Sliver of Truth (24 page)

“No,” I said finally. “I really don’t.”

But between you and me, that wasn’t the whole truth. Memories were filing back quickly. I remembered a knee on my back, a black hood being placed over my head. I just couldn’t make sense of anything. It was a nightmarish jumble.

“Does the name Myra Lyall mean anything to you?”

I nodded my head slowly.

“An American crime reporter with the
New York Times,
” she said. “She had some connection to you, if I’m not mistaken. She wanted to talk to you regarding an article she was working on about Project Rescue. Then she disappeared.”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Sarah Duvall was her assistant.”

I nodded again.

“We found Myra Lyall’s body yesterday in a canal about a mile from King’s Cross, one of our red-light districts. She was in a trunk. In pieces.”

I think she doled out the information like that for maximum impact. I tried to think about what she said in abstracts, not in logistics. Still the nausea and the shaking, which had been diminishing, returned with a vengeance.

“No record of her travel to London, either,” she said.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. I felt some combination of grief for Myra Lyall’s end and terror at how it had happened. I wondered how I had made it to a plush Covent Garden hotel and she had wound up in a trunk in a London canal. In pieces.

“Ms. Jones, if you have the first idea what’s going on, I strongly recommend that you share what you know with me,” she said. She walked over to the chair by the door and pulled it up beside my bed, sat down slowly as if she were settling in for a nice long chat. “I can’t help you and I can’t protect you if you don’t. You seem like a nice girl, yeah? You seem frightened and I certainly don’t blame you. But a lot of people are dead, and from the look of you, it’s just luck that you’re not one of them. Maybe we can help each other.”

I didn’t ask for this. Not for any of it,
I’d said to Ace.

Are you sure about that?
he’d wanted to know.

I decided finally that I was out of my league. I asked to see her identification, which she offered to me without hesitation. Fool me once, you know? When I’d determined that she was who she said she was, I told Inspector Ellsinore everything—everything I could remember, anyway. While we talked, various nurses and doctors made their appearances, poking and shining lights in my eyes, checking and then changing the bandage on the wound at my side.

Inspector Ellsinore took copious notes. When I had finished giving my statement, I asked her to help me contact the American embassy. She did and they promised to send a lawyer to the hospital.

When the call was finished, she put a hand on my arm and said, “You’ve done the right thing, Ridley. Everything is going to be fine.”

I gave her an uncertain nod. “What happens now?”

She looked at her watch. “You get some rest. I’ll contact the U.S. authorities and let them know that you’re cooperating. And tomorrow we’ll figure out when and how we can get you home. Is there anyone there you want me to call?”

My parents were cavorting around Europe, snapping pictures and sending postcards. They could probably be here in a matter of hours, but I didn’t want them. Ace was clearly incapable of offering any help or support. I didn’t even think he had a passport. I had no idea where Jake was or if he was okay. The thought of him brought tears to my eyes, and a now-familiar feeling of panic regarding his well-being and whereabouts.

“No. Just if you find out anything about Jake Jacobsen, I need to know. Please.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. Try not to worry.”

She left her card on the table beside my bed, gathered up her things, and walked toward the door. With her hand on the knob, she turned back to me. “And I’m sorry, Ridley, but there are two officers outside this door. As much for your protection—”

“As for my detention,” I finished her sentence.

She nodded. “Just until we’re sure of what has happened to you, how you got here. You understand. So just stay put for tonight. Rest up. You have a busy couple of days ahead of you, I suspect.”

The room was cool and sterile and I lay there wide awake for I don’t know how long. I got up to pee once, but the journey and execution were so painful, I decided I’d hold it if I had to go again. There was a bedpan by my bed. But there was no way I was peeing in a bedpan. I just couldn’t deal with that. I felt numb, depressed, and very, very lonely. The phone sat waiting by my bed, but I didn’t feel that there was anyone in the world I could call. The truth was, I was on my own. I had been since the day Christian Luna sent me the photograph that changed my life. The only person I had been able to rely on consistently since then was Jake, and even that relationship was riven with lies and half-truths on his part. I tried to shut away the image of him bloodied and falling from some great height.

I tried to reflect on all that had happened, all that I knew: Dylan Grace and Myra Lyall, the things Grant had said, the streaming video from Covent Garden, the fact that I’d woken up in a hotel just blocks from that corner. I tried to apply my writer’s mind to all these disparate events and to extrapolate possible connections, come up with theories, but I just wound up feeling sick and afraid. I thought of Myra Lyall’s awful end, Sarah Duvall’s death on the street, Esme Gray, Grant’s last phone call to me. Even before recent events, Dylan had accused me of being the point at which everything connected. And I could see that he was right.

All this had started because I wanted to
know
Max, I wanted to see his true face in order to better know myself. But I was no closer to him. And I’d never been further from me—I barely even recognized my reflection in the mirror. All in all, the whole enterprise had been a deadly and unmitigated failure.

A nurse padded in and offered me some pills. “For sleeping, love,” she said kindly. I took them from her and pretended to swallow, gave her a grateful smile. When she’d left, I took them from my mouth and dropped them in the cup beside my bed. I didn’t want to be drugged into sleeping. I didn’t feel safe enough for that.

I alternated between a kind of sleepy twilight and agitated restlessness until I heard something strange in the hallway that snapped me into total wakefulness, poked a finger of fear into my belly. It was a soft, sudden noise, a quick shuffle followed by a thud, that was over almost before it began. But something about it was not quite right . . . as if the energy of the air had changed. I sat wide-eyed and listened for a while.

I relaxed a little after a minute or two. Other than the ambient sounds—a television somewhere turned on low, the metronomic beeping of a machine, an odd ubiquitous humming that probably came from the fluorescent lights and a hundred medical machines—there was silence. I’d just started to drift off again when another noise came from just outside my door, the sudden jerking of a chair. I saw footsteps cross in the light that leaked in from the threshold. I got up from the bed with effort and looked around the room. The bathroom was a trap; no exit. I was in no condition to crouch between the bed and the window. I walked quietly and stood beside the door, looked around for something with which to defend myself. The effort it required to do this was staggering.

I must have been quite a sight, bare-assed in my hospital gown and stocking feet. I painfully bent over to pick up one of my boots, which stood beneath the chair upon which Inspector Ellsinore had sat with all her questions. It was the only thing that I had the strength to lift that looked substantial and heavy enough to do any damage.

My breathing became shallow and I could feel the adrenaline pumping in my veins. I noticed the phone with Inspector Ellsinore’s card beside it, and also the call button, which I should have pressed while I was still lying in the bed. I thought about going back, but the distance of maybe five feet seemed insurmountable to walk or even crawl, considering how much effort it had taken to make it to the door. I leaned my weight against the wall, boot poised, and listened to the hallway. A minute passed, maybe two, and I started to wonder if I was suffering from paranoia (who would blame me?) or posttraumatic stress. I was about to put my boot down when the door started to open, so slowly I almost didn’t notice until the dark form of a man slipped inside. He stood with his back to me, staring at my empty bed.

Before I could lose my nerve, I brought the boot around hard, hitting him solidly in the temple. The blow was so strong that it sent shock waves of pain through my own injured body, and I stumbled back, dropping the boot as he crumbled to the floor with a moan. My intention had been to strike the blow and then run screaming into the hallway, but I could barely catch my breath or move, the pain in my side was so intense. I’d been betrayed by my own body, and was outraged by my physical weakness. The anger and frustration got me to use the wall to move myself, however slowly, trying to get to the hallway.

“Ridley, stop.”

I turned to look at him. Though it was dim, I could see his face as he sat with his hand against his temple, a rivulet of blood trailing down his cheek. It was Dylan Grace. There were a thousand things I wanted to ask him. All I could manage was, “Stay away from me . . . asshole.”

I sunk to the floor against the wall. I thought I’d see if crawling was any less painful. It’s a terrible and amazing thing to realize how totally you’ve taken your health and physical strength for granted. The door might as well have been a mile away.

Dylan grabbed my wrist. He was lucky I couldn’t reach my other boot.

“They’re coming for you, Ridley.” His voice was desperate. “Come with me. Or die here. Up to you.”

I sagged against the wall, out of options, out of strength. Death—or at least unconsciousness—was starting to appeal to me. A slow fade to black, the cessation of fear and pain—how bad could it be? He started to move toward me and I was about to use my last ounce of will to scream my head off when I heard a sound out in the hallway. It was something I recognized, though at the moment I couldn’t say how: the sound of metal spitting metal, a projectile slicing air without the concussion—a gun fired through a silencer. Maybe I’d heard it on the street without realizing what it was when Sarah Duvall was killed. It was followed by something—someone—falling heavily to the floor. These sounds froze the scream in my throat.

Dylan crawled over beside me, put his finger to his mouth. He drew a gun from somewhere inside his jacket. It was flat and black like the gun I’d seen Jake carry, like the one I’d fired badly myself in an abandoned warehouse in Alphabet City. I didn’t know what kind it was, but I was glad to see it.

The silence that followed dragged on for hours or minutes. Where were the officers supposedly stationed outside my door? (Do they call them officers in England or is it bobbies? Either way they should give those poor guys some guns.) I guess I knew the answer. I tried to be brave. The fear and the pain and the fatigue were almost too much to handle. I could feel myself getting a weird giggly feeling I’d had before in times of grave stress and danger.

Then the door started to open. A tall, lanky form moved in like a wraith. A gun hung in a hand by his side. He stood still as stone with his back to us—I could smell his cologne, see that the hem on the back of his coat was ripped. I held my breath. Dylan rose and lifted his gun silent as a shadow. When the form turned quickly, sensing Dylan behind him, Dylan opened fire. The darkness exploded. I was deafened by the sound. The powder burned my nose and the back of my throat as the man fell heavily to the floor before he’d even had a chance to raise his gun. I stared at the crumpled pile of my would-be killer, listened to an awful gurgle that was coming from him.

Dylan held out his hand. “Can you walk?”

I hesitated, looked back and forth between Dylan and the man on the floor. Maybe he’d come to save me from Dylan Grace. Maybe they both wanted me for different nefarious reasons.

“You don’t have any time to decide whether you can trust me or not,” he said. I could hear a commotion out in the hallway. “These people can’t protect you.” I assumed he meant the police and the hospital staff. I couldn’t argue with this. I gave him my hand and let him pull me up. He grabbed my bag from the closet, which I thought was awfully clear-headed of him since I would have forgotten all about it. I remembered with dismay that my passport had been confiscated by Inspector Ellsinore. I couldn’t see my way out of any of this.

We moved out the door with me leaning on him heavily. In the hallway, the two officers charged with protecting and detaining me slumped in their chairs. A pool of blood was gathering beneath one of them. A nurse lay facedown on the linoleum, her neck bent unnaturally, one of her fingers twitching.

“How many more?” I asked. Even now I’m not sure if I was asking how many more people would die, or how many more would come for me.

“I don’t know,” he answered quietly.

As we passed through a doorway into a stairwell, I could hear shouting and running footfalls. Dylan put his warm wool coat on me and looked down at my socks.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that, yeah?” I heard the accent on his words and didn’t know what to make of it, didn’t have the energy to ask.

We went down multiple flights; I could go into how slow and painful this was, but you’re probably getting the picture. We exited into an alleyway and I heard banging on the stairs behind us. An old Peugeot waited in the cold, wet darkness. The upholstery was frigid against my skin, and my socks were wet as Dylan helped me into the backseat.

“Lie down,” he said.

“Where are we going?” I asked as he closed my door.

“Just try to relax. We’ll be okay,” he said, getting into the driver’s seat and shutting his door hard. For a minute I thought he was waiting for a driver, until I remembered the whole left-hand-side-of-the-road thing. He started the car. The engine sounded tinny and weak.