The Vines by Shelley Nolden (most motivational books .txt) 📗

Monroe.

Her breathing slowed and became almost a sighing sound, its rhythm lulling.

Adams.

His eyes drifted closed.

Finn reached for Lily’s backside, and his hand landed on a worn, patchwork quilt. He bolted upright.

Near the door, Cora sat, the contents of his pack spread around her.

He scrambled to his knees. “What are you doing?”

“You said you brought this stuff for me.” She popped the last slice of an orange into her mouth and wiped her hand on her pants. “I don’t know what it is about vitamin C. I’ve never been able to get enough. This book is excellent, by the way. Thank you.”

Twilight lay open on the floor. She had to be twenty-five pages in.

Fending off a wave of dizziness, Finn blinked hard. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was, just not as long as you.”

The ticks! Encumbered by the suit, he scrambled to retrieve his now-empty bag.

“Looking for these?” She held up the two vials.

He swore under his breath.

“I assume this one’s chloroform.” Cora raised the tube ringed with red tape. “Your family always has been infatuated with this chemical.” She flicked the other, marked with orange. “These are deer ticks.”

“They’re not mine.”

“I’m not an idiot; obviously they’re from Rollie. But now they’re mine.”

“You should destroy them, like I was planning to.” “That would be foolish. Like every other resource I come across—including you—I’ll have to evaluate their best use.” She tucked the vials into her messenger bag, and he swore under his breath.

By allowing her to get her hands on those tubes, he’d just reached a whole new level of familial betrayal.

Refusing to let her keep them, he reached for the edge of the duct tape that held the scalpel in place.

“Whatcha got there?” She leaned toward him.

He peeled back the tape and raised the instrument so she could see it.

“That’s mine!”

“It was yours, before you chained me to a roof! And pocketed my phone and Swiss Army knife.”

“The phone doesn’t work anymore. And what can I say? I like knives.” She eyed the scalpel in his grip. “If you think you can kill me with that, go ahead and try.”

Finn shook his head. “How about a trade?”

Staring at it wistfully, she rocked on her heels, then looked at the vials and back to the scalpel.

He studied the cross on its ivory handle. “You said it’s got special meaning.” “How’s this for a trade?” She patted the pouch on her hip. “Give it to me, and I’ll let you live.”

“Sure, if you throw in those two vials.”

“No deal.”

“Then it can’t be that special to you,” he said, positioning the scalpel against the pipe he’d used to break the syringe.

“Then you must not value your life.”

Hoping she wouldn’t call his bluff, he grinned. “You won’t kill me. Not after I tranquilized my brother for you.”

“You’re right; not today. But just like the dead”—she slipped the vials into her bag—“I have no need for sentiment.”

So much for trust being a two-way street, Finn thought and reattached the scalpel to his glove. “I’m done here,” he said, looping his arm through the strap of his pack.

“For today. I don’t blame you. When you do return, though, along with the textbooks, bring me the next in this”—she inspected the cover—“Twilight Saga. Please. And the latest edition of the New York Times.”

“If you’re so hell-bent on revenge, why should I return?” He moved to the doorway.

“Because.” She picked up the book to continue reading it. “You’re the kind of cat who likes a challenge.”

“These days we’re just called ‘guys.’”

“Fine. The meaning doesn’t change.”

Finn stalked down the hall, hating that she was right.

1964–1965

January 1964

ora pulled the hood of her parka tightly around her face, as much to shield her from Ulrich’s view as to ward off the frigid air. The snowflakes clinging to the crate were only a precursor to the blizzard that he’d claimed would arrive by dusk. From the morgue roof, she’d overheard him instructing the owner of the fishing trawler to return at three o’clock. His time constraint did little to settle her: Ulrich could accomplish plenty in nine hours, and based on the contents of this latest bimonthly installment of provisions, he had something special planned.

“You’ve dithered long enough,” he scolded from behind her as she crouched before the row of crates.

The shadows of the physical plant’s machinery shifted, and Cora knew he’d raised his lantern to strike her.

To keep him from seeing the fear on her face, she didn’t look up. Still, she could sense his hulking form, enlarged by the winter weather gear layered over his hazmat suit and mask.

Everything she’d requested appeared to be here: canned food; a jar of lard, which she would use for cooking over a small open fire on moonless nights; candles and matches; wool socks; toiletries; vitamins; and gasoline for the portable generator that powered her space heater on the coldest days. In November he’d surprised her with it, and she’d grudgingly thanked him—only because not doing so might cause him to take it back.

The complete fulfillment of her latest list wasn’t what had her worried. Rather, it was the extras he’d included. The goose down comforter, winter boots, fresh fruit, and parcel of beef couldn’t have come from the goodness of his heart.

A click sounded, signaling he’d shut the padlock that secured his dolly to a pipe in the boiler room. After his first delivery, he’d left it untethered, and she’d used it to blockade all the first-floor windows of the tuberculosis pavilion with furniture.

They’d both been learning from their mistakes. Once he left today, she would move these provisions to hiding places dispersed across the campus. Last July, not only had he emptied her second cache in the lighthouse, which had included her scalpels, but he’d also trampled her vegetable patch. Thank God he hadn’t recognized the resilience of the plants or the seeds hidden within their