Ghost Stalker Read Online Free

you to the hospital.”
    “No,” he said.
    Fast Food leaned in, his breath smelling of onions. “Listen, buddy, your face looks like raw hamburger. Might get infected, plus the doc says you broke some ribs.”
    He glanced at his reluctant benefactor. Was she the doctor they spoke of? He kept his gaze pinned to her and said, “I refuse to go to a hospital.”
    She smiled her approval and his breath caught at the radiance of her beauty. The intake of breath cost him, sending him into coughing fits that brought up bubbly pink blood.
    “He’s got internal bleeding,” said Fry Boy.
    “It’s his choice,” said the Niyanoka.
    “Who’s going to take care of him?”
    “I am,” she said.
    The men turned to her. “He’s busted up, Doc. Not loopy.”
    “All psychiatrists are also medical doctors. Besides, he might be better here than bouncing over ninety miles of rough road.”
    The men exchanged looks.
    Young Abe held out a clipboard to Nick. “Sign here.”
    The woman looked concerned. Did she think he could not write? Nick lifted the pen and carefully scrawled his name, making certain the grace of his signature was clear. He glanced at her and saw her shoulders droop in relief.
    What had they taught her about his kind?
    She hustled out the medics. The two men who had carried him into the house followed them out. She closed the door firmly behind her without even glancing back at him. He let his head drop back to the pillow and closed his eyes, taking shallow breaths as blood dripped from the gashes on his face and into the soft clean coverlet. he wondered if he had just made the worst mistake of his life.
    No. The worst mistake was getting in that elevator with three ghosts.
    The room smelled of lemon polish and wax. The bedding held a hint of bleach and detergent. Across the room a bowl of wood shavings released the scent of cedar into the air.
    Dr. Niyanoka’s life was about to get real messy.
    The click of the doorknob awakened him and he opened one swollen eye to watch her approach carrying a medical bag and a basin. The smell of soap and disinfectant rose from the warm water.
    He lay still when she drew up the chair beside him and set the bowl on the bedside table. She rummaged through her bag, drawing out two rubber gloves. How humiliating it must be for her to have to touch him.
    She uncapped a needle and plunged the tip into a vial and faced him with weapon raised. He prepared to fight and she drew to a halt.
    “It’s medicine, for the pain,” she said.
    “So was the pillow.”
    She held out the vial, then changed her mind and read the label to him. He took it and forced his good eye open enough to read the contents. Would she have switched the contents? He stared up at her. Her expression was strained, but her body held none of the hesitation or uncertainty she radiated earlier. He trusted his instincts and lay back on the bed. A moment later she had his hip exposed and swabbed. The prick was nothing compared to the stabbing of each breath.
    The drug burned into his muscle and his ears began to ring. His body grew heavy. Thoughts grew difficult to gather as the drug traveled through his system, but he breathed without pain for the first time since the attack.
    He grinned at her tight expression and felt an echoing twitch of pain, dulled by the medication. She lookedgrim as she wrung out the dish towel and then gripped it firmly in her clenched fist. She hesitated, the cloth hovering above him.
    “I won’t bite,” he assured.
    She sighed and then washed the blood from his face. Her gentleness surprised him. He knew the task could be accomplished with a much more punishing stroke, but she seemed to strive not to cause him additional pain, though she avoided touching him as well, as she plied the cloth with the gloved hand.
    “What’s your name?” he asked.
    “Jessie Healy. Yours?”
    “Nicholas Chien. Where am I?”
    “Freehold, Montana, two hundred miles west of Billings.”
    His eyelids grew