Chapter Nine
Danica
“Jesus, kid,” Schilling’s voice drifted in darkness. His hands gripped my shoulders, dragging my heavy body upright. The overpowering scent of fresh vomit assaulted my nostrils.
“Noo,” I whined, wrestling to lay back on the sofa. I couldn’t wake up, I couldn’t be conscious when they took his life. “Let me sleep through it, Schilling, please.”
“It’s over, kid. It’s eight. I’ve been calling you for hours.”
“He’s gone?”
My body shook, the air hung chilly and heavy. My heart shattered.
“No. He got a last minute stay.”
“What?”
I snapped upright, hit with the sharp slap of sudden shock induced sobriety.
“They gave him a forty-eight-hour stay at the last minute. Another prisoner confessed to the murders. The bastard waited until 6 pm before calling a guard, confessing to everything. Leo is on his way back to Polunsky Unit now. Two guys from our place have headed over to question the prisoner. He’s Mexican, the guy who confessed. Part of your dad’s cartel.”
“I knew it,” I slurred, dragging myself from the sofa. I landed in a tangled heap by a pile of vomit. Schilling lifted me into his arms, his nose curled at the stench floating from my breath and my vomit soaked vest top.
“Let go, I need to go to Mexico, tell my father what I think of him.”
“When you’re sober we’ll consider it,” Schilling sighed. He carried me from the house, depositing me in his people carrier, locking the seatbelt over my heaving chest. He left me there, the engine running, the heater blasting warm air over my goose bumped skin.
Leo still had a chance. He was alive. We had a chance. This time, I refused to fail. I’d save him, no matter what the cost.
Schilling returned, dragging a holdall behind him. He threw it onto the passenger seat.
“If you wanna throw up again, do it in this,” he said, handing me a plastic bag.
“Are we going to Mexico?”
“No, you’re coming home with me. Mrs Schilling will clean you up, wash your puke from your hair. If you fight her, I swear to God, I’ll do it myself and neither of us wants that.”
“He only has forty-eight hours. I’m not wasting that playing happy families with my asshole partner,” I spat. The vodka made it hard to speak, my brain incapable of normal functioning.
“No, he has forty-eight hours until they can set a new date. It’ll be another month or so before he faces the death chamber again and you’re no use to him in this state,” Schilling sighed.
He spoke sense. I’d read enough about the death penalty to know that. The car rolled through the dusky streets, the smooth purr of the engine lulled me to calm, the hot air pouring from the heaters filled the car, wrapping comfortably around my body.
“I’m in my underwear,” I breathed, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You just noticed that, huh?” Schilling laughed.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve packed you some PJs. My wife will sort you out in no time.”
“Thank you,” I sighed.
Sleep took hold before we pulled up outside his house. The cold night air racing into the car, chasing away the blissful heat he’d filled it with snapped me back to drunken wakefulness. Schilling pulled me from the car, my hand still gripping the plastic bag. My legs refused to comply, his hands on my hips kept my upright. He rested me against the wall, unlocking his door.
“You have a house?”
Why did this surprise my drunken, vodka soaked brain?
“I do,” he replied.
“I love you.”
“Don’t tell my wife that,” he grinned, kicking the door open. His hand wrapped around my waist, pushing me into his home. Mrs Schilling raced to us. Her golden hair hung in waves over her shoulders, her blue eyes frowned at me. She peeled me from Schilling’s grip, resting me on a chair in their hallway.
“You’re very young,” I slurred, “and pretty. Prettier than I imagined. I need to stop talking don’t I?”
“Oh no,” she laughed, “I like your talking, you talk away sweetheart.”
“I’ll run her a bath,” Schilling said, bouncing up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
“I used to hate him,” I informed his wife, carefully enunciating each word. My Spanish accent thick in drink, I tried my best to sound American. It came out like an odd, contrived Irish accent. “I love him now. He’s so nice to me. I hated him for date night, he left me to go on a date with you when Leo needed him, but Leo is alive so it’s okay now.”
“Date night?”
“Yups. On Thursdays it is date night, always date night. Every Thursday. Your house is so neat, much neater than mine. You should come and clean for me.”
“My kids would inform you that’s a bad idea, Danica,” she laughed, “I don’t clean, I delegate.”
“I need delegating.”
“Don’t tempt her,” Schilling grinned from the top of the stairs, “she’s a slave driver, Milano. You’d never survive, the state of your place. Your bath is ready.”
“I can wash myself,” I protested as Mrs Schilling dragged me from the chair. Schilling met us halfway, he dragged, she pushed. Together they got me upstairs, despite my body’s determination to throw me down the stairs.
“Not in that state you can’t,” Mrs Schilling frowned.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve survived three teenagers,” she laughed, “this is nothing.”
“Teenagers? You have teenagers? You don’t look old enough.”
“My husband should bring you home more often.”
She propelled me into the bathroom, peeling off my vomit soaked underwear. I was helped into a deep tub of hot, bubble-topped water.
Mrs Schilling, who insisted I call her Emma, listened patiently to my drunken, scarcely coherent rambling as she washed the dried, crusted vomit from my hair. Even in my drunken, semi-aware state, regret started brewing my gut. Tomorrow promised to be one of the most humiliating days of my life, facing this woman again after she’s washed the remains of my tinned spaghetti lunch from my hair and listened to me proclaim my everlasting love for a paedophile. This realisation wasn’t enough to curtail my rambling. I continued until she tucked me into her oldest child’s bed.
“Won’t they mind? When they come home and find a strange, drunk woman in their bed.”
“Ellis is away at college,” Emma told me.
I was dozing when Schilling popped his head around the door.
“You decent?”
“Your wife is lovely. I love her. I love her as much as I love you and Leo.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughed, walking into the room. He dumped a bottle and box of pain pills on the bedside table. “Advil and water, you’ll need them when you wake up. I’ve called the chief, told him we’ll be in late in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
◆◆◆
I woke hours later, my head pounding like a vice was wrapped around my brain, my mouth dry, my stomach threatening to empty itself with every tentative move I took, painfully aware of what a fool I’d made of myself. Regret was an understatement. I wondered if I could sneak out while no-one was watching, go home and hide in my bed for the rest of eternity?
Schilling and his wife clattered around the kitchen below me. Laughter floated towards me. One of his kids was home, I could hear them chattering happily about the day ahead of them.
I reached carefully for the water, sipping slowly, my stomach heaving in protest, my head screaming at me to go back to sleep. Footsteps bounced up the stairs.
“Kid?” Schilling whispered through the door. “You awake?”
“No,” I moaned. “I’m dead. I died of alcohol poisoning and shame.”
The door eased open, Schilling crept in, clutching a coffee in each hand. He settled himself on the edge of the bed, brushing my hair from my face before handing me a coffee.
“We’ve all been too drunk, kid,” he sighed. “And you had a good excuse.”
“I told your wife I loved her.”
“Yeah,” he laughed, “I think she likes you.”
“Oh God,” I cried as my hazy memories of the night before flooded back, “I told her I wanted Leo to, umm… in detail, vivid, pornographic detail.”
“I was outside the door, kid, I heard everything.”
“Fuck. Schilling, shoot me please.”
“Drink your coffee, take a shower, come down for breakfast. I’ll let you live it down eventually.”
He left me alone, stewing in my embarrassment. I took his advice, turning the shower dial to cold, trying to blast away the painful remainder of my hangover. Schilling had packed everything I’d need, clean clothes, cosmetics, my hairbrush and hair ties. I soon looked human, even if I felt anything but.
Schilling, Emma and a teenage girl sat around the breakfast when I walked each, every step I took sending bolts of shame and agony shooting through my punished body.
“I’m sorry, about last night. I don’t know what came over me,” I said, my cheeks burning.
“Think nothing of it,” Emma smiled, shoving a plate of bacon, fried bread and scrambled eggs towards me. My stomach clenched.
“Eat it,” Schilling warned. “It’ll help.”
“You should see some of the states this one comes home in” Emma laughed. Nodding towards Schilling. He narrowed his eyes, shaking his head at her.
“He once came home from boys night convinced he was a superhero,” their daughter laughed. “Mom had to lock the stepladders away to stop him climbing onto the roof to prove he could fly.”
“If this goes any further, Emma,” he hissed playfully, “Dani will learn all about the police picnic.”
“Oh please,” Emma laughed, “they loved my performance. Who wouldn’t want to see this fine ass on display?”
“Alright, I’m out, I don’t wanna hear another word,” their daughter sighed.
“Have a great day at school, honey,” Emma called as the teen stamped towards the door.
“You wanna talk about the case?” Schilling asked stuffing his face with crispy bacon.
“Please.”
“The guy who confessed made the whole thing up. Leo’s back in the firing line I’m afraid.”
“What? No, that can’t be right. My father is behind this, I know he is.”
“Everything your father told us checked out. He’s been straight since the day you went missing. When Maia and Stacey were murdered he was in California, opening his Casino there and Angel was in prison in Mexico, serving time for battering a cop. Your father’s cartel has never gone after women or kids, ever. At one point they were working with the DEA to bring other cartels down.”
“So this guy confessed why?”
“We think your dad paid him to, offered his family something. Kid, you didn’t…”
“Jesus, Schilling, give me some credit. I want Leo freed, I don’t want to see another innocent man in his place. I haven’t spoken to my father since we were in Mexico. I despise the man. So, what happens to Leo now?”
“A new date’ll be set soon.”
“Do we know this guy is lying?”
“Afraid so, kid. He doesn’t have any of the details. Swears blind he shot them both.”
“Fuck.”
I was back to square one. No leads, nothing to chase up and no clue where to turn next.
“Schilling help me.”
“I wish I could, kid,” he sighed, “best thing he can do now is plead for clemency.”
“He’ll never do that. He can’t face life inside, he’d rather die.”