“I’m Detective Mackin,” a woman at his bedside said. “I understand it’s difficult for you to speak, but it’s important I ask you some questions.”
The nurse elevated the head of the bed a little.
“Do you think you can write answers?” Captain Hook said. He stood at the other side of the bed, holding a pad and pen.
Geno had a few questions of his own. “Who find me?” he wrote in a sloppy curve. “How find me?”
Hook pulled up a chair and sat so he was at eye level. “Chris Mudry knew where you were headed, so we went to Fox’s house to question him. He said your brother came by to buy some photography equipment. He showed us the check Carlos wrote and said the whole exchange happened in the garage. Said Carlos never came into the house and when he went to leave, his car wouldn’t start. You came and got him and that was the last he saw of either of you. Said he spent the rest of the night with a friend, gave us a name and address to confirm.”
“Carlos’s car was parked at the curb,” Mackin said. “Police couldn’t start it. Your car wasn’t there. It all checked out. We had no probable cause for a search warrant. No reason to think anything was off.”
“We found your car parked at the Short Hills Mall,” Hook said. “Stripped down to floor mats. Not a clue left. We thought the trail was dead, but then Chris Mudry called me. His bank’s fraud department contacted him about suspicious charges on his credit card. He remembered you’d taken his backpack and his wallet was in it.”
“A lot of cases are cracked because a criminal was dumb or greedy,” Mackin said. “Or both. Whoever ditched your car took the wallet. Charged five hundred dollars worth of booze at a liquor store a block from Fox’s house. Surveillance cameras in the strip mall got him on film. Then we had a plate number. The rest was legwork.”
“I’m just sorry it took two days,” Hook said, curling a hand around Geno’s fingers. “Geno, I’m so sorry.”
Geno turned his head and threw up between the bars of the bed rail. He spiked a fever and the questions had to wait. An infection right now could kill him.
He wished it would.
The days fell into a pattern. Geno ate a little, slept a lot and answered questions. Three or four times a day he rolled over for whichever doctor or nurse wanted to take a look up his ass. Everybody was respectful and compassionate. Still, every exam made him wish he were dead.
His half-sister Zoe came occasionally. Vern was there constantly.
And of course, Mos watched. It was his job.
Dr. Bloom, the surgeon who operated on Geno, came every day. So did a gastroenterologist. And a cadre of nurses whose faces and names started to fall into predictable shifts.
“You’re one lucky kid,” a male nurse said, taking vitals one morning.
Geno hit him.
It was a feeble swipe, the back of Geno’s hand making a weak thud on the nurse’s chest. Apologies were made, but after that day, Geno only had female nurses and nobody called him lucky again.
One day Captain Hook brought Chris Mudry with him. The chief beamed as Chris approached the bed. As if Chris were a present.
Geno didn’t make eye contact with his friend. He bit his lip hard as he and Chris clasped right hands. He leaned forward a bit to accept the fist tap on his shoulder blade, then disengaged quickly.
“I’m so sorry,” Chris said softly.
Captain Hook slipped away to give them privacy. Silence squeezed the room in an awkward fist as Mos watched Chris take in the healing raw circles at Geno’s wrists. The IV with antibiotics fighting a persistent Chlamydia strain from one of his attackers. The feeding tube because he was struggling with cyclical vomiting and couldn’t keep anything down. The colostomy bag to handle all the unpleasant output.
“Dude, I don’t know what to say,” Chris said.
“Don’t say anything.” Geno’s broken voice was gaining strength. It still slid into a rasp when he was tired, or broke down, but it was a voice.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t. Say. Anything.” Geno measured out the words like medicine. “You came, you saw the freak show, you know what happened to me. You can go now.”
Chris stayed still, breathing slow through his nose. “Kelly really wants to see you.”
“No,” Geno said.
“She’s crazy worried about you and she—”
“I don’t want anyone to see me like this. Least of all her.” Geno’s hand reached and closed around the front of Chris’ shirt. “Don’t you fucking tell anyone what you saw here today.”
“Jesus, G, I wouldn’t—”
“I swear to God, I’ll rip your tongue out if you say anything.”
Chris reached up, ostensibly to work Geno’s fist off his shirt. Geno yanked his hand away first. “Go,” he said. “Just fucking go and leave me alone.”
Chris’ mouth opened and shut a few times. “G,” he said, his voice filled with broken glass. “I’m so fucking sorry. It’s killing me. I should’ve gone with you.”
“Why? So you could’ve gotten the shit fucked out of you too? At least you would’ve enjoyed it.”
The color drained out of Chris’ face and his mouth pressed into a tight line. His eyes misted and something within Geno unfolded in delight, pleased someone else was hurting.
“I suppose you want the details,” he said, relishing the feel of a knife handle as he twisted it. “I’d tell you, but you might be jealous. Hope you didn’t come here with any ideas about me coming over to the dark side. I’m not your type, remember?”
“Dude, stop,” Chris said. His hands were shaking.
“Why don’t you get the fuck out of here? Seeing your faggot face isn’t making me feel any better. In fact, it’s making me sick. Should’ve been you in that house.”
“G, what are you—?”
“Just leave me alone. Go blow your boyfriend or whatever it is you do to each other. Bunch of sick fucks.”
Chris stood still. His lips parted but nothing came out.
“What part of ‘leave me alone’ do you not understand?” Geno yelled over his frayed vocal chords. “Leave? That’s easy. You get the fuck out of here.” The last words were barely a whisper.
Chris was crying as he left.
Voiceless now, Geno threw an emesis basin at his back to drive the point home.
Mos stayed. It was his job.