The Fire

Lindsey survives the attack of a serial killer

1

 

I woke from the nightmare secured by stiff sheets, suffocating on the odor of clean with an aftertaste of bare wet iron as if I’d been snorting rancid bean curd lo mein.

“Hi, Lindsey. Can you hear me?”

Yeah.

She must have seen my eyes moving under the lids. I wasn’t ready to come from the darkness, taking in the muted shuffle of soft-sole shoes on linoleum, quiet voices, the rustling of papers, ticking " an odd ticking " someone breathing heavy, a whoosh, change pitch, whoosh again and repeat, behind that a rhythmic beeping from many sources like aliens talking back and forth.

“Lindsey. Can you hear me?” Fingers rubbed hard on my upper chest.

Yeah, I can hear you. Now go away.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

Matter of opinion.

Another voice Dopplered from the door. “Dr. Howard said she’s awake?” The voice was tense, dripping with reserved optimism and excitement. This voice I wanted to hear.

Mom. I thought I said it. I hadn’t. I tried again with the same result. Her hand came to my cheek.

I opened my eyes. I wanted to say I couldn’t see, everything a smear of dancing colors. Mom kissed my forehead, sobbing.

The other voice intruded. “This machine’s helping you breath. Don’t try to talk.”

Stop asking me stupid questions, then.

Mom forced words through her sobs. “You’re going to be just fine.”

Time will tell.

Again, the other voice intruded. “Did you see the person or persons who did this to you? Do you know where you were held?”

I dropped my eyebrows, scrunching my face, shaking my head no.

Mom, tangled in my breathing tube and IV, draped herself on me, crying.

“Maybe later.” The voice withdrew.

Maybe.

 

I coughed out the endotracheal tube, which didn’t seem as invasive as frustrating given my recent past. I gathered my right lung had collapsed. Being a minor, explanation came from above with eyes rolled to the left, jargon masquerading as information.

I was repeatedly assured the prognosis was good with a full recovery expected. This made me honestly believe I’d code any minute.

The hospital must have had the intrusive voice on speed dial. Not that I puzzled over such things, I assumed she was attached to the hospital, maybe a shrink to help me sort out the mess. She introduced herself on the second meeting, not three minutes after the tube slid from my throat.

“Kelley Lewinsky.” She badged me like on TV. “John Hopkins.” She thumbed over her shoulder. “We’re with the mayor’s task force.”

I couldn’t help myself. I looked past her. “You’re kidding, right?” My throat hurt. My whole body hurt. I managed to talk, barely able to move my lips and unable to sit up.

The younger detective, in his late twenties, half Kelley’s age at least, blushed.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told "”

I cut her off. “I meant the name.”

John Hopkins shrugged. “I’ve considered changing it.”

“Mayo Clinic?”

John snickered. I knew we’d get along.

“No one told me anything much. I didn’t want to ask. I vaguely remember dark and wet. I remember smelling something like when I opened an old ‘fridge that’d been laying in a dump for God knows how long with food in it.”

“What are you doing playing in a dump?”

“Recycle center. We climbed the fence on a dare. I think I was ten.”

“Five years ago.” John nodded.

I was sure we’d get along.

“I thought I was easily distracted.” I closed my eyes. “I’m a Dumpster Girl?” I’d thought as much long before I was dumped.

“That’s what the press is calling the victims.”

I let out a slow breath. “I’m the third.” I resented being called a victim. I was victimized. I chose never to be a victim.

“Seventh.” John glanced at his notepad.

Kelley shot him a look, then turned back to me. “The press has you as the fourth.”

“Sorry.” John’s sorry was to Kelley, not me. “That’s off the record.”

I nodded the best I could.

“We need to know everything you remember.”

“Nothing.” I did not roll my eyes up and to the left. “I’m not in the Scooby Gang or anything like that, but are you sure?”

“The what?”

John snickered. “Because you’re older than the other vics?”

Vics. How cute. “Me and a friend got a morbid curiosity.”

“No offense, Lindsey, but unless he carded you, how’d he know you’re not ten, maybe twelve?”

I took my turn blushing.

“Oh.” Kelley made a note. “What’s the last thing you recall?”

 I did my best to look like I was thinking. “Leaving school on Friday.”

“That’d be three weeks ago.” John pointed his pen.

I stared, my whisper breathless. “That long?”

John jumped on his rhetorical horse and galloped around the room. “The doctor said in cases like yours, it’s not abnormal to experience memory loss. Chances are you’re never going to remember any of it, which could be a good thing for you, given the medical reports.”

John looked from Kelley to me. “Would you be willing to undergo hypnotic regression?”

I held his eyes. “What? Is the voodoo priest on vacation?”

Kelley laughed.

 

Kelley pressed the importance of remembering. With seven known victims, she had no doubt there’d be more.

John Hopkins had wonderful puppy dog eyes and knew how to work them. I was disappointed he thought I looked ten, maybe twelve. I don’t have an overactive imagination, but I do have an imagination, after all.

A girl can dream, especially a fifteen-year-old girl.

He owns a gun and has a carry permit.

During the six interviews, I watched their eyes. I knew they couldn’t hear what I had to say. I knew they couldn’t step into the fire with me. They looked at the medical records. Kelley turned white, John green. They talked to experts. They reconstructed what might have been done to me. What they thought damaged their souls.

Seven Dumpster Girls, only one survived.

I remember everything. I can’t tell my mother, maybe the strongest human being I know. The fire would sear the flesh from her bones.

That’s why I never told anyone.

The Fire

Reviews

[Diane D.]

This book was hard to put down, a must read!