Under Suspicion

Chapter Eight

My knee was bobbing uncontrollably as I sat in the waiting room and Will was talking to the emergency staff (a perk of being an EMT/fireman) to get information on Kale. By the time he came back, I was wringing my hands.

“Did you find out anything? Is she going to be okay? Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh.” I felt like I needed to cry—wanted to cry—but every last bit of moisture had been used up.

Will sat next to me and put his hand on my knee. I stared at it, feeling my lip quiver.

“That’s not good,” I said, not taking my eyes off his hand.

Will’s gaze followed mine and he retracted his hand as though my knee had burned him. “No, love, it’s okay. Kale’s going to be fine. She’s got a few broken bones and she’s pretty bashed up, but she’s going to come through this okay.”

“Did the doctor say that?” I slid in my chair, turning to face Will. “Did they actually use the words she’s going to be okay?”

Will licked his lips, raking a hand through his hair. “Not those exact words. They’re still running some tests, but they’re pretty confident.”

I nodded, unable to form words. There was a nagging pain behind my eyes—something that told me I was missing something. When Will laid his arm across my shoulders, I slumped into him, half numb, half desperate, for some kind of comfort. A tremor started from the pit of my stomach and suddenly I was shivering, clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering. My fingers fumbled for my purse; I pawed around blindly.

“What do you need?”

“My phone. My phone, please.”

Will dug through my bag and handed me my phone; I mashed at the keypad.

“Nina?” he mouthed.

I shook my head, listening to the dial tone. “Alex.”

I watched Will’s Adam’s apple bob; he looked away, taking his arm from behind my shoulders and folding his hands in his lap. As I listened to the phone ring endlessly on Alex’s end, I blinked at Will, seemingly miles away now, and felt unbearably alone.

“Is she okay? Where is she? Is she okay?” Lorraine’s voice was shrill and I stared up at her, squinting against the harsh yellow utility lights, almost unable to make her out.

When she came into the light, her face was gaunt; her hands were in determined little fists punching through the air. Lorraine—the UDA finance director, resident witch, and Kale’s mentor—rushed down the hall like a ball of fire. Her honey-colored hair flailed behind her, and the gauzy skirts of her green dress stood out cartoonishly against the white sterile tiles of the hospital hallway.

“Will someone please tell me if Kale is all right?”

Will stood and put a calming hand on Lorraine’s shoulder. “Kale is going to be okay. She’s pretty banged up, but she’s going to pull through just fine. She’s young and strong.”

“Young and strong is no match for metal and foreign-made,” Lorraine said with a sniff.

I felt my eyes widen. “You know what kind of car hit Kale? How?”

Lorraine looked from me to Will. “Vlad mentioned it. Didn’t you ... Don’t the police have the bastard who did this to her in custody?”

“He took off,” I said, my voice sounding small.

“Took off?” Lorraine’s nostrils flared and her hands once again closed into fists. A wave of static electricity shot through the air and I felt the hair on the crown of my head stand up. The steady blips and beeps of the hospital machinery cracked into a loud cackle of static. I pressed my hands to my ears.

“Calm down, Lorraine. Please, you have to try to calm down. You’re going to kill everyone in here.”

Will was incredulous. “That was her?”

Though Lorraine was a Gestalt witch of the green order—a faction of witches who usually did things like manipulate the seasons and specialized in herbal healing—when she got upset, her power took the form of natural devastations. Large, state-of-emergency devastations. When she caught an old boyfriend cheating (and he lied about it), the ground shook with such a fury that part of the 101 Highway crumbled in on itself and Bay Area residents spent the next six weeks ducking and covering every time a bus passed by. Reporters called it the Loma Prieta earthquake; Nina and I called it the Wrath of ’Raine.

The electricity crackled in the air.

“I talked to the police at the scene.”

Lorraine looked at me and I nodded. “Will’s a fireman. . . when he’s not ...” I wagged my head, unable to tack on the “saving me from imminent death” portion of his Guardian job description.

“They’re doing everything to find out who did this to Kale. He’s is not going to get away with it,” Will assured her.

“We should talk to Vlad, too,” I said, standing, beginning to pace.

“You’re in luck.”

Vlad was rushing down the hall toward us, with Nina in tow. She was dressed in a sparkly minidress, which showed off her long, shapely legs. Her now-black hair swirled glossily around her shoulders, dipping toward her waist. Her narrow-heeled black stilettos clicked against the tiled hallway.

“That’s quite a candy striper uniform,” I said to Nina.

She rolled her eyes. “I was getting ready for my date when Vlad came back to the office.”

“They let you wear that to the office?” Will wanted to know, his eyes sweeping the figure-hugging sheath.

“I planned ahead,” Nina said, crossing her arms.

Lorraine and I both knew that “planned ahead” meant that Nina had pulled open the file cabinet marked “Lapsed Clients” and sorted through boutique-worthy collection of vintage couture she kept there. The shoes likely came from the supply closet, which was stocked with staples, Post-it notes, and several seasons’ worth of Jimmy Choos, all in Nina’s delicate size 6.

“We came as soon as we heard. Is Kale okay?” Nina asked.

“She will be.” My knees felt rubbery and shaky again as I thought of the screech of the tires, the horrible sound of Kale’s body making contact with the steel grill of the car. I pinched my eyes closed and saw her lone shoe, wedged under that car tire, saw her head lolling listlessly to the side.

“Oh, love, you don’t look so good. You should sit.” Will led me to one of the cold plastic waiting-room chairs. I sank down and he handed me a bottle of water; his other hand massaged my neck. “Head between your knees, love.”

I swung forward, feeling my hair sweep the ground, listening to the endless loop of him explaining what happened, hearing him reassure everyone in a flat, exhausted voice that Kale would be fine. I repeated the mantra in my head, until I was cut off by a white-coated doctor who walked up, closing a medical chart. “Kale Dubois?” He looked up expectantly.

“We’re here for her. We’re here for Kale,” Lorraine said. “Is there news?”

“Are you family?”

“Yes,” Lorraine said, her eyes cutting to all of us and daring us to object.

“Yes, family,” Nina piped up.

“Sisters,” I said.

“Okay, well, Ms. Dubois is going to be just fine. She does, as I told ...” The doctor’s eyebrows rose as he looked at Will.

“Her brother,” Lorraine supplied, her eyes daring anyone, again, to challenge her.

“As I told her brother earlier, Ms. Dubois has a broken femur and collarbone. Both of those have been set and should heal just fine. We—”

“So we can take her home?” Lorraine broke in.

The doctor shook his head; his eyes politely apologetic. “I’m afraid not. Though she seemed to fare quite well, Ms. Dubois was in a rather bad accident. We need to keep her here for a few days to be sure that there is nothing more seriously wrong with her.”

“May we see her?” Nina asked.

The doctor seemed to be thinking. “She really does need her rest. Maybe just one or two of you, so she knows you’re out here. The rest of you can come by during regular visiting hours tomorrow.”

I stood up and took Lorraine’s hand when I saw her eyes go wide; I saw them rimmed with tears.

“You go in, Lorraine. Tell her we’re all out here pulling for her.” I glanced at Vlad, held his eyes for a beat. “And Vlad should go in, too, in case she remembers anything.”

Lorraine nodded and cleared her throat; then she pushed her hair back behind her ears. She pasted on a welcoming smile as she looked toward Kale’s closed door, but I could feel the fear radiating from her. I wrapped my arms around her.

“It’s going to be okay, Lorraine,” I whispered into her hair. “I know it is.”

My body quaked with Lorraine’s tense energy.

“She’s like a kid sister to me,” Lorraine said, the single tear wobbling over her cheek. “I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to her.”

“Nothing will,” Will said, squeezing her shoulder.

“You’ll keep us posted, right?” Nina asked.

Lorraine nodded quickly. “Of course. You guys go home.”

“Oh, I don’t—”

“I’ve got you,” Will said over my shoulder. “I can take you home.”

I nodded dumbly, then blindly fumbled down the hall. The astringent smell of sickness and terror assaulted me the whole way down.

I slammed the car door and buckled myself into the passenger seat while Will stared straight ahead.

“You going to be okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine. It’s Kale I’m worried about.” I clapped my palm to my forehead. “That’s right. Can you swing by the diner on the way home? We left the UDA files there.”

Will double-parked in front of the diner and I jumped out, a cold mass of nerves pulsing in my gut. I tried to maintain tunnel vision and avoid the spot where Kale went down, but I had the nagging need to look. The intersection buzzed with dull regularity as a Muni bus chugged by, followed by a Subaru packed with tourists who stared wide-eyed and openmouthed, foreheads and palms pressed against the glass. I sighed: nothing, no clues, no slow-moving car plastered with bumper stickers saying MY HONOR STUDENT RAN OVER YOUR FRIEND IN THE STREET. I had my hand on the door to the Fog City Diner, when I took one last glance back to where Will sat in the car, fiddling with the stereo. He bent low enough for me to notice a snatch of red hair on the other side of the street, a midcalf-brushing trench coat.

My heart thumped into my throat. Despite the moist, biting fog, my entire body broke out into a hot sweat. I spun on my heel and zigzagged through traffic, across the street, catching the door to Java Script as it swung closed behind the red-haired man. Vaguely I heard Will’s English accent cutting through the sounds of traffic. Vaguely I heard his car door slam shut, him telling me to come back.

Java Script was warm inside and the heady smell of roasted coffee beans stung my nose. I zipped past a display of hardback best sellers and “Java Script Recommends” titles. I was looking frantically for the red-haired man.

“Hey, welcome to Java Script.” A teenaged girl wearing a red apron grinned at me. “Is there something I can help you find?”

“Did you just see a man in a trench coat come in here? He had red hair like mine.” I pulled a lock of my own hair to demonstrate the color. “And he would have looked”—I swallowed bitter saliva—“a little like me, too.”

The girl shrugged. “Just now? The only person who came in here just now was you.” She smiled and her metal braces glinted in the harsh fluorescent lights. “It’s been a superslow day. But do you want me to leave a message in case someone comes in?”

The tinkling bells over the door did their thing and Will stepped inside, obviously irate. “What happened to picking something up at the diner? Next thing I know, you’re sprinting through traffic.”

I grabbed Will by the elbow and led him to a stack of James Patterson’s new new releases. “Didn’t you see him slip in here?”

“Who?”

I cut my eyes, left and right, then leaned in. “My father.”

Will stepped back, eyebrows raised. “Suddenly dear old dad pops back on the scene and stops in for a read?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I know he’s here. At least I think he’s here.” I gripped at my chest. “I just kind of feel it.” Bat wings fluttered in my stomach. “Do you think maybe he misses me?”

Will offered me a sympathetic—if apologetic—smile. “I’m sure any father would miss a daughter like you.”

I felt a weird, unnerving sense of glee hearing that my father might miss me. That glee was only slightly doused with the unwelcome knowledge that dear old dad raked in souls by the bucketful and offered a fiery, brimstony afterlife, once all their cards were punched.

I looked over both shoulders. “Maybe he isn’t looking for me. But if I’m wrong, why did you come after me? Did you come in here because you sensed I was in danger? Was your Guardian Spidey sense tingling?”

“No. My charge almost made herself into a hood ornament two hours after her friend became a hood ornament in the same intersection.”

I blew out a sigh. “I’m just going to take a quick walk through the stacks and see if he’s here.”

“You really think ole Satan is going to be strolling through the stacks? I just kind of think, as you know, the ruler of hell, he’d have someone to pick up books for him. Or he’d Amazon it.”

“I don’t know. Just—”

“There’s a reading going on tomorrow afternoon.” The red-aproned girl walked up and shoved a flyer in each of our hands. “You guys should come. It’s Harley Cavanaugh, the author of Vampires, Werewolves, and Other Things That Don’t Exist.”

“Thanks,” I said, stuffing the flyer in my purse. I put my palms on Will’s firm chest. “Give me two minutes. I just want to see if he’s here. I just need to know if—if it’s happening again.”

I spun on my heel and beelined toward the cozy-mystery section before Will could answer, before Will could say something artificially reassuring about keeping me safe and hiding my secret—as the angels liked to say—“in plain sight.” I wound my way through the stacks, surprising a couple of teenagers making out in the gardening section and then running into an older man in military history. None of them were Lucas Szabo—the man who was my father, the man who left me four days after I was born.

The man who might very well be the devil.

It wasn’t until recently that I found out that my family tree was “rooted in hell,” as Nina liked to say. My mother, a seer and a woman who so hated her supernatural gift that she searched her entire life for a piece of normalcy, met my father, Lucas Szabo, at the University of San Francisco, where he worked teaching courses in legend and mythology. He wore cardigans and smoked a pipe and carried a leather briefcase. By all accounts he was a normal man. My mother fell deeply in love. By the time I came around, they were living in a walk-up apartment in the Hayes Valley and eating Campbell’s soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. There were no vampire roommates or unexpected drop-ins by pixies and fairies. They brought me home—drooling and pink, I suspect—and slept with me as I cooed in a bassinet at the end of the bed.

Four days later my mother came home from the market to find the apartment empty, my father’s closet cleaned out, and me, crying through the slats in my crib. My mother took me home to my grandmother and we settled there together.

When I was in elementary school, my grandmother told me that my mother died from a broken heart, pining for my father. I had chalked it up to the Lawson hankering for all things deep fried and chocolate dipped.

It wasn’t until last year that I learned the sinister circumstances of my mother’s death.

It wasn’t until last year that I learned when my mother hanged herself, I was there.