Dull-eyed patrons stared as she made for the exit. The front desk interns sat speechless. A little boy playing with toys on the floor smiled as she streaked him. A cop appeared out of nowhere, blocking the doors. She didn’t even break stride as she buckled him with a thrust-kick to the leg, dropped him with an elbow to the face. “Nice!” yelled a guy sitting nearby with paper towels pressed to a bloodied eye.
She crossed the driveway and rushed the first car she saw, which happened to be driven by a newly-licensed teenaged girl, with grandma in the passenger seat. The girl carefully backed out of her parking spot, biting her tongue in concentration. The door opened and Scarla’s hand was around her throat before she could scream, but that didn’t stop grandma from wailing like a banshee. “Outta the car,” Scarla calmly instructed, as she unclipped the girl’s seatbelt and tossed her to the ground. She slipped behind the wheel with the car still rolling, hit the brake, reached over grandma to open the passenger door. She looked the old woman in the eyes, unclipping her belt. The screaming stopped.
“Get out.”
Grandma fumbled out, stunned. Scarla hit the gas. As their car peeled away, the old woman fainted, her granddaughter catching her before she hit the ground.
* * * *
She ditched the car at the curb with the keys still in it, drawing stares as she punched in her building’s security code and slipped inside. They’d be looking for her soon enough anyway, though exactly
who
and
for what,
she wasn’t sure. She racked her brain to fill-in the blanks, riding the traction elevator up to the top, eyeing her bandages. The last thing she recalled was talking to Crane, burning her file, then …
blood, hospital, creepy German guy. What the fuck did he say?
The elevator stopped and she threw the gate open. The loft was empty, windows open wide, curtains blowing in the breeze. She followed a trail of blood drops to the bathroom, found the shower drenched in blood, surgical scalpel lying near the drain. Her memory sputtered to life, returning in disjointed flashes.
She washed down the rest of the pills with a glass of wine, studied herself in the mirror. She got into the shower, adjusted the water. She held the scalpel under the spray, saw her reflection in its blade. She extended her arm, stabbed her wrist, sliced all the way up her forearm and repeated on the other side. Blood spurted the curtain and wall, but she was too high to feel anything. That was the goal—to feel nothing, let it all float away, say goodnight. She sat down and waited to die.
How she got from dead-in-the-shower to alive-in-the-hospital was a mystery. She had no idea it was a surprise visit from Tommy Delmones, whom she’d never formally met, although he knew her building code and loft number. He’d gone to see her after hearing Crane’s recommendation to pull her off the street for her own safety. Crane the puppet, who thought she was a cop. It was Delmones who interrupted the bid and got her to the hospital for arterial stitches and three bags of blood. Perks of working for The Man.
She saw the pill bottle on the sink, upended, empty.
You took them all?
She went to the mirror, stripped the hospital gown, felt along her bicep. She knew how they were tracking her, and if she had any chance of disappearing, it had to come out. She eyed a bottle labeled Bupivacaine, a local anesthetic she’d lifted from Overlook, among other things. She jabbed it with a needle, drew a full syringe, plunged it into her arm, pressed the plunger. It would take effect shortly. She set the syringe aside, tore a new scalpel from its wrapping, cut a small incision in her arm. She felt no pain as she plied the skin with her fingers, feeling inside. Blood spritzed the sink as she dug in.
Where was it?
Just as she wondered, she grazed a small foreign object, pinched it between slippery fingers, pulled it out—a hermetically-sealed clear plastic device filled with
She crossed the driveway and rushed the first car she saw, which happened to be driven by a newly-licensed teenaged girl, with grandma in the passenger seat. The girl carefully backed out of her parking spot, biting her tongue in concentration. The door opened and Scarla’s hand was around her throat before she could scream, but that didn’t stop grandma from wailing like a banshee. “Outta the car,” Scarla calmly instructed, as she unclipped the girl’s seatbelt and tossed her to the ground. She slipped behind the wheel with the car still rolling, hit the brake, reached over grandma to open the passenger door. She looked the old woman in the eyes, unclipping her belt. The screaming stopped.
“Get out.”
Grandma fumbled out, stunned. Scarla hit the gas. As their car peeled away, the old woman fainted, her granddaughter catching her before she hit the ground.
* * * *
She ditched the car at the curb with the keys still in it, drawing stares as she punched in her building’s security code and slipped inside. They’d be looking for her soon enough anyway, though exactly
who
and
for what,
she wasn’t sure. She racked her brain to fill-in the blanks, riding the traction elevator up to the top, eyeing her bandages. The last thing she recalled was talking to Crane, burning her file, then …
blood, hospital, creepy German guy. What the fuck did he say?
The elevator stopped and she threw the gate open. The loft was empty, windows open wide, curtains blowing in the breeze. She followed a trail of blood drops to the bathroom, found the shower drenched in blood, surgical scalpel lying near the drain. Her memory sputtered to life, returning in disjointed flashes.
She washed down the rest of the pills with a glass of wine, studied herself in the mirror. She got into the shower, adjusted the water. She held the scalpel under the spray, saw her reflection in its blade. She extended her arm, stabbed her wrist, sliced all the way up her forearm and repeated on the other side. Blood spurted the curtain and wall, but she was too high to feel anything. That was the goal—to feel nothing, let it all float away, say goodnight. She sat down and waited to die.
How she got from dead-in-the-shower to alive-in-the-hospital was a mystery. She had no idea it was a surprise visit from Tommy Delmones, whom she’d never formally met, although he knew her building code and loft number. He’d gone to see her after hearing Crane’s recommendation to pull her off the street for her own safety. Crane the puppet, who thought she was a cop. It was Delmones who interrupted the bid and got her to the hospital for arterial stitches and three bags of blood. Perks of working for The Man.
She saw the pill bottle on the sink, upended, empty.
You took them all?
She went to the mirror, stripped the hospital gown, felt along her bicep. She knew how they were tracking her, and if she had any chance of disappearing, it had to come out. She eyed a bottle labeled Bupivacaine, a local anesthetic she’d lifted from Overlook, among other things. She jabbed it with a needle, drew a full syringe, plunged it into her arm, pressed the plunger. It would take effect shortly. She set the syringe aside, tore a new scalpel from its wrapping, cut a small incision in her arm. She felt no pain as she plied the skin with her fingers, feeling inside. Blood spritzed the sink as she dug in.
Where was it?
Just as she wondered, she grazed a small foreign object, pinched it between slippery fingers, pulled it out—a hermetically-sealed clear plastic device filled with
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