Sliver Of Truth

I alternated between a kind of sleepy twilight and agitated restlessness until I heard something strange in the hallway that snapped me into total wakefulness, poked a finger of fear into my belly. It was a soft, sudden noise, a quick shuffle followed by a thud, that was over almost before it began. But something about it was not quite right…as if the energy of the air had changed. I sat wide-eyed and listened for a while.

I relaxed a little after a minute or two. Other than the ambient sounds-a television somewhere turned on low, the metronomic beeping of a machine, an odd ubiquitous humming that probably came from the fluorescent lights and a hundred medical machines-there was silence. I’d just started to drift off again when another noise came from just outside my door, the sudden jerking of a chair. I saw footsteps cross in the light that leaked in from the threshold. I got up from the bed with effort and looked around the room. The bathroom was a trap; no exit. I was in no condition to crouch between the bed and the window. I walked quietly and stood beside the door, looked around for something with which to defend myself. The effort it required to do this was staggering.

I must have been quite a sight, bare-assed in my hospital gown and stocking feet. I painfully bent over to pick up one of my boots, which stood beneath the chair upon which Inspector Ellsinore had sat with all her questions. It was the only thing that I had the strength to lift that looked substantial and heavy enough to do any damage.

My breathing became shallow and I could feel the adrenaline pumping in my veins. I noticed the phone with Inspector Ellsinore’s card beside it, and also the call button, which I should have pressed while I was still lying in the bed. I thought about going back, but the distance of maybe five feet seemed insurmountable to walk or even crawl, considering how much effort it had taken to make it to the door. I leaned my weight against the wall, boot poised, and listened to the hallway. A minute passed, maybe two, and I started to wonder if I was suffering from paranoia (who would blame me?) or posttraumatic stress. I was about to put my boot down when the door started to open, so slowly I almost didn’t notice until the dark form of a man slipped inside. He stood with his back to me, staring at my empty bed.

Before I could lose my nerve, I brought the boot around hard, hitting him solidly in the temple. The blow was so strong that it sent shock waves of pain through my own injured body, and I stumbled back, dropping the boot as he crumbled to the floor with a moan. My intention had been to strike the blow and then run screaming into the hallway, but I could barely catch my breath or move, the pain in my side was so intense. I’d been betrayed by my own body, and was outraged by my physical weakness. The anger and frustration got me to use the wall to move myself, however slowly, trying to get to the hallway.

“Ridley, stop.”

I turned to look at him. Though it was dim, I could see his face as he sat with his hand against his temple, a rivulet of blood trailing down his cheek. It was Dylan Grace. There were a thousand things I wanted to ask him. All I could manage was, “Stay away from me…asshole.”

I sunk to the floor against the wall. I thought I’d see if crawling was any less painful. It’s a terrible and amazing thing to realize how totally you’ve taken your health and physical strength for granted. The door might as well have been a mile away.

Dylan grabbed my wrist. He was lucky I couldn’t reach my other boot.

“They’re coming for you, Ridley.” His voice was desperate. “Come with me. Or die here. Up to you.”

I sagged against the wall, out of options, out of strength. Death-or at least unconsciousness-was starting to appeal to me. A slow fade to black, the cessation of fear and pain-how bad could it be? He started to move toward me and I was about to use my last ounce of will to scream my head off when I heard a sound out in the hallway. It was something I recognized, though at the moment I couldn’t say how: the sound of metal spitting metal, a projectile slicing air without the concussion-a gun fired through a silencer. Maybe I’d heard it on the street without realizing what it was when Sarah Duvall was killed. It was followed by something-someone-falling heavily to the floor. These sounds froze the scream in my throat.

Dylan crawled over beside me, put his finger to his mouth. He drew a gun from somewhere inside his jacket. It was flat and black like the gun I’d seen Jake carry, like the one I’d fired badly myself in an abandoned warehouse in Alphabet City. I didn’t know what kind it was, but I was glad to see it.