The Set Up

by Kim Karr

  I also know him. He’s the same as he was when we were eight. Strong. Brooding. Selfless. And when backed against a wall—standoffish, or worse, temperamental.

  I need him.

  He needs me.

  The connection that formed so long ago is stronger than ever, and I just want to remind him of that.

  The examination goes on for another ten minutes. In the end, I learn the extent of my injuries. The blunt-force trauma I suffered caused only a mild concussion. That my wrist is broken and must remain in a cast for six weeks. And that all of my cuts and bruises are minor; therefore, although painful, they should heal without any scarring.

  “I’ll be by tomorrow to check on you,” the doctor tells me as he opens the door.

  Sitting up too quickly, the room spins slightly and I grip the bars on the bed. “Tomorrow? I can’t stay here until then.”

  The doctor is beside the bed. “Lie back down.”

  I do as he says and then look at him.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Lane, but you will need to stay here.”

  Frustrated, I sigh, and then ask, “How long do I have to stay here?” I’m anxious—extremely so. I want to get out of here. I need to see Jasper and help clear his name.

  He’s at the now opened door again. “Until the dizziness subsides and I’m certain there’s nothing else going on but a slight concussion.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Another day or two and then you should be able to leave, barring any further medical complications.”

  My frown is undeniable.

  I need to see Jasper. Hear his voice. Kiss his lips. Feel his hips press against mine with need in a way that is about so much more than sex.

  As if he could read my mind, he says, “Charlotte, you need to take things slow and let your body heal, even after you go home.”

  Avoiding his look of concern, I swallow. Swallow down the dread. Home—a word that does anything but comfort me right now. I’m not exactly thrilled about staying here but almost relieved I have to at the same time.

  “Do you understand me?” he asks.

  Deflated, unhappy, but understanding, I let out a breath. “Yes. And thank you.”

  Fortunately, even though I don’t want to stay, I know for certain that the health care coverage I received while employed at The Detroit Scene did not terminate when I was fired a couple of weeks ago. In fact, because of pre-payment requirements, it remains in effect until the end of August.

  “Oh, and Charlotte,” the doctor says just outside the doorway, “the police are here waiting to question you in regard to your attack, but I’m going to suggest they come back this afternoon once you’ve had a chance to rest.”

  “No!” I shout out.

  Surprise flares in his eyes over my outburst.

  “I have information they might need,” I explain, “and I want to talk to them now.”

  Jake appears beside the doctor with furrowed brows. Behind him are Will and Drew, who seem equally speculative.

  The doctor seems hesitant. “I’ll be happy to let them know that, although I advise against it, you feel otherwise ready to talk to them.”

  “Yes, please,” I respond anxiously. “What I have to tell them is important.”

  With a nod, he turns and walks away.

  Jake comes striding in with Will and Drew right behind him. “What’s going on, Charlotte?” Jake asks inquisitorially, almost accusatorially.

  His three minutes of sympathy is long gone. I stare at him and then glance around at the other skeptic faces.

  What?

  Do all three of Jasper’s best friends think I might say something that could harm him?

  They do—I can see it the way their bodies stiffen and jaws clench.

  Feeling stifled by their reaction, by how little they really know me or understand my connection to Jasper, a bone-deep sorrow rushes through me. Maybe it’s the drugs, or maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s that same old feeling of being utterly alone in this world that overwhelms me.

  I’m not certain.

  However, before I even realize it, my breaths start to come in and out in ragged bursts. And when I can’t control it, my chest begins to wheeze. I try to draw in a breath and then another, but fail. I just can’t breathe. Sweat coats my brow—suddenly it feels way too warm in this room. And then I can’t see—a haze blurs my vision.

  “Charlotte.” Will’s hand tightens around mine. “Deep breaths.” He takes in his own deep breath and lets it out slowly.

  “Call the nurse back,” Drew says, sounding a little panicky, especially for Drew who always remains calm.

  “She’s having a panic attack. My mother had them all the time,” Will, who always manages to remain calm, tosses over his shoulder before quickly refocusing on me. “Just breathe, Charlotte, in and out. You’re okay. We’re here for you. You have nothing to worry about.” Will continues to talk to me in a soothing tone, all the while he draws in air before letting it out, as if trying to teach me how to breathe again.

  And as the student, I mimic him. Slowly, my stiffened body relaxes and my vision is once again normal.

  Jake is frozen at the end of the bed and I have to say, I don’t think he’s breathing. Looking around at all three of them, I know I was wrong—they do care about me. If only because of Jasper—at least they still care and I can’t hold back my tears.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Will asks.

  “Why is Jasper still in jail?” I sob, because telling him what I was feeling moments ago seems wrong.

  “Todd told us his bail hearing was rescheduled to Monday due to the lockdown.”

  “Did you get to talk to Jasper? How is he?”

  Sadness fills his eyes. “We were outside the courtroom when he was ushered out, but he wouldn’t even look at Drew or I.”

  My sobs grow louder. He is in custody. Alone. Afraid. And I fear he might just shut everyone out.

  “Are you in pain from the attack?” Will asks staring at the tears streaming down my cheeks.

  The attack.

  Yes.

  The attack.

  I need to tell them.

  Swiping across my eyes with my right arm, I try to wipe away the tears. “The police think the man who attacked me is Jasper’s accomplice, don’t they?”

  “I hate to say it, but I think so.”

  Snapping my head toward the television, I watch as the clip from earlier is replayed. Then I look back at Will. “What has Todd told you? What are the police telling Todd?”

  “Nothing. He doesn’t know anything. No one is talking, not to us, not to Todd, and Whitney is also being kept in the dark over at the mayor’s office as well.”

  Whitney is Will’s . . . well girlfriend I think, but I’m not so sure. Anyway, she’s transitioning from working for her brother, Todd Carrington, to working for the mayor. Regardless of her position, she always seems to know everything, so her not knowing anything alerts me that there must be a reason for the wall that seems to have gone up.

  I shift my gaze back to Will. “I know who attacked me and I think this information will help clear Jasper.”

  His jaw drops. “You know who it was in your apartment? How? All Jake saw was a man in a ski mask.”

  Jake rushes toward me. “How do you know who it was? I tried to catch him but was torn between leaving you on the floor and going after him.”

  I know which he picked and I’ll forever be grateful.

  Will is anxious. “Who was it? This could be what we need to get proof Jasper isn’t involved and get him out of jail.”

  “It was Uncle Tom. Tom Worth,” I clarify.

  Shock fills the air.

  “Are you sure?” Drew asks, his hulking body coming closer.

  “Yes. I’m certain it was Tom Worth.”

  “What about Tom?” The soft feminine and familiar voice brings more tears to my eyes. Mrs. Storm is at the foot of my bed wi
th an empty vase filled with water in her hand.

  “Mrs. Storm,” I manage and know instantly all of these flowers are from her, from her garden.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Not the best I’ve ever felt,” I say with honesty.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you’re awake.” Her smile is forced and I know she must be heartbroken over her son. “Now, what were you saying about Tom?”

  Knowing I shouldn’t say anything in front of her, because it will bring back memories of her husband and how he died in the Laneworth Plant explosion, renders me speechless.

  “I hope he wasn’t here bothering you this morning. I ran into him yesterday at Hank’s office and he wanted to know where you lived.”

  “What did you tell him?” Jake asks Mrs. Storm, sounding way too concerned for her to know something is not up.

  Coming closer to me, she sets the vase down and kisses my forehead with an affection I never received from my own mother. “I assumed it had something to do with Allison,” she says softly, as if she knows my emotional triggers just as well as I know hers.

  Allison.

  Allison Lane.

  Perhaps now Allison Worth.

  My mother, the name I never utter.

  Picking up the cut flowers I didn’t notice lying on the table near the vase, Mrs. Storm carefully lowers their stems into the water. “Nothing. Not only was I shocked to see him, but I also didn’t feel comfortable telling him anything. However, once the news about his daughter broke though, I honestly felt a little guilty about the way I treated him.”

  “What time did you see him at HH Automotive?” Jake asks with curiosity, still more than obvious.

  “I’m not sure, but sometime before three.” She looks toward Drew. “Drew and I met in the elevator as I was going up; he was going down. Hank and I had to meet with someone. That was the only reason I was there.”

  Hank Harper.

  Jasper’s mentor from his high school years turned his mother’s lover.

  Everyone in this room is aware that she and Hank have been having an affair for years, but I’m sure trying to hide it is a habit she will never break.

  Jake’s gaze snaps to Drew. “Was he in Hank’s office with you?”

  “No, but come to think of it, Hank’s secretary did say he was in a meeting when I arrived; however, when he opened his door he was alone, so I assumed she meant a phone conference.”

  My looming suspicion about Hank comes back two-fold, and I glance toward Jake, who I know is having the very same thoughts as me by the twisted look on his face.

  Drew seems to take offense and furrows his brows. “I wouldn’t even know who Tom Worth was if he was standing in front of me, so don’t look at me like that. Besides, it means nothing.”

  “Why all the talk about him anyway?” Mrs. Storm asks, having taken the discussion in stride up until now.

  Before anyone can answer, there’s a rap on the door and all of us turn toward it. Two men in dark-blue uniforms are standing there. “Miss Lane, we’d like to question you about your attack last night.”

  Drew squares his broad shoulders. “Are you sure you’re up to talking, Charlotte? You’ve been through a lot.”

  Before I can answer, Will answers for me. “Let her talk to them, Drew. What she has to tell them might just help free Jasper.”

  Might?

  No, it has too!

  This information will absolutely squash the theory that the man who attacked me was Jasper’s accomplice. After all, there is no way he’d be involved with the man who he half blames for his father’s death.

  Tom Worth.

  My father’s once partner in Laneworth Automotive.

  The man who attacked me.

  The man with one blue eye and one green.

  DETOUR

  Jasper

  THIS TIME I know it.

  I know it with a certainty that grips and twists my heart until it’s ripped from my chest. That chokes my throat with a panic like I’ve never felt before. That makes my skin burn with knowing dread.

  This time, I’m not going to get out.

  I’m not going to be able to cheat death.

  It’s too hot.

  It’s too bright.

  There’s too much smoke.

  Glimpses of the blue and orange flames as they roar up the walls and curl onto the ceiling are all I can see through the haze, but I can feel the fire. I can feel its putrid black smoke as it singes my nostrils. Feel the raging heat as it dances all around me with a hunger that won’t be satisfied until it consumes me. Feel my breathing getting more and more ragged as I pull in the toxic pollution of carbon monoxide mixed with God knows what chemicals.

  The flames are getting closer. Circling me. Making me their target. Their victim.

  The alarm is blaring.

  But the warning is useless, as there is no way out.

  No windows.

  No doors.

  The fire owns me and soon it will consume me, reducing me to nothing more than ash. Ash with no body for people to bury. No closure to accept the truth. Nothing left of me but the memories of those who knew me and those, like everything else in life, fade with time.

  Gut-wrenching with agony, there is no choice but to accept my fate.

  And so I do.

  I give in to it.

  Fear.

  Let it lick me raw. Suck me into its black hole. Take me. Own me. And spit me out. Yet, this time it’s not hatred I’m left with when I come out the other end, but rather a sense that I’m not him.

  I’m not my father.

  The banging of metal slamming against metal jolts me awake.

  That fucking nightmare about what happened to my father twenty years ago is back. I haven’t had it in years. I learned how to beat it. Conquered it with my need for speed and still, it’s back to haunt me. Well, it’s not going to win. I’m older. I’m stronger. And I know. I know that it wasn’t my father’s fault that he died. And unlike when I was younger, now I finally believe it. He didn’t want to die in the fire at the Laneworth Automotive Plant. He didn’t want to leave his family with nothing. Leave the woman he loved to fumble through life on her own and try to raise a boy who feared death so much all he ever wanted to do was prove he could beat it.

  He didn’t want to leave my mother and me alone.

  Just like Charlie didn’t want to leave me either. Mr. Lane took her. He ran. He had his own demons to fight.

  Everyone does.

  Like a phoenix rising, I bolt up, rising out of the ashes, out of the flames, emerging as the strong, confident man I made myself into. The one who has to get the fuck out of this prison cell.

  I look around in my dimly lit, flame-free cell. My eyes sting but not from smoke, yet rather lack of sleep. I wipe the sweat from my brow and try to orient myself.

  The guard is standing over me. “Let’s go,” he commands.

  I hop to my feet and the shackling begins.

  Quiet in his task, when he’s done I’m heaved from the cell and pushed forward. This time the cuffs are even tighter and I can immediately feel the bleeding. Blood trails behind me as I walk toward the elevator of the only fully-operational police precinct in the bankrupt city of Detroit.

  Small.

  Dingy.

  And way too familiar.

  I turn toward him. “If all federal buildings are under lockdown, does that mean all city land auctions are canceled?”

  Today is the day 8 Mile goes up for auction. I’m in here and have had no contact with anyone, so I can only hope Will, Drew, and Jake do what they have to do to get it bought.

  The guard shrugs. “I’d assume so. All city businesses are closed. No one is allowed in or out of them without prior permission.”

  That answers my question, and I keep walking.

  Joined by another guard, my escort is in place and the doors are opened.

  The scene outside on this Monday morning is even more chaotic than it was Saturday
morning. Still in lockdown mode, no one except police officials are being allowed inside the building.

  I can see why.

  Protestors now surround us in hundreds. A myriad of small colorful tents have popped up in front of the building. Smoke tumbles from several small bonfires dispersed between them here and there. It’s not marshmallows these people are looking to roast though—it’s me.

  A small portable wooden structure with ‘Justice Shack’ written on it blocks a portion of the road. ‘Fuck the police’ graffiti is scrawled on the precinct building.

  Things appear to be out of hand.

  The demonstrators are holding signs and chanting that they will not leave until justice is served. I try not to look at the hatred on the faces of those who just weeks ago called me their white knight. Looked toward me to save this town. Craved what I so willingly wanted to give them—hope.

  My head held high, I move through the crowd. But the closer I get to the curb, the more I begin to realize their eyes aren’t on me. Signs with the word, ‘Coward’, on them are everywhere. All of a sudden I understand the protesting doesn’t have anything to do with me.

  What’s going on?

  The door to the parked police car opens and a man chained and cuffed in the same manner as me is tugged from the back seat. The crowd is hostile and the people seem to multiply. All eyes are on the older man as he is hauled toward the building I just evacuated.

  Looking like he hasn’t slept, shaved, or showered, a very unkempt Detective Sergeant John Hill suddenly appears in my line of vision. I suppose the man who arrested me mere days ago has been too busy with his investigation into the murders of Tory Worth and Eve Hepburn, and trying to nail me for both, to worry about those small things.

  Without a glance back, he shoves his way through the mob of angry people and stops in front of me. Arms out to his sides, he is giving his best effort to clear a path for me to pass through the ever-growing mass of rioting people.

  Just as I’m about to cross paths with the other shackled man, there’s a popping noise whizzing through the air.

  K-pow. K-pow. K-pow

  I know that sound.

  K-pow. K-pow. K-pow.

  My body goes cold.

  K-pow. K-pow. K-pow.

  “Get down!” someone shouts to the crowd.