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  Choice 6

  It would be nice to go out

  I want to stay home

  I want to stay home.

  “I’m sorry to be a buzzkill, but I’m exhausted. I’d be terrible company.”

  Reluctantly, she accepts this excuse and wishes me a good night.

  We hang up about thirty seconds later, but a full minute hasn’t passed before I’m feeling guilty about not going.

  I don’t owe this girl anything. I’ve only known her for a week. But we’re both new here, and I sympathize with her desire to get out there and learn about a new town, but not be alone while doing so.

  But sometimes you just have to take care of yourself. “And that’s what I intend to do,” I say to no one in particular as I refill my wine and turn on the television.

  I’m not sure what glass of wine I’m on, when the doorbell rings. I hop up from the sofa, grab my wallet from the table by the door and fish out a twenty for the delivery guy.

  He smiles, takes the cash and hands over the cardboard box reeking of processed carbs and cheesy goodness. I make it through three slices and another glass of wine before I fall asleep watching some epic fantasy show. The last thing I remember is the dragon attacking the village folk and Sushi’s tail flicking lazily across the top ledge of the cat tree.

  I wake suddenly.

  I sit up, putting one hand on the side of my head and the other on the back of the couch to pull myself up. There’s the pizza box, greasy and open on the coffee table. The television plays a commercial for teeth whitening toothpaste. Everyone is laughing and its weird against the soundtrack of my pounding heart.

  The apartment is dark except for the light of the television, but nothing else seems amiss.

  Until someone screams.

  The hair on the back of my neck rises, and my flesh prickles. Adrenaline floods my limbs.

  For a moment, all I can do it sit there, in the dim light of my living room, wondering if maybe someone just saw a spider in the adjacent apartment, or if I’m hearing the television a floor below.

  I turn off my own TV and listen harder, head cocked, eyes closed.

  I sit very still, as if my movement would scare away the noise.

  The scream comes again. It’s high, frightened, and definitely from a woman.

  It’s a sharp, bone-rattling scream full of unmistakable pain. Whoever she is, she is frightened and hurting and in need of help. I’d wager $100 that it’s coming from the street below.

  I go to the balcony and unlock it. Pulling the door open, cold air wafts in, and with it, the sound of a woman crying. I was right about it being outside.

  I lean over the wrought iron rails of my balcony and scan the streets of Old Town. I search each elevated concrete porch and the shadows pooling around the restored brownstones. My eyes sweep over the cobblestone.

  I don’t see anyone despite the halos of streetlight.

  But I hear her crying again. Another short, cut off scream.

  Choice 7

  Do something!

  I’m not a ninja! Call the police

  Call her back later.

  I silence my phone and plan to call Katie back. She’s a bit of a party girl and I’m desperate for a quiet night at home. I also consider inviting her over for wine and pizza, but from what I know of her in our short acquaintance, she would only use that as an opportunity to wear me down.

  If I’m being honest, I hate people like that. People who won’t accept the boundaries that are in place and challenge them—as if it isn’t hard enough to enforce boundaries as it is.

  For me it is anyway.

  So no. She can go out and look for guys if she wants to.

  A minute hasn’t passed before I’m feeling guilty about not taking her call.

  I don’t owe this girl anything. I’ve only known her for a week. But we’re both new here, and I sympathize with her desire to get out there and learn about a new town, but not be alone while doing it.

  But sometimes you just have to take care of yourself. “And that’s what I intend to do,” I say to no one in particular as I refill my wine and turn on the television. No point in starting my book until I’m sure I won’t be interrupted.

  I’m not sure what glass of wine I’m on, when the doorbell rings. I hop up from the sofa, grab my wallet from the table by the door and fish out a $20 for the delivery guy.

  He smiles, takes the cash and hands over the cardboard box reeking of carbs and cheesy goodness. I make it through three slices and another glass of wine before I fall asleep watching some epic fantasy series. The last thing I remember was the dragon attacking the village folk and Sushi’s tail flicking lazily across the top ledge of the cat tree.

  I wake suddenly.

  I sit up, putting one hand on the side of my head and the other on the back of the couch to pull myself up. There’s the pizza box, greasy and open on the coffee table. The television plays a commercial for teeth whitening toothpaste.

  My heart is pounding, but I’m not sure why. The apartment is dark except for the light of the television, but nothing else seems amiss.

  Someone screams.

  The hair on the back of my neck rises, and my flesh prickles. Adrenaline floods my limbs.

  For a moment, all I can do it sit there, in the dim light of my living room, wondering if maybe someone just saw a spider in the adjacent apartment, or if I’m hearing the television a floor below.

  I turn off my own television and listen harder, head cocked, eyes closed.

  I sit very still, as if my movement would scare away the noise.

  The scream comes again. It’s high, frightened, and definitely from a woman.

  It’s a sharp, bone-rattling scream full of unmistakable pain. Whoever she is, she is frightened and hurting and in need of help. I’d wager $100 that it’s coming from the street below.

  I go to the balcony and unlock it. Pulling it open, cold air wafts in, and with it, the sound of a woman crying. I was right about it being outside.

  I lean over the wrought iron rails of my balcony and scan the streets of Old Town. I search each elevated concrete porch and the shadows pooling around the restored brownstones. My eyes sweep over the cobblestone.

  But I don’t see anyone despite the halos of streetlight.

  But I hear that crying again. And a short, cut off scream.

  Choice 8

  Get out there and do something!

  I’m not a ninja! Call the police

  I’m not a ninja! Call the police.

  With the hair on my neck prickling to attention, I search for my phone. My fingers, clammy and unsteady, fumble with the smooth case before I manage to unlock it. There’s a voicemail from Katie, but it’ll have to wait. I dial 911.

  “911, what is your emergency?” a woman asks. It’s so relaxed that for a horrified moment, I fear that I’ve received a robot.

  Another sharp cry pierces the night. My words fail on my tongue. I inhale, surprised, listening.

  “I hear her,” the operator says. Obviously not a robot then. “Can you confirm your location?”

  “You hear the woman screaming?” I ask, unable to mask my surprise.

  “Yes, can you confirm your location?”

  She hears her? The screams must be even louder than I thought.

  I give her my address.

  “Old Town,” she whispers. It sounds like she’s turned her head away from the receiver.

  I’m about to say yes, confirm that I do in fact live in Old Town when a man answers. His voice is also muffled, as if he’s a seat or two away from the operator. “Yes, I see them. You need to send at least two units.”

  “How can he see them?” I ask. “Are there cameras or something?”

  “Thank you for calling,” the operator says, her voice full volume again. “Stay inside your home and you will not be harmed. Understood?”

  “Understood?” I ask, pretty sure I don’t understand any of this.

  “Good.” And she hangs u
p.

  For a moment I only stare at my phone’s screen wondering what the hell just happened.

  True, it isn’t like I’m an expert in 911 calls or anything, but I think I have a general idea of how they work.

  Once I had to call 911 in college when I saw two cars collide in the parking lot. No one was hurt but the operator had insisted that I stay on the line, asked for every detail about the cars, the people involved, and if they seemed intoxicated.

  Why did this operator hang up on me? Why didn’t she get more information or ask me to stay on the line?

  My thoughts break when the woman screams again. It’s gut-wrenching, making my insides twist in on themselves. A cold sweat is starting to stand out along my hairline.

  Help is coming but how far away are they? Are they going to make it in time?

  I put down the cell phone and catch sight of my coat by the door.

  Should I try to help?

  Choice 9

  Yes. Do something

  Stay inside as told

  Do something

  Someone is getting hurt, maybe raped or mugged down there. I’m not going to sit in my apartment and pretend it isn’t happening.

  I grab my coat off the rack and have the door open when I hesitate. On second thought, I snatch the mace from my purse and put it in the same pocket as my phone.

  I’m not sure it will be helpful for whatever I’m going into, but it’s better than nothing.

  A moment later I’m down the stairs, out of my building, and rushing down the sidewalk toward the sound. It’s coming from somewhere left of my apartment, toward the First Night Theatre.

  I’m only half a block from my apartment when I notice movement in the window across the street. An onlooker pulls her curtain closed. What is wrong with people? Would it kill them to get out here and make sure someone isn’t being murdered?

  A second observer looks out the top window and our eyes meet. He has black eyes and hair and a deathly pale complexion. His spine is hunched.

  He shakes his head. Shakes it. As if warning me not to go any farther.

  People. Forget them. I’m not looking for a medal here, but there is common decency, you know?

  I fall into a jog, trying to reach the woman more quickly. I keep scanning the darkness for any movement.

  Another yelp catches my attention. It’s close. Very close. I freeze on the sidewalk between a donut shop and a used bookstore where I’ve taken my coffee once or twice.

  Between the two lies a shadowed alleyway. I peer into the relentless dark, my heart thumping in my throat. There’s a woman in the alley, her back against the stone wall. Even in the poor lighting I can see the blood splashed across her face, hands, and clothes. Her body trembles.

  I’m running into the alley before I realize what I’m doing.

  I kneel in front of her, hands out, searching her body for a wound, something I can compress.

  There’s blood. So much blood.

  I’m poking at her clothes as gently as possible trying to figure out where the wound is. Wounds, I correct. There has to be more than one with all this blood.

  She coughs, spraying blood into my face. I suppress momentary panic.

  She better not have any weird diseases, one part of my brain says. The germaphobe part. Shut up, she’s clearly dying! And it’s not like she did it on purpose, shouts the more compassionate part.

  But I can taste the blood on my lips. I push the panic away and try to focus on the problem at hand.

  “Where are you hurt?” I ask.

  She mumbles something, but I can’t make it out.

  Choice 10

  Lean closer and hear what she says

  She needs help. Call 911

  Stay inside as told.

  “Don’t do it,” I tell myself. The people who get themselves killed are the unqualified fools who think they can rush in and save people when they really can’t.

  And besides, I don’t know what is happening down there. She could be getting mauled by a bear or she’s being held by a gang at gunpoint. I can’t do a thing about either situation. I have some mace, but what in the world is that going to do in the face of guns?

  But I can’t help pacing my apartment. Stressed and worried and wishing for news.

  The night remains disturbingly silent until I see the blue and red lights bouncing off the opposite brownstones.

  I pull open the sliding glass door and step out onto the balcony. Sushi squeezes himself between my ankles as I lean over the rail to get a good look at the street below.

  Two police cars and an ambulance clog the street.

  At first, I don’t hear anyone. Then I see the paramedics carrying a stretcher. The cotton sheets yellowed in the lamplight. On the stretcher lies a body. I know it is a body, not a person because it’s been covered with a white sheet and the blood is soaking through.

  I cover my mouth with my hand, moaning into it.

  Oh god.

  Oh god, she’s dead.

  Movement catches my eye and I see one of the officer’s step away and approach. “Are you the one that called in?” he calls up from the street.

  I manage a nod. I’m not sure if I say yes.

  “Can I come up and ask you a few questions?”

  Another nod. I take one more look at the stretcher disappearing into the back of the ambulance before stepping away from the balcony and locking the doors behind me.

  When I open the front door, the officer is already there. He must’ve been very quiet on the stairs or I am in shock.

  He removes his hat, revealing cropped, coarse hair and amber eyes that look beautiful in his dark face. “May I come in?” he asks politely.

  “Yes, please,” I say. I’m shaking.

  “I’m Officer Jericho Cush,” he says with a warm smile.

  Forget names. What the hell just happened? “Is she dead?” I blurt.

  “Yes,” he says firmly.

  I cover my face with my hands. “Oh god, I should’ve called sooner. I should’ve gone down there or—”

  “You wouldn’t have been able to help her. You would’ve only gotten yourself killed.”

  “Did you catch the people who did this?” I ask, blinking back tears.

  “Not yet,” he says. “But we will.”

  I breathe deeply into my cupped hands.

  “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?” he asks softly.

  I shake my head no.

  “Should we sit down?”

  I pull the hands away from my face and see him gesturing toward the sofa.

  I plop onto it without saying a word. I would be content to just sit there for the rest of the night, my face in my hands, but Sushi hisses.

  I look up in time to see his ears lay flat against his head, his eyes fully dilated. His little canines are pearly white in the low light.

  “Cats don’t really like me,” Officer Cush says.

  “No shit.” I didn’t mean to blurt that out. “Sorry.”

  He gives me a warm smile. “It’s okay. Can you tell me what happened tonight? Just start from the beginning.”

  I proceed to give him a timeline from the moment I woke on the couch to when I called 911. But it feels like someone else is answering the questions and I’m floating in the air above us.

  “You’ve really been through something,” Officer Cush says at last, after I’ve repeated my story about four times. His smile bright and sympathetic.

  “Nothing compared to what she must’ve gone through,” I say, kicking myself for the thousandth time for not stepping in, not doing what I could.

  “You need to relax,” he says. Officer Cush inches toward me on the sofa, those amber eyes seemingly brighter.

  My eyes fall on the shiny gun at his hip. The smell of his leather jacket and belt. I think, do cops wear leather jackets on duty?

  But he’s still speaking. “When you wake up, you’ll feel a lot better about all this.”

  “What are you—” I begin, those golde
n eyes drawing too close.

  “Relax,” he whispers, and I feel the hot breath on my face. “This will help.”

  I wake to a soft paw batting my nose.

  “Meow.”

  A tinge of claws.

  “Meow.”

  I pry my eyes open against the sunlight streaming in. This is all the encouragement that the cat needs. He climbs onto my chest and proceeds to rub his head and ears against my face until I’m gasping. I swat him away.

  I sit up and check the time. Almost 10:30. I’m surprised he let me sleep this long.

  “Okay, okay,” I say and throw back the covers. And pause.

  I’m fully dressed.

  I try to remember what happened the night before…the first thought that surfaces is the ambulance. I remember talking to an officer briefly but that’s it. Did I really have that much wine?

  Beside the clock icon on my phone I see the voicemail flag. A red alert that will drive me nuts until I check it.

  I play the message while dragging myself into the kitchen to feed the cat.

  Of course, only a small circle of the bowl is exposed but I give him his morning scoop anyway.

  I know the voice on the voicemail. It’s Katie. But her voice is hushed and frightened. I have to restart the message twice to make sure I understand what she is saying. On the third play-through I’m absolutely certain.

  “Baltimore. Oh shit, Baltimore. Help me. I shouldn’t have left Alpha’s with them, but how the hell was I supposed to know they were vampires?! Honest-to-god freaking monsters. I don’t know where they’re taking me. They’ve got me in a trunk and—”

  “What the fuck,” a man cuts in. “I thought you took her phone.”