A Gift of Thought (11 page)

In the shower, the realization suddenly hit her. The ghost of a teenage boy might be watching her every move as she stretched to shampoo her hair, ran the soap over her body. She froze, instinctively reaching out with her sixth sense to feel the presences in her vicinity. She brushed against the active minds—most distracted, busy, a couple in the mindful flow state of a good workout, one with an unpleasant seething excitement that caused her to recoil. Then she remembered that she wouldn’t be able to feel Dillon even if he was there. She hadn’t felt him before, back at the hotel, so however her sixth sense worked, it didn’t read ghostly emotions.

Definitely, Lucas was crazy. She liked that option so much better. Except . . . sitting on the bench in the dressing room, pulling on her shoes, Sylvie took a long deep breath before exhaling slowly. Lucas wasn’t insane. He didn’t feel insane. Which meant that she and Dillon needed to have a long talk as soon as possible.

Lucas might not care if Dillon moved on, but Sylvie had always wanted what was best for Dillon, and being a ghost did not fit that description as far she was concerned. She was going to find out what he needed and get her boy a damn white light.

On the other hand, it might be nice to have a chance to get to know him a little. As she walked toward the exit, she tried to imagine what it would be like to live with a ghost. He wouldn’t eat much. She wondered what he liked to watch on television. Or what music he enjoyed. Would he want to go places with her? DC had lots of museums. She could take him to the Smithsonian. Or maybe the Iwo Jima Marine Corps Memorial. It offered a good view of the city on a clear day, and maybe he’d be interested in the Marine Corps history on the placards.

Her distraction made her a little slower than usual, but not so slow that she didn’t realize the unpleasant mind she’d felt earlier was waiting for her as she pushed open the door. Ugh. Like she needed this tonight.

It had to be guy number three.

Did she care? He'd backed down easily enough and a broken finger might serve to dissuade him. And maybe teach him better manners. She swung her bag lightly by her side, whistling softly between her teeth. She didn't have a gun on her: she didn't trust the fancy digital locks on the lockers at the gym, so she always left her weapon secure in her car. It wasn't as if she expected danger when off-duty.

The parking lot had cleared out while she was inside. Only a few cars were left, scattered around the rectangular space. Of course, she’d gotten there at exactly the wrong time, right when the gym was busiest, so hers was at the far end of the lot. She glanced over her left shoulder. The front desk, through the glass doors and already twenty paces behind her, was empty. Figured.

He was on her right, not moving as she left him behind. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he’d simply been answering a phone call in his car. Maybe that ugly taste was directed at someone else.

She could feel the adrenaline starting, the tension charging through her muscles, so she slowed her breath, filling her lungs as deeply and patiently as she could as she strode toward her car, head high, letting her body language radiate confidence.

Or maybe he’d been leaning against the side of the building, watching. She felt the spike in his emotions as if they were her own. Damn. Yeah, he was targeting her and he’d started to move, too quickly, too eagerly.

Decision time. Could she get to her car and inside before he reached her? Probably not, so she veered to the left, approaching a car that wasn’t hers, and pulling her bag around her as if she were reaching inside it for her keys as she planned her line of attack.

Time started to stretch, slowing as her brain moved into a clear-headed lightness that encompassed everything around her: the crisp chill of the air, the smells from the vegetarian restaurant two doors down the street, the glow of light from the streetlamp, the darkness of the shadows under the trees that edged the lot, the metal glint on the handle of the car door, and the bitter tang of her pursuer’s emotions . . . and then as he reached her, she swiveled, swinging her bag out and up, hoping to hit his face. There was nothing heavy in the bag, only gym clothes, so it wouldn’t hurt him, just confuse and disorient him long enough for her to put him in a wrist lock.

But, oh, shit. This guy wasn’t the guy she’d brushed off earlier, she realized.

Her bag had missed his face, tangling instead in his already raised right arm. She took two steps forward, making a rapid adjustment to her plan, and grabbed his left arm, twisting and spinning. Leaning into her hammerlock, she shoved him forward into the car door. His surprise let her get a decent grip on him, but it wasn’t going to do a damn bit of good in the long run.

Bodybuilder, she thought, fatalistically. Or steroids. Or both.

Definitely both, she decided, as he roared with fury and tried to push back off of the car. “You fucking bitch!”

Her bag had fallen to the ground, along with whatever he’d been holding in his hand. She’d heard the clunk, but hadn’t seen what it was. If it was a gun . . . .

She forced all of her weight against him, but her feet were already slipping on the smooth asphalt. “You shouldn’t get near strange women in parking lots,” she said. “You never know what they might do.” The words came out more breathless than she liked, and she tried to steal a glance at the ground. If she let him go, could she get the bag and retrieve whatever he’d been holding?

No, she decided regretfully. He was too close, she wouldn’t have enough time. Choke hold? No, the bastard was too big. And too tough.

She felt the snap more than heard it, but his scream of rage could have been heard halfway down the street if there’d been anyone around. Damn. She dropped his arm and then kicked her bag and whatever was beneath it under the car as she danced backwards and dropped into a combat stance.

Had the break even registered with him? He turned to face her, his arm dangling at his side. Pale skin, hair in a buzz cut so short it was almost shaved, probably 280 pounds of muscle. She noted the details automatically, hoping she’d need them for a police report later.

This guy was huge, fast, and too hopped up on steroids or something else to care about the pain of his broken arm. Her best bet was to get help. And quickly.

Ty would kill her for being so over-confident.

“Now I’m gonna kill ya’, bitch.”

Okay, Ty would have to get in line.

The car alarm on the car they’d been leaning against finally started sounding, a “hoo-wa, hoo-wa” klaxon that blared through the darkness. Sylvie ignored it, aware that everyone else who heard it was likely to do the same.

She smiled tightly at her assailant, a tense baring of her teeth with no real humor, as she said, “You can’t kill me. I’m too pretty for God to let me die. Check out my chiseled jaw.”

A look of confusion crossed his face, his eyes narrowing in puzzlement.

“Malcolm Reynolds?” Sylvie offered. “No?
Firefly
?” When he still looked lost, she couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. “Great, I’m being attacked by a cultural illiterate.”

He glared at her and she felt the flicker of doubt that entered his mind. He growled, “Not gonna to be too pretty when I’m done with you.”

Behind Sylvie another car alarm went off, from a car closer to the door of the gym. She resisted the temptation to glance backwards as he looked past her, over her shoulder, his scowl deepening.

And then farther down the parking lot, in the other direction, a third car alarm started. And then a fourth. It was a chorus of annoyance, a clashing mass of sirens and klaxons. But the parking lot was empty. Sylvie tried not to let her reaction show as she realized what must be happening but her smile went from fake to real.

“Dillon,” she said, as loudly and clearly as she could, not sure how far away he might be. Did he have to be next to the car to make the alarm go off? “Call 911. My phone’s in my pocket.”

The situation had changed, and her foe recognized it, too, but he wasn’t smart enough to cut his losses and run. Sylvie felt his fury grow as he decided to attack.

He charged forward, but instead of retreating, she waited, hands up, body evenly balanced on her feet. When she felt him start to swing, she ducked instead of blocking, diving under his arm and heading straight for his center. She’d never done this move before, not for real. Simulated, sure, in LINE training, the Marine close combat techniques that she’d learned much too long ago, but not with genuine intent.

Fortunately, he was wearing sweats, not blue jeans. She turned her head to the right to shield her face and neck, raising her left arm to protect her exposed side from his flailing fist, as she reached with her right hand, searching, grabbing, and squeezing as hard as she could, then pulling down the same way.

Wow.

It worked just as advertised.

He reeled backward and his sound this time wasn’t so much a scream as a high-pitched wail. Then he toppled, falling to the ground and curling around his groin as he wheezed with pain.

From her pocket, Sylvie heard the voice of the 911 dispatcher. “911, what’s your emergency?”

*****

Much, much later, Sylvie leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Bodyguards and Marines were good at waiting patiently, but the post-adrenaline downward spiral had her securely in its grip, and she was so tired that her bones felt as if they were melting. If the cops didn’t make a decision soon, she might beg them to throw her in a cell, just so she could lie down without fear of being stepped on.

“What the hell is going on?” Sylvie would recognize that voice anywhere.

She didn’t open her eyes, but the corners of her lips pulled up. “What are you doing here?”

“I got a text. Mom’s in jail, it said. Has our past finally caught up with you? ”

“Ha.” She opened an eye in protest and then pulled the other one open as well at the sight of Lucas. He’d obviously slept. He looked well-rested, freshly shaved and showered, dressed in business casual slacks and a gray button-down shirt. “The statute of limitations is long past and you know it.”

Her senses had been dulled by exhaustion, hunger, and the sheer overload of sitting in a crowded police station for hours, or she would have felt Lucas come in, but now that she was paying attention, she could feel his worry.

‘What did you do, Syl?’

“Won.” She grinned at him and rubbed her hands over her face, trying to force herself awake. Ouch. She grimaced as her action reminded her of the one hit her attacker had gotten in. It was probably accidental, but he’d managed to bang her right cheekbone at the edge of her eye on his way down.

Lucas reached out and touched her cheek with a gentle finger. She let him turn her head, tilting her eye to the light. “Does he look worse?”

“Oh, much. That’s why I’m still here. They’re a little confused about who to charge with assault.” Sylvie yawned and stretched, locking her fingers together and pushing, palms out, toward the ceiling.

The balding cop seated at the desk across from the bench where Sylvie had been waiting hung up his phone. “Statute of limitations?” he asked. Sylvie just looked at him. Hastily, he waved his hand in the air as if erasing the question. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Is this your lawyer?”

Sylvie’s eyes narrowed. Something had changed. She could feel it. “No,” she said slowly, trying to understand the officer’s emotions. He’d been annoyed at her earlier, then resigned to her refusal to talk. Now he was excited. Or was it happy? Jubilant? His feelings didn’t make sense. But maybe they had nothing to do with her. Had he gotten good news from home? She concentrated. With Lucas here, maybe she’d be able to pick up his thoughts.

“Does she need a lawyer?” Lucas pulled a phone out of his pocket. “I can have one here within the hour.” He started to tap.

“No,” said the cop and Sylvie simultaneously.

“I left a message for a friend. He’ll be here when he gets it.” Sylvie’s response sounded abrupt, even to her ears, but she didn’t need Lucas to rescue her.

“She doesn’t need a lawyer.” The cop stood, scooping up a pile of papers from his desk. “If you insist on immunity in writing, you’ll have to wait until someone from the Commonwealth Attorney’s office can get here, but I’ll put it in on record in the interview room if you’re willing to talk now.”

“I don’t understand.” Sylvie frowned, unsure of herself. The police and ambulance had arrived with efficient dispatch after her conversation with the 911 operator, but events had gone downhill from there. “Is the surgery done?”

“I don’t give a shit about the surgery.” The cop gestured with his head for her to follow and Sylvie stood uncertainly. She glanced at Lucas.

‘Can you read him?’

‘No words. He’s happy, though. It’s like he’s humming.’
Lucas joined her as she followed the police officer into an interview room. The room looked suspiciously warm and friendly for Sylvie’s taste; the walls painted a cheerful yellow, the table and chairs standard office furniture. Something closer to the stereotypes she’d drawn from too many ancient episodes of
Law & Order
would have made it easier to stay on her guard.

The officer gestured Sylvie to a chair, looked at Lucas, shrugged and pointed him to a chair against the wall, saying, “Eh, we’ll call it moral support. Sit over there and keep quiet.”

“Did you find the weapon?” Sylvie asked the cop. Whether or not her attacker had been armed had been the source of most of the night’s doubt. She said yes, but he’d claimed no, and by the time he’d started accusing her of attacking him without provocation, everyone had left the scene: the goon in an ambulance, Sylvie to give her statement at the police station. Sylvie knew that he’d been holding something in his hand, but she’d kicked whatever it was under a car. They’d sent a crime scene team to search, but no one had retrieved it yet. That, plus the results of her attacker’s surgery for a ruptured testicle, had been what everyone was waiting for.

“Doesn’t matter,” he told her.

“Oh, yeah?” Her skepticism must have showed, but instead of scowling at her, the way he had for most of the eight hours she’d been sitting next to his desk, he smiled, a smile that looked genuine, not forced. A smile that even looked happy.