The dying girl staggered down the endless, grimy corridor, choking back giggles as bile slithering up her throat. Twice she fell, crawling on, coarse fibers sawing her bare knees. Pain stabbed her belly and below; her moan morphed into sobbing as the drug sang through her brain.

Reaching her destination, she stopped, curling against the faux marble doorsill. She murmured “help” once, then again a little louder. The words felt purple, tickling the back of her eyes.

Hauling herself to her feet by gumption and the door knob, she raised her hand to knock. Dizzy and disoriented, she missed the apartment door entirely, momentum spinning her ‘round to whump against the solid pressboard surface.

She slid down the door to puddle in a sad heap, crying, giggling, and trying not to die.

#

Inside, Adrian rolled his eyes. The stoner neighbors were at it again. When soft, off-key singing crept under, or possibly through the cheap door, he blocked one ear with his finger, and pressed the phone more tightly to the other.

“Sorry, Doc. You’ll have to go searching for lost temples without me.” Adrian’s voice rose, as did his eyebrows, not that Doc Soc could see him over a thousand miles of telephone lines.

“Plus there’s outrageous flora and fauna,” Doc Soc continued.

Adrian paced his living room, wincing as he struggled to free his ponytail from its leather tie. The tuneless serenade stopped. Good. “I’m saying no, Doc. Put on your listening ears.”

“Like the carnero fish. It swims up your urine stream and into your penis. The local Indians sometimes use it to determine guilt—you live, you’re innocent. You die… Let me email you the article: Bottom-feeders at Their Best. I can—”

“Whoa, Doc! Time out.” Tired of the sales pitch, no matter how flattering—and tempting, Adrian needed end this conversation now. “Sorry, Doc. Fascinating as your dick-fish sounds, not to mention the monkey-brain salad and all other fun jungle stuff you’ve mentioned, I can’t just take off to go tooling around the rainforest.”

“C’mon, Adrian. We’re talking Amazon jungle here. Think of the cave paintings, the ancient cures, the shamanic miracles. You can’t say no to shamanic miracles!”

Professor Socrates Kawasaki hit all Adrian Thornapples’s anthropological hot buttons. (Except maybe the dick-fish. Adrian felt pretty sure he preferred his dick fish-free.) Finny parasites aside, Adrian heard the siren call of all things rainforest, shamanic, and miraculous.

He straightened, shaking back his hair, nearly dropping the phone. “I’ve got a job—no, a career!” He toed off his shoes and socks, flexing his toes in the scratchy carpet pile.

“At least say you’ll think about it, Adrian. Please. I could really use someone with your talent for languages and photography.”

“Photography, yeah. I…” Adrian ceased his pacing near the window where his camera rested on the wide sill. He ran one finger over the case, leaving a faint streak in the dust. He picked up his extra memory chip, fiddling with it. On the street below, an attractive man stopped to let his dog sniff a hydrant. No, wait. Not a dog. This hot guy was walking his cat! Click! went Adrian’s mental camera.

“What happened to your dreams, Adrian?” 

Dreams, indeed. Adrian had been having some weird ones lately. Some were hot and sexy, while others starred cats. He shuddered. He wasn’t too fond of all things feline. He liked sex, though. Well, he was pretty sure he did. It had been a while. Maybe that was the problem. He just hoped he didn’t start dreaming about having sex with cats!

Whack!

Something heavy hit the apartment door again—a hard crack this time, like a skull banging against wood. Hard. Even Doc Soc heard it. “What was that?”

“Dunno,” Adrian answered, startled, heart thudding. “I’m going to check.”

The harsh knock came again, tapering to a soft rapping. Peering through the peephole, he saw nothing but the faded wallpaper across the way.

Another crash against his door. Adrian rocked back a step. “Hang on, Doc.”

Panting a little, he checked the peephole again. Still nothing!

He swallowed hard. “Who’s there?”

A muted “A— Adrian?” A woman’s voice, raspy and weak.

Shoving the memory stick in his pocket, he opened the door a crack. His neighbor from down the hall slumped on the carpet, her eyes red-rimmed and slitted. “Adrian?” she repeated.

Adrian pushed the door closed again. It took two tries to wiggle the safety chain along its rusty track. He yanked the door open.

“Violet? Are you okay?”

Her head lolled, her fine red hair sweat-matted and messy. White foam crusted one corner of her mouth. She wore only shorts and a pink T-shirt imprinted with a faded white blob—possibly a kitten.

Adrian reached down to brush Violet’s hair from her eyes, but discovered he still held the cordless phone. “Call you back, Doc,” he said, hitting the disconnect button and tossing the handset on the grubby carpet. He squatted beside her. Dredging up details of a first aid course he’d once taken, he asked, “Did you hit your head?”

The brand new bruise painting her forehead crimson told him she had.

Smiling up at him, eyes closed, she sang, “Blue, blue. My love is blue,” segueing into something that may have been Blue Suede Shoes.

A sickly sweet scent tickled Adrian’s nose. His explosive sneeze rocked Violet back to reality. Her eyes flew open. “Oh, my God! Where’s Skip?”

She struggled to sit up, bracing herself against the doorframe. He checked her pulse, finding it thin and thready, her breathing erratic. Well, given the circumstances, his was, too. He snatched his phone off the floor. It took three tries to dial 9-1-1. Why did the number have to be so complicated?

“Emergency Services. Do you need police, fire, or ambulance?"

“I need an ambulance. My neighbor…” He sketched out the situation, trying for calm. The operator assured him the ambulance was on its way, asking Adrian questions that were probably routine. How would he know? He’d never called 9-1-1 before. “Yes. My name is Adrian Thornapple. I live down the hall.” He glanced toward Violet’s apartment. The door hung open, a wispy cloud of blue smoke drifting out.

“My name is Danielle.” The operator managed to convey a sense of calm urgency. “I need you to check her breathing.”

“She’s breathing okay. In fact, she’s singing again!”

“She wore bluuu-uue velvet,” Violet crooned, ending with a giggle.

“That’s a good sign. Now check her eyes, please.”

Calling her name and snapping his fingers, Adrian managed to get Violet’s attention. “They’re brown, but have a weird blue ring around them. I don’t think it was there before. What’s it mean?”

Danielle drew a sharp breath. “Is anyone else involved?”

“Yeah. Skip. Her boyfriend. He’s back in her apartment, I think.”

“Since Violet appears stable, are you comfortable checking on Skip?”

“I hate to leave her.” Violet rocked slowly back and forth as if keeping time with music only she could hear. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

“You don’t have to go, Adrian. However, there appears to a traffic accident on the only route to your area, and the paramedics may be delayed. It would be helpful for them to know what to expect when they get there. It could speed things up.”

Couldn’t Danielle just say what she meant? Everything was “appears” and “may” and “could.” It was all so scripted and noncommittal. He needed action, Goddamn it! “Okay. I’ll go. Just, please tell them to hurry.”

Adrian sprinted down the hall, the sickly scent of lavender growing stronger as he approached. “Hey, Skip,” he called, dashing through the open door. “Violet’s down by my place. She needs help. I called 9-1-1.”

Skip sprawled on the sofa, headphones mashed over his mullet, eyes shut, foot tapping to the beat.

“Skip! Skip!” Adrian shouted.

Skip rocked on, oblivious. Tinny spill-over music from his enormous headphones gnawed at Adrian’s already frazzled nerves. Following the wires, Adrian located the docking station perched on the coffee table. He shut it off with enough force to send it shooting across the table and over the edge. It hit the floor with the kind of smash-crunch that voided any warranty.

“Hey! Where’s my tunes?” Skip peered at Adrian hazily. “Yo, Adrian! Come to party? Check out my new merchandise. All natural. Made in the rainforest. You’re a big fan of that all-natural shit, eh?”

“Adrian?” Danielle said, reminding him she was still on the phone. “I need you to look into his eyes. Can you do that for me? Tell me what you see.”

“Uh, yeah, Skip. Look at me, buddy.” Adrian tapped his own temple. Skip blinked up at him.

“Same blue ring around the iris,” Adrian reported. “It kinda glows. Like it’s iridescent. It’s more pronounced than Violet’s.”

“Does he appear to be in any physical distress? No? Then you should leave.”

Something gray flashed at the edge of Adrian’s vision. He spun toward the door, but saw nothing. Oh, God. Was he beginning to hallucinate on the second-hand fumes?

Racing towards the door, he noticed the gym bag too late to stop, smashing his bare foot against it painfully. He reeled forward, managing to keep upright by clutching the doorframe. I’ve broken my fucking toe! A soft-sided gym bag shouldn’t be that solid. Looking behind him, the open zipper showed a stack of shrink-wrapped blue bricks.

Blue bricks, lavender smell, rings around the eyes. Suddenly, it all came together. A half-remembered newscast about a new designer drug, shipping up from South America. Oh, God. Skip, what the hell have you gotten yourself into now?

Sirens wailed in the distance, signaling the arrival of emergency services—finally! Turning his back on Skip, Adrian hobbled toward Violet. The hallway had never seemed so long.

The sirens must have triggered Skip’s lizard brain. Behind Adrian, he came charging down the hall, over-stuffed gym bag in hand. He body-checked Adrian into the wall, leapt over Violet, and shot through the stairwell door.

“Skip!” Toe throbbing, shoulder aching, Adrian shouted after him. “You asshole. Come back here!”

He might have chased after Skip, but Violet began to wretch—a horrible grating sound like tearing metal. She lay in his half-open doorway, arms wrapped around her stomach, heaving and choking. Ignoring the puddle he knelt in, he rolled her on to her side in the recovery position, counting the seconds until the paramedics arrived. The Goddamn sirens weren’t getting any closer!

“The baby, Adrian.” Violet panted between spasms. “The baby.”

“Oh, my God. Violet. You’re pregnant?” Adrian brushed a tear from Violet’s sweaty cheek. It may have been his own.

Violet nodded, circling Adrian’s wrist with her small hand, grip tight enough to bruise. His office-pale skin seemed rosy compared to her blue-white fingers. “Skip said it’d be safe. Be fun.”

“Hold on, Violet. Hold on. The ambulance is almost here.” Adrian hoped to God Violet and the baby would be all right. He even hoped Skip would survive too—survive to go to jail for endangering Violet and her baby with his stupid, partying ways!

“Hurts.” Violet released Adrian’s wrist and moved her hand down to her belly. Horrified, Adrian watched the dark stain spread across Violet’s shorts, the over-sweet smell of blood merging with the lavender scent drifting down the hallway and from Violet herself. He yanked off his jacket, balling it up under Violet’s head. He’d never wear this suit again.

She thanked him so softly he barely heard her, her gaze growing unfocused, the iridescent ring around her irises clearly visible now. She sighed once and closed her eyes. Feeling frantically for a pulse and finding none, Adrian began CPR, pumping Violet’s chest rhythmically, clamping his lips over the dying girl’s, careless of bio-hazards or inhaling drug residue. His long curls hung like curtains around them and he tasted lavender with every breath. One, two, three… He counted off the seconds of Violet’s life. He pumped until his arms ached, and continued until the paramedics pulled him off. They assumed control with reassuring efficiency. How much later that was—seconds, hours—he hadn’t a clue.

Wretched and numb, Adrian shivered against the grimy wallpaper, the emergency blanket draped across his shoulders offering no comfort at all. The racket of emergency services in action faded to a rhythmic pounding in his brain. He watched dully as a young policewoman wove her way around other cops and paramedics, reaching his side. She stared earnestly into his eyes.

“Hi. I’m Officer Robyn Warner. Call me Robyn. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Adrian answered her litany of questions as best he could: “Yes. We were friends. I met them when they moved in and—” He choked a little as the paramedics pulled back from Violet, slowing their frantic motions. “Is she…?”

The slumped shoulders of the medical crew told the story as they began re-packing their equipment. There was no sense of urgency now.

“Why’d you guys take so long?” he asked Robyn.

“Jack-knifed tractor trailer on Yonge. We had to cut around it.” She shrugged, somehow making it a gesture of helplessness and apology. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t get here any sooner.”

Adrian looked away. She stayed with him, checking her notes, asking him a few more questions.

The forensic team arrived with silver suitcases stuffed with little orange cones and containers of powders and liquids. Their photographer shot enough pictures to fill a memory card. Adrian toyed with the one in his pocket. The camera flashes and the similarity to TV crime dramas lent an unreal feel to the scene.

“If there was a guy there…” another cop said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Violet’s apartment. POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS tape now bannered the door. “He’s gone now. No trace of him, ‘cept some clothes and a smashed mp3 player. Let’s hope the forensics guys find somethin’.” He narrowed his eyes at Adrian. “A bag of drugs, you say? You didn’t happen to remove it, did you? Say, for safekeeping? It’s okay, you can tell me.”

“I saw the drugs. I tripped over the bag and have the bruised toe to prove it.” Adrian gestured at his stubbed toe—it felt hot and swollen. A little dried blood gave him a pedicurus interuptus look. He hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding. “I told you. Skip charged out of here with the bag of—”

“Musta gone down the stairs,” a third cop interrupted. Adrian was pretty sure he’d already told them that.

The cops all seemed to loom over Adrian, even the one shorter than him. At five-foot-ten, Adrian wasn’t exactly short, but given the circumstances, he found the uniforms and their accusatory posture more than a little insulting. They were obviously going for intimidating, but only succeeded in pissing him off.

He took a deep breath, getting a grip before he told them off, knowing that wouldn’t help anybody, especially poor Violet. His gaze strayed downwards to the tallest cop’s utility belt heavy with law enforcement equipment: gun, nightstick, Taser. He framed another shot in his mind wishing he had his camera. He found it calming sometimes; taking pictures lent him a sense of distance he could have really used right about then.

The police stepped a few yards down the hall, conversing as if he couldn’t hear them.

“About five-ten, Caucasian male, late twenties. Hazel eyes, slim but fit.” Robyn dictated to another cop who took notes. “Shoulder-length brown hair. Curly.”

What the hell? They were taking down his details.

“Hey, what are you—?”

Another camera flashed, momentarily blinding him. “Just routine, buddy.”

He ground his teeth. He didn’t deserve this! He was the good guy here. It wasn’t like he was a big scoff-law rebel. Well, maybe he’d parked illegally a few times, smuggled some designer clothing back to Canada from the Buffalo outlet mall without paying duty. But overall, he was a law-abiding citizen. He crossed at the lights, drove at the speed limit, even returned his freakin’ library books on time. He hadn’t thought twice about granting them permission to search his place.

“Can I go back into my apartment now?”

Nobody answered, or even acknowledged he’d spoken.

The paramedics finished repacking their equipment. They loaded Violet’s body onto a gurney, strapping her down. They had to angle it a bit to fit the old building’s tiny elevator. The doors shuddered closed.

Bye-bye, Violet. Adrian’s throat clenched and his stomach roiled. If I puke now I’ll choke. Maybe I should call the paramedics back. He stared at the chalk outline, empty now, but for a small dark stain.

He couldn’t believe Violet was gone. He really liked her. Had liked her. She’d been upbeat and kind with a wry, self-deprecating sense of humor. He felt her presence, as if her body had left the building, but her spirit remained nearby. How cliché was that? He let the fantasy run, though, imagining her floating up near the ceiling, looking down at the whole crime-scene circus. Always insecure about her figure, she was probably chewing her lower lip, worrying, “Does this chalk outline make me look fat?” Adrian snorted, instantly appalled at his own lack of decorum.

“Sumpthin’ funny?” the big cop asked, peering into Adrian's eyes again.

Jeeze, thought Adrian, I hadn’t had this much eye contact since that gay cruise I took a few years ago. Guess they’re just checking for blue rings.

Radios crackled, startling Adrian each time. “You’re sure jumpy, mister,” one of the cops said. “Something you want to tell me?”

“I’m just a little shook up. I—”

“Sure, guy. Sure.” The cop’s eyes narrowed. “Is that lavender I smell?”

“Buzz off, Eddy.” Officer Robyn laid a hand on Adrian’s shoulder. “I know you were just trying to help.” She peered so sincerely into Adrian’s eyes that he could practically see “Good Cop” engraved on her eyeballs.

“Okay, that’s it.” Adrian declared to anyone listening. “I’m tired, hungry, upset, and desperately need to pee. I’m going back into my apartment and if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with…” He’d been going to say “my lawyer,” but since he didn’t have a lawyer, it felt like a lie.

“They can take it up with me,” Officer Robyn announced, gesturing for Adrian to precede her into his own apartment.

Stepping around the stains and numbered day-glo pyramids, Adrian hurried to the bathroom. He quickly locked the door behind him, more than a little afraid Robyn would want to “be there for him.” And make sure he didn’t flush anything incriminating.

When he entered the kitchen, she was examining the notes and photos stuck to the fridge. He started a pot of coffee while the cops finished searching his place.

“It’s just routine,” Robyn said. “No coffee. I’m good. Thanks.”

Adrian nodded. He stared at the coffee maker as if it required all his attention. Decaf, thought finally, the decision draining the last of his composure. He sniffled. Poor Violet, dead for the crime of liking the wrong guy. There but for the grace of God. He’d been attracted to the wrong man a time or two, himself, and had the missing stereo equipment to prove it.

A few minutes later, he carried his steaming Save the Whales mug to the kitchen table, slumping into his usual chair. Something dug into his hip. He extracted the memory chip, recalling how he’d pocketed it earlier for no good reason. Not wanting to misplace it, he rose, re-entered his living room and placed it back on the window sill. A young forensic tech glanced up from where he was scrolling through Adrian’s phone, making note of all the incoming and outgoing calls Adrian had received in the last few days. Adrian rolled his eyes and returned to the kitchen, Robyn tailing him a few paces behind.

He dropped into his chair again and reached for his coffee.

“Can I move this?” Robyn gestured at the cardboard box occupying the only other chair.

“Sure,” Adrian reached for it but she grabbed it first. She set the box on the table.

Staring at the box, he gulped a huge sip of coffee—a huge sip of scalding coffee. For the next half-hour, his tongue toyed painfully with the strips of skin hanging from the roof of his mouth. It gave him something to do.

Robyn stayed with him, keeping close watch. Was she there to make sure he didn’t make a break for it or in case he, too, collapsed? The paramedics had given him a quick once over—blood pressure, respiration—and thoroughly checked his eyes. They’d declared him fine, although fine was the last thing he felt. His mug clattered slightly as he set it on the table. He had to use both hands to keep it steady.

Adrian picked at the cardboard box on the table between them. It overflowed with awards and framed pictures and other office memorabilia.

“I spent the day processing lay-off paperwork,” he babbled. “We’re doing an employee ‘harvest’ tomorrow. As far as I know, my job’s safe, but I brought most of my personal stuff home just in case.”

She nodded. “So not your best day ever, then?”

Adrian tried to smile at the dry, sympathetic comment, but his face remained frozen.

The young forensic tech brought Adrian’s camera into the room. “We’d like to take these pictures with us. You’re not going to make us get a warrant or anything are you?” He looked nearly as tired as Adrian felt.

Adrian knew his brain was fried but couldn’t image why shots of his friend Wendy’s birthday bash last month would be of interest. “What pictures?” He scratched his knee through the handy hole in his pants.

“The ones of the crime scene on that memory stick you dropped off.”

“Pictures?” Robyn narrowed her eyes. “You should have told us about them. Tell me you weren’t planning to sell them to a tabloid?”

“I have no idea what pictures you’re talking about.” Adrian’s chair squealed on the linoleum as he pushed back from the table. He scrubbed his hand across his brow. “Show me.”

The tech wasn’t about to release the camera, but he held it where Adrian could see the little display screen. Robyn moved to stand behind him so she could see, too.

Pictures of the evening flashed by in reverse order as the tech pushed the “previous image” button: the cop’s utility belt, heavy with law enforcement equipment; Violet curled in on herself, clutching her stomach on the floor; Skip in his chair, bopping to the beat; the bag of drugs, full to bursting. There were half a dozen shots, the final shot of a handsome man three stories down, walking his cat.

“What the—?” Adrian reached for the camera, but the tech pulled it out of reach.

“You took these? You should have told us,” Robyn repeated, sliding back into her chair and crossing her arms across her chest.

“I guess I… I have no idea. I must have. I was the only one here. I mean, I thought about taking those pictures. When I see something, it gets captured in my brain like a picture. But I don’t think I even brought my camera with me down the hall. Wasn’t it dusty when you picked it up?”

The tech scratched his chin with one gloved finger. “We dusted it for fingerprints.” He shrugged. “Everything’s got black dust on it now.”

Robyn stared deeply into Adrian’s eyes again. “Maybe you inhaled more of that stuff than you thought. Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“I don’t think so. I…”

“Sir, we need your permission to take this camera and memory card. If you could sign here?”

“Sure. Sure.” He read the form carefully, so distracted he had to read it three time. Finally he signed, telling himself he must have taken them—he’d been alone after all, and they were set up in his style.

“Sorry,” he said to Robyn. She raised one shoulder in a half-shrug, although what she meant by it, he didn’t know.

Nearly six hours after Violet’s first desperate bang on his door, the cops and CSIs packed up, telling Adrian his apartment had been cleared.

“Don’t leave town!” the tallest cop ordered.

“Knock it off, Eddy.” Officer Robyn glared at her colleague. “He’s a witness, not a suspect.”

Eddy’s accusing gaze never faltered. “Yeah, well. He may not have committed this crime…” The cop looked at him suspiciously. “But I’m sure he’s done something.” He glared one more time before striding away.

“That’s our Eddy and his keen sense of humor.” Robyn rolled her eyes. “He puts the ‘fun’ in ‘dysfunctional’.” She patted Adrian’s hand. “You weren’t actually involved, were you, Adrian?”

Under different circumstances, Adrian would have liked her. Shaking his head, he withdrew his hand.

“Here’s my card.” Robyn placed a business card on the table, next to the box of workplace memories. “Call me if you think of anything that might help.”

Adrian fingered the card, sweaty fingers dampening the corner. “I don’t know how much more I can tell you. I’m not sure I’ve been much help at all. I don’t even know Skip’s real name. I’m sorry. I’m just… so… sorry.” He stared at the table top, no idea what he had just apologized for.

Robyn reached for his hand again, but stopped halfway. “Just come to the precinct tomorrow and take a look at mug shots. That’ll help a lot. Really.”

Adrian nodded. Of course he would. It was his duty. He’d miss the big meeting at work, but so what? In light of Violet’s death, he could feel his priorities shifting like his own personal tectonic plates.

The lettering and Toronto P.D. logo on her card blurred. When he looked up, Officer Robyn was gone.

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2: Beauty Sleep: Results May Vary