Stone's Cage

by Rebecca Ryan

  Spitting out my mouthguard, it’s covered in blood. The pain in my side is sharp. I think I have a busted rib. I'll have to set my abs better next round. All I can think is Cassie. Cassie. Doing this for you.

  And as soon as I return to the station, there's Shreves, sitting in the crowd, shades on smiling, his split lower lip curving. He's rubbing his index finger and thumb together, signaling cash.

  Fucker.

  Coach swims into view. I grab him before he starts giving me water. "What the fuck do you mean?"

  "This is on you kid. You have a decision to make."

  It's hard for me to talk. "You have the gun?" is all I can get out.

  "If you throw this, Shreves owns you."

  I shake my head.

  "Oh he will. I can’t keep pulling you out. The threat'll wear thin. And then he'll come after me."

  A flicker of hope lights in my chest despite the fact it's dangerous. It’s always dangerous to cross Shreves. But the real danger is feeling hope.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lily

  I couldn't bear to watch another round from behind that glass. Every blow, I felt. I can't believe human beings do this to each other. It looks barbaric. The whole point is to beat the shit out of your opponent. And in this game, there were no real rules. That's what he told me. That's why Stone didn’t want me to come.

  After the second round, I open the door just as Stone stands in his corner and Coach starts mopping him up. There's some talk between them and I'm making my way through the crowd, squeezing, turning, until I'm right there and I come up to the chain link. Though it's coated in plastic, it’s still hard, unyielding and I call his name.

  Stone doesn't hear me.

  One of the judges takes these two pieces of wood and slams them together. Round 3 begins.

  Stone steps out into the center while the other guy, who is slightly shorter but thicker, and panting hard suddenly leaps on him, legs around Stone's waist, and he slams Stone to the ground, his back arched funny because the guys legs are still wrapped around him.

  The crowd boos. Then Fly goes crazy, punching Stone on the side of his neck, his head, his chest and Stone rolls to his side, trying to cover his head with his arms but the asshole keeps trying to move his arms away and then bashes him some more. Suddenly Coach has his arm around me, pulling me to the cage and I realize I'm screaming.

  Not words. Just screams.

  Stone's eyes, those blues, burn from the sea of blows and then Stone wraps his legs around the guy and in a Jiu Jitsu move, twists and the guy is on the floor. Blood pours from a gash on Stone's back. He kicks the guy's left shoulder as he tries to come up and the guys staggers back against the links. My heart is all I can hear. It's beating high and hard and somewhere in my throat.

  Fly's got a grip on Stone, who's head is down and Stone's trying to get the guy back down on the floor but instead, the guy knees him in the groin and as the crowd boos again, Fly's right hand comes up and smashes into Stone's jaw. Stone releases him and, at this point, I can’t tell if he's going to lose, and if he does, if it’s on purpose.

  Fly's got Stone up against the cage and his forearm is pressing on Stone's throat. The crowd is loud, people are yelling, the ref is moving around the men, shouting at the guy to stop. Stone starts to go red and his punches aren’t landing. It's like the guy wants to kill him.

  Coach drops his arm from me and launches himself at the edge of the ring, he's screaming, even the other trainer comes around, yelling.

  Then, in an instant, it's over. Stone shifts his weight, leverages Fly against himself and the guy goes flying backward. Before Stone can even take a breath, he's on the guy, a knee to the side, the chest, holding him in a grip, keeping his head down and then the bell rings again, though the crowd's so loud no one hears it. The ref has to call it.

  I feel limp.

  The ref leans over and one of the judges say something to him. He strokes his beard, and then hops down and lifts Stone's arm.

  I know I should be happy. He didn’t throw the fight. But all I can see is blood. Blood everywhere and the exhaustion in his face. His neck is already mottled and bruised.

  He slowly walks over to where I'm standing next to the fence.

  "Don't," he swallows hard, "go home. Coach's."

  Coach slips his hand into his pocket and hurriedly works a key off a keyring and hands it to me.

  "Run," he says. "Run as fast as you can. Then get a cab."

  "What?"

  "Go," he says with such intensity, I realize he means now, and to run fast. Fishing around in his pocket he hands me a torn piece of a paper with an address scribbled on it. "Meet us there." He sees my face and drives home what he's trying to say: "You can’t stay here."

  So that's what I do. I run as fast as I can for three blocks and then I call an Uber. When I arrive at Coach's brownstone, it is fairly nice, with a real railing and lights that are not burned out. I unlock the door and then bolt it, throwing the safety latch as well.

  I wait an hour. Every minute is excruciating. I've been sitting as still as a stone on a plush green velvet sofa just listening. I can’t even drink water my stomach is so churned up. And then I hear someone at a different door off the back, scraping a key into a lock.

  "It’s me, Coach."

  I spring up and throw the safety catch off.

  The door opens and Coach steps in, trying not to scare me. "I drove back, the lot's behind the house," he offered as if little details would help. They did. Tossing his keys on the counter he turned to see if Stone needed help.

  Stone steps into the kitchen holding his shoulder awkwardly and pressing a thin ice pack to his face.

  "Oh my god," was all I could say. He smiles at me, almost with relief, like something is over, and makes his way to a leather chair where he sinks down, wincing, as he tries to tip his head back and put the ice pack on his throat.

  "Is this how all the fights are?"

  Coach shakes his head. "No. This is what happens when assholes fight jacked up on coke and amphetamines."

  I stare at Coach. "Really?"

  "Shreves wanted to make damn sure he lost tonight." Turning to Stone he asks, "Do you know how much he put up?"

  Stone holds up three fingers.

  Coach looks puzzled. "Three grand?"

  Stone barely shakes his head. Then he does the three fingers again and makes an "O" with his fingers.

  Coach nods. "Yeah. That's more like it. Thirty K. Your place'll be torched."

  Stone sees my face and waves a finger at Coach, directing him to do something. "Oh yeah right. Here you go, says Coach, reaching into his gym bag and pulling out Tig.

  "Can you talk at all?" I ask, not knowing what to do.

  "I can," Stone says, though his voice is really hoarse.

  "This means your winnings are about eight K, wired directly into my account and, this time, it’s all yours," says Coach fishing around in his freezer. The place is small but nice. Tidy. Everything is in its place. I remember at one point, Stone told me the guy was ex-marine.

  "But what about Shreves? What about," I swallow, "the Hooks?"

  "I'm out forever," says Stone. Then Stone reaches for me and pats his lap. Being ever so careful, I sit on the arm of the leather chair and ease myself down onto him. I feel him tense and I wonder if his ribs are bruised, but he relaxes after a moment or two and breathes into my hair.

  "Tell her," he says, and closes his eyes.

  I look at Coach, this African American man with kind gray eyes and wonder what he's got on Shreves. It's got to be big.

  He's up though, making tea and setting down three mugs. This all seems so civilized after the last two hours. The stove ticks as the burner lights. Settling a copper kettle on the burner, he turns to me.

  "Two years ago, I was walking on 79th. I'd gone to a talk at Hunter College on kinesics and hopped a taxi back." He rolls his eyes slightly, "Because someone here wanted to know more about it all. Anyway, I come around the cor
ner and there's all this shouting and someone yells, 'You're going to die now you mother-whatever,' and then this pop goes off. Twice."

  I know I should be touched he doesn’t want to swear around me, but I'm holding my breath because I think I know where this is going.

  Coach stands there by the stove and sets the kettle on a hot pad. "It was your brother, Lily. I'm so sorry. I saw Shreves come out from a trash bin he'd ducked behind and when the other kids took off, he fired another round into the sky. He still didn’t see that he'd hit anyone. For some reason," he wiped his head, "for some reason, he set the gun on the edge of the dumpster and stepped out into the street. I shouted something and he looked over at me. I told him to back away and he did. By then sirens were wailing and a cop car was heading straight for him. I turned and ran, grabbing the gun with a bag from the street. Prints," he offered by way of explanation. "I've had it ever since. With instructions to send it to the police with a note if anything happens to me or," he points to Stone, "this guy."

  I feel numb. Coach knew all along who did it, but didn’t come forward.

  "I know it was wrong Lily, not to go to the police. But showing up with a murder weapon? My word against Shreves? He's Mister I-work-with-youth down at the Youth Club. And the basketball league he started. I couldn't even picture how that would go down. All I could see was a way out for Stone."

  I glance at Stone who had set down his ice pack.

  Coach keeps talking. "Stone didn't know. He had no idea. He just knew I made a deal with Shreves. He didn’t know until tonight."

  "Where is it?" My voice sounds loud and strong.

  Both men look at me. I'm surprised my voice carries at all. "Where's the gun?"

  "In a safe in the basement."

  "I want to see it."

  Coach looks at Stone. "I warned you this would happen," he says and hefts himself out of his chair. I realize how old he is now, he's got to be in his late sixties and he's a little stiff from the day.

  He opens a door in the back part of the kitchen and I hear him trudge down some stairs. I unfold myself from Stone's lap, and move to the sofa, but I can feel him staring at me.

  "It's fine," I say. "I'm fine." But my voice shakes.

  Coach had wrapped it in a plastic bag which was then wrapped in a gym towel and the whole thing was stuffed into a red zippered plastic portfolio like I use in college.

  Coach sets it on the table and takes out a slip of paper. "This is my eyewitness account of what happened," he says and glances at me. His eyes are filmy and wet.

  I unfold the towel and gaze at the pistol through the plastic. It’s small, unassuming and looks almost like a toy. "Burn the letter," I say. "If we need it later, you can rewrite it."

  Later that night, as Tig finally stopped sneezing from the smell of rubbing alcohol and topical antihistamine, I realized this was the first time I'd actually been in a bed with Stone. He'd refused painkillers but had swallowed shots of bourbon and because he usually doesn't drink they hit him hard. Now he is very relaxed and sloppy with exhaustion. Coach had dressed the skin tears on his head and shoulder blade well and now he lies on his right side, asleep, while I make plans. His eyes are closed and his body, completely and utterly limp. Rising on one elbow I kiss him on the temple, so glad he is here with me, so glad to have him safe, so glad finally to know my next step in a world I am familiar with.

  My world.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stone

  I heal fast. Probably all the Omega-3s I gulp. It's the one supplement I take besides protein powder. I got a call from the police that my apartment had been ransacked, everything destroyed, which was funny because there's not much there to destroy. I called in sick the last few days and we've been staying with Coach. And Lily has been my light, my angel.

  Two days later, we're on the train heading to Yonkers. I'm sore, nervous, and Lily's right there. We get off and I make a phone call on my new phone, and my sister's husband answers. Paul's a nice looking man, reserved, brown curling hair and a quick smile and he picks us up and takes us to the center of town to a large beautiful home. "Tudor," Lily tells me climbing elegantly from the black SUV. And then I see her, Cassie, through the window. She answers the door in a wheelchair but stands when I hug her and we both cry. I swear I cry harder. I just hold her—and keep holding her.

  My sister.

  Finally.

  Cassie looks like our mother but even with MS, she's a stronger, healthier version. With shoulder-length brown way hair, wide green eyes, and a sweet smile, I catch myself just staring at her. I can’t believe I am here, in her kitchen, her front room, sitting on the sofa, eating dip. The last time I saw her I was in juvie and so scared I acted like the fourteen-year-old punk I was and flipped her off.

  Now, it's like we've always done this: hung out, laughed, hugged.

  Like this was any other day.

  I want this all to be the new normal. The day is a blur of lunch and talking, of looking at old photos of the two of us, then wedding photos of her and Paul, various vacations. I watch Lily laugh easily with Cassie at a picture of me with nothing on except a cowboy hat and little red boots with white stitching. I must have been two—before our mom really got lost in her addiction. When we leave that evening, Cassie stands again and hugs me, wipes a tear and I promise to visit again in the next couple of weeks.

  "You have to. We have to do a bunch of things before the baby's born." This is how I find out she's pregnant and that since she and Paul married five years ago, she's been taking the money I've been sending and started a trust for their child.

  I feel gut punched in a good way when she tells me this and lays and hand on her belly. Lily, so quiet and still, takes my hand.

  On the train ride back, my shoulder hurts and I can't get comfortable. It’s nearly an hour train trip and it's all I can do to hold Lily's hand.

  The next day is Monday and it's my turn to be there for Lily. Coach retrieves the gun and Lily calls an Uber. Together, the two of us walk into the 11th Precinct.

  It’s cold and breezy and she looks frail. Thin. She didn’t eat this morning or last night. She's too angry to eat. Anger is her fuel.

  "I'm fine," she says as she marches through the door I hold open for her. She's got the gun in a sling pouch on her shoulder, still wrapped in the plastic bag.

  "Detective Reilly," she asks an officer behind a bulletproof shield. We have an appointment and get waved down toward an elevator. When the door slides shut she looks at me with those big, soft, golden eyes and sets her mouth. She's steeling herself. She doesn't want to cry. But I see her finger tremble when she punches the button for the third floor and she sighs hard, forgetting to breathe. I put my arm around her. I feel her sag a little against me and I kiss the top of her head.

  Detective Reilly's office is light, modern, though there's a dead fern on the desk and a chipped blue coffee cup. We sit on desk chairs and watch him pull up the case on his computer, while listening to Lily tell her story. How the gun will match the bullet that killed her brother, how the killer's fingerprints are still on the gun, how the gun might be implicated in the death of a woman named Monica Knight. How the killer is Shreves Mallory. This raises an eyebrow.

  "The youth leader?"

  "He's recruiting for the Hooks from the youth club," she says.

  "We know," Reilly says, pushing back from the screen. "We're just waiting for him to mess up. We've been watching him for six months," he says, reaching across his desk to snatch up a pencil. "How did you get possession of the," he pauses, "weapon?"

  "I don’t think we need to go into that. The person who found it kept it for a very good reason." Lily's answer is rehearsed.

  "Blackmail?"

  "Protection," I say, cutting her off. I don’t want her to have to make anything up to save Coach. But this is the truth. Coach kept it for my protection. "For protection," I repeat.

  Lily continues the answer, "The person who found it, kept it to protect his family."
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  "Why is he giving it up now? What's changed?"

  I give Lily's shoulder a squeeze, just to let her know I'm right here with her. "Everything," I say.

  Epilogue

  Lily

  Stone grabs me around the waist and, with one arm, lifts me to kiss him. Outside, the warm, June air is dry and I'm getting ready for my internship interview for the summer at a law office in downtown Boston.

  "Stop it!" I say, trying to wriggle my pencil skirt back down.

  He sets me on the floor and takes my face in his hands. "I love you." Pressing his lips to mine, he slips a hand under my bra and strokes a breast. My ribcage shudders at his touch and I'm electrified. Warmth floods between my legs.

  "No," I gasp a little, pulling away from him. "I'm going to be in these undies all day."

  He grins, sitting down on our bed, slipping on gym shoes. "Don't wear any then."

  I watch him tie his shoes and think back eight months ago to when we first met, when we sent Shreves Mallory to prison for both my brother's and Monica Knight's murders. The ballistics report came back positive for both crimes and other evidence put Shreves at each scene.

  Coach and Stone set up their own gym in Stoneham just north of Boston. It's a gorgeous facility they bought in pre-foreclosure just as the builder ran out of money. Gleaming equipment, a sauna, pool, cherry lockers. We live above it in one of two roomy apartments. Coach is in the other. Their clients are high end business people, single parents, college students, and every Wednesday they head off into Boston to visit youth groups and talk about health, being safe on the streets, staying away from gangs and making plans for the future when you don’t have money.

  It all seems so far away and yet Sam is still with me every single day. My brother will always be with me.

  "I want to thank you," I say, sitting down next to him, stroking his back, his muscles hard and lean. If possible, he's toned up even more, having dropped a little weight now that his diet is better.