60

Manhattan, New York City

Underwater.

Aleena Visser was below the surface.

She could not open her eyes. The roar of the pressure throbbing in her brain and her ears was deafening.

I’m awake. I’m not awake. I’m dreaming.

Remembering and not remembering.

A story in New York.

“We need a special edition on New York…. Would you to please deliver this for me…?” A gift, a pretty music box. “Would you please deliver this for me in Manhattan?”

Joost insisted.

Joost was dead. No! No, it’s not true! It can’t be true!

“Would you please deliver this for me in Manhattan?”

The newspaper headline on the plane: Murder-Kidnap Case Stirs Terror Fears at UN Meeting in New York.

She delivered the music box.

The strangers. My contact. It’s true. All true. Being chased by two strangers. I am guilty.

What’s in the music box?

The strangers. They’re chasing me. They’ll kill me.

No!

Aleena was swimming, swimming hard underwater. The forces chasing her were faster. Open your eyes! No! Open your eyes, you must see! The water is dark. I can’t see!

Swimming up with powerful save-your-life strokes, kicking up.

Breaking the surface to see, she gasped at the horror enveloping her.

Blood!

Aleena was swimming in blood and the screams pierced her ears.

No!

Thrashing, she felt the tubes on her face, the IV fastened to her arm, and she smelled the antiseptic tape, the disinfectant in the air, the starch of laundered sheets, her hospital bed.

“Noooooooooo!”

Nurses flew into the room to hold her, comfort her-one called for the on-duty resident, another soothed her.

“The number, call the number…718-555-768-”

“Easy, sweetheart, you’ve been in an accident. Easy.”

“She’s still in shock, delirious. Incoherent,” one of the nurses said.

But through her tears Aleena knew.

“Call the police! I need to tell them the number! Oh, please call the police! I need to tell them the emergency number….”

“Shh-shh, the police know about your accident, dear.”

“Everyone’s going to die if you don’t call the fucking police now!”

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