by Coulton, JC
Driving here in my personal car ends up working in my favor. His bouncers get no early warning of my visit. I park opposite the wine bar across the road and approach on foot. I make my way down the stairs, past the walls of the stairway covered in red carpet that’s seen better days; the handrails and mirrors which could use a polish; and the stink of mold coming from somewhere.
There’s nothing in the world that could be worse than having to show up and work in this environment every day. The staff won’t care though, if they’re anything like I was back then, they probably never even notice the décor. Behind the bar it’s all steam, noise and faces.
By the time I get to the lower level, Jessup has seen me. For once he’s not hiding in his office. He’s sitting at one of the low tables, drinking coffee.
“Detective, I thought I told you not to show your face here again.” The arrogance of the guy is endless, it makes my blood boil.
“I’m here for the information you’ve been flaunting, Lee. I don’t give a shit whether I get it from you here, or down at the station.” I’m bluffing, but I have no other choice. “You’re telling me what you know, and that’s all there is to it.”
He can see I’m serious. He seems to be buying it. I’m certain now he doesn’t yet know about my suspension. I won’t be telling him either. He needs to think I’ve got the force behind me.
“You don’t scare me Blake. Get your fucking head out your ass,” he shouts.
Hearing this winds me up further. I keep it together. I can’t lash out too early or he’ll use my anger to his advantage. Instead, I sit at his table without asking. A waitress comes up. Before Jessup can signal her away I order a small coffee. For a second the tension sparks between the three of us. She’s not sure what’s happening, but knows that she’s made a mistake. She looks at Jessup for guidance and he nods, obviously having made a decision to be a gentleman in public.
We sit there, scowls on both our faces. I kick back, crossing my ankles under the table, placing my arm on the back of the seat. I want him to see how big I am. I want him to know I’m completely comfortable in his territory. Body language is one of the first tools I use to influence people. I use my physical dominance to full effect. Jessup is a short man. He may be extra violent to compensate, but I’m sure he’ll feel it.
“You told me I need to check with my old lady about Carrie. I can’t do that, can I?”
I smile as I deliver the line, and enjoy the look on his face. He’s surprised. His waitress overhears me too as she brings over my coffee. Jessup Lee must have expected me to say something different. For once, this short, annoying little man is speechless.
“Don’t get smart with me boy,” he finally says. “It’s not my problem what your little Iowan sluts get up to when you’re not around. Maybe they needed satisfying or something. Ever thought it might be a choice? Some girls just love the streets.”
The assertion that Carrie and April had a choice in whatever is going on sends my anger over the edge. I uncross my legs and it hits the table so hard, my coffee goes flying. Plates smash on the floor, and some of my coffee splashes up into Jessup’s face. I have no control over my next move. I dive across the table and grab onto his throat.
I have to give him credit. Jessup reacts quicker than I thought he could. He manages to get one of his hands under my grip. I still overpower him—in both size and anger. I roll the rest of my body across the table, feeling a cup shatter under my knee. He changes his focus from dislodging my hands to punching me in the ribs. This little tyrant is really strong. He’s not whining either. Anyone else in his position would probably call out for their security team, but we’re locked in a silent battle. His teeth are clenched and he maintains the power of his punches.
He attempts a knee to my groin, but I tilt my body to avoid it. The crash of our bodies hitting the table is what alerts the rest of the staff. Before they get to us, I manage to punch him once in the jaw once. The first security guard gets close enough and tries to pull me off.
The look on Jessup’s self-satisfied little face drives a fresh wedge of rage into my gut. I manage to shake off the guard, pushing him backwards into a nearby stack of speakers. By now the whole place knows what’s going on. More men from his security crew run towards us. Luckily, my anger is bigger than all of them. No one can touch me. I manage to draw blood from two punched noses before I’m stopped by four massive guys who all come at me together, pulling me to the floor.
I know I’m in for a beating after that little performance. I struggle for a while before I give up. Right now I couldn’t care less what they do to me, as long as I get the information I need to find Carrie. The security crew confers with their boss, then deal out a couple of wince-worthy kicks to my already sore ribs. It’s schoolboy stuff. I don’t hold a grudge as they’re both bleeding more than a little from my attack. Their retaliation is reasonable. It’s like a code.
They drag me back up off the floor by the collar of my shirt, and hold me up against a wall. The force of the push reminds me it wasn’t so long ago I saw a guy get his head bashed in by one of these same guys. This place is bad news. Every time I’m here, something brutal happens. I really need to calm my shit down.
In the end it seems I didn’t need to worry too much. These boys still think they’re dealing with a cop. They just hold on to me, waiting for Jessup, who now has the waitress tending to his swollen jaw with an icepack. He snarls at me as he limps over. I meet his eyes without fear.
“Tell me where to find them Jessup. I know you know.”
He sneers; an expression that I’m pleased to see hurts his broken ego. The rage inside me has died down. I know what’s coming and tense my abs in preparation. Big boy boss needs to restore respect to the dynamic. He signals his boys to hold me down, and sinks punch after punch into my gut.
For a little guy, he packs a punch. Soon I’m holding back the urge to sink to the floor. It’s only my pride that keeps me upright. I’m relieved he works his anger out quickly. I watch him like a hawk when he moves off and sits on the couch nearby.
“What am I going to do with you, boy? Coming in here after my warning? You have the nerve to come back here and accuse me”
He shakes his head almost unperceptively at the instantly responsive security guard who has his hand on my throat.
“Are you planning to get your dogs off me, Lee?” I say it while I grit my teeth. He shakes his head and spends another long minute staring at me. He seems to be thinking, making a decision. I figure the only thing I can do is wait. Jessup Lee may not be tall but he holds the top spot in this game for a reason. And he’s smart. It’s not clear what’s going to happen next, and my gut clenches in anticipation.
Right now I’m in a position of weakness and not just physically. I need something from him and I have nothing to bargain with. I once had high hopes that the confrontation between us, when it finally happened, would end with Jessup Lee walking out in handcuffs. But it turns out the man who most of the department has been after for years is still squeaky clean. While here, I am the rogue cop who’s being suspended by the department and held against a wall, powerless. It’s sickening.
He shakes his head and looks up. “I told you to ask your old lady…and you know I don’t mean your mother. Neon has the information you want, Blake, but I’d like to see you try and get it out of her.
Chapter 5
Carrie
Stretched out on this mattress, the despair of April’s absence is fresh. Our last interaction on the stairs of the brownstone freaked me out. I hardly recognized her. And I didn’t expect that slap. It hurt me physically and emotionally. I know she wasn’t herself, but seeing someone I care for turn on me like that was demoralizing.
Lately, here in this unsuspecting, makeshift New Jersey prison, I’m reminded that most of the energy I’ve expended in this part of the country has gone into thinking about her. I’ve literally worried about April Lee for entire nights at a time. And when I finally found her, I
get slapped? I did not expect that response.
Despite my feelings, being alone in this locked room is like being in hell. Except now, April’s gone again—leaving me to the injections and brutality. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, or how many injections I’ve had. I spend most of my time either passed out or in a haze. I don’t know what time it is. The sun on the wall no longer seems hopeful, and the sound of the door opening strikes wary acceptance, rather than the resistance I once felt.
It’s been a while since they came in with a dose. I need to use the bathroom, but even that urge is distant and blurry around the edges. The drug makes nothing feel real. It kills my emotions. I’m going further down the rabbit hole with each injection.
This time, when the door opens, I don’t even roll over. I stare at the wall, waiting for the inevitable. For this visit, only one of her guys is here, it’s the bigger one. He drugs me up quickly. I frown as the needle goes in. He’s the gentlest of the lot so I shouldn’t complain. He doesn’t bother to stick around either. It means he doesn’t deliver any cruel treatment or remarks. This, I think, is progress. If any of the other guys were here, I’d be in tears by now. I need to be grateful for the small things. For now I just slip into another world, grateful for a tiny break.
I wake up, and I’m feeling clearer than normal. That shot can’t have been as strong as the last few have been; either that or my body is adjusting. I decide it’s time for another look at April’s bed. I start to hope she can leave me a note or write something for me on the wall.
Slipping out of the handcuffs becomes easier each time. I’m getting used to the exact amount of force I need to free myself. I can do it without much effort now. I start by tossing April’s blanket aside. I find nothing. It was unlikely to be that easy, but I’m willing to put my hopes in pretty much anything right now. The bed looks exactly the same as it did before she arrived. I wonder if she ever woke up and saw I was here. I wonder if she tried to wake me, the same way I did with her. I cry and bury my face in my knees. This sucks.
I decide to scan the room again. I make my way around looking for any sign at all that April might have left me some kind of message. There’s nothing. The walls are clean, and I check the baseboards too. There’s still nothing. Also, the main door remains locked and I can’t see anything underneath it. My movements are slow and labored. The drug is slowly taking my strength. I notice I’m breathless quickly, and I feel so weak I can barely navigate the room.
I sink to the floor. I’m making the best possible effort to stay quiet when my palm grazes against something sharp. I look down. It’s a shard of wood that has detached itself from one of the floorboards. It’s small, but who knows; it could be useful. I hold it gently, trying to ensure I don’t stab myself on the sharp edges. It’s about half the length of a pen. Even in my dizzy state, I see it for the opportunity it is.
I sit there for a while, collecting myself and looking around. I clutch the sliver of wood in my hand like a tiny dagger. I imagine myself plunging it into someone’s eyeball. I sigh. It wouldn’t do much damage to any other area. I don’t even know if I’d have the coordination to pull off a precision move like that. In all honesty, there’s never been a time that calls more for drastic measures.
I wonder to myself which floorboard it came from. I might be able to break off a bigger piece if I can find it. This starts a desperate search of the floor. My vision is still blurry. It strikes me I should be stretching out or making better use of this time. But I persist—the idea of finding a larger makeshift dagger is attractive.
Nothing seems out of place on any of the floorboards across the main part of the room. I bend and look under my bed. No luck—it’s normal under there. Maybe it’s not even worth looking. I check under April’s mattress. I might as well try to be thorough.
Her bed frame is a little lower so I can’t fit my head under it. I have to lift the mattress. Lifting it is hard. It’s heavy, and a few of the springs are protruding from the fabric cover. And it stinks. I give it a push and shuffle it sideways. My arms are killing me with the effort, especially where they’ve made a habit of injecting me. It aches with every movement, and my shoulders are sore from being locked up.
Finally, I manage to get a look at the floor beneath the mattress. It’s dusty and old, and covered in stains. I feel like I’m wasting my time until I see a section that seems different from everywhere else. I place my hand on the board and press down, testing the give. Right away I see the spot where the shard of wood I found has cracked off.
It’s more than that; the floorboard is loose and kind of squeaky. Everything in my body tells me that there’s something hidden underneath. Agonizingly, that’s when I hear the outside door of the building bang its familiar rhythm, alerting me about the arrival of one or more of Neon’s guys, with his needle and my pain.
“Shit!” I’m swearing and stressing. I need to get this mattress back in place and get my arm handcuffed, and I’ve got less than a minute to do it.
Dust flies as April’s mattress thumps around resisting my initial effort. Thankfully, the panic makes me strong. I get it back into place against the wall on the second try. I dive back onto my own bed and tuck the shard under my own mattress next to the hairpin. My arsenal is growing, but any second now I’ll be caught unless I can get this handcuff back on.
I fumble once and then twice, but just as the door opens I manage to click it closed just enough to seem locked. I slump back onto the bed. I’m flushed and breathless with the effort. I pretend to be asleep and hope to God I’m not busted.
It’s the same guy again—the nice one, if I can call him that. He doesn’t say a word or act any differently than he did last time. If he notices the sweat on my forehead, or the dust in the air, he makes no mention of it. He does my shot without saying or doing anything different. He lets me use the bathroom this time, his body turned slightly while watching disinterestedly.
When I’m done, he returns me to the bedroom. I stagger back into bed and close my eyes immediately, to make a good impression and get him out of here fast. The drug is beginning to have less of an effect each time, so although I’m exhausted, I won’t go down as hard. He watches for a second, so I make a show of slumping into fake unconsciousness.
After he leaves, I still drift off. I have a new mission but my body can’t resist the drug’s potent effects, despite my intention to stay alert and carry out the plan I have been formulating. The lack of food is starting to affect my cognitive processes. I wake up, and again, I’m confused and unsure where I am. Reality feels like a dream. The fabric of the mattress beneath me looks like my sofa at home in Iowa. The air doesn’t smell stale any more. My mind fabricates the scent of the vanilla candles my mom used to burn when she was having a bath.
I must be hallucinating. Some part of me is aware it’s not real, but the thought of seeing Mom is so comforting. I want to believe she can walk into my room at any moment. Slowly though, the smell of vanilla fades. The more I rub the mattress, the rougher it feels.
I return to full consciousness with tears running down my face. I’m alone again. This is it; a rare and brief moment of consciousness. I undo the cuff again, and wish with all my heart that Blake were here. He’s not. I resist the urge to call out to him. Now is not the time to be weak. I need to pull it together and find out what’s under that floorboard.
I flop out of the bed. I feel drained and sick, but this is more important. It takes me three attempts this time to move the mattress enough to expose the floor. Then, once I do, it seems to be stuck. With all the strength I have left, I manage to pry one end of it up. There’s something there. I break two nails getting the other end loose to see what it is.
Under the floorboard is a shallow hole which exposes the concrete beam from the floor below. I’m shocked when I see items inside the small, hidden space. I reach in to pull them out one by one. When I’m finished, I look at them with curiosity. In front of me is a strange combination of possessions. It
’s a collection only a girl could understand—a soft pink feather, a small nail file, a single diamond earring and a thin, and small notepad with a pen tucked inside the pages.
I pick up the items one by one. The feather is matted and old, but obviously a keepsake. The diamond stud actually looks real. The nail file is tiny, and has a plastic tortoise shell handle. These things aren’t even slightly impressive to me at first glance. I’m looking for weapons, and ways to escape. But I change my mind when I see the pages of the first half of the notebook are filled with flowery, cursive script.
Chapter 6
Blake
I hobble out of Caliber with my head spinning. The state of my head has nothing to do with the fight, though the security guys hit me hard enough. I’m a mess because Jessup just told me Neon’s responsible for Carrie and April’s disappearances. What he actually said was that I should talk to her about the case, but he doesn’t know that I already did and she denied knowing anything. His words finally confirm what I half-knew but didn’t want to admit—Neon has been lying to me.
It’s late now and I’m tired. My ribs are aching and my ego is bruised. I took a beating down there, but the worst thing is realizing Neon has betrayed me. After all these years, I should have learned. My refusal to accept Neon is a different person now has put Carrie in a shit load of danger. Fuck!
I want to head directly to New Jersey to find Neon, but if I go there unprepared, unarmed, and in the weakened state I’m in, it will be a wasted effort. Right now I need to sleep. My body can’t take any more of this reality. I drive home with no music. There’s nothing I want to listen to and my mood darkens even further as I get into the underground parking garage. I couldn’t have made any more mistakes on this case if I’d tried.
I get upstairs; fall asleep in a spiral of self-judgment and dream of nothing. It’s a small mercy and at least I wake up the next morning with a decent night’s sleep under my belt. Walking down the stairs is hard. I’m sore, bruised and cut up from the fight. Brenda looks up from the stove where she’s standing and gives me a grimace.
