Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (31 page)

Who was he? Why had he tried to stab me? I was panting, my leg felt battered. My tank top clung to me, soaked. Was I sweating that much? I looked down. My white tank top was wet, but not with sweat. Damn. A dark stain had streamed down my chest. I put a hand over my collarbone, felt a raw sting. And sticky, oozing skin. Whoever he was, the masked creep had cut me. The bleeding wasn’t bad, but I had to stop it. I reached into my bag, found a pack of tissues. Wadded them up, stuffed them under my bra strap. Told myself to be calm. I’d be all right. It was just a minor flesh wound. But what if I hadn’t heard that warning and hesitated? The knife would have plunged deeper, aimed better. Would have sliced my throat.

What the hell? The fact slowly sunk in. I’d been stabbed. Again. That made twice. First in my leg and now this. Somebody was trying to kill me. But why?

My jaw tightened. My hands clenched into fists. Rage bubbled up from my belly, surged through my chest.

And then it hit me: What about Susan? Oh God, had this maniac done something to her?

In the street, a dozen faces turned toward me. My mouth was open. Had I let out a sound? A curse or a wail? Could they see the bloodstains on my once white tank top, the drops on my khaki Capris? I put up a hand, reassuring them, and when they looked away, I sunk down in the shadows, holding in a howl.

Think. Just think. Figure this out. Do not panic. Think. Just think.

I repeated this as a mantra, a rhythm to breathe by.

My mind was a scrambled mess, hopping in circles, not completing thoughts. I heard snippets of garbled sound—trumpets and drums, singers praising the Virgin. I crouched in a shadowy doorway, smelling heat and sweat. Was the sweat mine? Was the heat the smell of blood? And, oh God, where was Susan? Was she all right? I closed my eyes. Of course she was all right. She was probably looking for me. Annoyed that I’d wandered off. I saw her, standing with her hands on her hips, scolding. Felt a pang, a slash of fear. Opened my eyes.

Think. Just think. Get control. My leg screamed at me, angry that I’d run on it. Never mind. It could wait. I had to focus, prioritize. People strolled by. Didn’t notice me. None of them wore masks. I peered out of the doorway, looking up and down the street. Who was the guy with the mask? Was he still chasing me? Had I lost him? Was I safe?

I waited, watching. Wadded fresh tissues against my wound, replaying what had just happened. Someone had tried to kill me. Would have, if someone hadn’t—Oh God. Someone had warned me. I heard it again: “Stop!” Recognized the voice.
Could it really have been Charlie? Had Charlie saved my life?

Had I really just asked that question? Charlie was dead, couldn’t warn me about anything. He was a figment of my imagination, part of my grieving process.

So, then who had told me to stop? It must have been my own mind, sensing danger. Again, I saw the glimmer of steel in torchlight, heard the whoosh of a blade slicing through air, felt a stab of fear: Where was Susan? Was she okay? How was I going to find her?

“Get up.” The voice again.

Charlie? I gazed into the dark street. Tried to find him. Saw strangers in fiesta clothing.

“Get moving. You’re a sitting duck here.”

A sitting duck? Really? I’d never in all our years together heard Charlie use that phrase. I was tired. My sore leg didn’t want to support me. My chest stung. I didn’t want to wander around lost in the dark. And then I remembered: I had a phone. I’d call Susan, find out where she was. We’d arrange a place to meet and get the hell out of there.

I almost giggled with glee, delighted with myself and my clever solution. I opened my bag, rooted around, found my phone caught in a rip in the lining. Took it out. Punched in Susan’s number and, waiting for the call to go through, looked into the street.

As if on cue, a guy wearing a wrestler’s mask was heading in my direction. And he was looking right at me.

I ran. I didn’t remember getting to my feet or how long ago I’d done that or how many corners I’d turned. I just ran. My lungs were raw, my breath ragged. The last time I’d looked around, I’d seen the mask glowing in the dark, maybe twenty yards behind me. How far was twenty yards? I wasn’t sure. Maybe it had only been ten yards. Damn. That was pretty close. My legs pounded cement, wanted to explode. I tore ahead, dodged potholes,
ducked into narrow streets, crossed a footbridge, veered to the left at a corner and then left again, doubled back. The streets were empty here, deserted. Everyone was at the cathedral. I ran.

Crossing a street, I thought I heard violins. Kept running. They got louder. And it wasn’t just violins—I heard a cello, too. Or wait—a string quartet? Clearly, I was imagining it—hearing a mirage. Could you hear a mirage? Or maybe I’d passed out and was dreaming. Or the guy had caught me and killed me, and I was hearing music in heaven. But in heaven, would my leg still hurt? Would my chest? I ran on. The music got louder. And I heard voices, too. At the end of the block, around the corner, I saw clusters of people dressed all in white. Like angels.

My throat was dry. I had no strength. I headed for them—maybe there were fifty. Maybe more. The musicians performed on a platform set up in the middle of the street. I dashed behind it, crouched low beneath the cellist and peered out. No one took notice of me. Waiters in white passed out hors d’oeuvres to guests also in white. There were carts offering food and drinks. People mingled and laughed. Where the hell was I?

I wondered if I could blend in. The khaki of my Capris was light, even if not quite white. And, except for the blood, my tank top was—no, obviously, I was underdressed. Couldn’t fit in there. But maybe someone would help me.

“
Por favor
,” I said, but no one looked my way. Didn’t they see me?

Could I really be dead?

“You’re not dead,” Charlie assured me.

He ought to know. The last time I’d been dead, he’d come to get me. I remembered him holding me, lying beside me. He’d been wearing white.

I was panting. And painfully thirsty. I eyed a waiter, thought about grabbing a drink off his tray. What would he do? Would he chase me away? I couldn’t run anymore.

“
Por favor
,” I tried again, louder, motioning to him.

He glanced at me, seemed surprised to see me. Did a double take. I must have looked ghastly.

“
Agua
?” My voice was rough. Dry.

He must have pitied me because he walked over to a cart and returned with a bottle of water.

“
Gracias
,” I grabbed it. Opened it. Was drinking before he could say, “
De nada
.”

He asked me something in Spanish. I didn’t understand. Maybe he wanted to know what I was doing there, crouched behind the musicians’ platform. Or why I was wearing a bloodstained top. Or if I needed help or a doctor. Or the police.

Of course. “
Por favor
,” I asked him. “Do you speak English?”

He shook his head, no.

But surely, someone there would. Someone would get help for me.

The waiter pointed to my shirt, said something else. A white-clad guest motioned to him and, gesturing to me that he’d be back, he moved away, attending to the party.

Gradually, my breath evened out, my pulse slowed. I looked around and saw, beside the bandstand, a sign in Spanish: “Fiesta Blanca.” White Party. What was a white party? Was it only for Caucasians? Or was white just the color of the week, among a series of blue, yellow, and red? Did they have purple parties? Mauve? I didn’t get it, didn’t know who these people were, what drew them together. Had no idea what they were celebrating. But since they were all in white, anyone wearing a color or pattern would stand out. I hunkered behind the platform, alert. Watching for someone in black, wearing a wrestling mask.

I was still holding my phone. Oh God—Susan—I’d been calling her when I’d started running. Had she answered? Could she have been hanging on all this time, hearing the frantic soundtrack
of my chase? I put the phone to my ear, covered the other so I could listen.

“Susan?”

Nothing. Not a sound except the party voices and energetic music vibrating the platform, shaking the air.

Okay. It was okay. It didn’t mean anything that she wasn’t there. I’d probably disconnected the call as I ran. I’d call again. Pressed redial. Strained to hear the ringing of the phone.

And then, amazingly, Susan’s voice. “Elle? Where the hell are you?”

For a few seconds, I couldn’t speak. I was choked with relief. Susan was alive. She’d answered her phone.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she went on. “I told you I’d be back in a minute.”

She had?

“What in God’s name possessed you to wander off? I’ve missed half the parade trying to find you.”

Even with my ear covered, the music interfered. I couldn’t hear everything she said, but it didn’t matter. Hearing her voice, knowing that nothing had happened to her was more important than whatever she was saying.

“Susan,” I began. “I’m not at the parade—”

“I can hardly hear you,” she said. “Just tell me where you’re standing, and I’ll come get you.”

I tried to explain, had to huddle under the bandstand and shout to hear myself over the quartet. Couldn’t take the time to tell everything, but told her about the attack.

“A wrestling mask? What, like the Green Hornet?”

The Green Hornet? I had no idea. “It’s Spandex. Black and white, and it glows in the dark.”

“So what makes you think he’s coming after you?”

Was she kidding? “Susan, he’s following me. He has a knife. He cut me.”

“He cut you? Why didn’t you say so? Are you all right?”

“For now—as long as he doesn’t find me.”

She was silent for a moment. “Where are you? I’ll get the cops. We’ll come get you.”

The cops? “Susan, the police will keep us here all night, asking questions. Once the mask is off, I won’t be able to identify this guy. Please, no cops.”

“But they can look for him. Spot the mask.”

“I just want to get out of here.”

I pictured her sputtering. “Just tell me where you are.”

Where was I? I looked around. Tried to see a street sign, a landmark. Saw glowing faces, white gowns, sparkling smiles, the glitter of liquor bottles. The backside of the platform.

I didn’t know.

“Ask somebody.”

Okay. Good idea. I’d ask. Cautiously, I got to my feet, looked around for the masked attacker, and, not seeing him, approached a young couple.

“Excuse me,” I put a hand up. “Do you speak English?”

They nodded, yes. Didn’t seem alarmed to see a smudged woman with mussed hair wearing a bloodstained top. They told me where I was: Not far from some main roads, Ignacio L. Vallarta and Aquiles Serdán. I had to spell the names a few times as Susan couldn’t hear me with the din of the parade.

And so, I stood up, inhaling. I’d survived. I was getting out of here, going back to Nuevo Vallarta. Time had passed since I’d seen the masked maniac. He’d lost me, must have given up. I was safe. All I had to do was go to a nearby corner of two main streets and wait.

I walked slowly, limping, trying to figure out who’d attacked me. Why someone wanted to hurt me. Probably, it was connected to Greta and Claudia. But how? Did I share some kind of profile with them? Or did I know something about their deaths?