Page 58 of The Highland Heist
“I’ll explain on the way,” Frederick tossed over his shoulder, his pace already quickening.
“And pray, Detective Johnson.” Grace added. “Pray that we’re not too late.”
He couldn’t breathe.
Something covered his face—something coarse and cold. Was it a cloth? A bandage? He had a vague memory of waking up the same way before, but last time, when he’d reached for his face, the pain in his shoulder and a sudden weakness had pulled him back into the darkness of unconsciousness.
A sudden panic swelled into his throat, squeezing at his consciousness. No, he couldn’t go back into the dark again. He had to stay awake. He drew in a shallow breath, but it was enough to prove he could draw in another. Stay calm. Think.
After another breath, his mind cleared a little more, awakening awareness to other senses. The bone-deep cold seeping into his marrow. The strange scent combination of vinegar and smoke? And something else? An undercurrent of a sickening sort of aroma, but he couldn’t place it. He shivered, the quake of a movement inciting an ache in his chest. His fingers prickled awake.
In the back of his mind, he seemed to know he’d been cold for a while. Asleep for a while too. But why? Where was he?
His eyelids fluttered open to darkness, a vacant kind, like being in a tunnel. Fatigue wooed him back into oblivion, but he forced his eyes to stay open, pushing beyond the gnawing ache somewhere on the right side of his chest. As his eyes adjusted to the blackness, a faint rim of light flickered at the top left corner of his view as if through some sort of net.
He settled his attention on the light and reached up for it, only to find something covering his arms and face. A sheet? Why was he covered in a sheet? Was he in his own bed at home?
With deliberate movements, he raised his left arm and pulled back the cloth from his face. The scents took on more potency and the light above spread to reveal a colorless ceiling with a pipe screwed into place up above, like something in a factory or cellar. With the cloth gone, he drew in a deeper breath, and although it pricked a pain in his chest, it also cleared his mind even more. He wiggled his fingers, and it was almost as if he could feel the warmth of his own blood traveling through each vessel in his body, awakening various areas of soreness or cold with renewed vigor.
He rested his palm against his chest to garner enough strength to move again and took inventory of the rest of his surroundings. He was lying on something hard and unyielding, nothing like his own mattress, and the faint sound of men’s voices bled into his comprehension.
Another movement pulled at the ache in his chest, so he pushed back the sheet even more and reached a hand to touch his chest. Instead of brushing against the fabric of his shirt, his fingers slid along the familiar material of … a bandage? A memory flashed into his mind. He’d been in his home, barely awake, feeling the effects of a late night, and someone had rushed him.
Stabbed him.
His pulse took a faster pace in his ears, heating his chilled face, but he quieted the rising hysteria with another deep breath.God, help me.He clung to the phrase, though he neither deserved it nor prayed it nearly enough, but lying in utter weakness surrounded by darkness pushed him to a cognizance he’d long forsaken.
Need. At the life level.
He’d felt need in finances. In love.
Longing for things he didn’t have and desperately wanted. Good things.
But this ache in his chest, this utter helplessness, reflected a need that struck much deeper.
Soul deep.
He drew in another calming breath and focused on the ceiling and the golden light flickering against it. This wasn’t a hospital.
He focused in on the sounds of the men’s voices, their conversation rough and casual-sounding, but he couldn’t quite make out their words. They were close on his left. Friend or foe, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t stay here.
Bracing his mind for the movement, he gathered his strength and pushed up on elbows, the ache in his chest increasing to a sting. He sat up with a groan, the world spinning for a moment before settling into focus.
The room was filled with shadows and long box-like shapes suspended on what looked like various tables. He blinked and followed the glow away from the shadows toward the table in the center of the room where a single oil lamp stood. Two men sat across from each other, their clothes careworn. One was older, grizzled with a face that spoke of years of hard work, while the other was young, barely out of his teens by the look of him.
“Three aces,” the older one said with a chuckle, laying down his cards. “You’ve got the luck of the devil tonight, Sam.”
Sam, the younger man, opened his mouth to respond when his eyes focused forward. His jaw dropped and his face paled to an ashen hue.
Why was he looking at me with such fear? After all, I was the one in need of medical attention.
“J–J–Jim,” the young man stuttered, his voice a whisper of terror. He raised a shaking finger. “It’s—it’s a ghost.”
A ghost? Where?For some reason, the idea of a ghost might make sense in these circumstances and in this desolate and dark place.
“Now don’t you go being a spoilsport about losin’, boy.” The older man laughed. “You ain’t gonna—”
“He’s there,” Sam repeated, growing whiter, if that was at all possible.
