Detective Luke Sutton opened his eyes. His head was pounding and his mouth felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton wool. He moved his head slowly from side to side and winced as his brain made a bungee leap inside his skull. Blearily he tried to focus on the bedside clock but gave up after a few seconds as the digits all blurred into one red light. He thought of getting up but his eyes began to close again. Soon he was fast asleep.
When he opened his eyes for the second time he looked at the clock again.
“Fuck!” he swore loudly, then froze as he felt movement in the bed next to him.
As quickly as his hangover would allow him, he turned over to a mass of platinum blonde hair and the evenings events rushed back.
‘Oh shit, Veronica…’ he thought, biting back a groan. Although Veronica wasn’t a suspect per se as no body had been found, there was an unwritten rule that you didn’t get involved with anyone on a case, not until after the case, and sometimes not even then.
He berated himself as he pushed back the quilt cover and swung his legs out of bed quietly, so as to not wake up Sleeping Beauty.
His phone started to vibrate loudly from it’s place on the wooden bedside table and he lunged for it, hissing at it to be quiet.
He grimaced as he looked at the message
Sutton, get your ass to the morgue asap. Another body has been found. CP
Oh was he in the shit or what? A text message from Captain Philips. He dressed in haste and crept out of the gothic crypt otherwise known as Veronica’s flat. He snicked the lock shut quietly. Veronica turned over in her sleep and slept on.
This was the part of the job he hated the most. Looking at the sad remains of once vibrant people, though looking at the track marks and grey puffed skin of the latest victim, Luke was sure she hadn’t been that vibrant in life. She lay naked under a sheet on a metal gurney, the bottom of which was moulded in order to catch the blood. The ‘V’ incision at the top of her chest indicated that the autopsy had already taken place but he wrinkled his nose to indicate he could still smell the rankness of the room.
“So Doc, what do we have?” he asked, clearing his throat to try and dislodge the stink of death that coated the back of his throat.
“You’re late, so I started without you,” Doctor Benson peered at the younger man over his half moon glasses, a wisp of greying hair peering out from under his surgical hat, “Female, late teens to early twenties, undernourished. The track marks would indicate some form of IV drug abuse, possibly heroin but the tox screen will tell us which drug. I’ve sent the samples off to the lab already.”
“Anything on cause of death?” Luke asked, bristling slightly at the rebuke on his lateness.
“Yes.” Dr Benson replied, pulling down the sheet.
Luke tried to look dispassionately, like a consummate professional as he viewed the malnourished, skeletally thin young woman, laid out on the slab, but couldn’t. Four slashes adorned her torso. He sighed. Another Slasher victim.
“Ah, the slash marks. Nasty yes, but not the cause of death, oh and they were inflicted pre-mortem so she would’ve felt every cut, poor thing.” Dr Benson looked at the young woman with a tenderness that Luke had never seen before.
“She reminds me of my grand daughter.”
Luke remained silent to give the old man a moment to recover.
“Anyway, as I was saying, the slash marks are not the cause of death.”
“then what is?”
“Patience, Luke patience. I’m getting to it.” the older man replied.
He bent over the body and lifting her left arm up, pointed to a long thin line along the side of the torso.
“That is your cause of death. A sharp thin blade into the liver. She would’ve bled out in minutes and the one thing about the liver is, if it’s cut it doesn’t stop bleeding, it has no clotting abilities. Even if she had been rushed into surgery there’s a good chance that she wouldn’t have been saved.”
“Any ideas on the murder weapon?” Luke asked, intrigued, in spite of himself.
“A long thin blade. A stiletto or a scalpel at a push, but I’ll tell you, this guy? He’s had medical training. It takes training to find the liver on the first try.”
“Have you got her belongings? We need to ID her.”
“Over there.” Benson indicated a small, sad pile of manky looking clothing.
Luke took a deep breath and rummaged through the smelly clothes. This was his second most hated job, rummaging through dead clothes. He gingerly pulled out a grubby canvas wallet and opened it carefully, not sure what he was going to find inside. Back when he’d been a rookie he’d opened a purse to find three used condoms and a used tampax. Since then he’d always been careful.
He pulled out a tattered, bent up library card with a faded name scrawled on the back. He peered at it and could just make out a name of sorts. Johnston…something Johnston…Miranda…no, maybe Matilda…no that wasn’t right, that was an e after the M. Melinda? Melissa?
Luke had a sudden light bulb moment. He looked back at the sad remains of the young woman. The junkie he’d interviewed on his missing persons case. Luke didn’t believe in co-incidences. He’d interviewed her about one case and then she turns up dead, in another case. But what was it that connected the two?
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Monday, 30 August 2010
Friday, 27 August 2010
Chapter Twenty
He looked around at the once bare plaster walls now covered with posters and magazine cut outs. It wasn’t fair that this man, this blond, blue eyed man had his kitty. He knew from the internet that the blond man had a house in the Hamptons. A wave of anger swept through him and he wanted to kill. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, the drowning sound of his heart beat, thundering through his ears. She was his and anyone who stood in his way was going to suffer the same fate. He smiled as he thought of the word suffer…oh yes he was going to make Blondie suffer…His kitty cat needed to be taught a lesson. He could hear sirens outside and smiled. No one knew about this place. He looked down at the terrified woman strapped down on his bed and smiled at her. Large, unfocused eyes stared back at him and she began to struggle, muffled shouts coming through the gag.
“Well well Melissa, this will teach you not to touch my kitty cat’s things.” he bent down to whisper into her ear. The young woman was hyperventilating, her eyes darting about in absolute terror, her breathing was heavy and panting as sweat dripped down her brow, through her greasy, lank hair and onto the stained sheet beneath her. She felt like her limbs were being ripped apart and her veins were being chewed up by insects with metal teeth. She needed a fix.
He smiled as he thought how easy it had been for him to get to her. He had found her, with the rubber still wrapped around her upper arm, floppy and unresponsive. It had taken him a matter of minutes to pick her up and carry her back to this room. His special room. Stiffly, he turned away from her and walked over to a small metal tray that seemed out of odds with the rest of the room. Large brown splashes dotted the walls and the cold, concrete floor. An old, cracked porcelain sink stood over in a corner, with a rusted tap coming out of the bare plaster. Water dripped slowly but insidiously into the sink. The sound of the water soothed his mortal soul.
Light glinted off metal. He smiled, the rank smell of iron, from the blood on the walls and floor, in his nose. Today was a good day. Slowly he turned back to Melissa and walked gradually; deliberately over to her, holding his hand out in front of him until she could focus on the scalpel. Her whimpers turned to screams as he advanced on her, all the while smiling at her.
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“So what are we doing for Christmas day? Are we going over to your parents or staying here?” Abby asked as Jon began to pack away a few food items he’d had delivered from a nearby supermarket.
“Why?” he asked, as he pulled open drawers, before switching the kettle on.
“Because if we’re staying here we need to get some food in, like a turkey and all the trimmings and then you need to teach me how to cook it.” Abby smiled, “I’m certain I’ve cooked one before but I’m buggered if I can remember how.” She poured coffee grounds into the large cafetiere that was sitting next to the kettle. Jon had managed to get an irish cream flavoured brand and she was itching to try it, having had a Baileys the previous night.
“I swear sometimes you use your amnesia to get out of all the interesting jobs.” Jon murmured as he looked in the cupboards, pulling them open one by one.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I meant I can’t remember if I’ve ever had to cook a roast dinner, not that I couldn’t do it. I can read instructions you know and I’m certain turkeys have big stickers on them with instructions on how to cook printed on them.” Abby stepped back, stung by Jon’s words. She’d been in a strange mood since Jon had woken her up that morning. Not that it wasn’t a nice way to wake up, she just felt on edge and irritable.
“Ok, I was just saying…” he said, a hint of irritation in his voice
“Well don’t,” she turned to look at him, as he poured hot water into the cafetiere, “Don’t you think it’s frustrating for me to have holes in my head. To not be able to remember films and books and people and things?, to have all these problems and not a single person out there can help me with it!!!” she stared at him, her voice getting more and more shrill with every word until she was shouting at him.
“What the fuck?” he turned to look at her, his arms slightly raised, palms up in the universal What the Fuck gesture. He turned back to the cafetiere that was resting against the terracotta splash back tiles and calmly poured himself a cup of coffee before flinging it, cup and all, across the kitchen, narrowly missing Abby, who froze where she stood.
“Problems? You think you’ve got fucking problems? What the fuck do you know about problems?,” he intoned, raising his arms up to the heavens, “Oh yeah, right, I forgot…you can’t remember your fucking problems…” he drawled, heavy sarcasm leeching out, his eyes wild and heavy, his chest heaving with exertion and anger.
Abby felt tears well up as she looked at him. Who was this man? She felt scared stiff with the realisation that she’d just been playing house with this man. That this wasn’t real, that she had a life somewhere out there. Slowly she back away and fled up the stairs.
Jon stood, sagging as the anger slowly left him, until he slid down the cupboard to sit on the floor.
You are such a fucking asshole… His conscience was back and gunning for him.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” he whispered to himself as tears flowed down his cheeks and he sobbed for the first time in a year.
“Well well Melissa, this will teach you not to touch my kitty cat’s things.” he bent down to whisper into her ear. The young woman was hyperventilating, her eyes darting about in absolute terror, her breathing was heavy and panting as sweat dripped down her brow, through her greasy, lank hair and onto the stained sheet beneath her. She felt like her limbs were being ripped apart and her veins were being chewed up by insects with metal teeth. She needed a fix.
He smiled as he thought how easy it had been for him to get to her. He had found her, with the rubber still wrapped around her upper arm, floppy and unresponsive. It had taken him a matter of minutes to pick her up and carry her back to this room. His special room. Stiffly, he turned away from her and walked over to a small metal tray that seemed out of odds with the rest of the room. Large brown splashes dotted the walls and the cold, concrete floor. An old, cracked porcelain sink stood over in a corner, with a rusted tap coming out of the bare plaster. Water dripped slowly but insidiously into the sink. The sound of the water soothed his mortal soul.
Light glinted off metal. He smiled, the rank smell of iron, from the blood on the walls and floor, in his nose. Today was a good day. Slowly he turned back to Melissa and walked gradually; deliberately over to her, holding his hand out in front of him until she could focus on the scalpel. Her whimpers turned to screams as he advanced on her, all the while smiling at her.
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“So what are we doing for Christmas day? Are we going over to your parents or staying here?” Abby asked as Jon began to pack away a few food items he’d had delivered from a nearby supermarket.
“Why?” he asked, as he pulled open drawers, before switching the kettle on.
“Because if we’re staying here we need to get some food in, like a turkey and all the trimmings and then you need to teach me how to cook it.” Abby smiled, “I’m certain I’ve cooked one before but I’m buggered if I can remember how.” She poured coffee grounds into the large cafetiere that was sitting next to the kettle. Jon had managed to get an irish cream flavoured brand and she was itching to try it, having had a Baileys the previous night.
“I swear sometimes you use your amnesia to get out of all the interesting jobs.” Jon murmured as he looked in the cupboards, pulling them open one by one.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I meant I can’t remember if I’ve ever had to cook a roast dinner, not that I couldn’t do it. I can read instructions you know and I’m certain turkeys have big stickers on them with instructions on how to cook printed on them.” Abby stepped back, stung by Jon’s words. She’d been in a strange mood since Jon had woken her up that morning. Not that it wasn’t a nice way to wake up, she just felt on edge and irritable.
“Ok, I was just saying…” he said, a hint of irritation in his voice
“Well don’t,” she turned to look at him, as he poured hot water into the cafetiere, “Don’t you think it’s frustrating for me to have holes in my head. To not be able to remember films and books and people and things?, to have all these problems and not a single person out there can help me with it!!!” she stared at him, her voice getting more and more shrill with every word until she was shouting at him.
“What the fuck?” he turned to look at her, his arms slightly raised, palms up in the universal What the Fuck gesture. He turned back to the cafetiere that was resting against the terracotta splash back tiles and calmly poured himself a cup of coffee before flinging it, cup and all, across the kitchen, narrowly missing Abby, who froze where she stood.
“Problems? You think you’ve got fucking problems? What the fuck do you know about problems?,” he intoned, raising his arms up to the heavens, “Oh yeah, right, I forgot…you can’t remember your fucking problems…” he drawled, heavy sarcasm leeching out, his eyes wild and heavy, his chest heaving with exertion and anger.
Abby felt tears well up as she looked at him. Who was this man? She felt scared stiff with the realisation that she’d just been playing house with this man. That this wasn’t real, that she had a life somewhere out there. Slowly she back away and fled up the stairs.
Jon stood, sagging as the anger slowly left him, until he slid down the cupboard to sit on the floor.
You are such a fucking asshole… His conscience was back and gunning for him.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” he whispered to himself as tears flowed down his cheeks and he sobbed for the first time in a year.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Chapter One
It was cold. Bitterly cold. A fierce north wind was whipping through, causing everyone who’d braved the elements to snuggle into their overcoats wrapping their scarves tighter, burrowing gloved hands into pockets and pulling hats down over exposed ears. There was a palpable excitement in the air. A young woman stood apart from the main crowd as they gathered along the roadside. She too was cold but also excited. She looked around at the people near to her and smiled. Families, couples, single people; old and young alike, all gathered for the Thanksgiving day Macy’s parade. She had heard about it before and even seen glimpses of it on the TV show Friends but she’d never dreamed she’d one day be in a position to be watching it live. Part of her wished she’d stayed in and watched it on TV as a particularly vicious gust of freezing air buffeted her, causing her to shiver involuntarily. She tried to burrow deeper into her long black puffa coat but the wind still found an exposed spot on her neck, under her red hair and she sighed, wishing she’d remembered to bring her knitted cap. She smiled as she remembered putting it in her huge purple handbag and with a small sigh of happiness she reached in to retrieve the cap. She pulled into, ramming it down over her ears and smiled broadly as warmth began to seep back into the tips of her ears. She was standing along with a few hundred people on the corner of 42nd street and 6th Avenue, near to Bryant Park waiting for the massive parade to pass her by.
It was her hair that brought her to his attention. Long, flowing, bright red hair. He’d not had a redhead so far and wanted to add her to his collection. He stood, stock still for a moment, waiting for another sign. The last one, the brunette with purple streaks had pulled out a wallet with matching brown and purple stripes on it as she’d waited to buy a hotdog from a street vendor and in doing so had sealed her fate. He wanted a sign that this one, this redhead, was the right one. This one’s fate was sealed the moment she’d placed the bright red knitted cap His gaze never left her as she stood, alone, in a sea of people. He smiled and melted back to wait for the opportune moment. His mama hadn’t raised a fool, he knew when to strike and when to hold back and this was a holding back moment.
Jon Bon Jovi was tired. Absolutely and irrevocably bone tired. He looked at the big clock on the wall of the studio he was in and sighed. He was at Sony Music’s studio on 54th Street and was supposed to be working with a new band he’d managed to sign up but it just wasn’t working out. The lead singer wasn’t getting it and he, himself, was just screwed up and tired.
Leaning over the console and flipping a switch, he spoke from the darkness of the booth.
“Guys, it ain’t working. I’m going home.”
There was a cold, world weariness to his voice that had the young men in the studio not daring to talk back to him. Alan Hewitt, the band’s producer, switched on the light in the booth, illuminating the two men to the band. Jon looked out at the young rock band who had stopped and were watching him with caged eyes. The lead singer was a young turk with an obnoxious attitude and a bucket full of charisma. Jon locked eyes with him and smiled to himself as he looked at a younger version of himself. He thought back to all the false starts and hiccups he’d gone through to get to where he was and shrugged. Welcome to my world. It’d do them good to go through some trials and tribulations.
Jon turned to Alan.
“Al, do what you can with these guys, I just can’t do this anymore.” He picked up his coat and record bag and walked out of the booth.
He wrapped his big leather fur lined flying jacket around him and stepped out the back door of the studio, bracing himself against the cold. He shivered as the freezing air rushed over him and he hurried to his car, fumbling through his jeans pockets as he tried to locate his keys. He could hear yells and shouts of excitement in the close distance and, looking up in the direction of the yells, he caught sight of some large, brightly coloured inflatable and sighed.
‘Fuck, fuckin’ Macy’s fuckin’ parade. Shit. How the fuck am I gonna get out of here?’ he thought as he got into his car. It was a 1970 Chevelle SS 396 in pillar box red and it was his pride and joy. He normally kept it at home and used it for short trips into the nearby town and would only ever come into Manhattan with a limo and driver but for some reason he’d decided that morning, to drive himself in. Truth was he didn’t really want to be left alone inside his head and forcing himself to drive meant he had to concentrate on things outside of his head. He sat in the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition, smiling as he felt, rather than heard, the car hum to life. A blast of cold air hit him in the face and he fumbled with the dashboard before hitting the AC button, turning it off. He pushed his lank honey blonde hair out of his face and stared at himself in the rear view mirror. Ice blue eyes stared back at him surrounded by relatively few crows feet for a man in his late forties. He smiled to himself, baring his teeth and ran his tongue over them, feeling the smooth enamel veneer under his tongue. He looked deep into his own eyes. They often say that your eyes are the windows to your soul and what he could see in his own eyes said that his soul was in deep shit. His skin looked washed out and tired, he had a line of dry skin on his forehead and he could feel stress spots beginning to erupt around his nose. He wondered why he hadn’t seen them earlier when he’d been getting ready, after his shower.
‘Did I have a shower this morning? Must have done, I always have a shower, but then my hair feels greasy and lank. Hmm, Did I even clean my teeth this morning?’ he wondered as he ran his tongue over his gums, feeling a slightly rough surface to them. He pulled on a pair of amber tinted sunglasses and with that thought in mind he gunned the car into action and pulled out of the small but secure car park behind the studios, into a small off road. He was still wondering about his teeth and whether he’d cleaned them or if he really was going mad when a flash of red and black off to his left caught his eye. With a sense of mounting horror he watched in slow motion as his foot automatically slammed onto the brake pedal but it was too late and he watched, horrified, as a body tumbled over the bonnet of his car and lay still on the ground.
Jon sat, momentarily stunned at what had just happened until his sense of moral duty kicked in and he got out of the car into the biting cold. He hurried round to the front of the car and stopped. His eyes widened as he looked at the body on the ground. He could tell it was a woman from the mass of bright, chestnut red hair. He stooped down until he was kneeling beside her, his blackberry already in his hand, 911 on the dial.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me?” he asked, gingerly reaching out to touch her.
She stirred as he touched her face. He was relieved to feel the warmth in her skin and to hear a slight moan from her. At least she was alive. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her eyes a mirror colour of his own, same sense of pain in them too.
‘Thank fuck’ he thought as he brought his phone up to press the call dial and then watched in dismay as the low battery sign flashed once and then the phone turned it self off.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck!” he growled, jamming the phone back into his jacket pocket
He stood up and looked around. They were in a small off road, somewhere near 54th street and as luck would have it there was not a soul in sight. Jon looked back at the woman, who was now groaning in pain, and wondered what would happen if he just drove off. He shook his head as he knew he’d not be able to live with himself if he did that.
He turned back to the woman and knelt back down by her side.
“Ma’am? I need to move you into my car, to get you to a hospital as my phone’s died and I can’t call an ambulance. Can you move at all?” he asked as he braced himself for the task of picking up, what could turn out to be a fatally injured person. He walked round to the passenger door and opened it.
To his immense relief she nodded and flexed her hands and feet. Jon reached under her and began to pick her up. She groaned as he righted himself, with her in his arms but kept eye contact with him. He reached the passenger side door began to gently manoeuvre her into the seat. Once he was sure she was in, he gently leant over to buckle her in. He could smell apples and after a few seconds realised it was coming from her hair. He smiled, as a picture of his daughter flashed through his head. She’d used an apple shampoo when she’d been younger. The smile went awry and he stood back abruptly, shut the passenger door and walked around to the driver’s side. He noticed a dent in the passengers side wing and grimaced, recalling the dull thud of her body hitting the car and the sickening crunch as she’d hit the road.
Thankfully his sat nav was plugged in and he took a few seconds to ask for the nearest hospital. He smiled wryly as he was directed to the nearest ER which by his calculation for about four blocks of where they currently were. St. Luke's Roosevelt Emergency Room 58th St and Ninth Ave. Being careful not to jolt her, he gunned the car into action and headed off towards the hospital.
Jon looked over at the woman and noticed she’d closed her eyes. ‘Shit, that’s not good.’ he thought.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me? Open your eyes ma’am. Please look at me. Please… don‘t you die on me ya hear? Come on play nice and look at me? Jeez, I don‘t usually have this much trouble getting a woman to look at me.” he intoned, his voice betraying the rising sense of panic he was feeling as he drove through the streets. He looked at her again. She still had her eyes closed. They hit a wall of traffic and Jon’s temper snapped.
“For fuck’s sake lady, open your god dammed eyes!” he shouted and was jolted as she did.
Again, ice blue met ice blue. For Jon it was slightly disconcerting being on the receiving end of glare that could be his. To his utter relief the traffic moved and St Luke’s came into view.
He raced into the ER, carrying the hurt woman.
Jon raced through the packed reception and kept going until he saw a doctor. The concept of waiting in line and giving details just didn’t enter his head. He had minions that did that for him, plus he was known to be forceful on the odd occasion. It was this and the fact that the ER Doctor Jon found was a Bon Jovi fan from way back, which is why Jon and the injured woman were rushed through with nary a thought of asking him to fill in any insurance details.
It was her hair that brought her to his attention. Long, flowing, bright red hair. He’d not had a redhead so far and wanted to add her to his collection. He stood, stock still for a moment, waiting for another sign. The last one, the brunette with purple streaks had pulled out a wallet with matching brown and purple stripes on it as she’d waited to buy a hotdog from a street vendor and in doing so had sealed her fate. He wanted a sign that this one, this redhead, was the right one. This one’s fate was sealed the moment she’d placed the bright red knitted cap His gaze never left her as she stood, alone, in a sea of people. He smiled and melted back to wait for the opportune moment. His mama hadn’t raised a fool, he knew when to strike and when to hold back and this was a holding back moment.
Jon Bon Jovi was tired. Absolutely and irrevocably bone tired. He looked at the big clock on the wall of the studio he was in and sighed. He was at Sony Music’s studio on 54th Street and was supposed to be working with a new band he’d managed to sign up but it just wasn’t working out. The lead singer wasn’t getting it and he, himself, was just screwed up and tired.
Leaning over the console and flipping a switch, he spoke from the darkness of the booth.
“Guys, it ain’t working. I’m going home.”
There was a cold, world weariness to his voice that had the young men in the studio not daring to talk back to him. Alan Hewitt, the band’s producer, switched on the light in the booth, illuminating the two men to the band. Jon looked out at the young rock band who had stopped and were watching him with caged eyes. The lead singer was a young turk with an obnoxious attitude and a bucket full of charisma. Jon locked eyes with him and smiled to himself as he looked at a younger version of himself. He thought back to all the false starts and hiccups he’d gone through to get to where he was and shrugged. Welcome to my world. It’d do them good to go through some trials and tribulations.
Jon turned to Alan.
“Al, do what you can with these guys, I just can’t do this anymore.” He picked up his coat and record bag and walked out of the booth.
He wrapped his big leather fur lined flying jacket around him and stepped out the back door of the studio, bracing himself against the cold. He shivered as the freezing air rushed over him and he hurried to his car, fumbling through his jeans pockets as he tried to locate his keys. He could hear yells and shouts of excitement in the close distance and, looking up in the direction of the yells, he caught sight of some large, brightly coloured inflatable and sighed.
‘Fuck, fuckin’ Macy’s fuckin’ parade. Shit. How the fuck am I gonna get out of here?’ he thought as he got into his car. It was a 1970 Chevelle SS 396 in pillar box red and it was his pride and joy. He normally kept it at home and used it for short trips into the nearby town and would only ever come into Manhattan with a limo and driver but for some reason he’d decided that morning, to drive himself in. Truth was he didn’t really want to be left alone inside his head and forcing himself to drive meant he had to concentrate on things outside of his head. He sat in the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition, smiling as he felt, rather than heard, the car hum to life. A blast of cold air hit him in the face and he fumbled with the dashboard before hitting the AC button, turning it off. He pushed his lank honey blonde hair out of his face and stared at himself in the rear view mirror. Ice blue eyes stared back at him surrounded by relatively few crows feet for a man in his late forties. He smiled to himself, baring his teeth and ran his tongue over them, feeling the smooth enamel veneer under his tongue. He looked deep into his own eyes. They often say that your eyes are the windows to your soul and what he could see in his own eyes said that his soul was in deep shit. His skin looked washed out and tired, he had a line of dry skin on his forehead and he could feel stress spots beginning to erupt around his nose. He wondered why he hadn’t seen them earlier when he’d been getting ready, after his shower.
‘Did I have a shower this morning? Must have done, I always have a shower, but then my hair feels greasy and lank. Hmm, Did I even clean my teeth this morning?’ he wondered as he ran his tongue over his gums, feeling a slightly rough surface to them. He pulled on a pair of amber tinted sunglasses and with that thought in mind he gunned the car into action and pulled out of the small but secure car park behind the studios, into a small off road. He was still wondering about his teeth and whether he’d cleaned them or if he really was going mad when a flash of red and black off to his left caught his eye. With a sense of mounting horror he watched in slow motion as his foot automatically slammed onto the brake pedal but it was too late and he watched, horrified, as a body tumbled over the bonnet of his car and lay still on the ground.
Jon sat, momentarily stunned at what had just happened until his sense of moral duty kicked in and he got out of the car into the biting cold. He hurried round to the front of the car and stopped. His eyes widened as he looked at the body on the ground. He could tell it was a woman from the mass of bright, chestnut red hair. He stooped down until he was kneeling beside her, his blackberry already in his hand, 911 on the dial.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me?” he asked, gingerly reaching out to touch her.
She stirred as he touched her face. He was relieved to feel the warmth in her skin and to hear a slight moan from her. At least she was alive. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her eyes a mirror colour of his own, same sense of pain in them too.
‘Thank fuck’ he thought as he brought his phone up to press the call dial and then watched in dismay as the low battery sign flashed once and then the phone turned it self off.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck!” he growled, jamming the phone back into his jacket pocket
He stood up and looked around. They were in a small off road, somewhere near 54th street and as luck would have it there was not a soul in sight. Jon looked back at the woman, who was now groaning in pain, and wondered what would happen if he just drove off. He shook his head as he knew he’d not be able to live with himself if he did that.
He turned back to the woman and knelt back down by her side.
“Ma’am? I need to move you into my car, to get you to a hospital as my phone’s died and I can’t call an ambulance. Can you move at all?” he asked as he braced himself for the task of picking up, what could turn out to be a fatally injured person. He walked round to the passenger door and opened it.
To his immense relief she nodded and flexed her hands and feet. Jon reached under her and began to pick her up. She groaned as he righted himself, with her in his arms but kept eye contact with him. He reached the passenger side door began to gently manoeuvre her into the seat. Once he was sure she was in, he gently leant over to buckle her in. He could smell apples and after a few seconds realised it was coming from her hair. He smiled, as a picture of his daughter flashed through his head. She’d used an apple shampoo when she’d been younger. The smile went awry and he stood back abruptly, shut the passenger door and walked around to the driver’s side. He noticed a dent in the passengers side wing and grimaced, recalling the dull thud of her body hitting the car and the sickening crunch as she’d hit the road.
Thankfully his sat nav was plugged in and he took a few seconds to ask for the nearest hospital. He smiled wryly as he was directed to the nearest ER which by his calculation for about four blocks of where they currently were. St. Luke's Roosevelt Emergency Room 58th St and Ninth Ave. Being careful not to jolt her, he gunned the car into action and headed off towards the hospital.
Jon looked over at the woman and noticed she’d closed her eyes. ‘Shit, that’s not good.’ he thought.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me? Open your eyes ma’am. Please look at me. Please… don‘t you die on me ya hear? Come on play nice and look at me? Jeez, I don‘t usually have this much trouble getting a woman to look at me.” he intoned, his voice betraying the rising sense of panic he was feeling as he drove through the streets. He looked at her again. She still had her eyes closed. They hit a wall of traffic and Jon’s temper snapped.
“For fuck’s sake lady, open your god dammed eyes!” he shouted and was jolted as she did.
Again, ice blue met ice blue. For Jon it was slightly disconcerting being on the receiving end of glare that could be his. To his utter relief the traffic moved and St Luke’s came into view.
He raced into the ER, carrying the hurt woman.
Jon raced through the packed reception and kept going until he saw a doctor. The concept of waiting in line and giving details just didn’t enter his head. He had minions that did that for him, plus he was known to be forceful on the odd occasion. It was this and the fact that the ER Doctor Jon found was a Bon Jovi fan from way back, which is why Jon and the injured woman were rushed through with nary a thought of asking him to fill in any insurance details.
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