Chapter Twelve
Brock sat in his new office chewing the end of a pencil and pondering the computer screen in front of him. He’d only managed an hour or so of sleep the night before and his mind felt as if it were covered by a heavy blanket. Austin had given him the new space, with a nameplate on the door and everything as CEO of the Fitzgerald Charitable Fund. More make-work, he realized, but at least he had a bit of autonomy.
He’d already lined up a couple of interns, eager poli-sci and sociology majors with mad internet skills from the local university. They were tapping away in the adjacent room, setting up their website and establishing a social media presence. The chair he’d liberated from the office furniture cemetery squeaked as he rotated, unable to settle or focus and not just for lack of sleep.
“Hey,” a voice called from the half-open door, startling him out of his semi-trance. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Kayla today, have you?”
He blinked and sipped his coffee gone long cold, trying to figure out who was talking to him. When Melody materialized, he put her together with the words and stood up fast, worry hitting his brain and snapping it out of its fugue. “No. I don’t… I don’t even know her phone number. Why?”
Melody crossed her arms and frowned. “I don’t know. Thought you might.”
He rolled his eyes and turned away from her, not wanting her to see how his face had flushed. “Junkies don’t just know each other’s info automatically, you know. I mean, we are a club unto ourselves and all but…”
“Spare me.” Her voice was sharp.
“Sorry. But no, I haven’t. And I’ll repeat my original question. Why?” The memory of her angry, hurt expression filled his mind but he repressed it with a firm mental shove.
“She was supposed to open the bar today.” Melody glanced at her watch. “But when I got here, the kitchen staff said no one had shown up at all.” She sighed and slumped against the door frame. “Shit. I hope she’s all right. I mean…you know.”
“Yeah.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled around, wondering if he’d somehow managed to capture Trent’s number at some point. Which he hadn’t. He tossed the device down on his desk and rubbed his face, trying to wake himself all the way up. “We had a sort of bad time, yesterday I mean.”
“Oh?” Her dark eyebrows raised. He could sense her protective hackles rising.
He held up a hand. “Hold on. Stop jumping to all the shitty conclusions I see floating around behind your eyes.”
Her frown deepened. “Just tell me what happened.”
He sighed and shoved his hand down in his pockets, wondering where in the world he should start.
“Start at the beginning, Fitzgerald. Then I gotta call her brother and tell him. Make it fast.” She snapped her fingers in his face.
He told her everything—from Kayla’s rough start, needing a midday group meeting fix, all the way through to the be-suited bureaucrats wrenching the crying child out of her arms.
Melody’s eyes were brimming with tears when he finished.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t know…shit.”
“You did fine.” She put her hand on his arm. “You did the only things you could in such a crappy situation. I have to call Trent now. We need to check on her.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He watched, helpless while Melody relayed the story to Kayla’s brother in a condensed form and they agreed to meet at the halfway house where Kayla lived. “I want to come with you,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair.
She gave him the better part of a hairy eyeball for a few seconds then shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. But don’t expect a happy greeting from her brother. He is royally pissed and is going to blame you, even though that’s wrong.”
“Eh. I’m used to taking the blame for random shit. I want to see for myself she’s all right.”
The drive through the industrial area between the brewery and where Kayla lived was made in total silence but for the computerized instructions from the SUV’s navigation program. When she pulled up in front of an abandoned warehouse and stopped, they both peered up at the rattletrap building in wonder. “This can’t be it,” he said.
“It is, though.” She pointed to the address on the navigation screen. “Let’s go.” She turned off the ignition at the same time as a classic Jeep screeched into the lot next to them and Trent jumped out, glowering at him before giving Melody a quick kiss and mumbling something to her in Spanish.
Brock waited, letting them lead. They all covered their noses at the rank stench as they made their way to the fourth floor. The upper hall was hot, but at least it didn’t reek of piss and shit and puke like the stairwell. Trent checked his phone and motioned for them to follow him to the far end, to a cheap-looking door with a number written on a strip of duct tape.
“This is it.” He hesitated, then knocked once. “Kayla, it’s Trent. Are you in there?” When there was no response, he rattled the doorknob with a curse. “Kayla!” He knocked louder. “Kayla, open up.”
“Maybe she’s not there,” Melody said, hip bumping him aside. “Kayla, honey, it’s Melody. We’re worried because you didn’t show up for work. Open up if you’re in there. Please?” She knocked and knocked until Brock couldn’t stand it another second. His skin was crawling and his eyes burned. She was in there all right. He knew it—he could sense her presence.
“Excuse me.” He pulled Melody back from the door gently and nodded at Trent, man to man. “Kayla, if you can hear me, move away from the door.”
“Hey, hold on a second. What do you think you’re—?”
He glared at the hand Trent used to grip his biceps. “I’m saving your sister’s life, dude. Back off?” He made it an option, not a command.
Trent’s brow furrowed but he let go of Brock’s arm and stepped away, taking Melody’s hand and gripping it so tight Brock could see his knuckles whiten.
“Kayla, I’m coming in. And if I hurt you I’m sorry but…” Without another word, he kicked once, breaking the cheap-ass lock and sending the hollow plastic door whamming against the wall. He took one step forward and stumbled back at the smell of blood. Trent shoved him aside, calling his sister’s name.
“Kayla? Kayla…honey… Oh, Jesus. Melody, call nine-one-one, now!”
Unable to see anything, thanks to the dim light thrown by a half-window, Brock watched, helpless, as Trent crouched over Kayla’s inert, bloody body splayed out on a thin mattress on the floor. Once Melody had made the call, she took up her position on Kayla’s other side, patting her face and reassuring Trent that she was still breathing. Brock was frozen in place, watching this horror show tableau. “Did…someone hurt her? What happened?”
“Fuck if I know. Go downstairs so you can lead the EMTs up here,” Trent demanded without looking away from his sister’s pale face.
Brock swallowed the rising gorge in his throat. Her feet were bare and pale, and all he could see other than her denim-covered legs. Trent had draped her torso with a sheet and was holding her, making soft noises, while Melody patted her face. His feet wouldn’t budge even when he commanded them to.
“Go, God damn it, Fitzgerald,” Trent barked at him as he cradled his sister to his chest. “You deaf, or what?”
Brock nodded, turned and pounded back down the disgusting stairwell, emerging into the cool morning air with a gasp as he heard the ambulance’s siren in the distance. He waited, his pulse racing, his ears ringing, and led them up the four flights and down the hall to the open door to her room. Trent and Melody moved away as the medic got to work, checking her vital signs, hooking her up to some fluid, covering her mouth and nose with an oxygen mask before lifting her onto the gurney.
“What did she take?” one of the medical guys demanded of the group.
They all looked at him.
“Nothing,” Brock said.
The guy seemed skeptical, but when his partner found a blood-encrusted razor blade, they got busy trundling her down the hall, the stairs and into the ambulance. Before the doors closed, he heard her voice—weak but definitely hers.
“Which one of you is Brock?”
Trent stepped forward but Melody held out an arm. He stared at it, then at her. Brock moved closer to the ambulance. “I am.”
“Get in. She’s calling for you and if it’ll help her blood pressure, I’m all for letting you ride.”
Without a glance back at Trent, he climbed into the back of the rig and sat on a jump seat next to Kayla. Her arms were a bloody mess but he kept his eyes on her face as he took her hand and said, “I’m here. You’re gonna be all right.”
She nodded, trying to take off the oxygen mask with one trembling hand.
“No, no, leave that. It’s the good stuff. Enjoy it while you can.”
She nodded again, her face wet with tears, her eyes dark with pain. Brock held on to her hand the whole time, letting go when the back doors opened and they took her away from him. When he saw Melody’s face around the ambulance doors, he flinched, realizing he hadn’t moved from his perch.
“Come on, hero man. Let’s go make sure she’s okay.” Her smile released something in him, allowing him to draw a full breath as he rose, and climbed down to join her.
The differences between his most recent emergency room experience, not twenty-four hours prior, and this one, were stark. This waiting room was half full, and had TVs on in every corner, a coffee maker running, and magazines available for perusal. It smelled like hospital of course—there was no getting around that. But it was sparkling clean relative to the shit hole where they’d sat with the kid while the mother had died down the hall. Actual medical staff were out in the waiting room, taking temperatures and talking with the walking wounded.
Brock dropped into the nearest chair—not hard molded plastic but with a faux leather cover and soft cushion. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and began to pray.