get permission—”

“Permission for what?”

His mouth tensed. “I need to think about how I’m going to say this. Let’s get coffee first.”

They finished dressing. He reached for his keys.

“Don’t bother. There’s a breakfast-burrito food truck that parks on the campus lot. It’s literally across the street. I walk there every morning.”

He grabbed his coat. “Let’s make it fast in case we’re recognized again.”

After locking the apartment, she wound a sunny peach scarf around her throat. “Mitchell, I’m sorry we got spotted in public and things got crazy, but I’m glad it means I’ll be with you.”

“Me, too.” He smiled.

She led as they descended the staircase. “Hurry up. I’m hungry.”

They crossed the street and strode across the parking lot. The trees lining the campus palisade displayed the first signs of spring.

He held her hand. “You walk fast for a girl.”

“This is my medium pace.” Giggling, she broke from him and bolted toward the food truck. “This is fast!” Glancing over her shoulder, she grinned and then took off at a sprint.

Strolling at a leisurely pace, he enjoyed the sight of her hair streaming behind her as she ran.

A man with a robust build stepped from behind a tree, blocking Christy’s path. The sun glinted off the lens of the guy’s mirrored sunglasses. His weathered face was expressionless and appeared to be a hardened mask. Dressed head to toe in camouflage, he grasped a slender blade in his fist. With the speed of a striking snake, he grabbed hold of Christy’s scarf, knocking her off balance. Arms flailing, she wheeled forward out of control.

In a slow-motion moment of horror, Mitchell watched as the man yanked Christy against him.

“This is for Reverend Simon!” He snarled as he plunged the blade into her abdomen.

Christy smacked hard against the man’s fist and shuddered. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. With a look of shock on her face, she clutched the assailant’s hunting vest and clawed the fabric. When he pulled away, her hands flew to her belly as she collapsed onto the pavement.

The attacker darted away, leaving her slumped on the ground with a pool of blood spreading.

“Christy!” Racing toward her, he knelt and scooped her into his arms. Limp as a ragdoll, she didn’t have the strength to turn her head.

The man leaped in a dark SUV and, with squealing tires, drove off.

Feeling helpless, he wanted to chase the man and break his neck.

“Mitchell,” she mumbled. “I loved you.”

Alarmed to hear “loved” past tense, he placed his palm on the wound to stanch the flow. The gouge in her side left her clothes blood-soaked. The color drained from her lips. Grabbing his cell with slippery fingers, he punched 911. It felt like an eternity before dispatch came on the line.

“We need help!” he shouted. “A woman’s been attacked on the Sioux Falls University campus.”

“Can you describe the nature of the attack?”

“She’s been stabbed in the abdomen. The wound’s deep. This is bad. Send help!”

“Remain calm. Where are you?”

“We’re near the campus parking lot.”

“Which lot?”

Christy groaned and fell silent. Her palm opened to reveal pieces of ripped fabric and thread.

He panicked. “I don’t know! Wait, the sign says ‘Section I.’ I don’t know if that’s a goddamned one or a capital
I
or a lowercase
L
. We’re on a walkway next to some cottonwoods. She’s bleeding out fast. You’ve got to send an ambulance to the campus. Figure out our location on the way. For fuck’s sake do something!”

“Don’t yell, sir.”

He stroked Christy’s face with bloodstained fingers. She didn’t respond. “She’s dying! Get someone here now!”

“Stay on the line. Can you give me a description of your surroundings? What buildings are you close to? Did you witness the assault? Keep talking to me….”

Glancing up, he focused on a blue, cloudless sky, so brilliant a hue it looked like heaven. His gaze returned to Christy. She didn’t move, not even the flutter of an eyelash. Placing his fingertips to her throat, he felt for a pulse. Nothing.

A broken sob escaped him. “No!”

He felt her slipping away. The time to bargain or explain passed. Christy’s only chance hinged on sharing his secret—and offering the gift.

Digging into his pocket, he retrieved his father’s knife, pulled the blade open, and made a slash in his wrist. The wound trickled crimson. The cut stung as he racked his memory for the exact wording to the blessing of the Great Spirit Waya. It had been years since he’d heard his mother recite it.

Part legend, part truth untold generations ago,
Waya
the mysterious spirit of the wolf offered his ancestors the gift of being one with the wolves. He’d heard those born with some wolf blood could be made whole. Rio performed such a ritual for Sela, and it worked. He owed it to Christy to try.

Holding his dripping wrist above her wound, he allowed their blood to mingle. “Christy, come back to me.”

A siren howled in the distance, racing closer.

No words to the special blessing came to mind beyond the remembrance the blessing must be offered with sincerity and humility. “I want to put the past behind us and build a future with you,” he muttered. “We’re supposed to be together.” He kissed her lips. They felt cool. “Accept the gift of my blood, and may Waya accept you into the pack.”

The kiss deepened into shared breath. He forced warm air into lungs.
Keep her alive.
A silent mantra ran through his head.
Breathe for her.

The ambulance arrived in a blur of noise, the crash of a gurney, and flashing lights. Two police cars were close behind. In a heartbeat, a crew of professionals surrounded Christy and urged him to move aside. When a bit of fabric fell from her limp hand, he snatched it off the ground and thrust it deep into his pocket.

A paramedic with kind eyes drew him away. “Let us help her.”

He released his grip just as Christy opened her eyes.

“Mitchell.” She reached for his hand. “I feel so strange.” Glancing past him. “The sky is so, so blue.”

“Step back.” A paramedic clamped an oxygen mask over Christy’s face. “We have to stabilize her.” They went to work.

Rising on trembling legs, he watched the entire procedure unfold as if he were dreaming. The color returned to Christy’s face. She gestured with her hands and lifted the oxygen mask to speak. The paramedic reminded her to remain still and set the mask in place.

A police officer approached. “Are you the man who called this in?”

He felt too distracted by the miracle in front of him to stop and speak with this man, but had no choice “Yes.”

The officer pulled a pad and pen from his belt. “Did you witness the assault?”

Christy lifted the oxygen mask. “Brother Jacob, one of Reverend Simon’s disciples did this to me! The bastard’s covered in my blood.” She pointed across the lot. “He drove a blue SUV. He’s wearing a camouflage vest.”

Plucking a radio off his belt, the officer immediately called the description in.

He stared in awe. She’d been in the arms of death but wriggled free. Christy sounded so strong he dared to hope Waya accepted her. The next logical question was, would she accept her new life and forgive him for not offering her a choice?

Mitchell slumped in the reclining chair beside Christy’s hospital bed. Out of kindness, one of the nurses switched the uncomfortable chair with metal armrests for the cozy bed-like chair he’d been dozing in.

With bleary eyes, he watched local newscasts like a zombie. During the last two days, Christy slept beneath a haze of heavy-duty sedatives. Thankfully, she’d be okay. The surgeons remained puzzled by the extent of the damage they’d seen in the ER and offered no explanation for the supernatural speed of healing that occurred.

He didn’t plan to enlighten them.

Continuous breaking-news announcements kept waking him. The statewide manhunt underway for the fugitive known as Brother Jacob, the last of Reverend Simon’s accomplices to evade justice, remained the top story.