Her body gave a jolt and her arms raised, batting at him. He lay across the pillow, using his weight to suffocate the Dragon. She kicked and banged against the mattress. Muffled grunts of distress and panic filtered from underneath the pillow to mingle with the sounds of his own grief and guilt.
King had stood vigil at many a deathbed. It was part of his job as the hospital’s chaplain. Over time, he’d learned that humans exited the world in different ways. Some screamed, some cried, some begged for life, some begged for death, some slipped away silently. No matter how a person died, they all shared one miraculous moment. At the moment when the body transitioned, the atmosphere—the veil separating humanity from the divine—parted and the Lord stepped in to escort his celestial creation to heaven.
Finally, her limbs went limp. King’s body warmed, and he became aroused as he waited for the Lord to appear. A mini-eternity passed. Why was it taking so long? He lifted himself from her. The pillow still covered her face, her shoulders.
“Lord, please, please, please.” His rib cage clamped tight, suffocating his breathing and squeezing his heart. “Lord, I have followed your will. Why are you forsaking me?”
An answer floated into his mind. The Dragon didn’t deserve the Lord’s grace. Relief washed away the fear in his heart. The Lord wasn’t mad at him. The Lord was punishing the Dragon.
King lifted the pillow from her face. Even in death, she sustained an unnatural allure. As he rearranged her head on the pillow, touching her no longer burned. He retrieved the small golden cross from his pocket and placed it in the center of her forehead.
Later, much later, he’d find her body in the morgue and finish the last rites.
Chapter 7
The confusion of hospital noises clogged Xander’s ears, and the relentless thumping inside his head distracted him from the thread of thought he should be following. He pressed his palms against his ears to muffle the turbulence and focused his eyes on the words displayed on the phone screen Kent still held in front of his face.
Officer Decker: Female vic. Mid-twenties. Stabbed to death. Prospectus Prairie Park.
Kent yanked the phone out of Xander’s range of vision, but the words still blazed in bold type on his retinas, pulsing like flashing neon lights with each beat inside his head.
Add what Isleen had said earlier to this message, and it was clear. During her captivity, she had been forced to witness a murder. How had she survived, not only physically, but mentally? The things she’d endured were enough to snap a spine made of steel vertebrae.
Kent shoved the phone back into Xander’s face.
Kent: Estimated TOD?
Officer Decker: Late morning
Xander read the lines. Twice. A question formed, one he didn’t want to ask, but couldn’t not ask. “When did you get these texts?”
“Five. Minutes. Ago.”
Good, old-fashioned, concrete logic rebelled against Kent’s words. “Dude, I think your Officer Decker is funnin’ with the big, bad BCI guy.”
Kent’s expression was as serious as grave gravel. No joke. No laugh. No humor. “He’s legit. More legit than you’ll ever be.” He’s gone through the academy, knows protocol, respects the job and his fellow officers.
“Ssshhiitt…” Xander couldn’t find another word to sum up the situation.
“Yeah. Now tell me the goddamned truth. Who visited her? Did she leave the hospital?” No way she could’ve known about this otherwise.
“No one visited her. Does she look like she’s been out visiting the local flora and fauna? Dressed in a hospital smock? With all the reporters out there? Use your oh-so-superior smarts.”
“Then you”—Kent jammed a finger at Xander—“toss me an explanation that fits.” You’re wanting me to buy shit that stinks.
“Truth is fucking truth. She hasn’t talked to anyone. She hasn’t left the hospital. Maybe Queen told her that the murder was going to happen. You’re the fancy BCI guy. You figure it—” Xander’s brain went squirmy inside the cap of his skull, the brain itch. It felt like someone had opened his skull, taken out his thinking tool, rolled it around in a patch of poison ivy, then reinstalled it in his head.
He shook his head hard enough, violent enough, long enough to give himself the adult version of shaken baby syndrome. After his head stilled on his shoulders, his eyes hadn’t gotten the memo because they continued to ping-pong around their sockets.
Kent was still talking. Xander’s head was still pounding. And still, the itch devoured everything with its unrelenting, unnerving, insatiable sensation. Xander’s center of gravity warped the waiting room, transforming it into a fun house of distorted, disorienting images rushing at him from the walls and floor.