Protector: The Flawed Series Book Three

by Becca J. Campbell

  “What’s that?”

  “This is the first time you’ve sat down. You didn’t eat dinner, either. Are you going to get a break at all?”

  Kelsey shrugged. “Don’t know. I haven’t had a free moment. But that’s okay. I’ll have the caterer save me a plate of leftovers.”

  Jade arched a brow. “And eat it cold?”

  “Gotta do what I gotta do.” Kelsey smiled, and it wasn’t a forced one. She was exhausted and likely to be even more tired by the time the night was over, but it was all for something worthwhile.

  Kelsey leaned closer to Jade. “Enjoying the company?” She nodded at the guests sharing Jade’s table. They were mostly older men and women with the exception of one couple who looked to be in their late thirties or early forties.

  “Yeah. I’m learning a lot about aviation. And oil wells.”

  Kelsey arched an eyebrow but smiled. “Sounds interesting.”

  “It is, actually.”

  At that moment, someone put a hand on her back. She turned and saw Bill standing over her, a nervous expression permanently plastered on his face since the night began. “It’s time for your introduction.” He sent both of them an apologetic grimace.

  “Right.” Kelsey stood and turned to Jade. “Duty calls. Hope you enjoy the auction as much as dinner.” She turned back to Bill, for the first time taking in his trim gray suit and crisp white shirt. She put a hand on his arm. “You okay?”

  He nodded but his frowned deepened. “Why?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “You look stressed. You need to lighten up a little. Relax. Smile. We want to show our guests we’re enjoying the party as much as they are.”

  “Oh…right. Sorry.”

  “You’re doing a great job. I absolutely depend on you, and I appreciate all the work you’ve done to help pull this thing off.” They walked up to the stage, and Kelsey turned to face Bill before heading up the steps. “Oh, and by the way, you look really nice tonight.” His only response was to clear his throat and let his gaze flit away.

  Kelsey walked up to the center of the stage and took the microphone. For a moment she paused, letting her eyes rove around the room onto the guests finishing their dinners. A few had arrived late, but the wait staff was bustling about clearing plates from most of the tables.

  She put on a wide smile, channeling the slight rise in nervous excitement she’d contained so well for the past eight-plus hours. “Welcome, everyone, to Sprawling Plains’s annual gala. I’m so glad each of you could make it. In just a moment we’ll bring out some lovely art pieces, and you can place some bids. But before we do, I want to tell you a little bit about the children whose art we’re featuring tonight.”

  She gestured to the single piece on center stage, noting how well the set up crew had positioned it beneath one of the overhead lights. It accentuated the painting of Hugh’s black box with the outstretched hand.

  “This painting was done by a patient who is relatively new to me but has lived in Sprawling Plains for over a decade. His name is Hugh, and he’s made some amazing strides in the last several weeks.” She felt her passion ignite as she told about the boy and his road toward independence.

  “To fully appreciate this painting, you have to know a little about Hugh’s background. Due to the confidential nature of the situation, I can’t give specific details. But I can tell you that Hugh has gone through a lot. His childhood before he came here wasn’t easy. Even I don’t know the full details of what he endured.

  “Hugh has a rare condition that keeps him from being able to go outside, even for short periods.” A hushed murmur spread through the audience.

  “You and I can’t begin to imagine what that does to a child—being unable to go to a park, to visit friends—to go anywhere at all during daylight hours. When children experience trauma, they often adopt a coping mechanism of some kind. Related or not to his condition, Hugh struggles with verbal communication. While there is nothing physically wrong with him, he has been unable to communicate through speech. For ten years he remained mute, but this month, after only a short time in art therapy, Hugh has begun to break out of his shell.

  “He spoke for the first time three weeks ago. I had the privilege of being with him when it happened.” She paused and took a deep breath, telling herself she wasn’t going to cry on stage. Instead, her smile broadened.

  “I can’t express the joy I felt when he had his breakthrough.” She glanced at the painting again. “When I look at his art, I see his journey. The battle to break out of the box he’s been trapped in for so long. Hugh has come so far. He hasn’t spoken much, but even those few words are a huge step. He’s reaching out. He’s finally opening himself up to other people.

  “Who is willing to take Hugh’s hand? To partner with him and say ‘I support your journey?’” She allowed her smile of pride to penetrate, to linger as she met gazes of individuals in the crowd. A few nodded. “This is why we’re here tonight. Not for a building. For children like him. For these lives that are slowly blossoming, reaching for their potential. With every bid, know that you are supporting amazing kids who are each fighting to escape his or her own box, whatever it may be.

  “We’re a private institution, and because of that, we rely on the generosity of men and women like you. We don’t have to jump through all the hoops a state-run organization does, which means we can focus on the quality of care we provide. You are the backbone of Sprawling Plains, and you are the ones directly involved in changing lives.”

  She paused, and the ring of applause throughout the room surprised her.

  “Now we have something really special for you. Our drama therapy program has been just as influential as our art therapy program.” Kelsey gave Mr. Bercovitch a pointed glance from across the room. “To show you what I mean, I’d like to welcome a group of the wonderful children who live here at the hospital. Come on up, kids.”

  Kelsey nodded as Norma herded the kids on stage and stood off to the side, ready to escort them back when they were finished. They danced around to their positions, giggled nervously, and whispered to each other.

  When they were ready, Kelsey led them through one of their typical drama exercises from their therapy sessions, and it was utter chaos. Evan instantly went into Snuffleupagus mode, crawling on all fours and using his blankie like a trunk, causing a few of the kids to trip over him. Sasha started shouting unintelligible outbursts, and Bella belted the lyrics to her favorite Disney musical at the top of her lungs. But the oldest three in the group—Juan, Baker, and Leroy—held the whole thing together, improvising with dialog and wit that somehow fit right in with the other kids’ actions. The slapstick antics on that stage would’ve impressed the Three Stooges.

  By the end, the audience was in tears of laughter. When Norma shepherded the kids off stage and back to their ward, the room was mad with applause.

  Kelsey had to choke down her own laughter enough to pick up the mic again. “Let’s give them all another hand. And now that you’ve seen the faces of the children who will benefit from your generous contributions, I’d like to introduce Mr. Murray, who will lead the auction. He’ll tell you a little about each piece of art and the child’s story behind it. Because, just like every name here has a face, every piece of art has a story.” She gave one last smile and handed the microphone to the auctioneer.

  As Kelsey walked off stage, she found Bill standing near the wall to the side. He was smiling at her with bright, wide eyes.

  “Well?” She was flushed with heat from the speech and from leading the kids’ performance.

  “You were amazing,” he said, beaming at her.

  “That’s a relief.” She chuckled, letting the soft laughter wash away her remaining tension.

  “Those kids are a hoot.”

  Kelsey grinned. She hoped the guests would give generous bids. If the bidding got competitive, they could really make an impact on this place.

  “Need a drink?” Bill asked, still eyeing her.
/>
  She nodded. “I think I do.”

  “I’ll walk you there.”

  ~

  The dinner plates had been cleared away, and Ethan sat alone at a table near the back of the main event room. Tingles of anticipation went through him as he listened to Kelsey’s voice carry over the sound system. He wished he could see her. But the room lights had been on full blast through dinner, and during the speech the spotlight washed her out. The overall illumination was dimmed more now that the auctioneer took his place to introduce the artwork.

  Ethan’s eyes slowly acclimated to the world around him. He could make out shapes and forms, especially near him—the tables, the occupants, the wait staff roaming to and fro. But he couldn’t tell who was who, or even males apart from females. The stage was a wash of blinding light that obscured his vision, so he kept his eyes elsewhere.

  He let the sounds of the room close in around him, taking comfort, as he often did, in his exceptional hearing. The tinkling of ice cubes in a pitcher. The soft reverberation of the auctioneer’s voice through the microphone. The murmurs of guests discussing which pieces they wanted.

  Each guest had been given a numbered paddle to bid for his or her choice of art. Ethan leaned over to speak to Nicodemus, but the man was no longer in the seat next to him. A prickle of annoyance went through Ethan, and he gripped the paddle tighter in his fingers. Ability or no, he was getting more and more irritated with that buffoon by the minute.

  Ethan scanned the figures across the room. A peal of laughter drew his attention. He narrowed his eyes at a smallish, beak-nosed figure bending down over someone’s chair, arm resting on the back. The man’s head appeared over-sized due to the mass of curly hair. Ethan stifled a growl and strode over to his partner.

  He tapped Nicodemus on the shoulder, and the man put up a hand as if to tell him to wait. He made some idiotic flirty comment to the woman, as if she were the most important thing in the room. Ethan put a firm hand on Nicodemus’s shoulder and pinched the flesh around the clavicle until it produced a faint gasp. Only then did Nicodemus spin to face him.

  “What?”

  “Excuse me, nephew, but I need to speak with you.” He shot the woman a pleasant smile. “Excuse us, ma’am.” Without waiting for Nicodemus to respond, Ethan yanked him back. Nicodemus let out a squeal of protest, but Ethan didn’t release his grip until they were back at the table.

  “Sit,” Ethan said through clenched teeth. Nicodemus gave an exaggerated sigh and sank into the chair.

  “Are you paying any attention to the auction?” Ethan kept his voice low, but he didn’t stifle the annoyance in it.

  “Not really.”

  Ethan shoved the paddle across the table. “Well, you need to be.”

  “Why?”

  Ethan could barely make out the cocky leer on Nicodemus’s face. The guy was such a nincompoop.

  “Because everyone else is making bids. That’s the point of the fundraiser.”

  “So?”

  “So, for someone to come and not make any bids would be appear slightly odd, don’t you think?”

  “I dunno.”

  Ethan blew out an exasperated breath. “It doesn’t matter what you know. Just do it.”

  There was a brief pause as if Nicodemus wasn’t sure exactly what Ethan was asking or how to go about it. “Okay.”

  “You do know how to make a bid, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” Nicodemus spat under his breath.

  Ethan rolled his eyes. “Hold up the paddle when you see one you want. The auctioneer will nod to show he’s received the bid. Then he’ll try to get someone to outbid you.”

  “But I don’t want any of ’em.”

  “That’s irrelevant. Just pick one to bid on.”

  At the next piece, Nicodemus did as Ethan asked. He was the first to make a bid, but immediately several more followed, quickly upping the price.

  “You can’t give up so easily,” Ethan hissed.

  “But I don’t wanna win.”

  Ethan waved his hand. “That doesn’t matter. You’ve got to put some heart into it. Make it look like you want it.”

  The painting Nicodemus had made the first bid on sold for a remarkably higher price than his first bid, and more than Ethan could imagine spending on any art—never mind he didn’t need art to satisfy his tastes. His victims were the only aesthetic pleasure he required.

  When the auctioneer introduced the next piece, Nicodemus opened with a bid of $300. Two more patrons joined the bidding. The numbers rose swiftly, but none of the three stopped bidding. It went in circles between them for a while, and Ethan gave Nicodemus a nudge. Either the man couldn’t take the hint, or else his imbecilic fetish with the number three kept him upping the amount. Whatever the cause, the other two bidders dropped out and the auctioneer announced Nicodemus the winner.

  Nicodemus groaned softly. “Great. What am I gonna to do now? I don’t have that kinda cash on me. Even if I did, I wouldn’t blow it on some stupid painting.” He cursed under his breath.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have gone so high.”

  “What?” Nicodemus hissed. “You told me to! You said pretend like I wanted it, dammit!”

  Ethan kept his voice to an emphatic whisper. “I didn’t say to stay in it until the end!”

  “How’m I supposed to know when the end was? Those bidders were on my tail the entire time!”

  Ethan clenched his jaw. “It’s a complication we’ll have to deal with.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, we won’t be able to wait until the end of the event to get Kelsey. If they find out you don’t have the funds to cover that bid, we’re finished. We have to get out before the gala is over.”

  “How ’bout we just leave now?” Nicodemus said.

  “Not a chance. We’re not leaving without her, no matter what.”

  “Great. How much longer do we got?”

  “There’s supposed to be dancing and other festivities after the auction. I doubt they’re going to shut it down until everyone’s had their fill. So we still have a couple of hours to get to her.”

  “Okay.” Nicodemus didn’t sound happy, but that’s what he got for making rash decisions.

  “Can you see her?” Ethan asked.

  “Huh?”

  He lowered his voice a hair. “Can you see Kelsey?”

  “You still can’t see?”

  The question irritated Ethan, but he bit it back. “A little. Not enough.”

  “Uh, yeah, she’s over there—” Nicodemus pointed, but Ethan wrenched his arm down.

  “Don’t point! Just tell me.”

  “Sorry. Geez. Yeah, I see her. She’s talking to some dude near that door over there. To the right. Some guy with a round face and glasses. I think he works here.”

  Ethan could barely make out a dark rectangle in the side wall, not the main entrance they’d used. That must be the door to the gallery. Before dinner they’d invited the guests to peruse the artwork over there, but Ethan had stayed rooted to his spot.

  “We’ll wait until after the auction and see if we can get her alone somehow.”

  “I don’t know how that’s gonna happen,” Nicodemus said. “She seems pretty busy. She ain’t been alone a minute since this thing started.”

  “Just keep watching her,” Ethan said. “Let me know if that changes. And don’t make any more bids.”

  When Logan pulled into the hospital parking lot, it was a quarter after eight. He killed the engine and headed in, snugging his jacket closer around him in the brisk evening air.

  The hospital was mostly darkened, except the hallways. Logan guessed normal visiting hours were over. He stopped suddenly when he passed by a corridor that was blocked off. Yellow construction tape crisscrossed the corridor’s entrance, and Logan realized this wing must be part of the renovation. He tried to remember what the news article had said. Something about raising money to refurbish one of the old wings? This must be the one.

/>   Continuing around the corner, he meandered until he found another wing. A sign on an easel announced the Sprawling Plains Gala and Art Auction. A beefy looking guy with a thick beard leaned against one wall near the doorway, busy with his phone.

  Logan walked up to the door, and the man stepped in front of him. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here for the auction,” Logan said.

  “You’re late. It’s already in progress.”

  “I couldn’t get here any sooner. Can I go inside?” He tried to angle around the guy, but the man side-stepped, blocking him. The guard raised an eyebrow and picked up a typed guest list.

  “Name?”

  “Logan Henry, but—”

  The bouncer scanned the list for a moment then looked up with a frown. “You’re not on the list.”

  “I didn’t make a reservation. How much are the tickets?” Logan reached for his wallet in his back pocket but came up empty handed. He grimaced. He must have left it at home. He checked inside his coat pocket and was relieved to feel his checkbook there.

  The man’s scowl deepened, an accusing look in his eyes. “Do I look like a box office? We’re not selling tickets. Either you’re on the list or you’re outta here.”

  “What?” Logan felt his pulse increase, and suddenly he was warm in his leather jacket. “You’re kidding. Just tell me how much, and I’ll write you a check.”

  “Sorry, pal. That’s not how it works.” The man reached for a walkie-talkie on his hip and pressed the button. There was a momentary flash of static and he spoke into it. “Code three-oh-two. Copy?”

  “Copy, Schultz,” a voice responded over the walkie. The bouncer shoved the radio back on his hip.

  Logan’s frustration grew. “Listen. My girlfriend’s in there. She’s expecting me. I drove all the way from Colorado Springs.”

  The man stared deadpan as if to ask why he should care.

  “This is really important. I need to find her.” Logan pointed toward the door, the pitch of his voice rising along with his blood pressure. “I’m supposed to be in there.”