With his other hand he snatched out and grabbed a wrist, then twisted it hard. His attacker—a young girl, he could see now—cried out. Hardie yanked her out of the bathroom doorway and spun her into the room proper. Her back hit a mixing board, and her head banged into a monitor that was hanging from the ceiling.
Hardie held up his hands. Tried to, anyway. His left arm was still numb. At least the right one still worked.
“Hey!”
His voice sounded strange to him. Hardie couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken out loud.
The girl was wearing only panties and a T-shirt, and her ankle was bandaged. Her legs were lean and muscled. Her whole body trembled.
“Get the fuck away from me or I’ll cut you, I swear to God I’ll jam this straight up your ass!”
Hardie looked at the this in her hands. He couldn’t place it. Long, silver, metal. A tube of some kind. About two feet long, with the circumference of a nickel. Uncapped on the end. Then he looked behind her, into the music studio, and saw others just like it.
A microphone stand.
She had been beating the shit out of him with a mic stand.
Hardie said, in a slow and steady and reasonable voice:
“Give me that.”
“I said, stay the fuck away! You people are making a big mistake.”
“You people? Only one of me here, honey.”
There was something vaguely familiar about the girl’s face, like he should know her from somewhere. Had Lowenbruck sent Virgil anything about her, maybe attached a photo to an e-mail? No, Hardie would have remembered that. Nobody was supposed to be here in the house. No girlfriends, no relatives, no friends—nobody. Hardie wouldn’t have taken the job otherwise. That was the whole point. Avoiding people.
Hardie steadied himself, took a step closer. The girl responded by swinging at the air with the mic stand, then inching her way back into the studio.
“Come on, now. Enough’s enough.”
“Stay the fuck away from me!”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
The girl’s hands fell to her sides. Her head hung low. Her entire body went limp, and she started breathing strangely. It took Hardie a second or two to realize she was launching into a full-on crying jag. He took a step toward her, said:
“Look, why don’t we start with—”
Without warning she lunged. Another hard, mean swing. Hardie was ready this time. He snatched the pole in his hand and refused to let go. She tugged. He held firm. She tugged again. He held on tighter. Uh-uh. Bitch was not getting her mic stand back. Bitch was definitely not hitting him with the mic stand again.
Then she did something Hardie did not anticipate. She lunged forward, pushing the mic stand toward Hardie. His grip was not prepared for this. The mic stand slid through his fist and went into his chest.
Both Hardie and the girl looked down at the pole for a moment before Hardie took a confused step backward. What had just happened?
“Ugh,” he said.
“Oh God,” she said.
Hardie forced himself to look down. Yep. He’d been impaled. Under his gray T-shirt he could feel blood trickling down across his right nipple, along his belly, past the waistband of his jeans. None of this seemed real. He took a breath, wondering if one of his lungs was going to collapse. Maybe pass out. Any second now.
But nothing yet. Somehow, he was still standing.
“Oh God,” the girl repeated, and immediately yanked the mic stand out.
“No, don’t do—”
Too late. The metal slid out of his flesh with a soft, wet shucking sound—like the meat of an oyster being pried from its shell. Hardie took an involuntary step backward, as if he could remove himself from the damage. The girl, too, edged backward, looked alternatively angry, shocked, and confused.
“I told you… I told you I’d hurt you!”
And make no mistake. The wound in his chest really fucking hurt, pain ramping up with every breath, it seemed. But somehow he was still standing, fully conscious. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe it had missed everything vital—the heart, the aorta, the lungs, the liver. Then again, maybe she’d nailed his heart right smack-dab in the fucking center and he was going to bleed out in a matter of seconds.
Hardie looked into the bathroom doorway for a towel, something to press against his chest. Maybe wrap around the wound. He took a step forward. Which freaked out the girl.
“Stay the fuck away from me!”
“I’m not going anywhere near you. Believe me.”
The girl tried to focus on him. Every muscle in her body was tensed, but her eyelids were strangely droopy. The combination of anxiety and lethargy suggested the girl had been playing mix and match in a medicine cabinet. Maybe Lowenbruck kept a bunch of pharmaceuticals handy and this girl knew it.
Whatever. Hardie took a few cautious steps into the bathroom, snatched the edges of a white terry-cloth towel and whipped it from the rack. He quickly folded it in half, held it under the entrance wound. Usually, the advice was simple: direct pressure, stop the bleeding. But what the fuck were you supposed to do when somebody impaled you?
Hardie looked at the girl.
“Why did you do that?”
“You’re one of Them… admit it!”
“I don’t know who you mean by Them, but I can assure you, I’m not.”
“Then, what the fuck are you doing in here?”
“I’m the house sitter.”
“House what?”
Her long dark hair hung down in her face, and her skin was dirty in places. Lots of scratches, too, along with a stray bruise or two. She’d bandaged up both of her hands—a sloppy, rushed job. Still, she was a pretty girl. Wide, full mouth, high cheekbones, and eyes that would be striking if she could manage to keep them open all the way—and somebody hosed her off in the backyard for a few minutes.
“House sitter. I watch houses.”
“Why would a fucking house sitter go sneaking around the house, checking every room? Don’t fucking deny it—I heard you!”
Hardie had had enough standing. He carefully eased himself down to a sitting position. If he was going to pass out, he’d rather do it closer to the floor.
“Look, honey, I just got here. Question is, what are you doing here? Because I’m pretty sure my booking agent didn’t mention anything about a crackhead with a mic stand, hiding in the bathroom.”
She rolled her eyes. “Crackhead. Don’t you know who I am?”
“Sweetie, I have no idea.”
The faintest trace of a smile appeared for a moment, then vanished. Then she started trembling.
Hardie had no idea who she was, but a story started to form in his mind. Beneath all of the patches of dirt and scratches and attitude, she appeared to be a perfectly young and healthy girl—not your average skinny L.A. junkie with buggy eyes and cheekbones that could cut tin cans. This girl had been well fed and cared for until relatively recently. Like, maybe even just a few hours ago. Maybe her parents owned a place farther down Alta Brea, or somewhere else in Beachwood Canyon. Maybe she’d stayed up past her bedtime partying hard, an asshole friend suggesting a quick coke-and-H nightcap. Mellow out and party all night long!
Yeah, maybe that was it. She shoots up, she freaks. Knows she can’t go home to Mom and Dad. Not in that condition. Sees the Lowenbruck house. Finds the keys in the mailbox. Still freaking, worried about Them—parents? cops? dealers?—coming for her. Grabs a mic stand—yeah, that still didn’t make sense to him either, but he supposed a weapon was a weapon—then hit the bathroom.