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Just as I have reached the penultimate step of the stairs, the thumping stops. Instead, the door chime sounds.
Irritated, I glance at the clock on the wall behind the reception desk. The discreetly backlit digits show2:37 am.Who wants to speak to me in the middle of the night?
The bell rings again. The next moment, the thumping starts again. Now, I identify it as a knock against the glass door.
“I’m coming!” I yell against the pounding, which has almost turned into drumming.
The whole door vibrates under my fingers as I turn the knob of the cylinder lock.
“Hey, hey, hey! Relax! There’s no need to break the glass!” Pushing down the handle, I try in vain to open the door that swings outward. Something is blocking it.Fuck! Why didn’t I turn on the lights first?I peek through the door crack, trying to make out something in the dim yellow half-light emerging from theMcDonald’sneon sign. “Are you lying on the scraper in front of the door?” I ask the huddled figure.
The figure doesn’t move a millimeter, at least as far as I can tell. Instead, there is a sniffing, sobbing sound.
Holy shit! The voice sounds female. Could it be my today’s client? Has something gone completely wrong with the freshly-inked tattoo?Not that I’ve experienced anything like that, but you never know, anything can happen. Gently and insistently at the same time, I push the door open enough to squeeze through. Then I get down on my knees next to the heap of misery.
It takes what feels like an eternity for my eyes to finally adjust to the twilight, but even after that I can’t and won’t believe what I’m seeing in front of me.
“Celine?”
The person slumped into a mound is sniffling.
“Celine? Is that you?”
The human nods, finally looking up at me. And the pump in my chest almost stops.
“Fucking hell!” Without hesitating another second, I grab her below the knees and around her back. With a jerk, I heave her up, get to my feet and find myself facing the slammed door. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
My careless cursing sets off a crying fit in the trembling little person in my arms.
I can’t ask Celine to get the door.Holy shit!I press my lips together to make sure no more curses slip out and somehow manage to pull the door open.
22. To Get aWrangleOn
Celine
With space-consuming steps, I am carried through the entrance hall and briefly set down at the reception desk.
Then the light glistens on and I close my eyes, dazzled.
Sharp inhalations through teeth can be heard. Soft mumbling, from which I hear a half-moanedHoly shit!
“What happened, Celine?” Philip’s voice is barely recognizable. So dark, rough—and tortured. “Look at me, come on. Open your eyes. Or…” Again, the pitiful sizzle. “…can’t you lift your eyelid?”
Can I open my eye?With the strength I have left, I lift my head, aiming in the direction from which his voice comes. Then I look at him.
“Oh my fucking God!” His jaws grind. He presses his lips together.
I can see the supercomputer behind his forehead kicking in, sending ones and zeros through the neural net.
He raises his index finger and moves it back and forth in front of my face. “Look at my finger, follow it with your eyes.… Just with your eyes. Can you do that?”
Apparently not, if I interpret his facial expression correctly.
With a shake of his head, he looks at me, then reaches for the receiver of the phone on the counter.
“W-what are you doing?” My question manages to pass my lips surprisingly fluidly.
Philipp pauses. Hovering his finger over the keys, he looks at me. “I’m calling 911.”
