Necessary Ends

by Tina Whittle

  His voice was soft in my ear. “Tai?”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  “Okay.”

  He raised his head and looked me right in the eye. “This afternoon. It was…multi-syllabic, starts with S.”

  “Surprising? Significant?”

  “No, something more…” He licked his lips, shook his head. “More like…you know.”

  “Satisfying?”

  “Yes. That’s it. Immensely satisfying.”

  He said it as if he were divulging a particularly delicious fetish. He was burning to make things right, or—if that wasn’t possible—to make things more sensible. To find the answers that perhaps changed nothing, but which at least rendered the void of understanding a little less empty.

  “So keep investigating,” I said.

  “I want to.” He brushed his thumb against my lower lip. “But I can’t do it alone.”

  “Of course you can.”

  He shook his head. “No. I can’t. My interactions today clearly demonstrated that. But you? You did very well.”

  “Trey—”

  He kissed me. It was a kiss designed to shut me up, a trick he’d learned from me and utterly perfected. But as his fingers tangled deeper in my hair, he lost himself in it, so many wants meshing together. I kissed him back, drawing more response from him, echoing and redoubled, a feedback loop of pleasure and desire. His lips were warm and soft and expert, and his hands…oh, sweet mercy, his hands…and I wound my arms around his neck, his shoulders, feeling the shift of muscle along his back.

  This was the Trey I knew, but he was also tantalizingly unknown, a familiar stranger rising from the ashes of his former self, cinders still sparking in his hair. There was no hesitation, no confusion, no uncertainty.

  “Help me investigate,” he said.

  I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  “But you hate it when I investigate. You say I ask too many questions, you tell me I antagonize people.” I wrapped my leg around his hips and rolled him on top of me. “You complain about my methods all the time.”

  “Not all the time.” His voice was a rough whisper against my neck. “Not all your methods.”

  I kissed him some more, deeper and hungrier, and I was dragging my shirt over my head when I felt the vibration against my hip. His phone buzzing. He didn’t immediately reach for it—I kept him occupied for a good five seconds more—but eventually he untangled his fingers from my hair and slipped them into his pocket. He didn’t untangle the rest of himself, though he did bring the phone to eye level and squint at it.

  “Local number. Unknown.”

  I got a ping of excitement. “It’s Nick.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “How many unknown numbers do you get on that phone? Zero. It’s Nick.”

  He kept his thumb on the phone. His breath was ragged, but the question in his eyes was impossible to miss.

  “Tai—”

  “Yes, the answer’s yes, of course I’ll help.” I kissed him quickly but thoroughly. “Whatever you need, partner. I’m all in.”

  He hit the button. “Seaver here.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  A very annoyed and scuffed-up Nick paced the driveway of the modest brick ranch house, a red Mazda headfirst in a bank of shrubbery. His shirt was covered in dirt and what appeared to be blood, one eye swollen shut, his hair a matted tangle. He looked like he’d gone three rounds with a mad bear.

  Trey and I watched from my car. Finn had warned us to keep our distance, and we’d obliged. From what I could see, Nick had gone right past the garage, barely avoiding a pine tree before crashing into the hedge. Addison stood next to him. She looked a bit worse for wear too, her outfit covered in the fine powder of a detonated airbag.

  “Addison was in the passenger side?” I said.

  Trey looked up from his notebook. “It’s her car. She’s the reason the accident wasn’t as severe as it could have been. When Nick lost consciousness, she took the wheel.”

  “He was driving?”

  “Yes. She said that she normally drives, but that tonight she had a migraine.”

  It was chaos and disorder, all the things Trey hated. And yet he was staring at the scene with a kind of wistfulness. He put down his pencil when the back door opened and Finn climbed in. She wore a expertly tailored business suit and full makeup, hose and high heels, as if she’d been pulled from a corporate raider workshop.

  She shut the door. “Clusterfuck. Utter and total.”

  “What happened?” Trey said.

  “Nick took the entrance at speed. Plowed over the mailbox, then scraped that telephone pole before Addison managed to swerve them into the boxwoods instead of the brick wall.”

  Nick was in fine form. Every time Addison took his arm, he shook her off. He was unsteady on his feet, swaying and then lurching to catch his balance. A man in gray slacks tried to put a stethoscope against his chest, but he kept batting the man’s hand away. A concierge physician, I guessed. The Talbots did everything privately, even their emergency care.

  “Drunk?” I said.

  “That’s what I thought,” Finn said, “but he blew zero point zero on the VIP doc’s breathalyzer. Twice. He’s slurring. Can’t recite the alphabet. A blindfolded toddler has more balance. But he’s not drunk.”

  Trey cocked his head, eyes on the scene. “Other symptoms?”

  “Headache. Nausea. Confusion.”

  “Those are concussive symptoms.”

  Finn pointed a finger at him. “Right you are. Except that he was displaying these symptoms before he crashed, according to Addison. You’re looking at the contributing presentation, not the concluding one.”

  “Is the physician aware of this?”

  “Yes. Addison’s convinced he had a stroke or something. Quint is yammering that he’s relapsed and that it’s all Addison’s fault.”

  “Quint’s here?”

  “He’s on the way. He insists we take Nick to the inpatient clinic for psychiatric evaluation. Nick insists that someone tampered with the car.”

  Trey made a soft scoffing noise, but he didn’t dismiss her comment. Every drunk who crashed his car probably said the same thing. But Nick wasn’t drunk.

  “How cognizant is he of his own condition?” Trey said.

  “He thinks he’s fine and is therefore not going to the ER.”

  “He should go.”

  “That is what I explained to Addison, and what she is trying to explain to Nick. He’s not listening. Of course they might still drag him in. Because he may not be drunk, but something’s sure as hell wrong.”

  Nick had his finger in the doctor’s face. Finn sighed loudly and shook her head.

  “I would say he’s high. Only thing is, Addison said he was right as rain when they got in the car. So unless he had a secret stash of coke or bath salts or whatever the kids are doing these days stashed in the glove compartment—”

  “Was Addison with him the entire time?”

  “Yes. She says he’s clean and med compliant.”

  “Does she have a list of those meds?”

  “You bet she does. Hard copy in Nick’s wallet for the doc, digital for the rest of us. I figured you’d be asking, so I texted you a copy.”

  Trey checked his phone. I knew where his brain was going next. I could practically see it sending up signal flares.

  He studied the list. “Could Quint be right? Could this be a recurrence of his mental illness?”

  Finn shrugged. “I’m no expert, but my gut feeling is no. This isn’t how paranoid delusional disorder normally manifests, plus, according to Addison’s testimony last week at the conservatorship hearing, his condition is being managed with therapy and medica
tion. His doctor and psychiatrist agree.”

  Trey continued to study the list of medications. I peered over his shoulder. The herbal relaxant Nick had been popping like breath mints was on the OTC list, along with a dozen other pharmaceuticals. The rest were a mash-up of prescription meds, some I recognized and some I had no clue about.

  Finn kept one eye on the accident. “Quint is gonna be pissed as hell if he finds out you’re here. Which may be one of the reasons Nick called you, who knows, but you should stay in the car regardless.”

  Younger sibling syndrome, I decided. I still displayed symptoms on occasion. No matter how sensible said older sibling’s advice, the younger sibling often flouted it out of sheer spiteful stubbornness. Whatever Quint said, Nick would do the opposite.

  “What are the chances the cops will get involved?” I said.

  “It’s not likely. This is a minor crash on his own property with no other persons involved. No serious injuries except perhaps some concussive damage, which—yes, Mr. Seaver, I see you shaking your head, and yes, I know that concussions can be deadly. So I’ve tried. But he’s not budging. Neither is Quint. Addison is the only one of this trio with any sense.” She frowned. “That’s another strange thing. Usually Nick does what Addison tells him without fuss. He’s balking now.”

  “Is he worried he’ll get committed again if he goes to the hospital?”

  “Probably. I don’t actually blame him there. But still.”

  Trey had turned his attention to the crash site, especially the car. “Did you get photographs of the accident?”

  Finn pulled a small digital camera from her bag. “Here. I’ve documented every angle that exists.”

  Trey swiped through them. “You said he reported that the brakes failed.”

  “He said everything failed—the brakes, the steering, the horn, the door. According to Nick, the whole car ceased functioning.”

  Trey looked up. “But that’s not…that makes no sense.”

  “Of course it doesn’t! You can’t tamper with an entire car!”

  There was something nibbling at Trey, but before he could get to it, a silver Jaguar pulled up crazily at the curb. A figure got out and marched toward Nick, leaving the headlights on.

  Quint.

  I pointed. “Uh oh. Irate brother at twelve o’clock.”

  Finn reached for the door handle. “Oh, bloody hell!”

  She slammed the door behind her and jogged toward the scene. Quint had managed to get within six feet of Nick before Finn stopped him. She positioned herself between the two men, hands open and in front of her. Nick lunged at Quint, only to be restrained by Addison, who was stronger than she looked. Finn said something to Quint, who backed away, even though his face was roiling with anger. Addison put her hands on Nick’s shoulders. He didn’t shake loose. She moved closer, put her face next to his. He nodded once, let her lead him toward the front steps, where he finally sat. The doctor knelt in front of him. Nick didn’t resist any further.

  I sat back in the seat. “One problem down.”

  Trey’s index finger was tapping against his thigh. He kept running down the list of medicines.

  I pointed. “You take that one. That one too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could he have overdosed himself by accident?”

  “It’s possible. This is a complicated medication schedule. According to every report, however, he’s maintaining it.”

  “Thanks to Addison.”

  “Yes.”

  I remembered Nick’s giant pill case, the nasty antioxidant tea. Addison took her role of caretaker very seriously. Trey’s finger was still tapping.

  “You think something else is going on, don’t you?” I said.

  “I do. And I think I know what it might be.”

  He swiped the med list closed and hit speed dial. I heard a male voice answer.

  Trey spoke quickly. “I’m sorry, Jean Luc, this is Trey. I apologize for the late hour, but if you could please put Gabriella on…Yes, it’s important. Thank you.”

  Jean Luc. Gabriella’s current main squeeze. I thought about Saturday night at her place, the candles and wine and lingerie, and contemplated the weird dynamics of the situation—exes who weren’t totally exed, boundary lines constantly being renegotiated. Or crossed.

  I shook my head. “Don’t bother her. She’s—”

  Trey held up a finger and returned to the conversation. “Gabriella, I…no, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. Tai’s fine. We’re fine. But I have a question. What did you have me taking for anxiety before the current formulation? The one you changed after the doctors started me on the cyclobenzaprine?” He scribbled some words in his notebook. “Piper methysticum. That’s what I thought. Because of the synergistic CNS effect, correct? Is there a test to check those levels?” More scribbling, nodding. “How long? Okay. Thank you. No, I’m fine. Really. Apologize again to Jean Luc.”

  He hung up and stared at his notebook. Through the window, I could see Nick and Addison and the doctor in an official huddle, Quint on the outskirts, looking seismic.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Nick’s manifesting the symptoms of a kavalactone overdose.”

  “A what?”

  “Kava is a common ingredient in herbal anti-anxiety formulations. It’s safe in proper dosages, but contraindicated for anyone taking drugs in the benzodiazepine class because the psychoactive effect is compounded. Liver failure and pulmonary compromise can also occur. The symptoms are exactly as Nick is presenting, especially the unusual disorientation.”

  “Do I want to know how you know this?”

  He winced. “I once spent a very unpleasant twelve hours in the emergency room after combining the two. I remember feeling as if my environment wasn’t responding properly, like Nick is describing. I couldn’t even open my bedroom door.”

  “Coordination problems?”

  “No. More like a lack of agency. At the time, it felt as if the door was wrong, not my ability to open the door. It’s how Gabriella recognized what had happened.”

  “Gabriella screwed up your meds?”

  He frowned. “Of course not. I screwed up. One time and never again, for that particular mistake anyway.” He drummed his fingers faster. “Nick’s chart shows both cyclobenzaprine and clonazepam. But his herbal relaxants don’t have kava.”

  “Could someone have tampered with his meds?”

  “Possibly. It would have to be someone who understood herbal pharmacology. And had access to his medications. Kava has a very pungent smell, however. It’s hard to disguise.”

  “Any other way to get it to him? Like in something he ate or drank?”

  Trey shook his head. “It has a distinctive taste as well.”

  “Stronger than lapsang souchong?”

  Trey blinked at me. “What?”

  “That tea you drink, the one that tastes like turpentine and ashes. Nick drinks it too, and that taste could disguise anything.”

  “Not kava. Pu-erh might, but that’s an uncommon—”

  “What did you say?”

  “Pu-erh. It’s—”

  I grabbed his knee. “Get Finn over here! Now!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Once I explained my hunch and Trey explained the pharmaceutical mechanics, Finn called one of her minions and put a lockdown on Nick’s trailer at the Kennesaw base camp. She snagged his tea from the car herself. Trey watched her from the passenger side of the Camaro, itching to get out. But he stayed put.

  “You did good,” I said.

  “I remembered the information. You provided the causal link.”

  “It was more than that. You connected your own past to somebody else’s present. Theory of mind and peripheral processing.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “You’ve been reading my cognit
ive neuroscience books.”

  “Psychology Today, actually. My brother’s article about a certain Subject J.”

  “Oh. That’s me.”

  “So I gathered.”

  Trey returned his attention to the crash scene, even though only Finn and Quint stood there. The doctor had taken Nick inside, Addison right behind. Eventually, Finn sent Quint packing, and she came back to the car.

  She grinned at Trey as she shut the door behind herself. “If I could give you a gold medal, I would. Nice work.”

  Trey tried to keep his expression blank, but the slight flush along his cheekbones betrayed his embarrassed pleasure. “When will you get the results back on the labs?”

  “I have to find a place that can test for kavalactones first. That’s not a standard test. Until I do, the doctor is running some liver enzyme levels and putting him on IV fluids, just in case.”

  “Did you ask Addison about it?”

  “I did. She’s familiar with the contraindications and insists she doesn’t include kava in his daily regimen.”

  I didn’t need to ask Finn if Nick was going to the hospital. He wasn’t. He wasn’t doing anything that might catch the attention of the cops, or the press, or end with him in the psychiatric institute.

  Finn focused her attention on Trey. “I meant to ask…how did your interview with Nick go?”

  Trey considered. “Very well. I think.”

  “Did he do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Kill his wife. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

  Trey looked startled at her bluntness. “Well…yes. But no, I don’t think he did it.”

  “And the alleged shooting?”

  “I believe him on that as well.”

  She leaned back in the seat, assessing him. “When I got here, Nick said he’d called you. He said you went to the house today, and then intercepted a stalker, and then he showed me a business card that had your name and number on it. I assume you gave that of your own free will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I realized he was correct. He was a target. And I wanted to help.”