'Fucking paranoia,' she cursed to herself, but it could have nothing to do with the eerie hospital and everything to do with the meddlesome detective hot on her trail, so she thrashed her way out of the clinging underbrush.
Burs caught in her jeans. Muck stuck to her flip-flops and oozed up between her toes. Her panic was a strange counterpoint for a person who fought and defeated the vilest evils, and yet she left the ominous woods as fast as possible.
One smaller building she passed, separated from the isolation hospital, had brick walls riddled with graffiti claiming it to be someone's 'place.' A sign even pointed to the Beer Room, making Gaby wonder if it had once been home to a fraternity of some sort.
Did college kids lurk inside, chuckling at the way she fled? Did she care?
No.
She'd always been a freak to society. Nothing new in that.
As she circled the grounds and finally found her way to a clearing, she tucked the knife away in her sheath at the small of her back.
Oddly enough, she found that the main complex of the Cancer Research Center was visible from the road. The broad face of the building easily hid the smaller hospitals behind it, but anyone driving by would see it.
Did they not sense the evil? Were they all so obtuse, so self-absorbed, that they paid no attention at all to such a blatant, rancorous threat?
To get her bearings, Gaby looked around and saw unkempt, suspicious businesses, dark alleyways, bums, homeless transients, and prostitutes.
The unfamiliar slums reeked of depression and poverty, but it didn't frighten her. In a way, it explained how the hospital remained so obscure. Once upon a time, the area might have been lucrative and in need of a hospital. In days gone by, the old houses, tall and built close together, might have been the homes of doctors.
Now they accommodated several families, and from what she could tell, a few of them served as crack houses.
Relieved that no one would recognize her here, Gaby set off again.
Every bone and muscle in her body ached. Exhaustion pulled at her. She felt like she could curl up in a corner and sleep—but the luxury of rest was something she couldn't afford, not until she'd reached the safety of her apartment.
Wherever that might be.
As she walked along, she looked down each alleyway, always guarding against threats. After a time, she spotted three men in an alley between an ambiguous novelty store and a vacant building. They clustered around a can fire, cooking something and, given their postures, stoned out of their gills.
Surrounded by cardboard boxes and shopping carts laden with other people's discards, it appeared that they lived in the narrow lane.
Perfect.
Most sane people would have avoided darkened seclusion that harbored sinister, desperate men; Gaby thanked God for it.
When she'd gotten within six feet, one man pulled out a knife. That amused her. He shook so badly and his eyes were so unfocused, he wouldn't be able to hit the wall, much less a person with her skills. 'What're you cooking?' she asked, hoping to ease the tension.
'There ain't enough fer ya. Go away.'
It looked like squirrel to her, probably roadkill. Her still-jumpy stomach pitched in revolt. Such pitiable people. Desolation clung to them, but not malice.
It'd be best for her to get to the point. 'I need a shirt.'
'Ya got a shirt. Now git.'
'I need a different shirt.' She dug in her pocket. 'Here's five bucks. I'm not picky.'
Two of the three men conferred. The third was too high to even acknowledge or notice her. He stared off at nothing in particular, swaying gently from his cross-legged position near the wall. Gaby briefly studied him. Eyes sunken, complexion sallow and damp, body gaunt, he wouldn't last out the week. His addiction was so ripe that disease riddled his body. Poor schmuck.
The man with the knife lumbered awkwardly to his feet. Holding the blade out straight, as a novice might, he staggered, steadied himself, and said, 'I'll take the money, then you'll git.'
'Not without a shirt.' Gaby held his gaze. She felt the power blossom in her and knew he wouldn't cut her— even if he really wanted to, which she doubted.
As she stared at him, he blanched and backed up a step.
Gaby followed. 'I don't want to hurt you, but I can.' She kept her tone even, calm, and filled with dead sobriety. 'If you don't play fair, I'll show you the kind of pain you've never experienced.'
Beneath grim and bristly whiskers, the man's face went white and his jaw slackened. She could see the wild pulse thrumming in his throat, the sweat gathering at his temples. The hand holding the knife drooped at his side.
'We ain't got much,' he whispered.
'That's why I'm willing to pay, rather than just take what I need—which I could do.' She strode past him to the grocery cart, rummaged through the discarded items until she found a man's navy blue T-shirt with a tear on the shoulder, paint stains on the hem. 'This'll do.'
Facing the man, who'd made no move to hurt her when her back was turned, she nodded her gratitude and tucked the five in his front shirt pocket.
'Sorry to do this, but…' She shrugged, stripped off her rained shirt, and tossed it in their fire. Black smoke billowed out, and then the shirt caught and flames consumed it, singeing the poor critter they intended to consume for dinner.
She wore no bra, saw no reason to with her mostly flat chest, and so the two coherent men got an eyeful. They stared, not with lust but with utter surprise. They were so far gone that they'd never remember seeing her, much less be able to detail the exchange.
Being sure to keep her mouth tightly closed as the material passed her face, Gaby pulled the shirt on over her head.
Though it felt clean, God only knew where the shirt had been and what filth might cling to it.
She started to take her leave then, but instead she hesitated. Cursing herself for showing any softness, she reached out and removed the man's knife from his limp hand. It was so dull as to be useless.
'You hold it like this,' she explained, turning the knife so that the blade faced his body, the handle his opponent. 'That way, your forearm conceals it. And when you lift your arm to stab, you have your entire body weight behind the blade. And you know, it makes it easier to slash across the face or throat.'
She exhibited that by guiding his arm through the motions.
As if the touch of a woman, even a woman of her dubious attributes, threw him off-kilter, he held himself stiff as a board. Gaby released him and took a step back, but she took his knife with her. Examining it, she said, 'You should really sharpen this if you expect it to be a threat or protection.'
He shook his head. 'I jus' wanna he left Tone.'
Gaby flipped the knife in her hand and presented it back to him with the handle first. 'Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you, though.'
She'd taken two steps when he said, 'Uh… thanks.'
She looked over her shoulder, a brow raised.
'Fer the money.'
But not the lesson on defense? He had his priorities screwed up, but it wasn't her problem.
With a nod, Gaby took herself off. She had a long walk ahead and no time to chitchat. It was back to business.
After crossing the street, she entered a gas station that smelled of oil and had seen better days. Off to one side set an old, broken air pump and toward the other, a sign that read RESTROOM.
Using her foot to open the filthy door, Gaby went inside. Given the unrecognizable splatters on the walls and floors, she had to wonder if hookers used this particular John to fulfill assignations. Flies crowded the room, along with a few spiders.
