by Aiden Bates
The next two patients were simply there to see their latest scans. The scans were clear. They were healthy. If they stayed clear for the next two and three years, respectively, they would be considered clear of the disease.
The next meeting was for another survivor who had just gone into remission, this time a twenty-year-old with bone cancer. Brantley loved to pass this kind of news on. The bliss on the young man's face made everything else he'd gone through that day worth it.
And then, finally, the last appointment of the morning. He looked up as Johnathan Schmidt, newly diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma walked in the door.
Except Johnathan Schmidt, 53, from Oneida, wasn't actually a real person. Instead of a cancer patient, Frank Gottlieb walked into Brantley's office instead. He was accompanied, as always, by Natalie Parris.
"Seriously?" Brantley pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Gupta. Gottlieb and Parris here! He knew it had been a long summer when his autocorrect filled in the names automatically.
"Aw, not happy to see us, Powell?" Gottlieb put his hand on his chest. "I'm heartbroken. Truly I am. But while I'm standing here nursing the shattered remains of my broken heart, I'm going to have to insist that you stand up, turn around, and spread yourself up against the wall."
"I'm sure you know the position," Parris tittered.
"Are you trying to arrest me?" Brantley couldn't believe what he was hearing. The whole room suddenly seemed askew, like someone had just turned the building ninety degrees to the right but left him where he was.
"We're not trying anything. We're doing it. Up against the wall or we'll decide you're resisting arrest and have to take steps." Gottlieb's permanent sneer widened. "Go on. Please resist arrest."
Brantley stood up. He moved slowly, carefully, and deliberately over to the blank wall nearby. He had nowhere to run to, no place to go. Even if he could get away from Gottlieb and Parris, and he had no reason to think he could, no one would give him shelter. He had friends, but no one close enough to risk the law to harbor him. Anyone who was friends with Allen would probably help the police.
"What, exactly, are the charges here?" he asked, head held high. It didn't seem like an unreasonable question.
Gottlieb punched him in the mouth. Pain ripped through his cheeks as his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. "Those are your charges."
Brantley fought down panic as Parris slapped metal cuffs onto his wrists. This wasn't like before. He was a man now, a doctor and a respected member of the community. He had already sent word to his attorney. Maybe he was alone, and no parents would come to his rescue, but he had a lawyer for a reason, damn it.
Gottlieb and Parris dragged him out into the waiting room, blood streaming from his mouth. He could only shuffle. His hands were bound behind him, and his captors were deliberately keeping his pace to a pathetic kind of trudge to increase the humiliation of the perp walk. They hustled him over to the elevator and dragged him down to the main lobby.
Then, they dragged him out to the black SUV they'd left in the fire lane, right in front of patients, visitors, and colleagues. There were other routes out of the hospital. They wanted this to hurt on every possible level.
When they got to the SUV, which already had a parking ticket on it, they made sure he hit his head as he was shoved into the back seat. "Watch yourself," Parris smirked, as she slammed the door behind him.
Gottlieb crumbled the ticket and threw it onto the ground. "You've got a date in booking," he said. "I hope you showered nice and good."
Brantley struggled to breathe. He knew his rights. He also knew he had to be alive to exercise them. Most of the cops he'd met had been good, but these were not among them. They'd already shown they didn't have a lot of regard for his rights when they punched him in the face, failed to read his Miranda rights, and didn't inform him of the charges for which he was being arrested.
Of course, the fact that they'd gone through the home he'd shared with Allen without a warrant had been a pretty big clue.
He focused on those things and let his indignation soothe away his panic. This was going to be a long fight. He couldn't afford to get himself killed before there was a paper trail.
The ride to the Justice Center didn't take long. He was brought into booking, where he was stripped and searched so thoroughly he thought they might be doing a medical exam. His injuries from his arrest were documented, but not commented upon. They didn't seem to arouse much interest, but at least someone gave him some gauze for his mouth.
Then he was provided with a bright orange jumpsuit and a pair of slip on canvas shoes. They didn't fit well. No one cared. Even Brantley didn't care. He was too busy worrying about what came next.
They fingerprinted him, even though his fingerprints were on file, and they took his mug shot. Then they escorted him to a cell.
Brantley expected to get sent to a holding cell, shared with multiple other men. He was not. Instead, he was ushered to a small cell, with one bunk, a toilet, a sink, and a light that couldn't be controlled from inside the cell. The room had a vaguely swampy scent to it, and a crude drawing of male genitalia done in Sharpie on the light green wall.
Gottlieb and Parris had stayed with him through the whole process. Now they laughed as the guard locked Brantley into the cell. "Enjoy your new home, Princess." Gottlieb flipped him off. "You'll stay there until we can get you sent back to Jamaica."
"I'm entitled to a phone call." Brantley pulled himself up to his full height.
"You hold your breath on that." Parris waved, and everyone who had their freedom left.
Brantley retreated to his bunk. There was no place else to sit, unless he wanted to sit on the toilet. His heart raced in his chest. He needed to calm it down, before he gave himself a heart attack.
Not that it would matter.
He had nothing with which to pass the time in here. Maybe in a real jail or prison, they would allow books or something. This was just someplace where you waited to see the judge, or whatever. It was just Brantley and his own thoughts.
Had Gupta gotten his message? Would it matter?
No, it had to matter. Gupta had stayed in Syracuse to pursue charges against Gottlieb and Parris for the way they'd pressed their case against Brantley. He was still around, and he couldn't win against the Terrible Twosome without Brantley. And the hospital—Riley, the CEO, was married to Dr. Idoni and might be angry with him personally right now, but he would at least recognize Brantley's value to the hospital. He, too, had to care.
Was that really what Brantley's life had come down to?
His fears had led him here. He was going to be deported back to Jamaica. He'd thought he was safe, but he was going back, and what did he have to show for it? He'd been successful, professionally, but if he was going to keep hiding who he was, he might as well have stayed behind.
Sure, his fears were real. They were trauma induced. He should have gotten therapy for them. He'd encouraged other people to do the same. He shouldn't have put it off, or dismissed it as something he could do another time. He should have just sucked it up and lived the full live his parents had so badly wanted for him when they sent him to America.
If he was going to die anyway, wouldn't it be better to have some good memories to bring with him? To go to his grave knowing he'd be lamented and mourned? To know he'd made someone happy?
Not just someone. How hard would it have been to push himself just a little bit to be that person for Dwayne? Too hard. Allen, though—would he have really been pushing it too far if he'd just gone to Allen and said, "Look, I know we didn't plan for this, but I love you, I think you love me, let's make this work?"
He hadn't. He'd been afraid of rejection. That was what it all boiled down to. He'd been afraid that he, with his weird foibles about not being able to be affectionate in public, wouldn't ever be able to be good enough to be with Allen.
And he wasn't. He wasn't good enough to be with Allen, and he never would be. Allen had seen a st
ranger in need, and without hesitating had held out his hand. He'd taken Brantley into his home. He'd listened to Brantley. He'd considered Brantley's problems and tried to accommodate them whenever he could, and in so doing he'd helped Brantley start to overcome them.
Someday, Allen was going to find a man who would treat him like a king. Brantley hadn't ever been a big believer in karma, but he believed in justice. Allen deserved every good thing in life. He deserved someone who would treasure him.
Would Allen ever know he'd been taken?
Pain ripped through his chest. Brantley had no idea why they'd taken him, but what if they'd taken him because of the ruse? What if they'd taken Allen, too?
He listened, carefully, for anyone else in the hallway. This area was completely empty. If they'd taken Allen, they hadn't left him here.
He closed his eyes and tried to think. They couldn't hold him without charges, but they hadn't told him any when they arrested him. They'd locked him up far away from the other prisoners. There was a record of his having been booked, so someone knew he was here, but none of his fellow prisoners would have the first clue who he was.
Maybe he wouldn't have to wait until he got deported. Maybe he was going to die right here.
He forced himself to breathe. In for four seconds, hold it, out for seven. Lather, rinse, repeat. There were cameras. If he opened his eyes, he could see them. Someone was watching. He wasn't going to die down here in the bowels of the Justice Center. He was going to get bail set, at some point, and then he was going to get out of here. It was just a matter of time.
He would find out, at the hearing, what he was supposed to have been charged with. Gupta would defend him, he'd be found innocent, and life would go on.
Well, maybe not. His reputation would be in tatters, now that he'd been dragged through the hospital like a criminal. And he might not have a job to go back to. But at least he'd breathe free air. He could find another job. He could create a job of his own, if he had to. He would land on his feet.
And, once he got out, he would tell Allen he loved him. Allen might not take him back, but at least he would know.
Chapter Eighteen
Allen crouched down at the bottom end of the delivery bed. Mrs. Polizzi was at the top side of the bed, supported by her husband. Her head was thrown back and her face was red. She let out a blood-curdling scream as she gave one final push.
He caught the baby as she emerged from the womb. The cord was wrapped around her waist, but it wasn't tight or cutting off circulation. He clamped it, and he cut the cord close to the baby's navel. "Congratulations," he said, as the tiny little person drew air into her lungs for the first time. "You've got a beautiful baby daughter."
He showed the baby, grimy and red-faced, to the proud parents before the army of nurses descended. His job wasn't over. He still had work to do. Mrs. Polizzi still had to expel the placenta, which she seemed to be doing nicely. Only then, once mother and baby were cleaned up and on their way to the maternity ward, could he strip off the gloves and gown.
This delivery had been about as straightforward as they came, for first-time parents. They could probably have done it themselves, at home, if they'd really been feeling pioneering. There had been no complications, no scares, and nothing even remotely concerning. He loved it when that happened.
He headed back to the scrub room to clean up. If only all days could go like this.
Once he was clean and dry, he headed back to his office. He almost grabbed another cup of coffee on his way, but he stopped himself just in time. He didn't have to give up coffee, but he was supposed to cut back. It was worth it, for the baby. It didn't always feel like it was worth it, especially on mornings after Alaina had been fussy, but he knew it would be in the end.
He sat down at his desk and started his report about the Polizzi birth. He didn't need that many words to talk about it, but the auditors wanted more description in the files, so now Allen had to wing it. If he'd wanted to be a writer he would have majored in English, not nursing.
There once was a mom from Camillus
Who tested negative for syphilis
She had a new baby
Her husband said maybe
The medical bills won't kill us.
He stared at his limerick for a moment. There you go, auditors. More words. Next time, be careful what you ask for.
He checked his calendar. Other midwives had helpfully taken on his morning appointments while he took care of the birth, so that was out of the way. He had some more appointments in the afternoon; hopefully, he'd get to take care of them.
Luke ran into his office, face ruddy with the exercise. "Allen! Allen, did you hear what happened?"
Allen tilted his head to the side. "Unless it involved the birth of the Polizzi baby, no. No, I did not. Is Dylan Parker back on site?"
"No." Luke shook his head and gulped for air. "No. It's Brantley."
Allen looked down to hide his annoyance. He didn't want to think about Brantley. He didn't want to talk about Brantley. How was he supposed to move on if people kept talking to him about the guy? "Let me guess, he's dating another former model?"
"Um, no." Luke blinked. "Maybe, I don't know. But those ICE agents just dragged him out of here in cuffs, Allen. Cuffs. He had blood dripping from his mouth, too."
Allen stood up. "You're kidding me. On what charges?"
"I have no idea." Luke put a hand on his arm. "What are you going to do?"
Allen's first instinct was to march downtown and shout at people, or at least loom menacingly, until he got some answers. That probably wouldn't get him very far, though. He was just a nurse practitioner. He didn't have any authority down there. "I don't have any moral obligation to do anything at this point," he said with a sigh.
Luke lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head. "But you're Allen Frye, so…"
"So yeah, I'm going to try." He rubbed his hands together and tried to think of something he could do. The only thing that came to mind was lawyers. "Okay. Will you help?"
"Sure. Anything."
Allen could have kissed him. "Call your husband and tell him what's happened." He swiped his phone from his desk. "As for me, I'm going to reach out to the lawyer, Gupta. I don't know what he knows, but obviously, he doesn't know about this." He put his hand on his belly.
Luke grimaced. "Are you sure you want to do this?" He rested his hand on his own baby bump. "You'd been keeping it quiet up until now."
"I know. I had. But this is life and death. It's more important than how I feel about Brantley, you know?" He sighed. "I've got to do what I can, I guess."
"I suppose." Luke bit his lip. "I could just wish it were easier on you."
"Yeah, well." Allen shrugged. "I guess we all could. It's still easier on me than on Brantley right now."
He got through to Gupta right away, but it wasn't exactly a helpful call. "Allen." Gupta sounded out of breath. "I'm in your lobby right now. Where is Brantley?"
Allen's heart froze. "What do you mean, 'Where is Brantley?' I'm calling you to ask the same question."
Gupta went silent for a moment. "I'm coming up."
That wasn't good.
Gupta appeared in Allen's office a couple of minutes later. Jason Delancey arrived seconds later, resulting in some uncomfortable glances but no open hostility. Allen decided to count that as a win. "Who knows what?" Gupta asked, and looked around.
Luke stood up. "I know Brantley was dragged out of the hospital in cuffs. He was bleeding from his mouth. Security got pictures from their cameras, and they documented the blood on the ground before Housekeeping cleaned it up." His pink tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "This doesn't look good."
"He sent me a text. He identified the people who had come to him as Gottlieb and Parris." Gupta glanced over at Luke and Delancey. "The agents who had been harassing him and Dr. Frye, here."
"We're all friends here." Allen waved a hand around his small office. "Luke and I got our PhDs together."
&nb
sp; "Oh. Well, in that case. If it was Gottlieb and Parris—wait." Gupta stroked his chin. "Didn't they have local police with them?"
Delancey snapped his fingers. "We can check with security, but I'd like to think Brantley would have mentioned it."
"Either way, they would have had to take him to the Justice Center." Allen rubbed at his neck. "They'd have had to take him there for processing, at least. They couldn't have just taken him to Hancock and put him on a plane, could they?"
"No." Gupta shook his head. "They might have taken him to an ICE detention center, but let's start local. I'll go down to the Justice Center and see what I can find out. Is there anyone else we should call?"
