Page 23 of Spooked
Rather than getting out, I stay seated in the vehicle for a moment, head resting on the steering wheel, my heart still beating overtime.Nothing makes sense.If I’m hallucinating things that aren’t real, then how the hell did I know the full name of the woman who owned the Sullivan House? Shivers run down my spine as I wonder whether I’ve once again imagined the whole outing to SD Construction, or, at least, made up yet another conversation with Bullet that didn’t take place.
Raising my head, I hold my hands out in front of me, noticing the tremble I’m unable to stop. It’s coming to the point where I think I should commit myself to an asylum and swap my cut for a straitjacket to prevent becoming a danger to anyone else.
What’s happening to me?
Too chicken to seek medical advice as I’m too scared to hear answers I already know, I decide it would be better to self-medicate, drink so much I’m unable to think anymore.
Decision made, I open the door, hop out, pull my crutches to me, then start making my way up the slope. The smell of oil and gas coming from the shop as I pass mingle with the scent of warm desert air flurrying around me. Casting my eye to the left to the edge of our boundary, I see the saguaro and scrub bordering wide open country. I let my eyes roam further toward the foothills and then the mountains. My senses of the very place I call home have a comforting effect, and at last, my heart rate starts to slow.Maybe I should just impose a personal lockdown on myself. Never leave, never have to face the outside world again.It’s a tempting idea.
Continuing my forward motion, I reach the clubhouse, coming to the row of bikes outside, pausing momentarily, wishing mine was among them, but knowing it’s still in the shop. Blade has assured me once my leg’s healed, my bike will be whole, and in his words, better than it ever was. I don’t doubt him. He’s a brilliant mechanic, although with his arthritic hands, he’s now got more of a supervisory role. I shake my head. My bike might heal, but I’ve doubts I ever will.
But as the familiar smells and sounds of ticking, cooling engines roll over me, it reminds me of who I wish I could be. Not the disabled invalid but Hound, a Marine, and sergeant-at-arms of the Satan’s Devils, where the club is my life, each brother one I would have no hesitation dying for. Not a property inspector, and not the man who sees ghosts.
Starting to walk again, or taking a step on my good leg, I swing my bad leg in motion, ignoring the clubhouse. I carry on up to my home, open the front door, and walk straight in.
Although I’ve calmed slightly, that drink still beckons to me. I head for the cupboard where my liquor is stored. Dismissing the shot glass, I grab the bottle by the neck, unscrew the top, and take a few long swigs. The liquid causes a comforting burn in mythroat, so I raise the drink to my mouth to take more, oblivion sounding better by the moment.
I’m interrupted by a knock at my front door.Damn them.For a moment I wonder whether I can pretend I’m not in, but good manners win out.
“Come in,” I snarl. Turning my head, I see Mouse. Confused, I wonder why this particular brother is here. I beckon him over, and being sociable, wave my hand in the general direction of the kitchen. “There’s soda in the fridge.” Mouse never drinks alcohol, something to do with him being half-Native American.
“Peg said he saw you walking past the clubhouse.” After his explanation of how he knew I was home, he narrows his dark brown eyes and watches me carefully. “You doing okay, Brother?”
I’m past lying. I wave my hand in a see-saw gesture. “I’m getting there.”
He eyes the bottle in my hand, but not judgmentally, more as if he’s assessing my state of mind.
“What do you need?” I ask, wondering again why he’s here. He’s the club’s computer guru, though he’s first to admit, his student and brother-in-law, Wizard, has overtaken him in technical skills.
He grimaces. “You apparently asked me to look into a woman named Maeve Sullivan.” He raises an eyebrow.
My forehead scrunches. Hell, everything is so fucked up in my brain. I can’t seem to figure out timelines, but that was before I knew I must have dreamed up everything about the woman I’d apparently never met.
I let a loud sigh escape me. “Sorry, that must have sent you on a wild goose chase.” I shift awkwardly, embarrassed about having asked him to look for a woman who existed only in my fucked-up head.
“Not at all.” He looks at me sharply.
What? It wasn’t a fool’s errand?Shaking my head, I dismiss the thought.I imagined her, imagined everything.Still, I can’t stop myself from asking, “She exists?”
“For now,” he replies, enigmatically. Mouse looks at me quizzically. Guessing he’s got more to say, I beckon him to carry on. He obliges. “Maeve Sullivan is currently at the hospital in Tucson, the same one where you were treated.”
My mouth opens and shuts, unsure what to take from this, but he hasn’t finished.
“Her car was rammed off the road, coincidentally at the same time as you and the others came off your bikes. Other end of Tucson, though.”
Either it’s the drink or my sudden euphoria that has my head buzzing.She could have discharged herself, gone to SD Construction, and accompanied me to the house…But that would mean Bullet had been lying or forgetful, and neither option adds up. Then Mouse adds something more, which sends my spirits tumbling back down.
“She’s been in a coma since that night. Odds seem against her waking up.”
I rub hard at my temples. If what Mouse says is true, Maeve couldn’t have been a flesh-and-blood woman I took on a tour around the Sullivan House. Not my Maeve, who I held as we watched the erotic scene in front of us. It wasn’t my Maeve, who disappeared on me, causing me to panic and fall down the stairs. There’s no way unless, unbeknownst to the medical staff, she’d woken up, exited the hospital, then returned to her bed. None of this makes any sense.
“Why the fuck are you doing this to me?” I suddenly roar, throwing the bottle so it smashes against the far wall. There’s another, this time vodka, next to where the whisky had been on the shelf. I pick that up and swig it straight down.
“What the fuck, Hound?” Mouse lurches toward me and takes the bottle out of my hand. “What have I said?”
In my haste to get up, I’ve knocked my crutches onto the floor. I’m unable to get up to wrestle Mouse for my vodka without them, so I just flail my hands. “What have you said? Too much, too fuckin’ little. Mouse, get out.”
“Not leaving you like this, Brother.” His eyes carry a wealth of concern. “Speak to me.”
