Indie Saint: An Urban Fantasy Adventure Page 4

  In a blur of motion, Frank pulled his sidearm as the tire iron came back up and the rattling of glass died down. The moment seemed frozen in time—hand gripping gun hilt, hilt catching shirt, Sig Sauer spinning sideways—and then fear changed gears to adrenaline-pumping panic as the pistol clattered across the asphalt. One beefy thwack to the jaw from the usher’s club, and Frank went the way of the gun. He fell so hard, a surreal idea gripped Jane: this was it. He would never get up again.

  She threw herself after the pistol and retrieved it for the price of ten bloody knuckles. Jane breathed deeply and leveled the barrel at Mr. Tire Iron. Her hands shook as she clicked off the safety. One hundred and twenty pounds and terrified, she kept the preacher and his flunky at bay while the color drained from their faces.

  “Now hold on there, missy.” The preacher was still holding out his hands, showing his empty palms in a ridiculous “I come in peace” gesture.

  “Doug, call the police. Go!” Doug didn’t hesitate. He was out of the car and making tracks for the store so fast, it took Jane a few seconds to realize she was now friendless. “How did you find me?” Her voice sounded timid, like a scared child. Not like the person holding the gun.

  The reverend licked his lips, flashing sparkling white teeth. “Your, um, your car was still in the lot. It had a work shirt in the back seat. This is the only store around here with a toy soldier logo.”

  “And Frank?” Jane swelled with pride when her voice didn’t crack. “You knew each other?”

  “He came around, asking some questions. Your little performance got the attention of a lot of folks—”

  The usher surged forward so rapidly, Jane didn’t have time for shock, surprise, or even a flinch before he plowed into her, shoulder to stomach, and she was airborne. A recoil jolt in her hand, like the gun leaping to free itself, was accompanied by the loudest noise Jane had ever felt—it slammed through her unprotected ears like a shock wave as crisp night air whipped by. She hit the ground hip first and skidded a couple of feet before her momentum slowed, tipping her backward, her head connecting with the blacktop.

  Pain didn’t immediately register. Jane wrestled with a growing sense of dread and the sickness of all her air leaving her body. Something a little off slowly crescendoed to raw agony. It swelled and pulsed until she lost track of the details of her situation—all she could do was lie there as she was lifted off the ground. In a moment of intense clarity, Jane knew they planned to put her in a trunk. The voices jabbering around her didn’t make much sense, but the concept suddenly, infallibly crystallized in her mind. If she was locked in there, it would all be over before she got another chance to fight. Her palms itched.

  Jane struggled, but strong hands held her firmly. Words filtered through the confusion and pain. “—think you can humiliate me and steal my followers? I can’t figure out how you did the light show. You’ve got talent, kid, for sure. Too bad you’re never going to get to use it—”

  The itching sensation spread to her arms and neck, cresting her scalp and causing her to shiver involuntarily. She could smell ozone. Her eyes struggled to stay open. A shepherd stood near the Sears entrance. A real, biblical-type shepherd with simple, flowing clothing and a crooked staff. A second shepherd of stone stood beside him. Every hair on her body shivered and stood straight up.

  Sirens rang out nearby. From the angle of Jane’s head, lolling skyward, she could see everything. The tiny, white hot point of light in the sky like a distant star. It grew brighter and rushed through the air—branching, forking, racing toward her and the reverend. The leading bolt, which was so small when she’d first spotted it, now struck with the speed and power of an oncoming train. The air around them erupted in skull-splitting noise and white light as Jane’s body was thrown from his grasp, ears ringing, skin burning.

  Oh, God . . . keep me safe.

  The spots in her vision gave way to the red, white, and blue of police patrol cars and ambulances racing into the parking lot. The shepherds were gone. There were many voices, vehicle doors opening and closing, latex hands holding her—she lost consciousness.

  Chapter Five

  Eileen sat in her folding chair, eyes glued to the computer screen.

  Reporter511:They’re reporting from PA. Already one fatality. Do we have any members near Philly?

  InformedCitizen3:Turn on the six o’clock news. You’re not going to believe this.

  Vigilante234:Be careful, Angel!

  Eileen’s eyes gobbled up the information before she posted a reply.

  GuardianAngel777:Well done, First Alert. This is what we’re here for. I am an hour outside of the city and things are still quiet. No kidney thefts in town. I’ll take precautions so I don’t become a victim too. Stay safe.

  She added an addendum.

  GuardianAngel777:We did have an animal attack. See if you can find any information on a wild animal with cloven hooves and claws: lives in the woods, eats cats, with tracks larger than a human hand.

  Eileen signed off, giving a thin-lipped glare to the notification that she’d used thirty-two minutes in her online session. Her daily minutes budget was shot. She was going to have to cut back or the bill would be outrageous. She shook her head and stood, crossing the bedroom they now used as an office since their son, David, was at college.

  On his desk, decorated with band stickers and doodles, Eileen had set up her computer and brought in a folding chair. It seemed like an intrusion, but the practical side of Eileen knew David’s room was the best place for her to have some peace and quiet. Besides, being in his room was almost like being with him.

  Where had the time gone? Eileen could see him in her mind’s eye, a feisty six-year-old joyfully climbing to the top of his new loft bed, long arms and legs on the ladder, hands grasping with darling little fingers. The loft bed now stood, outgrown, in a room that would never be his again. The voices of women who had told her to savor raising her child, to relax and enjoy motherhood while he was young, rang in her ears.

  She hadn’t savored. She hadn’t relaxed. There had been moments of unbelievable joy, but they were infrequent bright spots against a sky of stress, anxiety, not enough money, and he-doesn’t-love-me-the-way-I-thought-he-would, and now David was gone. Out of state working on his degree and maybe shacked up with his new girlfriend, God forbid. What if she got pregnant? Were they mixing their finances? He could get herpes. Did the chemicals on condoms cause cancer? Eileen was pretty sure she’d read that recently. She swallowed a lump in her throat as images of David’s troubled future filled her vision. What had gone wrong? What should she have done differently?

  Eileen shook herself a little, snapping back to the present. Something ugly was going on in Philadelphia. Big cities were breeding grounds of nastiness, but it would find its way to her sleepy little town as well. Eileen went to check the doors. Still locked.

  George was in the living room, sitting in the old stripped recliner and watching a show. His thin, short frame and wispy brown hair were almost lost in the expanse of overstuffed green-and-cream-colored upholstery. Good food smells wafted their way: savory scents of kidney-and-potato pie making everything extra homey, as if locking the doors really would keep all the monsters out.

  Eileen bustled in. “George, did you happen to catch the news today?”

  George focused his intelligent brown eyes on the television and jutted his head slightly forward, as if he was listening to the show harder.

  Eileen tried again. “Was there a report on the news about someone getting assaulted?”

  He glared at her sideways, his small, pointed nose still facing the screen. “It was the news. Someone always gets assaulted.”

  “I mean in a particular way. Did anyone wake up in a bathtub full of ice after their kidney was removed?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “In Philadelphia. Some of my friends are saying there was a story—”

  “Some of your friends? You mean your ‘friends’ on the com
puter?” George added a sneer in case she had any doubt about his opinion.

  Eileen pursed her lips. “Yes. Those friends who watch the news. Did you see anything?”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells. Check the paper tomorrow. I also saw no stories shedding light on the conspiracy of old people dying. You might want to check the paper for that too.”

  Eileen narrowed her eyes to slits. “My mother was an active, healthy woman. She never missed her afternoon walk. She ate whole grains. She took vitamin C. There is no way she just didn’t wake up! If you’re telling me that’s normal, you’re wrong.”

  “Someone her age was bound to stop ticking one day.”

  Eileen’s mouth went dry. She smoothed her shirt and studied the ground, mustering a tone of calm finality. “Moonchild McMahon was eighty-four years young. She had a lot of good days left.”

  “What?” George turned to her fully, an odd gesture when the television was on. “Say that again.”

  “My mother was still in her prime. It wasn’t her time yet.”

  “No, her name.” George’s forehead wrinkled, and he pushed the lever on the side of the recliner forward, bringing the chair upright. “Say her name.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it!” His voice was a good deal louder than Eileen had expected it would be.

  “Moonchild! Moonchild McMahon. George, what’s wrong?”

  George stood, the lines on his face deepening. He took a few steps across the hardwood to stand in front of her, both hands rising to grip her upper arms as if he expected her to fall.

  “Eileen, your mother’s name was Charlotte. Charlotte McMahon. Where is this Moonchild garbage coming from? Where did you even hear that?”

  For a few seconds she was falling—she couldn’t be wrong about her mother’s name. How ridiculous! But the glint in George’s eye told her he wasn’t funning. Could she possibly be mixed up?

  Eileen did what she did best in hopelessly stressful situations. She glowed radiantly. “Of course dear, Charlotte! That’s what I meant.”

  George’s brow did not unfurrow. One corner of his mouth tugged into a frown. “You should get more sleep. You’re trying to do too much. Book club and your damn message board and volunteering at the festival. It’s too much for someone who got home from a funeral last week. You’re exhausted.”

  “Maybe I will turn in early tonight, thanks. Right after dinner.”

  George nodded slowly. “Sure. Call me when it’s ready.” He resumed his seat and refocused on the show.

  Eileen bustled down the hall to make sure she’d remembered to lock the door.

  Chapter Six

  Before Jane opened her eyes, she knew where she was. It smelled clean and cold like rubbing alcohol. Her ears picked up the sound of fans, the soft click and beep of a machine, the slight echo of hard surfaces. She was lying on her back. Something was taped to her arm. She was thirsty and exhausted.

  The rustle of movement was close by. Jane opened her eyes. A rush of relief snowballed into dread. The intensity of that duo sucked, and yet her stupid brain always ran the same reaction whenever her mother showed up. Hope attempted to trump experience.

  Her mother was speaking, thin body leaning forward, ready to soak up details. “Libby! Thank God! How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

  “Mom, what are you doing here?” Speaking was an effort. “Is Dad here too?”

  “He had to stay with the girls, but he sends his love. I came as soon as I heard. Oh, sweetie, you sound awful. Here.” A large pink plastic mug of water with a straw was extended toward her. Her mother’s short, clean nails and rough gardening hands were wrapped around the handle. Jane took it and drank as much as she could. Water and sleep. Her dad had always said those two things could solve any problem. Why hadn’t he come?

  “How long have I been out?”

  “You were in and out when you first arrived, although they told me you might not remember it later, and I shouldn’t worry. You’ve been asleep all night. I’ve only been here a few hours. I can’t remember what time they brought you in. When you arrived, they thought you were much worse off than you are. They kept talking about internal bleeding and bleeding of the brain—” Her voice caught a little, and silence fell as she tried to compose herself, pulling a tissue and dabbing at the corners of her large brown eyes. God forbid she cry because of something trivial like her daughter being assaulted and hospitalized. “I was so worried, but the EMTs exaggerated. The doctor assured me your vitals all are good. What happened?”

  “Someone I pissed off had a bone to pick.” Her tone was dismissive. Since her mother had found her, she needed to start acting like everything was hunky-dory. “And I don’t need to be here. I’m fine.”

  “Fine? What do you mean fine? You have a concussion! You’ve been beaten and you’re covered in cuts and shots were fired during whatever you call the craziness that took place last night.” Her voice was rising and taking on the “I can’t handle this” quality Jane had come to know so well.

  “Don’t be so dramatic! I’ll be okay. Like you said, the doctors were exaggerating.” She struggled to sit straighter but abandoned the idea after a few seconds.

  “Who’s being dramatic? This is your life! Libby, sweetie, level with me. I can help you! I know this is hard, but we can get through this if you let me help you. Haven’t you hit rock bottom yet? Fighting in the parking lot in the middle of the night and starting fires in cornfields? You’re going to get killed!”

  Jane chewed her lip. They’d been down this road before, but maybe this time—maybe now the situation was serious enough for her mother to actually listen?

  “Look, mom.” Jane reached out and took her hand, forcing her voice to continue speaking, her lips to form words. “I can work miracles. I know it sounds nuts, but it’s true. I went to a revival to try and find someone else with healing powers, like a mentor or something who could show me how to . . .” Jane faltered. Her mother’s eyes had gone flat. “. . . manage things like this, and it didn’t go well. There was a fight, and I made the wrong people angry and—” Jane’s mind wandered back to the parking lot: the preacher, his thug, the private eye. “Oh shit, mom, what about the guy you hired? Frank? What happened to him?”

  “He’ll be fine.” Her response was clipped, angry at Jane for trying to change the subject. “And don’t use foul language. What about a stalker coming into your work? These things don’t happen to nice girls. There’s a lot you’re not telling the people who care about you, and it’s piling up.” She fingered her long, blue glass-bead necklace. “I’m trying to give you a chance to fill me in so we can help you. I know you want your father’s approval, but this kind of insane fantasy about healing powers is not the way to get it. I understand you want to be special. I know being a young woman is hard, and you’re trying to make your own way. I’m here for you, but things are spinning out of control, and you have to be willing to work with me and with the police!”

  “So you can, what, have me committed again? Because you care so much, you’d send me away instead of fucking listening? You don’t listen, Mom. If it doesn’t fit with what you think, then it’s wrong, and you don’t listen.” Jane pressed her head back into the pillow.

  “Someday you’ll realize that this is the best way I can show you I love you.”

  “By lying so they’ll hold me at whatever prison-esque mental institution is closest?” Jane pulled at the edge of the sheet and willed her eyes not to overflow. “Mom, I am scared. I need you to believe me. Things are happening that don’t make sense, and I need your help, not a bunch of pills and therapists.”

  Her mother gave a slow, controlled exhale. The kind that said, “But I don’t believe you. You’re not trying hard enough. Why this again?” What was spoken out loud, of course, was filled with misplaced compassion, a mantra Jane had heard over and over. “Libby, you’re sick. It’s not your fault, but it’s no different than having diabetes. You have to see doctors and take medication to
control it. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t do everything in my power to help you with your sickness?”

  “So you’re going to lie again? You’re going to tell them I’m a danger to you and to myself?” Tears spilled down her face and onto the sheets. Why was she so weak about this? “And a danger to the girls. You’re going to make me someone else’s problem because you don’t want to believe me. Why is it so impossible to think I’m telling the truth?” Jane was shouting now. It happened without her knowledge or consent, just like every other fucking thing in this situation. Her dad would believe her, which explained why he was at home and her mother was sitting here. She just had to do things her way and steamroll anyone who stood against her.

  The details of her mother’s face blurred from tears, but Jane could see well enough to recognize the expression. One look told her what was going to happen next.

  Cafeteria food always took Jane back to junior high. The whole setup: stainless steel tubs of cheap, bland food under fluorescent lights, the line shuffling along in front with everyone taking a serving of everything whether they planned to eat it or not, and the closest moment to delight—reaching the end and viewing dessert. Jane snapped out of her nostalgia. Today was ice cream day. Chocolate or vanilla in a little paper cup. Wow. Depressing.

  The cafeteria at Solace Mental Health Center was far too crowded for her liking. The patients had divided themselves into groups she’d mentally categorized as the cool kids, the repeats, the weird ones, and the new guys. She belonged with the repeats, but only one person sat at the new guy table.

  Jane slid her tray onto the faux wood tabletop and plopped into the chair. She held her dessert triumphantly, pronouncing, “Ice cream, complete with the weird tongue depressor thing to eat it with. Great.” Jane opened the container using the tiny cardboard pull tab.