Black Friday

CHAPTER 27

For a few minutes Rebecca was back in the bedroom she grew up in, light filtering through yellow gauze curtains, the sound of windchimes outside her second floor window. She could smell fried bacon and imagined her parents down in the kitchen, her mom setting the Sunday breakfast table with bright-colored placemats and long-stem glasses for their orange juice. Her dad would be playing short-order cook, waiting for Rebecca before he started his performance of flipping the pancakes. Those Sunday mornings weren't for show. Her parents really had been happy, the banter out of love not jealousy. She wanted to sink down and soothe herself in that moment, that feeling of calm and security. If only she could ignore the prick at her skin, the ache in her arm, that deep burning sensation.

Her eyes fluttered open. She willed them to stay closed. They wouldn't listen. The blur around her swirled images and noise together. Before her eyes could focus she started to remember: holiday music, Dixon laughing, Patrick smiling. And then…backpacks exploding.

Rebecca didn't realize that she had tried to sit up until she felt hands on her shoulders pushing her back down.

"It's okay."

She recognized the voice and searched for it. Patrick's face bobbed in front of her, slowly coming into focus. There was no smile, only concern. And she tried to remember—how badly had she been hurt? The image of a severed arm lying next to her made her twist around to check both her own. One was wrapped. The other had a needle and tubes in it. But both were there, attached.

"You're all right, sugar," a woman's voice said from someplace over Rebecca's head. "Just relax and lie still a bit."

"Do you remember what happened?" Patrick asked.

She nodded. Her throat felt like sandpaper. She tried to wet her lips. Patrick noticed, fumbled around then brought a bottle of water to her mouth. He was gentle, giving her sips when she wanted to gulp. She knew he saw her frustration but still he insisted on sips.

"Where are we?"

"The hotel across the street," he said.

"Where?"

"Across the street from the mall. They set up a triage area here."

"But the hospital…I thought we were going to the hospital."

"It's okay." He took her hand. "They were able to take care of you here. You don't need to go to the hospital."

She sat up again. This time Patrick helped her instead of holding her back down. Her eyes scanned the room, searching through the chaos for the man with the syringe.

"He's not here," Patrick told her. "I've been watching."

She avoided his eyes and continued her own search. The man with the syringe knew she was still alive. She wiped at her forehead despite the poke of the needle. Her skin was clammy with sweat and she still felt light-headed. Dixon's message rattled in her mind. He said she wasn't safe. That she couldn't trust anyone. Not even Patrick.

Did the man with the syringe give up because he knew she was with Patrick and he couldn't get to her? Or did he no longer

need

to get to her because she was with Patrick?

Rebecca glanced at her friend. His hair was tousled, his jaw bristled with dark stubble. His eyes watched her with an intensity she wasn't used to seeing. What was it? Concern, panic, fatigue? Or something else?

How well did she really know Patrick Murphy?

"You okay?" he asked as he reached for her hand again.

She pulled back, grabbing her bandaged arm as if in pain.

"Did they give me anything? Like for the pain?"

"I think she just localized it." Patrick was already looking around for a nurse or paramedic. "Does it hurt pretty bad?"

Now there was no doubt—concern filled his eyes when he looked back at her.

"Could you see if they have some Advil or something?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll be right back."

Rebecca watched him zigzag through the triage groups and head for a nearby exit. She patted down her pockets carefully and stopped when she saw him glance back. He disappeared from sight and she twisted around to find her coat. Quickly she found Dixon's iPhone. It was turned off. She decided to keep it off.

She scooted to the edge of the covered table, almost forgetting the needle and IV tube in her arm. Another glance over her shoulder. No Patrick. She bit down on her lower lip and pulled the needle out, bending her elbow to stop any bleeding. Then she eased off the table, awkwardly, without use of her hands and trying not to notice the ache in her bandaged arm.

Still no sign of Patrick. She saw an EXIT sign in the other direction and that's where she headed. Within minutes she made her way through the crowded lobby and found an ATM. No one noticed her. There was too much commotion. She kept her head down but her eyes darted around everywhere. She slipped her debit card into the machine, keyed in her PIN and waited. She'd get enough cash for a cab ride, something to eat. Maybe she'd better get enough for a hotel room, but someplace near the hospital.

The card spit out of the machine and the display screen blinked: CARD REFUSED.

There had to be a mistake.

She'd used this debit card a couple of times on their trip and in various locations. She knew she still had about $425 in the account. She slid the card back in and before she could key in the PIN the machine spit it out again, repeating the message.

Rebecca glanced around. Still, no one paid attention to her. There was too much chaos in and out to notice her sudden panic.

She pulled out her one and only credit card. She'd taken a cash advance from the card last month. She had a substantial cash allowance available but had disciplined herself to use it only as a last resort. This definitely qualified. She slid the credit card into the machine, waited and typed in the PIN. Maybe she'd better take out extra, especially if her debit card wasn't working. Just to be safe. All she had in her pockets was the change left from a twenty.

The machine spit this card out, too. CARD REFUSED.

Don't panic, she told herself. There's just something wrong with this machine. She'd find another ATM. No big deal.

She found the exit with confident strides through the midst of rescue personnel and bloodied shoppers. She was in good shape compared to them. That's what she kept telling herself. Then she pushed through the side door and she was outside. When had it gotten dark?

The cold hit her in the face. She had to catch her breath. It had started snowing again. The wind whipped around her. On this side of the hotel there were only lights in the corners of the parking lot. And suddenly the confidence seemed to slide right out of her. She was all alone. Nothing new there. She was used to being on her own. So why did this time feel like she was sliding off a cliff?