Death is Forever by Maxine O'Callaghan

Author:Maxine O'Callaghan [O’Callaghan, Maxine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brash Books, LLC
Published: 2015-01-09T07:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

I ran down the street in the darkness after the man. I ran for hours, carrying the ax. Muscles in my legs burned, strings of fire tethered to bone. Lungs gasped air in a paroxysm of agony. I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. The man kept running, arms flying, knees pumping.

Ahead lay the alley, an ugly wound in the side of the buildings. He went for it like a weasel running to ground. I followed him in and stopped, waiting as he discovered the brick wall at the end of the alley.

I lifted the ax. Pale light streamed down between the buildings, illuminating his face. Then his features melted, dissolved, became the skinny face of a rat, baring its teeth and keening wildly as the ax fell…

I woke up with my heart pounding and sickness filling my mouth. I was knotted into a tight little ball and my whole body was a mass of cramping muscle. My watch had stopped, so I had no way of knowing what time it was. Gray daylight barely lit the lumpy furniture into recognizable shapes. Although I was still exhausted, I knew that once the dreams began, there would be no more sleep.

Getting out of bed was the hardest part. The room was cold and damp as I stripped off the jeans and shirt that I’d slept in. By contrast, the tepid water leaking from the shower head felt like a steam bath. I blotted myself dry on a towel with a texture like crepe paper and, shivering again, dressed quickly in clean jeans and a T-shirt. The clothes I’d worn the night before were dirty and torn. As I stuffed them in the wastebasket, I realized I’d lost the wig. I wondered if Savoni knew I had ditched his surveillance team. If he didn’t, he soon would. I had to get moving before they began looking for me. But first I had to eat. I was light-headed and weak with hunger.

The street offered a small café wedged in a row of scruffy buildings. Its greasy warmth enfolded me as I pushed open the door and perched on one of the torn vinyl stools lining the counter. Two other early risers hunched over their coffee, warming their hands and inhaling the steam.

The cook slapped a heavy mug in front of me. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

I laced it with great quantities of cream and sugar and let its bitter warmth quiet some of the trembling in my knees.

“Anything else, miss?” the cook asked.

I looked at his stained T-shirt and dirty apron. Behind him, an ancient black grill radiated the smell of rancid grease.

“Toast,” I decided, quelling my longing for eggs and sausage. “A double order.”

Jelly came in sterile little packages, so I piled it on. After I finished every crumb of toast along with three cups of coffee, I was finally able to look at George Crowell’s wallet.

A faint smell of sardines lingered on the cheap leather. Crowell’s face grimaced through the wavy plastic covering his driver’s license. Except his name wasn’t Crowell.

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