Living with the Dead
Page 83
As Finn passed, the young man plucked his sleeve. "You smell that?"
He caught an odor that made his guts knot, remembering a training seminar where they'd sprayed new LAPD
recruits with CS gas.
Wisps of smoke spiraled from the cracked-open door. Inside, someone coughed. He pulled out his gun and eased the door open another inch. The distinct peppery smell of tear gas wafted out, mixed with another smell – whatever caused the smoke, he supposed.
The smoke had almost evaporated, and he could make out a figure on all fours, hacking. A woman. Young. Slender.
Dark blond hair in a ponytail. His hand tightened on his gun, the image of Adele Morrissey popping to mind. Then the woman lifted her head and Finn saw the face that had been taunting him for three days.
Robyn Peltier.
A careful look around the empty room, then he holstered his weapon and hurried inside, grabbing her under the arms and lifting her. Once they were past the door, she staggered to the wall and leaned against it. Her head dropped forward as she sputtered and gasped, tears streaming.
Finn called for backup and an ambulance. When he gave his name, Robyn stiffened, head rising, watery reddened eyes meeting his. Then she dropped her head again, racked by a fresh wave of coughing and dry heaves.
"It's Detective Findlay, Robyn," he said when he got off the phone. "You called me last night."
She tried to nod between coughs, face still lowered.
"Paramedics are on their way," he said. "That was tear gas. It's not dangerous, just..." He was about to say something suitably neutral, as the department taught, but remembering what it felt like, what came out was: ". . . vile."
Her cough softened into a laugh. "That would about sum it up."
Finn shifted his weight, resisting the urge to take her arm.
He'd spent three days searching for this woman, and now here she was, hacking up her lungs, and all he could think was that she looked... small.
He glanced around for the ambulance. "Keep breathing. Do you feel like you're going to be sick?"
She shook her head and went to swipe her sleeve over her eyes.
Finn caught her arm. "Don't rub. You'll only make it worse. We need to get your eyes washed out. Same with your skin. Does it burn?"
"Ice," she croaked.
Good idea. There'd be water in the vending machine, too.
He plucked a bill from his wallet and looked around for someone to run the errand. The tiny crowd had dispersed, which may have had something to do with the stinking fog still seeping from the opened door. He closed it, scanned the lot and found the heavyset man, hanging back as he stared at Robyn.
When Finn waved the man over, he shook his head, still gaping at Robyn with the horror one usually reserves for Ebola victims.
"It's tear gas," Finn called. "It's not – "
The man climbed into his car, shut and locked the door.
"The ice machine's right over..." Robyn squinted to see, her eyes still streaming tears. "Over there," she said resolutely, then took an equally resolute step before faltering against the wall.
Finn went to grab her only to realize he still had hold of her arm. He tightened his grip, helping her find her balance.
"Sorry," she said. "Guess I'm a little off."
Now it was his turn to laugh, a rusty rumble. "I'd say you've got a right to be. I'll get the ice and water. Stay here and catch your breath."
Finn jogged to the vending machine. He fed his bill into it while scouring the cubby for something to hold the ice.
He bought a water and a Coke, then snatched up an empty chip bag, filled it with ice and put it into his pocket.
The sidewalk was empty.
Finn strode to the spot where he'd left Robyn. He looked around. Even opened the motel room door again. She was gone.
He dropped the bottles. Threw them, if he was being honest, as he started running.
How stupid had that been? He finally catches his fugitive suspect, only to leave her unattended while he trips over himself to get some water, some ice... Hell, she could probably use a Coke, to boost her blood sugar.
He reached the side corner to see her race around the back, remarkably agile for someone unable to take two steps a few minutes ago.
She'd played him.
He tore down that side stretch so fast he barely had his gun out before he wheeled around the back corner and –
There stood Robyn Peltier. Holding a gun on him.
HOPE
Hope raced down the fence line, Rhys's feet pounding behind her. She rounded the corner. Still no sign of an opening. Why would there be? The motel wouldn't encourage anyone to cut through its property.
She pressed herself against the boards and waited, her eyes half closed as she tracked the pound of Rhys's shoes.
Closer, closer...
He came around the corner and she pounced. She caught him in a hold, but this time he was ready and before she could flip him, he countered, throwing her onto her back.
"Hope, you have to listen to me."
Hope hit him with a head strike, grabbing his outstretched arm and slamming her open palm under his chin. He should have flown back. But he recognized the move, countered with a wrist twist and threw her to the ground again, harder this time, wind whooshing from her lungs, head hitting a rock, fireworks of pain and light exploding. He stood over her, his lips moving, some new variation on "Let's talk about this," but the gong ringing in her ears drowned out his words.
The demon wended through her body like an electric eel, sparking and jolting with every twist, battering itself against Hope's insides, fighting to escape. It had escaped before. Once Hope had even seen it in a mirror, a nightmare version of herself, wild with rage. Now it whipped through her, begging to be free.
So Hope set the terms... and opened the gate.
She flew at Rhys, martial-arts training forgotten, animal instinct – demon instinct – taking over, tackling him with everything she had, a dervish of nails and feet and fists. Expecting another scripted martialarts move, he staggered back. She launched herself at him. They went down.
If any low-flying plane had passed over at that moment, Hope suspected they'd have seen a scene straight out of a Tasmanian devil cartoon as she scrabbled in the dirt with Rhys, a dust cloud enveloping them.
Throughout the fight, she kept control. And it was glorious, the purest adrenaline and chaos rush imaginable.
He caught an odor that made his guts knot, remembering a training seminar where they'd sprayed new LAPD
recruits with CS gas.
Wisps of smoke spiraled from the cracked-open door. Inside, someone coughed. He pulled out his gun and eased the door open another inch. The distinct peppery smell of tear gas wafted out, mixed with another smell – whatever caused the smoke, he supposed.
The smoke had almost evaporated, and he could make out a figure on all fours, hacking. A woman. Young. Slender.
Dark blond hair in a ponytail. His hand tightened on his gun, the image of Adele Morrissey popping to mind. Then the woman lifted her head and Finn saw the face that had been taunting him for three days.
Robyn Peltier.
A careful look around the empty room, then he holstered his weapon and hurried inside, grabbing her under the arms and lifting her. Once they were past the door, she staggered to the wall and leaned against it. Her head dropped forward as she sputtered and gasped, tears streaming.
Finn called for backup and an ambulance. When he gave his name, Robyn stiffened, head rising, watery reddened eyes meeting his. Then she dropped her head again, racked by a fresh wave of coughing and dry heaves.
"It's Detective Findlay, Robyn," he said when he got off the phone. "You called me last night."
She tried to nod between coughs, face still lowered.
"Paramedics are on their way," he said. "That was tear gas. It's not dangerous, just..." He was about to say something suitably neutral, as the department taught, but remembering what it felt like, what came out was: ". . . vile."
Her cough softened into a laugh. "That would about sum it up."
Finn shifted his weight, resisting the urge to take her arm.
He'd spent three days searching for this woman, and now here she was, hacking up her lungs, and all he could think was that she looked... small.
He glanced around for the ambulance. "Keep breathing. Do you feel like you're going to be sick?"
She shook her head and went to swipe her sleeve over her eyes.
Finn caught her arm. "Don't rub. You'll only make it worse. We need to get your eyes washed out. Same with your skin. Does it burn?"
"Ice," she croaked.
Good idea. There'd be water in the vending machine, too.
He plucked a bill from his wallet and looked around for someone to run the errand. The tiny crowd had dispersed, which may have had something to do with the stinking fog still seeping from the opened door. He closed it, scanned the lot and found the heavyset man, hanging back as he stared at Robyn.
When Finn waved the man over, he shook his head, still gaping at Robyn with the horror one usually reserves for Ebola victims.
"It's tear gas," Finn called. "It's not – "
The man climbed into his car, shut and locked the door.
"The ice machine's right over..." Robyn squinted to see, her eyes still streaming tears. "Over there," she said resolutely, then took an equally resolute step before faltering against the wall.
Finn went to grab her only to realize he still had hold of her arm. He tightened his grip, helping her find her balance.
"Sorry," she said. "Guess I'm a little off."
Now it was his turn to laugh, a rusty rumble. "I'd say you've got a right to be. I'll get the ice and water. Stay here and catch your breath."
Finn jogged to the vending machine. He fed his bill into it while scouring the cubby for something to hold the ice.
He bought a water and a Coke, then snatched up an empty chip bag, filled it with ice and put it into his pocket.
The sidewalk was empty.
Finn strode to the spot where he'd left Robyn. He looked around. Even opened the motel room door again. She was gone.
He dropped the bottles. Threw them, if he was being honest, as he started running.
How stupid had that been? He finally catches his fugitive suspect, only to leave her unattended while he trips over himself to get some water, some ice... Hell, she could probably use a Coke, to boost her blood sugar.
He reached the side corner to see her race around the back, remarkably agile for someone unable to take two steps a few minutes ago.
She'd played him.
He tore down that side stretch so fast he barely had his gun out before he wheeled around the back corner and –
There stood Robyn Peltier. Holding a gun on him.
HOPE
Hope raced down the fence line, Rhys's feet pounding behind her. She rounded the corner. Still no sign of an opening. Why would there be? The motel wouldn't encourage anyone to cut through its property.
She pressed herself against the boards and waited, her eyes half closed as she tracked the pound of Rhys's shoes.
Closer, closer...
He came around the corner and she pounced. She caught him in a hold, but this time he was ready and before she could flip him, he countered, throwing her onto her back.
"Hope, you have to listen to me."
Hope hit him with a head strike, grabbing his outstretched arm and slamming her open palm under his chin. He should have flown back. But he recognized the move, countered with a wrist twist and threw her to the ground again, harder this time, wind whooshing from her lungs, head hitting a rock, fireworks of pain and light exploding. He stood over her, his lips moving, some new variation on "Let's talk about this," but the gong ringing in her ears drowned out his words.
The demon wended through her body like an electric eel, sparking and jolting with every twist, battering itself against Hope's insides, fighting to escape. It had escaped before. Once Hope had even seen it in a mirror, a nightmare version of herself, wild with rage. Now it whipped through her, begging to be free.
So Hope set the terms... and opened the gate.
She flew at Rhys, martial-arts training forgotten, animal instinct – demon instinct – taking over, tackling him with everything she had, a dervish of nails and feet and fists. Expecting another scripted martialarts move, he staggered back. She launched herself at him. They went down.
If any low-flying plane had passed over at that moment, Hope suspected they'd have seen a scene straight out of a Tasmanian devil cartoon as she scrabbled in the dirt with Rhys, a dust cloud enveloping them.
Throughout the fight, she kept control. And it was glorious, the purest adrenaline and chaos rush imaginable.
