Mason's Run

by Mellanie Rourke

  “Well, me neither, ‘exactly’,” she said, her voice full of gentle good humor. “Please, sit down,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs across from the hospital bed. “I don’t bite.”

  I smiled at that. I guessed her to be in her late fifties, and she certainly didn’t look threatening. Her hair was in soft black curls, cut closely around her face. She was dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a white turtleneck, with a cardigan over it embroidered with fall leaves. Her lips were full, and while her cheeks were soft and a few wrinkles gathered at the corners of her eyes, her gaze held a sharp intelligence.

  “The nurses told me you were family,” she said, her voice not quite a question as she patted Mason’s hand and gazed back at him.

  “No,” I said, falling back on a partial truth. “I’m a medic. I worked on Mason when he was injured.”

  She nodded, not taking her eyes from him. Reassured, I sat down in the chair, wondering what part she played in all of this. “I, um, kind of fibbed and told the nurses we were related so they wouldn’t think I was too weird for coming to visit him all the time,” I admitted. “He didn’t seem to have any family, and it felt wrong to leave him in here alone.”

  “Really?” she asked, turning her eyes back to me. “I’m sure people in your line of work check on their patients all the time. Nothing ‘weird’ about that!” She smiled gently at me. “My husband used to follow up with people he ran into through work all the time. Goodness! That man couldn’t go anywhere without running into someone he knew!” She paused for a few minutes, lost in thought, but then she roused herself, “I’m so glad you were there for Mason when he needed it.”

  “He seemed like a good kid who had something really shitty happen to him,” I said, then paused, blushing. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have used that kind of language. My moms would kick my as—butt.” I said, lamely trying to recover.

  She laughed heartily at my attempt at politeness.

  “Don’t worry about me, dear. My husband was a police officer. I’ve heard about every swear word invented, and some that I think he made up just to see if I’d notice!”

  She laughed again, but my heart rate, which had started to calm down as we’d talked, started racing again when she mentioned her husband was a cop.

  I was so screwed.

  “So, uh, how do you know Mason?” I asked, fidgeting in my seat as I tried to figure my way out of this.

  “He saved my granddaughter’s life,” she said simply, looking back at Mason’s still form.

  “Your granddaughter?” I asked, surprised.

  She nodded, smiling gently. “Her name is Zem. Zemtira, actually. She said she was named after me.” Her voice wavered slightly as she spoke.

  “She’s such a sweet little girl,” she continued. “Nothing like her mother. Nina, my daughter, was a wild child. So lively, so crazy. She could lighten up a room just by walking in the door. But she got mixed up with a bad crowd,” Tira sighed.

  “We raised Nina well, taught her right from wrong. She knew better than to touch drugs. All it took was one bad choice and she was hooked on crack before her sixteenth birthday.

  “We tried to get her help, but nothing seemed to get through to her. We tried. Lord knows, we tried! She ran away from the last rehab center we got her into. That was almost ten years ago. The only thing she took with her was a stuffed wolf she’d had since she was a baby. We…” she paused, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears, and sighed. “We didn’t even know she got pregnant.”

  “T-they found her a few weeks ago, in a tiny little apartment in Milwaukee. It kills me she was so close this whole time… Her landlord had stopped in because she hadn’t paid the rent. Apparently, she had o-overdosed,” she stuttered for a moment, her voice thick with emotion.

  After a while she continued. “Her fingerprints were matched to the missing person’s report that her daddy and I had filed when she disappeared from rehab,” she sighed.

  “The detective was very sweet, the one working her missing person’s case. He knew his news was a blow to me, but it just about killed me when he asked if I knew what had happened to her daughter. A daughter I didn’t even know she had.”

  I swallowed hard. The thought of a child in the clutches of men like Ricky and Dreyven made me physically ill.

  She smiled gently at Mason, idly brushing a stray hair out of his eyes, then, continued her story.

  “The detectives had found evidence of a little girl living in the house, and her neighbors confirmed she had a daughter, but no one knew what had happened to her after her mama died. Or at least, no one who would talk to the police. Then, out of the blue, I got this… this phone call, in the middle of the night, from a terrified young man telling me my grandbaby was on a bus on her way to Solon Springs,” she sighed. “That’s where we live, Solon Springs. He sounded so… so frightened… terrified, really, but so determined, like he was going to make damn sure this little girl was going to get back to me, no matter what.”

  Tira rummaged around in her purse, pulling out a new-looking photo of a gorgeous little girl around nine or ten years old. She had the same hair and startlingly blue eyes as her grandmother, and clutched a tattered stuffed animal in her arms that vaguely resembled a wolf.

  “Zem told us Mason snuck her out of the apartment, past the man who was holding both of them. She said he told her stories about being superheroes and escaping the evil troll.” She patted Mason’s arm absently as she spoke.

  “Zem didn’t say it, she may not have even known, but from what the detective was able to find out, it sounds like the boy used all his money to buy her a ticket to get back to me.” She sighed. “The ticket agent we talked to told us that two men came through a day later asking about him and Zem.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “They think that’s who did this to him. He gave me back a granddaughter I didn’t even know I had, and this is what those monsters did to him.” Tears began to slide down her wrinkled cheeks.

  The urge to comfort her was overwhelming, but I wasn’t sure how. Finally, I did what I would have done if it had been my own grandmother. I stood and wrapped my arms around her shoulders, squeezing gently and patting her back awkwardly. After a few minutes I felt her gather herself, so I released her and sat back down.

  “That same detective, Detective Jarreau, found out about this young man being brought in to the hospital after the attack. He was ‘officially’ a John Doe at first, I suppose, until you identified him, but they sent us a picture of him and Zem recognized him, even though… even though he was so hurt.” She glanced at Mason, his face still showing the signs of the beating he’d taken.

  “The doctors told me what was done to him. The damage…” she sighed, shuddering at the thought of what Mason’s life had been like. “They said it wasn’t just recent. He has so many older injuries. He’s been… abused… his whole life, the doctors said. We think… we think that’s what those men planned to do to Zem.”

  Tears began to well up in her eyes again and I couldn’t stop myself from taking her hand.

  “Tira,” I whispered, waiting for her eyes to meet my own as I comforted her. “The S.O.B. that hurt him… he won’t touch Mason, or anyone else, ever again.”

  She looked up at me and nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “The police told me the man who hurt him, the one who had taken Zem, was killed at the motel. Zem insists there were two men, but no one else saw anything,” she said, peering at me over her glasses as I stepped back, sudden consideration in her eyes. I couldn’t help but back away from her scrutiny.

  Shit shit shit shit shit! I had to remember that this woman was not my friend. And good god, I hoped she didn’t think I was the other man!

  She must have seen my reaction, either that or she read my mind. She waved dismissively at me.

  “No, no, dear. The description Zem gave wasn’t great. She’s just a child after all, but she said the other man was short and fat.”

  I almost
laughed in relief. At least that much was clear, I was neither short, nor fat.

  “Well, whoever shot him did everyone a favor, I guess,” she said, picking up Mason’s hand again. “And I don’t know how I could ever repay the favor Mason has done me by saving Zem, but I intend to try. My husband, rest his soul, never got to meet her, but I know he would want me to help this young man build a new life, if he’ll let me.”

  A knock sounded at the door and panic swelled in my chest and blood drained from my face as I saw a man in grey dress pants and a light blue button down in the doorway. A badge hung at his belt and a revolver in a holster at his side.

  “Tira? Am I interrupting?” The officer asked, his shrewd eyes glancing from her to me.

  Fuck. I was so screwed.

  “Detective Jarreau! Of course not! Please come in!” she said, waving him into the room.

  The detective walked in and shook her hand, but never turned his back fully on me.

  “It’s good to see you again, ma’am. And you are…?” he asked, turning to look at me, his eyes narrowing.

  “I’m Lee, sir. I’m a medic who worked on Mason the night he was brought in,” I lied. Okay, so it wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close enough. His gaze held mine.

  “What brings you here this evening, Detective?” Tira asked.

  “Just thought I’d check in on our mystery man, ma’am. You know me and loose ends,” he said smiling, his eyes flitting toward me.

  “Of course! Would you like some coffee, Detective? I was just going to step out to the cafeteria to get some,” she offered.

  “That would be wonderful, if it’s not too much trouble?” he said.

  Tira stood and excused herself, Detective Jarreau taking her vacated seat. For a few moments after she left, awkward silence filled the room.

  “Lee, eh?” Jarreau finally asked as we sat together, Mason in the bed between us.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, nodding, and struggling not to fidget, trying to figure out how I could escape.

  “That’s odd… I don’t remember there being a ‘Lee’ listed on the EMS report,” he said, looking at me suspiciously. I just kept my mouth shut, for once.

  “Okay, Lee,” he continued, “That young man there seems to be in some trouble,” he continued. I just nodded silently this time. “Maybe you can help clear some things up for me about that night?”

  Oh, fuck.

  “I… don’t know what else I can add that isn’t in the report…” I said, trying desperately not to show how nervous I was.

  “Oh, maybe just a few details…” he said, reaching into a back pocket and pulling a small notepad and pen out. As he did so, his suit jacket fell back, again displaying his weapon, and giving him easy access to it. He flipped through the pages for a few minutes before speaking again.

  “Did he say anything to you? Tell you anything about how he came to be there, or why? Did he happen to mention who the man was he was with?” the detective asked, his questions coming rapid fire.

  “No, sir. He wasn’t in much of a state to say, well, anything, when I got there,” I lied. “Um, other than his name, that is.”

  “Right. His name. Weird that the other medics didn’t catch that. They usually write that down first thing. They brought him in as a John Doe,” Jarreau said, flipping through his notes.

  I coughed and nodded nervously in agreement. Yep, odd all right. Shit.

  “So, what do you think happened that night, Lee?” he asked.

  “Me, sir?” I asked, my thoughts racing.

  “Yes, you. You said you were the first medic on site, right?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at me.

  Did I? I couldn’t remember. Which was probably exactly what he’d hoped.

  “Um…” I glanced around the room, wondering if I’d be able to outrun the detective if I had to. I tensed, and saw the detective’s finger tap gently on his weapon and our eyes locked. Fuck.

  “Look, I’m just trying to understand what the situation was, son. Was the kid a victim, or one of the perps? Was he there voluntarily? Maybe what happened to him was just a little lover’s quarrel. That hotel is known for hosting a lot of ‘escorts’,” Jarreau said, making little air quotes around the words as he spoke. “Maybe he’s just a hooker who’s into pain,” he said shrugging. “Maybe he wanted it… Maybe he liked it,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me and leering salaciously.

  “He didn’t like it, asshole,” I snarled through gritted teeth, anger boiling inside me at his suggestion. “And he sure as fuck didn’t want to be there. They’d tied him to the fucking bed!” I bit out.

  Memories of Mason’s bruised and bleeding body, his broken arm, the small whimpers he made as I worked on his wounds was making me see red. I realized, suddenly, I was on my feet and had taken a menacing step toward the detective.

  Jarreau looked up at me, unperturbed by my rage. The leer had left his face quickly, replaced by a thoughtful expression.

  “Really? I didn’t see that detail in the report, either,” he said, writing in the small notebook. “Humph. And ‘they’ implies more than one person. We really need to get on these beat cops to be more thorough. Is there anything else that might have been left out of the ‘official’ report, Lee?” he asked, looking up at me expectantly.

  Fuck. The anger drained out of me as quickly as it had arrived, and I sat back down in defeat. Fine.

  “I didn’t know,” I began, my head in my hands as shame washed over me. “I thought he was older. I thought… I thought he was there willingly. The website was… convincing,” I said. “They posted pictures. Dates. Times. He looked a lot older in them.” My voice trailed off.

  “‘They’?” the detective prompted, not looking up at me.

  “Two men. He was… terrified of them. Ricky is the one I… um, the one who’s dead,” I amended. No need to just walk right into the jail cell, I guessed. “He called the other one Dreyven. He’s… the one who got away,” I growled, striking my aching leg with a clenched fist. “I was too goddamn slow.”

  I winced at my stupidity, on multiple occasions now, and rubbed the aching spot on my leg, then gave the detective the best description I could of Dreyven.

  “He was five foot ten, maybe? Two hundred fifty pounds. Long, stringy black hair, shoulder length. Might have some American Indian or Polynesian in his background, maybe? I knew a guy in the service with similar eyes,” I said.

  “Service, eh?” Jarreau asked, gesturing to my cane. “Is that how you got that? I noticed your dog tags.”

  I nodded, tapping my tags self-consciously. I’d worn them for so long, I didn’t even think about them anymore. I sat there for a few more minutes wondering how long it was going to take me to find a lawyer in Milwaukee, and how the hell I was going to explain all this to my parents. I gave Jarreau the website address that had led me to Mason, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be much help. The addresses changed almost daily.

  Jarreau spent a few more minutes writing in his notebook before speaking. I was pretty sure his next words were going to be my Miranda rights, so you could imagine my shock when he continued.

  “Whoever shot Ricky Taylor did this city a public service,” Jarreau said, reading from his notes. He looked up, catching the surprise on my face, and said wryly, “The fucker was suspected in a string of rapes, kidnappings, two murders in Milwaukee alone, as well as wanted for questioning in an ongoing investigation into human trafficking. My investigation.”

  My face must have shown my surprise, as Jarreau continued.

  “Unfortunately, decisions about prosecution aren’t up to me, Lee. I’m sure that the person who shot Taylor has his, or her, reasons for not coming forward.”

  I sat there dumbfounded as he continued to write notes. He reached into his pocket, and despite his words, part of me expected him to pull out handcuffs, but all he did was hand me a card that had his name and number printed on it. The back had the words “Confidential Informant Line” with a toll-free number,
and the word “harem” printed in italics. I looked up at him in question.

  “Someone in my office has a fuckin’ twisted sense of humor with the code words. I’m determined to make sure these assholes are prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, Lee. If you ever need anything, if he ever needs anything…” he said, nodding his head at Mason, “Call this line. Leave your name, and the code on the back. I will move heaven and hell to help, if I can. We really do serve and protect.”

  I gave him a stiff nod and stuffed the card in my pocket. I stood and leaned hard on my cane as I made my way to the hallway.

  “Oh, Lee,” he called after me, “We found these odd markings on the floor outside the motel. Strange round marks… like the shooter had been using something to help them walk… something like a cane, maybe?”

  His eyes held mine and my breath stuck in my throat.

  “Whoever that was might want to make sure they cleaned the blood off the bottom of their cane,” he said.

  I swallowed, hard, and nodded jerkily again, then got the hell out of there. I passed Tira Graham on the way back to Mason’s room but managed to duck inside another room until she’d gone by.

  I knew I had to leave Mason to his own life, now, but at least I was confident that he had someone to care for him, someone to watch over him. I had a strange certainty in my gut that he was going to be okay.

  After that, of course, I’d never answered another one of those ads. No matter how willing they might seem, there would always be the specter of someone like Dreyven or Ricky in their lives.

  I was still haunted by the thought of the other men I’d paid for sex. I wondered if they were all right, or if they, too, had someone hurting them. I worried that I'd missed the signs before, or simply not wanted to see that I was putting their lives at risk for a few moments of sexual satisfaction.

  For a while, the guilt had consumed me. I’d resolved to find some way to make it up to them and to help other victims, but I didn’t know exactly how. So I started to do some research.