Not Alone

by Frederic Martin

  There were so many ways to beat the system.

  His leg wasn’t as cooperative as he’d like, however. He was having trouble getting it to do what he wanted. It wasn’t the pain, the Percocet was taking care of that, it was something else, like muscle cramps. This was one time he was glad the car was an automatic, as driving the winding roads through the mountains was starting to get more difficult with all the tight turns and braking and accelerating. If he could just get to the interstate, he could put it on cruise control and manage it the rest of the way.

  He got a scare as the road bent sharply to the right and he should have slowed down but he couldn’t get his foot off the gas pedal fast enough. He took the turn way too fast, tires squawking threateningly. He started braking with his left foot, but he still had to use his right for the gas.

  “Slow down, Bronco,” he told himself, “Easy does it. You are too close to blow it now.” A sign for the next town emerged into his headlight beams—Paradox. Funny name for a town, he thought, but he knew now that he wasn’t far from the interstate.

  Another sharp curve was coming up, turning to the left this time. It was a turn onto a bridge crossing a very narrow bay of a mountain lake. He moved his leg to ease off the gas and bleed off some speed. But his leg wouldn’t behave. He tried again harder, but instead of letting up, his leg seized up in a massive muscle spasm and did exactly the opposite. It suddenly straightened itself with a jerk and slammed on the gas pedal.

  The Camaro leaped forward with a surge of power as it downshifted, anticipating that the driver was anxious to pass someone. He braked as hard as he could with his left foot, but the car wasn’t slowing down. The turn was coming way too fast. He hammered on his right leg with his fist. Get. That. Damned. Leg. Off. Now! He slammed the transmission into neutral to stop the acceleration, and the engine screamed to a dangerously high pitch. The car stopped accelerating, but it was already too late. He steered into the turn, but it was too sharp, too fast. The tires wouldn’t hold the car. They lost their grip on the road.

  The car slammed sideways into the guardrail. The inertia of the sleek black Camaro overwhelmed the ancient guardrail posts, designed half a century ago for cars half as powerful as this. They gave way with hardly a protest, leaving the bulk of the impact to be absorbed by the newer silver steel railing, which held on gallantly but couldn’t contain the energy of the impact. The railing held on only just enough to flip the car over, leaving nothing between the tumbling car and the calm, moonlit lake that the guardrail was meant to protect.

  Bronco had a sensation of the car whipping around and lifting and flipping over, the violent maneuver throwing him out of his seat and slamming him around the inside of the car. Then there was a brief moment of silence as the Camaro sailed through the air toward the lake. It was just enough time for Bronco’s mind to have one last thought before the car hit the water—as long as he had his bug-out bag and wasn’t too banged up by this, he could still make it to New York . . . .

  Jack was on his second joint of the night. He usually didn’t get this stoned, but he did not want to face reality just yet. He was in the safest spot he knew, out on an unused railroad bridge over the river. This was where he went when it was too early to go home. Too early was when his father was roaring drunk and still awake and ready to beat the crap out of him for being late. And lazy. And useless. And a moron. The litany of degrading terms had grown long and familiar to Jack, and he’d grown accustomed to enduring the beating—both physical and mental. He usually could make it to his room now without getting too beat up. His dad would get exhausted yelling and beating on the door and would fall asleep collapsed on the couch or the stairs or sometimes on the floor outside his door, where Jack would find him in the morning, unconscious and non-threatening.

  But Jack always preferred to avoid the drama. He just hung out here on the bridge until he knew his dad was passed out. It was quiet on the bridge, except for the bubbling of the water against the piers and the distant sound of cars on the road that ran along the river. The lights of the town marched up the dark hill to the skyline where they reflected in the low clouds. There were two or three other people that used the bridge late at night—mostly to cross the river, one or two to do the same thing he was doing. Hanging out, killing time, getting stoned. He recognized them all but knew none of them. It didn’t matter, they all got what they wanted, which was a little peace and quiet. He had spent the night there a few times when it was nice out. He wasn’t going to, tonight, however. It began to drizzle, and he was still uncertain whether Bronco would be coming after him—even though it had been hours since he had run from . . . run from that.

  Jack had heard sirens from time to time throughout the night. He had no idea what might have happened after he left, and he didn’t even want to guess, but sirens meant bad things had happened. He just wanted to go home, step over his passed-out father, and then lock his door and sink into oblivion. But he had to wait. He had a good sense for when it was safe to go, and it was still too early. Until then he had to stay conscious. And because he was conscious, he couldn’t prevent his thoughts from continuing, fuzzy as they were.

  He was thinking about what he was. He was a coward. He could accept that, but he couldn’t accept that he had been working with a kidnapper and a killer. And he couldn’t accept the fact that he may have just witnessed a double murder. Two kids. Two kids he knew.

  He was really stoned, but it didn’t seem enough. He lit another joint. He swayed a little bit and watched the water moving slowly far beneath his dangling feet. He considered what it would be like to just fall into the water and let it carry him away.

  The coffee wasn’t doing anything except keeping her hands warm. Caffeine had reached that point where it had exhausted its powers and become nothing more than a bitter taste in a hot liquid. Ed looked exhausted, so Chief Hannah could only imagine what she looked like. Ed was a good officer, and he had done everything right during a night that seemed to go otherwise horribly wrong.

  “Hey Ed,” she said.

  He looked up with tired eyes. “Hey Summer,” he replied slowly. “What a night, eh?”

  “You did good,” she said sincerely. “Yeah, what a night, all right. You think anything more could happen?”

  Besides getting shot at and then having to shoot back, and desperately trying to save the lives of two kids who were far too young to have this shit happen to them, she had to answer a call of domestic abuse at 3 a.m. to wrestle and handcuff a manic drunk off his son before he murdered him. The son was Jack Menhoff, the boy she had been trying to find and interview. Jack and his troubles weren’t unfamiliar to her. She knew the family, and she knew this would happen someday, but she was powerless to prevent it. On the other hand, she might have been the cause. When she had gone to the Menhoff’s to interview Jack during the search, Jack wasn’t there, but his father was. By the time she left he was clearly on the edge. The suggestion that Jack might know something about a missing juvenile appeared to trigger an ominous anger reaction from him. He was nearly speechless with rage. He might have even been drunk at the time, but what could she do? Arrest a man for being angry and drunk in his own home? No, she couldn’t, but she had set the stage for what came later that night. But maybe that was needed. Maybe that was the one good thing that came from this night. Now maybe the DFC could get Jack and his mother away from the abusive father. Chief Hannah hoped so. She did not want to answer any more calls like that, or any of the calls she made that night. She’d reached her quota for the year. Perhaps the decade.

  One thing kept nagging at her, however. How did Will find Blue? She had a hunch and if that hunch were true, she needed to have a talk, off the record, with Will as soon as he woke up.

  “Ed,” she said, “Call Sam now and get him down here to relieve you. You look like hell.”

  Ed grinned and said, “I bet I look better than you do. You better go home yourself. You go ahead, I’ll get Sam down here.”

  “I’m
going to take you up on that,” she replied. She knew there was still a lot of work ahead the next day. It actually was the next day already, but there were still a couple of hours of darkness left and she was going to use that time to get some sleep. She wanted to be sharp in the morning.

  36

  Picking Up The Pieces

  It started as a little nudge, like someone was trying to wake her in the middle of the night. Blue didn’t want to wake up. She was very comfortable right where she was. Why was someone doing that? She ignored it, but then it came again, only this time it was from inside her, as if her body was fighting her brain. Her brain was saying, “Stay asleep! You don’t want to wake up!” And her body was saying, “I’m waking up anyway!” Her eyes were opening of their own accord. Where was she? Why was it so bright? Her brain was fuzzy and she was starting to feel dizzy.

  A hand was holding her forehead and pulling on her eyebrow. Another hand held a small light that was shining in her eye. She looked disapprovingly at the owner of the hands. There was a woman hovering over her. It looked like a doctor or a nurse who was looking at her intently but kindly. The woman spoke in a steady voice, “Blue, you are safe. You are okay. You are in a hospital, and you are fine. I just woke you up with some medicine.” The waking feeling was starting to turn into nausea. Blue was afraid she was going to throw up. She was fine before, so why did they have to wake her up? She was angry. She started to breathe rapidly. She didn’t know if it was the anger or nausea or both. The nurse stroked Blue’s forehead with a cool damp cloth. That helped with the nausea but not the anger.

  “Just look at me, Blue. Look at me and breathe evenly. You’ll be okay in a second. This medicine can make you feel a little rocky sometimes. Look at me,” she repeated.

  The doctor’s quiet, rhythmic voice was soothing, and the nausea subsided. Slowly Blue got control of her breathing and started to calm down. She could look at the doctor now, “Okay, okay, I think I’m okay.”

  “Good! You sound better already.” The doctor smiled. “This will pass in just a minute or two, and then you’ll feel a lot better. Believe me, this isn’t the worst reaction I’ve seen. You’re handling it well.”

  “Where am I? What happened?” Blue felt at a complete loss. She still couldn’t think straight quite yet. And then she remembered. “It was heroin,” she croaked. The pieces weren’t all back together yet, but she was starting to remember parts.

  “Yes it was heroin,” said the doctor, “but I want you to know that you’ll be okay. You won’t have any lasting effects from this. There is still some in your system, but the shot I gave you will help. You also have an IV in your arm and that is where we have been giving you liquids to help keep you hydrated and help flush it all out.”

  “Blue?” said a familiar voice right next to her. Blue turned towards the voice. It was Ma Beth. She looked very tired but very happy. She had tears in her eyes. Blue had never seen Ma Beth cry before. Seeing her brought Blue back to reality and she was suddenly frightened.

  “Ma Beth! I am so, so sorry.” She looked down, not wanting to face her. Ma Beth reached out and pulled Blue to her in a surprisingly strong hug. Blue gave into the hug and let the comfort of it flow through her. It seemed to be bringing life and sanity back to her.

  But it also got her brain working again, and the warmth of the hug and the tightness of Ma Beth’s arms couldn’t suppress what she was thinking. She had blown it! She wasn’t going to be able to stay with the O’Days anymore. This incident was sure to have repercussions. “I don’t want to leave you!” she said in a panic. “This is all my fault. They’ll take me away from you!”

  Ma Beth gave her a squeeze and then took her firmly by the shoulders, held her back, and looked steadily into her face. “The hell they will!” rang clear as a bell in Blue’s head. Only the strongest feelings sounded like that from non-vox. Then Ma Beth spoke in a stern, no-nonsense voice, “No one is going to take you from the O’Day family young lady. You are a part of it now. Don’t you worry! Every single one of us is overjoyed to have you back safe, and we wouldn’t think of letting you go again!”

  Blue reached around Ma Beth and hugged her. She was tired of her brain working again, and she wanted to sink back into the mindlessness of sleep or whatever it was that the heroin was doing.

  The doctor interrupted, “I’m sorry, Blue, but I have to do a few checks, and then we will let you get some rest. It will take a couple of more hours before the opiate wears off. Ma Beth needs to sleep, too, you know. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and she hasn’t slept a bit.”

  Two in the morning? Was it still the same night? It seemed to Blue that it had been days. She suddenly felt exhausted again, but she let the doctor shine a light in her eyes again and test her reflexes and check her blood pressure, and then Blue sank back into the sheets and closed her eyes. She tried to settle into some sort of oblivion where she didn’t have to think of anything for a while.

  Sam was the one to wake up Rose. She was curled comfortably in a waiting room chair. Someone had brought out some pillows and blankets and tucked her in.

  “Hey Rose. Wake up, we can go see Blue,” said Sam.

  “She’s awake?” said Rose sleepily.

  “No, she’s asleep but Ma Beth said they woke her up to see if she was okay and then let her go back to sleep.”

  “Okay. What about Will?” she said, getting up.

  “He is still in surgery. Don’t worry Rose. He is going to be fine,” said Sam seeing the sadness in Rose’s face. “Let’s go see Blue.”

  Ma Beth had come out to the waiting room and said that the doctor would allow her to take everyone in to see Blue but only if they were very quiet and let her sleep. Everyone was in the waiting room—Sam, Rose, Wu, Nate, Pa Bill, and Mr. and Mrs. Woods.

  They slipped quietly into the room. Blue was curled on her side facing toward them with the bed back slightly up. She looked relaxed and peaceful, which was comforting to Rose. Except for one thing.

  “What happened to her face?” whispered Rose.

  “What are all those tubes?” whispered Sam.

  “Shhhh Rosie, Sam. Not so loud,” hushed Wu.

  “It’s okay,” said Ma Beth quietly, “I will tell you when we are back in the waiting room.”

  After the second group had gone in to see Blue, Ma Beth explained what she knew. “They don’t know how she got the bruise on her forehead, but the redness around her mouth is where it was taped so she wouldn’t cry for help. The bruise on her face and her bloody nose are where they think she was hit by the man that was holding her.”

  This was tough for Rose. “Why would he hit her? Why would a man want to hit a girl? Have they caught him yet? I want to punch him when they catch him.”

  “Hey Rosie, I think you spoke for all of us,” said Wu quietly, and he reached over and gave her a hug. Rose let him hug her but she was still angry.

  They were all hoping for news about Will. He had been in surgery for about two hours. They didn’t have to wait long, though, as a nurse came into the room and said, “He is in recovery now. Everything went really well. Mr. and Mrs. Woods, you can go in and see him. He will be pretty groggy, but he looks good!”

  Everyone was relieved. Ma Beth said, “I think it is time for the rest of you to go home and get some sleep. You can all come back first thing in the morning, and then both Will and Blue will be awake.”

  Wu protested, “Please, may I stay? Will is my best friend, and I know he wouldn’t leave if I were in the same spot.”

  “Okay, Wu, you can stay. But the rest of you have to go home now. No complaints! We can all rest easier now.”

  It felt like morning, but what day it was, or how long he had been there, he couldn’t tell. Will was lying in a hospital bed. The back was slightly elevated and his head was tilted toward the hospital room window where the sunlight was engulfing his bed with a cozy layer of warmth. The window framed a picture of nothing but blue sky with puffy white clouds. He felt like he had j
ust been through a hurricane and come out on the other side into a transformed world.

  He was a little spacey and didn’t feel like moving his head much, so he just watched the clouds. As he did he started to put the pieces together of what happened. He remembered waking up in the ambulance and seeing Blue, seeing that she was safe. He remembered waking again in the emergency room and then getting moved to a gurney which they wheeled down the hall. Then he remembered waking up in what must have been an operating room—he must have passed out a lot, or maybe it was anesthesia.

  Then he saw Mom and Dad and Rose in recovery, but he couldn’t remember what he said or what they said. He knew he had tried to make a joke, but couldn’t remember it. And then a couple of times when it was still dark out, a nurse came in and checked on him. At one point in the night, the pain his shoulder started coming back, and at about the time it became so excruciating and he didn’t think he could bear it anymore, the nurse came rushing in and put a shot of something in his IV. It was miraculous. The pain subsided immediately. The nurse showed him the call button, so he could call if the pain got bad again. That was comforting. He did not want that to happen again.

  He held up his right arm. It had an IV in it and was attached to a pouch on a stand next to his bed. It was dripping something into his bloodstream. There was a monitor next to him, too, and he still had wires for an EKG hooked up to him and a sensor on his finger. There was a tube coming out from under the dressing on his shoulder and chest and into a bag hanging by his bed.

  He didn’t try lifting his left arm just yet. He started with his left hand instead, just wiggling his fingers. They moved just fine, but he could also feel things tugging and tweaking all the way up in his shoulder and chest like they never did before. He tried twisting his arm back and forth. It worked, but it was painful, and it felt like his arm was swollen and the skin pulled at what were probably stitches.