Tainted Cure (The Rememdium Series Book 1) (13 page)

Geenie’s bottom lip trembled as Regina’s words soaked in. “What if they want to talk to you, ask you what’s goin’ on?”

Regina headed down the hall to the closet housing extra weapons. “Just reiterate they need to go to the high school. They’ll be safe there. If someone pressures you for more, hang up.”

Before Geenie could respond, the phone rang. Though a seasoned, twenty-year dispatcher, Geenie hesitated. Regina watched the distraught woman close her eyes, mumble something under her breath while reaching out to grab the receiver.

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

Unlocking the closet, Regina yanked a shotgun from the rack and began to load it with shells. Inside the small space, she whispered, “God, help us.”

Regina jumped when her cell phone vibrated. Looking down to see who was calling, a cold shiver ran up her spine.

“I don’t need to ask you why you’re callin’. You got the same email.”

Sheriff Roger Calhoun cleared his throat. The sound of radio chatter in the background made the hairs stand up on Regina’s neck. “Yep. Some nerdy lookin’ fools dressed like they’re ready to walk on the moon just arrived, along with armed military escorts. They just waltzed in here and took over my jail! Actually had the nerve to tell me and my deputies to leave. Jim Grayson bowed up and demanded to know what was going on. Get this: one of the soldiers handcuffed him and went to lock him up!”

Forcing herself not to sound frightened at the tone in the sheriff’s voice, Regina said, “Went to lock him up? What, did the soldier change his mind?”

“No. The guy in the drunk tank did.”

“Sheriff, just spit out what you’re tryin’ to say. Time’s a wastin.”

There was a long pause before he answered. “You know Ricky Baber, right?”

“Doesn’t every law official in this county? Biggest crack head around, and I’m pretty sure the one who got Jesse hooked on meth. Why?”

“Picked him up last night after he rolled his truck. He didn’t seem to have any injuries, but guess we were wrong.”

Temper rising, Regina said, “What happened?”

“My deputy and his escort found him face down in the cell. When they went in to check on him, he jumped up off the floor and attacked Jim and the soldier. Ricky tore Jim’s lips and nose off before the grunt shot him in the head. It was utter chaos!”

“Holy shit!”

Sheriff Calhoun lowered his voice. “We tried to take Jim to the hospital, but the guys in white took him away! Wouldn’t tell us where they were takin’ him, or why. When I tried to intervene, one of those bastards actually stuck a rifle in my face.”

A sense of dread crawled through Regina’s mind. “Let’s finish this discussion once we get everybody to the school, okay? Ears might be listenin’.”

“Agreed. See you at the school. Oh, and Parker?”

“Yes?”

“Stay safe.”

“You, too, Sheriff.”

Regina disconnected the call, mind spinning from the news. Part of her felt a twinge of satisfaction, a sense of justice, knowing Ricky Baber was dead. The other part wondered if he was like the disgusting thing she’d seen on the news earlier—dead yet moving. Still in the dark as to what was really going on, the terror of the situation almost consumed her. Forcing it deep down inside, she pulled herself together. Now was not the time to freak out. Her family, friends, neighbors, and even strangers in Rockport, needed her to remain calm.

She finally managed to finish loading three weapons when she heard Roger’s terrified voice crackle from the mic on her shoulder. The radio call would haunt the rest of her life. “Need backup! Shots fired! Officers down! Repeat, officers down! Bullets aren’t stopping them! Oh, my God!”

Without thinking or saying a word to Geenie, Regina grabbed a shotgun and ran out the front door.

“Good morning, sunshine. I love you. I’ll be back shortly. Duty calls.”

President Arthur Thompson kissed Melissa’s warm forehead. She stared at him, her eyes still heavy from sleep. She nodded and rolled over, burying her head under the thick comforter.

His footsteps were quick and loud as he left the bedroom. Early mornings and late evenings were when he usually appeared—briefly—and pretended to care about his daughter. The morning ritual was always the same. He brought in a fresh flower, set it in the vase on the desk, kissed her forehead, and then made false promises to come back soon. Enduring the same bullshit for almost eight years made her immune to the words.

Melissa’s friends at school all envied her position as the daughter of the world’s most powerful man, but she hated it. When her mother was still alive, living under the constant scrutiny and ever-present guards had been tolerable. Ever since her mom died, things went downhill to the point Melissa wished she could just disappear.

What she craved was simple: a normal life. Make stupid, teenage mistakes without the fear of how every move she made would be scrutinized and picked apart by the media. To be able to cut her hair and wear a style of clothing meant for a fifteen-year-old, not a Catholic schoolgirl from 1950. Get drunk one night with her friends and pierce her ears. Have an actual relationship with a guy.

The last two guys who made her panties wet felt the same way she did. She knew it. Felt it. Saw it behind their eyes when they stared at her in class. Melissa knew she wasn’t gorgeous, but her jet-black hair, blue eyes, and curves (compliments of Mom) all combined together for a nice package. Yet Stephan Cumberland and Matthew Guss kept their hands far away from Melissa’s body. With all the tight security constantly hovering around, and who her father was, dashed any hopes of Melissa getting kissed, felt up, or fucked.

She couldn’t wait for January. The second term of well-loved and respected President Thompson would be over and the duties passed on to the obnoxious blowhard, President-Elect Ronald Krump. Melissa Renee Thompson would finally be released from the prison others around the globe called the White House.

And the freaking slew of goons who guarded her would at least be hewn down to only one.

Fully awake, she groaned inwardly. She could hear heavy breathing from Stephanie Roseburg, known to the staff as Melissa’s caretaker. The middle-aged Secret Service agent was a gruff, harsh woman who rarely cracked a smile. Melissa hated to even look at her. The woman wasn’t exactly ugly as far as her outer appearance, but the ugliness inside her made up for the bland face.

For the first six years she’d been assigned to guard Melissa, the woman rarely spoke. Melissa nicknamed her Sourpuss Stephanie, a term she only used when around friends. After Melissa’s mother died, the old bitch attempted to show some emotion, but it was flat and obviously fake.

Melissa despised the woman, and was thankful when her father informed her Agent Roseburg would not be the one assigned to watch over her after they left the White House. She’d been so excited, she went back to her room on the second floor and jumped up and down on the bed so hard the frame broke.

While still under the covers, it dawned on Melissa the woman’s breaths were different than normal. Plus, her father’s voice seemed off. Normally, his usual morning greeting was said in a halting monotone, like even he knew the words were premeditated and calculated. A recorded message on auto play. The last time he sounded sincere and full of real emotions was the morning her mother died.

Poking her head out from under the comforter, Melissa noticed the flower vase was empty, which was a first. She looked over at Stephanie. The woman wasn’t looking in her direction. All her attention was focused on the tablet resting in her lap, ear buds firmly stuck in her ears. The rosy tinge usually in her plump cheeks was gone. She looked worried, the lines on her brow knitted together while staring at the screen.

“Stephanie, what’s wrong?”

No answer.

Climbing out of bed, Melissa reached for her small purse on the dresser. She walked over to where the agent sat and tried to see what Stephanie was watching. Startled by her presence, the woman clicked the button and the screen went black before Melissa could see anything. Stephanie yanked her earbuds out.

“I asked you what’s going on. What were you watching?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Miss Thompson. Ready for breakfast?”

Melissa could tell the woman was lying. A tremor of worry made the skin above her right eye twitch. “No, I’m not hungry. I want to know what’s going on! Why is dad acting so strange? And why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

Rising from her seat, Stephanie deposited the tablet in the black satchel on the table. “It is not for me to discuss such matters with you, Miss Thompson. Your father will brief you soon, after he delivers his speech to the nation. Why don’t you take a nice, relaxing bath? It will help your cramps.”

Annoyed by the dismissal of her worries and the fact the old bitch knew she was on the rag, Melissa huffed and stormed into the bathroom. Before closing the door, she shouted, “Since you already know I’m bleeding, I suppose you won’t be shocked when I ask you to get me some more tampons, right?”

Without saying a word, the agent nodded and exited the bedroom. Melissa shut the door, locked it, turned on the faucet, and settled down on the toilet seat. She opened the small bag and removed a single tampon. It was a gift from her best friend, Monique. Nestled inside the plastic wrapper was a tampon alright, one passed under the stall at school the day before. What made this blood cork special was instead of being a wad of cotton, it was hollowed out. Inside was a baggie full of enough white powder to make living under the probing eyes of the nation tolerable.

Melissa opened the baggie and dumped out the cocaine onto the counter. Knowing Stephanie could return at any minute—and probably had a key to the bathroom—she wasted no time. Bending down, she snorted the small pile up. The familiar burn made her smile as she balled up the plastic and swallowed it.

The bathtub was full so Melissa slid in the warm water. Surprised at how quickly the rush happened, she stifled a giggle. Monique told her yesterday while in the girl’s bathroom swapping tampons, the stuff came straight from Columbia. Monique’s older sister’s boyfriend was the son of a Colombian dignitary, and had just returned from an early Christmas celebration in Bogota.

While pretending to fix Melissa’s ponytail in the bathroom, Monique had whispered, “This will make your Christmas merry, I promise. Carrie said Ricardo mentioned it was really hard core stuff. He brought back enough for the big party tonight at the Colombian consulate in New York. Oh, the holidays! Deck the nose with toots of candy, fa-la-la-la la!”

Monique wasn’t kidding. The stuff was unbelievable—the best she’d ever had. For the next few minutes, Melissa let the frothy, fragrant water and the extreme high control her thoughts, rather than wondering what catastrophe in the world her father was working on fixing.

Minutes later, as she heard Stephanie knock on the door, announcing her feminine products were on the nightstand, Melissa changed her mind about breakfast.

“Stephanie?”

“Yes, Miss Thompson?”

“Please order me some bacon, sausage, and a side of oatmeal. Um, on second thought, scratch the oatmeal. Oh, and make sure to tell the cook I want the meat rare. And water. Several bottles of ice water. I’m really thirsty. Must be from losing so much blood.”

“Of course.”

Melissa closed her eyes and wondered what kind of new shit was mixed in with the coke. Though she’d only been a user since her mom died, she was used to not having an appetite when high. Lack of hunger was another perk of the white stuff, and helped her drop eight pounds of baby fat.

Pushing the thought aside, Melissa finished washing and stood. When she picked up a towel, a twinge of pain in her chest made her wince. Assuming she’d pulled something at volleyball practice the day before, she ignored it and continued to dry off.

Grabbing her favorite lotion from the counter, she squirted out a handful and bent down to coat her legs. A wave of dizziness made the room spin and stars appear. Reaching out her hands to the counter to steady herself, they slipped off the slick marble. Melissa lost her balance and tumbled to the floor, smacking her head on the edge of the counter as she fell.

“Ouch!”

She heard Stephanie at the door, calling her name, asking if she was okay. The voice sounded distant and muffled. The most intense pain she’d ever felt tore through her chest, taking her breath away. The intense burning made her forget all about the pounding in her head. Melissa tried to speak but couldn’t get her lips to move.

Crawling on all fours, she reached the door handle at the same time vomit spewed from her mouth.

The last thing she remembered was unlocking the door, and Stephanie rushing to her side, screaming into the walkie-talkie for help.

And how damned good her blood, as well as the agent’s, smelled.