Dying for a Living (A Jesse Sullivan Novel) (9 page)

Ally gasped. “She killed herself?”

“No,” I said and shook my head. “She just used a knife to cut up her arms and hands. The she used her blood to draw a circle around herself, calling it a protective circle.”

“Did you get the knife away from her?”

“I tried. I asked her what was wrong, tried to get her to talk to me, but she just kept going on about angels telling her what to do and that she had to protect herself from the bad angels.”

“So wait, what happened with the knife?” Ally asked, washing my hair.

“This whole time she was sitting in her living room floor and sort of mumbling all this craziness. Then she finally looks up at me. Her eyes get really big—as if she didn’t look insane already, covered in her own blood. She starts screaming, ‘It’s you. You.”

“What did you do?” she asked, hands still in my hair.

“I screamed too because this naked, bloody girl is waving a knife around and trying to tackle me. I am ready to get the hell out of there but I drop the jellybeans and the bag bursts open. Now, I’m slipping and sliding all over the floor like a cartoon character or something. Then Brinkley shows up and saves the day.”

Ally let out a breath. “How did he know you were in trouble?”

“He was in the car. He was the one who had brought me over to see her. Apparently, when I screamed he heard me and came running. When he pulled her off of me, she just kept screaming, “She came from him! She came from him!”

“Bizarre,” Ally said.

“They blamed the number of death replacements she’d done, saying that 200 was bound to make her crazy. After she was institutionalized, Brinkley said we needed to leave. I didn’t object. St. Louis just wasn’t the same after Rachel got sick. The city was too dangerous. In St. Louis, most of my replacements were gun violence and accidents as opposed to here—where choking on a fried chicken bone is more common than finding a muzzle pressed to your head.”

My thoughts had wandered and Ally brought me back with a gentle squeeze. “That won’t happen to you.”

I looked up into her face.

“You won’t go crazy, Jess,” she says. “We’re being careful.”

“Yeah, we’re being careful and yet someone almost cut off my head.” The burning in my chest intensified. I redirected the conversation just so I could bear it. “We almost moved to Atlanta actually. He’d already rented my office space and signed a lease for my apartment, but then Brinkley chose Nashville at the last minute.”

“Did he say why?” she asked.

“He said it was too hot and too much traffic.” Talking about him made the burn climb higher into my throat—Brinkley where are you?

Ally’s eyes lit up with recognition. “I looked up Atlanta in the car. Eight murders and every single one of them were death-replacement agents.”

Eight agents killed? Why the hell didn’t Brinkley say something? Why didn’t he warn me to be careful, that we have some kind of NRD serial killer on the loose?

“The internet says an anonymous caller was the one who broke the story to the Atlanta press,” she replied. “But that’s all it says.”

I slid farther into the tub so Ally could rinse the shampoo out of my hair and let the gauze get wet. Dried gauze stuck to a wound was hell to peel off. Once it soaked, Ally removed it with tender fingers.

“Why would the bureau hide the fact that death-replacement agents are being murdered?” I asked. And why would my handler leave me alone—defenseless?

“Clearly this isn’t a random isolated event,” Ally said and turned to throw the wad of wet, pink gauze into the trashcan. “Something else is happening.”

Chapter 7

“
H
ow are you today, Jesse?” Herwin asked. Because of the angle of the overhead light, Herwin was nothing more than a shadow in the corner, a disembodied voice speaking from beyond.

“In pain,” I replied. I was sluggish from medication and desperate for another pill, which Ally wouldn’t let me have until after therapy. She said my appointment wouldn’t go well if I came doped up. I reminded her that Herwin has seen me in worse shape. I’d completed my mandatory psychic evaluation as soon as I had woken from death before, with a contorted, bloody body and looking like a zombie in the old-fashioned sense. Still, she wouldn’t budge, giving me some crap about being especially good, since I was under investigation.

Herwin wore the only suit I’d ever seen him in, brown tweed that matched his brown office. Brown, brown, brown everything except the walls and floor, which were the same as the rest of the hospital with its cinder-block walls and speckled white floor tiles. It gave me the impression of a bomb shelter or a bunker or something equally submerged and depressing.

I settled into an overstuffed chair that made me feel tiny—another trick to get to my neglected inner child? Big chairs just made me want to cry. Not that I didn’t have plenty to cry about—a court date away from becoming somebody’s bitch, for example.

“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” he asked.

Yes
, I thought. Make Brinkley call me. How hard is it to return a phone call?

I let my head fall back against the cushion. “Just get on with it, please.”

He nodded, pulling a stack of cards from his desk. “Look at these and tell me what you see.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I waved a hand to hurry him. “A black bird.”

“And this one?”

“A black dog,” I said.

“And this?”

“Two seals having sex on a rocky beach.”

“Good,” he said. Only a million cards to go.

“My dog Winston, but he’s missing a leg.”

“And this one?”

I didn’t see anything, but you can’t say nothing, at least not when pretending to be sane. So I went with the next best thing—feigned realism. “A puddle of oil left by a clunky old car.”

He put the cards in an even stack by tapping them against the table.

“How’d I do?” I asked.

“Just fine,” he said. He motioned to the couch. “If you’ll stretch out, please.”

I dragged my body out of the chair with much difficulty and stretched myself long on the couch. I got as comfortable as possible, despite this scratchy brown tweed upholstery and the sticky gauze clinging to my neck wound. Once I settled, Herwin moved his chair closer and pulled out the pointer light and shined it down into my eyes. The lights in the warm room softened, making the pointer light look like a searchlight, pouring into my skull.

“Follow the light, Jesse.”

The longer I stared at the light the more relaxed I became. I drifted off and before I knew it, Herwin was out of his chair, exchanging the pointer light for the soft glow of the lamps. He offered me a tissue and I had to sit up to wipe the water out of my eyes.

“How do you feel now?” he asked.

“Tired and sore.” I pinched my eyes shut beneath the tissue. They always watered like hell after the light test. I never really understood what the light test was for. The other therapist, Jen, said it was a kind of hypnosis used to see if we remembered anything from beyond the grave—figuratively speaking.

“Sit tight while I check on your blood work.”

The door clicked shut behind him. I opened my eyes and blinked, trying to focus. I felt dizzy and leaned my head against the couch, hoping it would cease its incessant pounding. No help. And when my spotty vision cleared, I knew for certain that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Against the opposite wall of Herwin’s office, stood a man. He was tall with dark features and a wide brow. His eyes were light, intense, and his mouth larger than most men’s. One major attribute told me he wasn’t just some guy hanging out in the office—the man had wings.

He looked nonchalant, his arms folded over his chest and black feathers draped over each shoulder. He’d made a mess of feathers on the floor, a few white downy strands sticking to his pressed black suit. I blinked several times, but he didn’t disappear. In fact, his big green eyes just held mine with a placid expression, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Hel-
lo
,” I said. My voice caught in my throat and I sort of choked on the word. I cleared my pipes and tried again. “Hello. Who are you?”

“You can see me?” he asked.

“Uh,
yeah
.” I let out a high, nervous burst of laughter. “How could I not see you?”

“I tried to reach you before,” he replied. “It would seem, however, that you agree with my current form.”

Before I could respond, the door opened and Herwin entered. The therapist never took his eyes from the manila folder he held an inch from his button nose. “Which news do you want first?”

“Uh,” I said and gestured to wings over there, leaning against the wall. Herwin looked up from his file folder and blinked. I jabbed my finger at the guy again. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Herwin looked at the wall but not at him. The angle of his gaze was all wrong. “You don’t like the painting?”

“The painting is fine!” I said an octave too high. “What about—him?”

Herwin’s eyes searched that side of the room for an alternative. He settled for a photograph that wasn’t really near the painting at all. “In the picture? It’s my son, Trevor.”

“He cannot see me,” he replied, inspecting his fingernails in the soft light of the lamp. “If you have not noticed.”

And Herwin did appear completely oblivious to the guy in his office or the feathers he kicked up with his feet as he crossed the room to lift the picture from the table. How could he not see the little storm cloud of swirling feathers sticking to his pleated pants? “Shit.”

“Excuse me?” Herwin asked.

“I—uh—” I searched for sane words but it was hard grab ahold of something with the world falling away. “Your son?”

“Yes,” he said and set the picture down. “I have a son and a daughter.”

Herwin shifted his weight and stared at me as if he was completely aware that I was unraveling before his very eyes.

“Let’s hear those test results,” I said. “Good news first, please.” I had a feeling the bad news was “you’re crazy.”

“All your blood tests are clean and Dr. York thinks your neck will heal fine.”

“Any brain damage?” I asked, staring at those abnormally green eyes and black wings.

“Nothing unusual,” he said. “Do you feel ill? Headaches or nausea?”

I stared at the wall behind Herwin and it blurred. “Yeah, I have a hellacious headache building right behind my eyes.”

“The pain medication has probably worn off.” Herwin closed the file and took his seat again. “The part that concerns me is the alkaloid levels in your blood. They are above normal now.”

My mouth felt sticky. “Will you have to commit me for that?”

“No,” he said. He patronized me with a smile. “Continue saving people as long you’re able.”

“You told me that my levels were great last time.”

“Yes, they were. Better than average.” Herwin laced his fingers and sat back in his chair. “I’m sure you’re aware the average mind folds around ninety-five deaths. Replacement agents often retire once their alkaloid levels are too high because it signifies toxicity in the blood. You’ve kept your levels real low despite your elevating death rate—but this last replacement. It must have changed something.”

I met those green eyes
. Hell yeah
, it changed something. And I wasn’t fooled. Retire was code for institutionalized. I wet my lips. “So I shouldn’t do anymore replacements?”

“It would be wise to slow down. But you’ve got another year or so at this rate.”

“Listen to him,” he said with a twitch of his wing.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I replied. My hands clasped my mouth in surprise. My God, I just spoke to an illusion. I’d officially lost my mind.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Sullivan. You’re right. I’m not here to give you career advice. And you must be under a good deal of stress now. Would you like to talk about what happened in the hotel room?”

No way in hell I was going to explain to Herwin that I wasn’t talking to him. That I was talking to a hallucination. And about what happened at the hotel room—where to start? What was more traumatic—the smorgasbord of prostitution? Partial decapitation? Being straddled by a pantyless sex worker?

I forced a tight smile. “I’m just tired. I should go lie down, or something.”

“It’s difficult living in a highly political climate with passionate people whose views differ from your own. That being said, you should know you deserve all the same rights to life, liberty, and happiness as everyone else. Do you know this, Jesse?”

I waved a disinterested hand and thought of pills. Not just pain pills. What did hallucinating people take? Some kind of anti-psychotic, right? I could manage this. I just needed the right pill—but how to get Herwin to prescribe an anti-psychotic without arousing his suspicion? Maybe an anti-anxiety med would hold me. I could ask for that right? Later. Yeah, later.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “That headache is getting worse.”

Herwin offered his apologies but I’d already stumbled out of the office. The hallway whirled on its side. I hit something solid with my hip and then saw a nurse run past me down the hall, chasing after her medication cart.