Terror and sweat cemented Theresa’s palms to the pebbled grip of Wulf’s pistol. She opened her eyes, or maybe she closed them; in the absolute dark she couldn’t tell.
“Wulf?” After the gunshots in the confined tunnel, she had no idea how loudly she’d spoken, because the only thing she could hear was a roar like an earthmover in her head. “Wulf?”
Temporary hearing loss. If he answered, she wouldn’t know. Shit. She crouched, spine jammed to the wall, butt crushed to her heels, shoulders hunched, curled inward to become the smallest target she could manage. Everything was pulled in except the gun. The gun pointed out.
A hand could grab her. In the dark she wouldn’t see it, only feel it.
New smells mixed with the familiar sewer dank: cordite, singed hair and blood. Without hearing, she’d have to find Wulf by crawling in the direction where he should have been. On hands and knees, she dragged the gun across the catwalk and trailed her empty hand side-to-side like a spider until she brushed...softness. She recoiled, but immediately forced herself back to the obstruction. It was a leg covered in smooth fabric, not Wulf’s denim. It was one of them. Her fingers skimmed past the spot where the fabric changed to shirt cotton. Sticky blood pooled on a chest. She found a neck, but despite pressing, she couldn’t locate a pulse. This was a dead man.
More than likely, she’d shot him.
Willing the hot ball in her throat to dissolve, she vowed not to freak out. Wulf was somewhere on the elevated walkway, perhaps calling her name, perhaps too injured to speak. She had to search. But, oh God, this body blocked the catwalk.
She stretched until her knuckles grazed the metal grillwork on the far side of the man’s bulk, arching over his torso like a cat to avoid touching him. With both hands across, she started to swing her leg over, but her foot slipped and her knee squished into his abdominal cavity. Then her other foot and the hand holding the gun skidded in opposite directions, leaving her sprawled on the dead man’s gut. Her whole being recoiled from the contact, and she pushed her knee into soft organs, scrambling for traction she couldn’t find. Ugh.
One of his ribs caved in like a crushed milk container, but she couldn’t get away. He was dead, dead, dead, but he wouldn’t let her pass. Her fingers clawed at the metal walk until they latched on to the perforations. With a terrified strength she hadn’t known she possessed, she pulled her whole body slithering across to the far side of the dead man.
Finally, chest heaving, she lay on her back sucking air. A new fear hit.
In the lightless void, unable to hear past the drilling sound between her ears, she’d lost the wall. Was safety at her head or her feet? If she chose incorrectly, she could end up like the flaming man who’d crashed through the railing.
Her hands retreated inside Wulf’s jacket sleeves until the pistol snagged the cuff. Darkness couldn’t hurt her unless she panicked. Cold was the killer. It would sap her will. If she didn’t pick a direction, she’d be sitting here next week, so she forced her arms to uncurl. With the fingers of her left hand locked on the catwalk, she shoved the gun ahead of her until it bumped into something that vibrated her arm from wrist to shoulder. The wall.
She pressed her forehead against brick that smelled of wet and age, vaguely reminding her of the inside of her great-uncle’s garage. Not unfamiliar, and not the odor of blood, so she inhaled deeply and let the wall guide her progress until she touched fur. A rat.
Flattened to the bricks with her fist jammed below her clavicle until it hurt to breathe, she willed her heart to slow. The fur hadn’t moved under her hand, so no, it wasn’t a rat.
It was human hair, short and bristly, not Wulf’s. No pulse here, either, but the torso angled away and up as if it covered a second person. Like a nurse changing sheets, she flipped the body to expose another underneath. The blood-matted hair couldn’t be identified by feel, but the nose and cheekbone contours, open collar and shoulder holster matched her memory. Wulf.
Her heartbeat hung suspended too until she found a flutter of life in his neck. While she searched for a wound, hope rose from her chest to her throat and she wanted to sing, He’s alive, he’s alive! His clothes were sticky, as if he was drenched with blood, but she couldn’t feel an obvious injury on his chest, abdomen or thighs. Under one pant leg she found an empty sheath. Under the other, a tiny flashlight.
Thank you, Wulf. Her finger on the circular button, she took a deep breath.
And heard rushing water. The background wail that had filled her ears since the blast of gunshots was silenced; she could hear. When she pushed the flashlight button, she could also see, and that made her believe they’d both make it safely out of this sewer.
A clear, round tube stuck out from Wulf’s shoulder. Despite having seen thousands of identical tubes, it took her a moment to recognize it was a syringe.
“Wulf? Can you hear me?” Her voice sounded as if she’d exhausted it at a concert. She shined the light in his eyes. Fixed and dilated pupils indicated brain stem impairment or coma, but thankfully his breathing and pulse were steady. Slow, but steady. The syringe had been jabbed so deep his deltoid had clenched around it, and she needed both hands to yank the barrel free. As she watched, his breathing normalized and his blue lips regained a flush. This time, when she played the light over his face, his pupils contracted evenly. Like in Afghanistan, he was healing before her eyes. She leaned close enough to his face to see his cheek stubble. “Can you blink?”
His eyelids twitched frantically as his eyes rolled in his head.
“Stay calm.” She pressed her hand to his cheek.
“Nnnn.” His lips parted but he couldn’t form a word.
“Don’t try to talk.” She stuck the flashlight under her chin and used both hands to steady his head. “I’ll find help.”
“Nooo!” Jerking like she’d zapped him with a crash cart, his wrist whacked the side of her head. The impact knocked the flashlight loose. As she tried to catch it, it hit her thigh, then clattered on the metal catwalk before rolling to the edge. It hung, mocking her clumsy hands, for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then the light disappeared.
“Fuck!” She peered through gaps no longer distinguishable from darkness. She could almost see a glow through the black water. Almost. But not really.
“No...help.” His words sounded like they came from under a mountain.
“That was our light!” This blackness was worse because it was so unnecessary.
He breathed heavier and somehow shifted his body.
“What are you doing?” She groped for his wrist. “Stay still.”
“Need...eat.”
“Absolutely not.” His pulse was stronger. Part of her wanted to squeeze too hard—she was that mad at him—but she didn’t. “Not until we figure out what was in the syringe.”
“In...purse.” He panted after each syllable. “Eat. Mints.”
“Not a chance. Candy won’t help you flush whatever drugs those were out of your system.”
“Please.”
The word weakened her, and she found his hand. A connection in the darkness was almost like having a candle. Then her purse strap tugged across her shoulder and she heard a telltale rattling tick-tick. “What are you—” She dropped his hand and grabbed for her bag, but it was too late. The sneak had opened it and swiped the box. “I said you shouldn’t—”
“Too late.” The rising tone on the end of his statement—was he laughing?
She hunted through the air, but couldn’t find his hand to retake her mints, so she gave up and scooted against the wall. She was in a Roman sewer with two dead men, another man who was too weird to die, no light, no phone and no idea what had happened to Theresa Chiesa of Jersey City. At least the stones felt solid, and her knees pressed into her chest felt like the knobs of bone and cartilage she knew they were. This space and these two knees belonged to her and she could count on them, even when nothing else in her life was stable.