Sweetheart

by Chelsea Cain

  Archie closed his eyes again and curled onto his side. His skin burned with sweat and his whole body hurt. He shifted on the bed, trying to find a tolerable position. The movement made his gut cramp. His hands shook so violently he clamped them between his knees. He opened his eyes. Even the light hurt. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked weakly.

  “Withdrawal,” Henry said. “You’re on an antinarcotic called naloxone. You OD’d. The naloxone blocks your opiate receptors. So it’s cold turkey, friend.”

  Archie searched his memory for any clue as to what had happened and came up with nothing. The bedsheets were cold and wet with his sweat. His last memory was of Gretchen, holding him. A wall of pain shuddered through his body like electricity, and Archie curled further into a fetal position. They had found him too soon. But he didn’t understand how she had gotten away. Then he felt the deep ache in his throat and reached up a trembling hand and let his fingers trace the rough bandages around his neck. He didn’t know how that had happened. But he knew this: She’d escaped. It was all for nothing.

  He started to laugh.

  “She used you as a hostage,” Henry said. “She used the naloxone to save your life. Then she cut your throat.”

  “I slept with her,” Archie said. It was half the truth.

  The magazine slid from Debbie’s lap and slapped onto the linoleum floor.

  Henry leaned down over Archie and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t ever say that out loud again,” he said.

  “I just thought you both should know,” Archie said. He swallowed hard, causing his neck to throb. “I don’t suppose I could get some pain meds for my throat,” he said.

  Debbie’s hands were fists, the knuckles white, like it was all she could do not to throttle him with her bare hands. He didn’t blame her. He wished she would try. He wished she would put a pillow over his head and suffocate him. It would be the humane thing to do.

  “It’s not real,” she said. “Whatever you think you have with her.”

  He had to concentrate to talk. Every muscle in his body felt starved for oxygen, cramping in pain. Over the past few years, he had thought about what withdrawal might be like.

  This was worse.

  “I thought I could catch her,” he said helplessly.

  A nurse appeared in peach-colored scrubs. She adjusted the drip on Archie’s IV. “This will help you sleep,” she said.

  Archie nodded gratefully.

  Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe let us in on the plan next time.”

  They both knew Henry could have stopped him.

  “You let me go,” Archie said. “You let me go to the bathroom by myself. That wasn’t like you.”

  Debbie turned and looked at Henry.

  Henry glanced at Debbie, then back at Archie. “I would never let you use yourself as bait,” he told Archie. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Lucky to be alive. For what? What had it all been for?

  “You found the confession?” Archie asked.

  “Yeah,” Henry said.

  There was that at least. He’d accomplished that.

  “You can close it,” Henry said with a grunt. “You can close that one case. Fourteen years old. A runaway without any family. And you closed it. Was it worth it?”

  Archie closed his eyes and smiled. He could feel the sleep drugs hit his system. It was a small measure of relief. “Yes,” he said.

  He must have drifted off because when Archie came to again Henry was standing over him on the other side of the bed. Debbie was gone.

  Archie leaned over and gagged. Henry got a rose-colored plastic bedpan in front of him and he vomited into it, his body shaking. When he was done, he lay back in the bed, chest heaving.

  Henry disappeared into the bathroom with the bedpan. Archie heard a toilet flush and the faucet go on and then Henry returned with the empty bedpan and set it on the tray next to the bed.

  “You about done?” Henry asked.

  Archie didn’t know what Henry was talking about.

  “You’ve been vomiting for the last hour,” Henry said. “You don’t remember?”

  Archie curled on his side. “No,” he said.

  “Rosenberg came to see you,” Henry said. “And Fergus was here,” he said. “Remember that?”

  Archie shook his head. He was covered with blankets, and he was still cold. He pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. His arms and legs were shaking. It felt like his bones hurt.

  “He said you make it twelve hours on the naloxone, they can give you more pain meds. Taper you down.”

  “How much longer is that?” Archie asked.

  Henry looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows. “Seven hours,” he said.

  Archie felt more acid rise in his throat and he turned over on his side and lifted his knees to his chest. “Keep talking to me.”

  Henry sat down. “Susan was with me,” Henry said. “When we found you.”

  Archie winced. He hadn’t meant for Susan to be put in danger. But he had known, when he gave the clue about Heather Ger-ber, that if she figured it out, she’d see it through. There was no way she was going to let Henry follow the lead by himself. If he’d gotten her killed, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. “She okay?” he asked.

  “She’ll want to talk to you,” Henry said. “I told her she could write about all of it. If she keeps some details out.”

  Henry proceeded to tell Archie about Susan’s escape from carbon monoxide poisoning and Bennett, who was still in a coma one floor up, and then about Susan identifying the other park bodies.

  Archie thought of John Bannon and Buddy Anderson. “I need to talk to her,” he said. “But first,” he said, his gut cramping, “I’m going to need that bedpan again.”

  The doctors and nurses came and went. He had thirty-five stitches in his neck. She’d missed the windpipe and the jugular. They continued to pump him full of naloxone.

  Debbie was back. She hadn’t brought the kids and he hadn’t asked. It was better that they not see him like this. They had seen too much already.

  “Did you get it out of your system?” she asked.

  He closed his eyes. “No,” he said.

  “What do you want, Archie?”

  What did he want? He wanted to die. That had been the plan.

  He turned his head away from her. “To sleep,” he said.

  Archie saw a form in the doorway. It took him a moment to realize it was a kid. At first he thought it might be Ben. He smiled and tried to sit up. He wanted it to be Ben.

  But it wasn’t Ben. It was the kid from the park. He motioned for the kid to come in, and he did. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing in the woods, a Ducks T-shirt and cargo shorts.

  “Hi,” the kid said, raising a hand awkwardly.

  “You remember me?” Archie asked. “From the woods?”

  The kid looked for something to do with his skinny arms, crossing them and then putting his hands into his pockets. “Can I get my nest back?” he asked.

  “It’s evidence,” Archie explained.

  “Oh,” the kid said.

  The colossal coincidence of the kid being there was dawning on Archie through his haze. Had he come to see Archie? “What are you doing here?” Archie asked.

  The kid shrugged. “My mom works here,” he said.

  Archie thought about that. It seemed plausible. “I want my partner to meet you,” he said.

  The kid backed away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to go.” He lowered his voice. “You should go, too. My mom says that hospitals are dangerous.” He looked around the hospital room. “You can get secondary infections.”

  “Hey,” Susan said. Archie had been dreaming. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. He had drifted in and out of consciousness all night and morning. Fergus had finally come at noon, and given him morphine. He had injected it into the IV, like Gretchen had done those last few days of his captivity.

  “You awake?” Susan
asked.

  Archie looked around groggily for the boy from the park. “Where’s the kid?” he asked.

  Susan glanced around the room and then raised an eyebrow. “There’s no kid,” she said.

  Archie rubbed his face and looked at Susan. Henry had said that she had broken her nose, but Archie wasn’t prepared for the fact of it. She had a bandage and two black eyes that had probably come in overnight. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said. “About Davis and Nixon. About Molly Palmer.”

  “Who are Davis and Nixon again?” Archie asked.

  “The bodies in the park,” Susan said impatiently. “Henry said he told you.”

  “Right,” Archie said.

  “Anyway,” Susan continued, “we’ll get to that.” She pulled her legs up under her in the chair. “But there’s something you should know first. They made an announcement this morning. They’ve appointed a new senator to serve out Castle’s term.” The color in her cheeks rose. “It’s the mayor. It’s Bud Anderson.”

  “Buddy?” Archie said.

  “I went and talked to him,” Susan continued. “I told him the Herald was finally going to run the Castle story and that I was going to reveal that he lied in his public statements about not knowing about the statutory rape. That’s obstruction of justice. I told him that Henry was reopening the Nixon/Davis case, and that it was all going to come unraveled.”

  Archie’s brain was foggy. He tried to follow. “The Herald’s running the Castle story?”

  Susan shook her head. “No, I lied.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Archie asked.

  “Because Buddy said he’d go on record,” Susan said. “Spill everything. What he knew and when.” She paused dramatically. “After he talked to you.”

  CHAPTER

  67

  Buddy was standing in Archie’s room, his fingers spreading open the blinds so he could see out the window. He’d been standing there for what seemed like five minutes.

  “Senator,” Archie said.

  Buddy chuckled. “Not yet,” he said.

  Archie had known Buddy for almost fifteen years, attended his last two weddings. Buddy had visited Debbie in the hospital after both the children were born, held them as infants in his arms. He’d been to the house for dinner. Had had Archie’s family to his house. He and Archie had worked twelve-hour days on the Beauty Killer case. Buddy was one of the few people who understood what it had been like, those long nights, the obsession, the violence, and grief. After Archie’s kidnapping, it had been Buddy who’d arranged the disability, who’d signed off on the victim identification project. Archie owed him more than he could repay.

  And now he was going to accuse him of murder.

  “You were Molly Palmer’s contact, when she needed more money from Castle,” Archie said. “You used John Bannon’s name. But it was you.”

  Buddy scratched the side of his face and nodded absentmind-edly. “I moonlighted on Castle’s security detail my first few years out of the academy,” he said. “You never knew that, did you?” He looked into the middle distance with a slight smile. “I was always a great admirer of his. He did a lot for law enforcement.”

  “Did you kill Nixon and Davis?”

  Buddy came and sat down in the chair next to the bed and picked up a paper cup of coffee from the commissary that was sitting on the floor and peeled off the thin white plastic top. He took a sip of the coffee and then tucked it between his knees. “I had it cleaned up,” Buddy said. “It was murder-suicide. The kid left a note.” Buddy lifted his fingers in air quotes. “He’d been betrayed by politics. He mentioned the Molly Palmer thing specifically.” He shook his head. “Didn’t know shit about it. He’d heard rumors. But the kid was sensitive.” He took another small sip of coffee and then returned the cup to his knees. “Shot her in the head, then himself. Right in the grass in Lower Macleay Park.” He looked down at his coffee and then up at Archie. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did you want some coffee?”

  “I’m not sure I’m allowed,” Archie said.

  “You’ll tell me if you change your mind? It’s no problem,” Buddy said.

  “Okay,” said Archie.

  “The kid called the senator first,” Buddy continued. “Told him goodbye and fuck you. I got down there and cleaned up the site. I took Bennett with me. He worked for Castle for two years after college, before I encouraged him to join the force. It was just the two of us, so we couldn’t move the bodies far. I remembered Heather Gerber.” He smiled and shook his head. “Isn’t it funny how that stuff comes back to you? We dragged the bodies up there. There was a house up the hill. They were having some work done. There was ivy everywhere and they had hired a crew to come in and clean it up and they had a wood chipper. Dog barked like a bitch in heat but his owner must be deaf, because no one came out of the house. I fed the boy into the chipper but it jammed. So I just left the girl in a shallow grave. I destroyed the note. Hosed the wood chipper down. Moved the kid’s car a mile away. And left.”

  “And Molly Palmer?” Archie asked.

  “She got in touch with me. Wanted ten grand to disappear forever. I met her there in the park. Gave her some money and some heroin and let nature take its course.”

  “The heroin was bad.”

  “I didn’t put the needle in her arm, Archie. She did that all by herself. Once a junkie, always a junkie. She was bad news when she was fourteen. And she died bad news.”

  “Where’s the money?” Archie asked.

  “Bennett recovered it,” Buddy said. “When he responded to the call.”

  So Bennett hadn’t slipped. He’d gotten there first, taken the money, and then fallen on purpose. He’d wanted to pollute the crime scene. “It must have been frustrating when Castle died and it was all for nothing,” Archie said.

  Buddy rubbed his temples with one hand, as if he had the vaguest beginnings of a headache. “I knew Susan Ward wouldn’t let the story go. Even with Molly gone. Castle wanted to go public.” He looked up at Archie, and shrugged. “I had to kill him. He was weak. He had arranged to confess everything to Parker. I had Bennett do it. I’m not sure I could have gone through with it. Bennett followed Castle and Parker over the bridge and then fired an air pistol at the front tire. The tire got shredded going through the fence, so they never saw the bullet hole. Maybe if Parker had been sober, he could have avoided going off the bridge, might have at least hit the brakes. I hated doing it, but someone had to protect his legacy. Castle was the best senator this state’s ever had.”

  “You killed him to protect him,” Archie said.

  “He would have been publicly humiliated,” Buddy said. “I couldn’t let that happen. You understand that, right? When you work your whole life in public service, you don’t want to end it in disgrace.” He took a sip of his coffee and gazed off into the middle distance again. “I protected you, you know. I saw you once.” He smiled and turned back to Archie. “With her.”

  Archie’s mouth went dry. Buddy knew about Archie’s affair with Gretchen? And he’d never said anything. He’d let Archie see her in prison, week after week, for two years. Why?

  “Don’t worry,” Buddy said with a wink. “I won’t tell anyone.” He leaned over and carefully placed his coffee on the floor. Then he reached to his hip, pulled out a semiautomatic, and shot himself under the jaw. The gunshot echoed through the room and Buddy’s body slammed back and then slumped in the chair. One of Buddy’s feet jerked, knocking the coffee cup. It teetered for a moment before it tipped and splattered coffee onto the linoleum.

  Susan stepped out of the bathroom. She had one hand over her mouth. And in the other hand she held a digital recorder. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she said.

  CHAPTER

  68

  They had moved Archie to another room while the crime scene guys scraped the mayor’s brains off the walls.

  Henry had gotten six hours’ sleep. He had shaved his head. He was wearing clea
n clothes. Archie was alive. The park murders had been solved. Bennett looked like he might come to and learn how to feed himself in jail.

  Things were looking up.

  Fergus was in with Archie, so Henry was standing out in the hall. He saw Debbie get out of the elevator and walk toward him. Her face was stricken. “I heard what happened,” she said. “Christ, Henry.”

  “Archie’s okay,” Henry said. “We can go in in a minute.”

  Debbie’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m not going in,” she said. “I can’t see him anymore. You know that, right? I love him. I do. But I can’t do this. He doesn’t want me to. I’m done.”

  “He needs you,” Henry said.

  She smiled and touched Henry’s face, her eyes still wet. “He needs you,” she said.

  He watched as she walked down the hallway and stepped onto the elevator. She waved once as the doors closed.

  Fergus exited Archie’s room with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. And walked right into Henry.

  “Sorry,” Fergus said.

  “How is he?” Henry asked.

  “Not out of the woods,” Fergus said. He pulled at a fat, fuzzy earlobe. “You need to get him clean and you need to keep him clean.”

  “He’s ready,” Henry said.

  Fergus put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. It was an awkward gesture. “You can’t make someone stay alive if they don’t want to,” he said.

  Henry watched Archie sleep.

  He had sat like this before, after Archie’s first run-in with Gretchen. That time Archie had spent three weeks in a medically induced coma. They’d thought they’d freed him. But Henry realized now that Archie had always been her prisoner.

  “Are you going to get the phone?” Archie asked without opening his eyes.

  Henry got his ringing cell phone out of his pocket, looked at it, and then put it back. “It’s an unknown caller,” he said.