Desperate to Touch

by W Winters

  “None of that is in our files.”

  “Please,” she says. Her voice turns hoarse and she lies on her back, calming herself down, just breathing. “Call me Ella… please.”

  “I’ll call you Ella. It’s nice to meet you, formally.” My quietly spoken joke comes with a warm smile and she gives me one in return before turning her back to me.

  “Good night, Ella.”

  “Good night, Laura.”

  Just breathe. It’s all I can think to keep from losing it when I leave her. Her pain is palpable and it wreaks havoc on my heart.

  Some patients leave and they never return. Their trip here is only a blip in their life. The one time they hit so low that they needed help. That’s all this will be for them. I’m grateful we’re able to give them that and that their life goes on.

  Then there are other people. Patients who are admitted against their will. Patients who are a harm to themselves. Whether they want to die, or just get off on the pain, sometimes they just want to hurt outside like they do inside.

  Those are the patients I worry about when they leave. When the doctor or judge says they can go. Sometimes they come back here, worse off than before. Other times they leave here and within a week, their obituaries are in the paper.

  The cup and pills are waiting for me on the floor just outside her door. It doesn’t take long to dispose of them and gather the last cup for Melody. It takes me longer to mentally prepare more than anything.

  Melody’s waiting for me, rocking but not humming, when I enter her room. All of the rooms are standard. A bed, nightstand, and dresser. A TV in the upper right corner and an attached bathroom. White sheets, white furniture and soft gray walls. The only difference is the artwork in each of the rooms. And we provide plenty and offer to change them based on patient preference. It was an idea Bethany had years ago. I backed her and we had to pressure corporate to give us the funds to purchase additional artwork. It took nearly a year, but they agreed. I think it makes all the difference.

  Neither Melody nor E.J.—Ella—cared about the artwork when they first arrived. Melody decided to change hers nearly a week ago though and I’m hopeful Ella will also come around, although the third of October is right around the corner. And if she’s right about having a court date, she may be long gone sooner than I think.

  “You changed your pictures again,” I remark when I come in and Melody smiles.

  “I asked the new girl to do it while I was in the library. She seemed like she had the time just sitting in the back, watching us.”

  Is that where she was? Hiding in the library? That little… I stuff my snide remark into the back of my head, jotting it down on the memo pad of complaints to give Aiden before my shift is up.

  “I like it,” I say, nodding one by one at the row of prints.

  “They’re all classics,” she tells me with plenty of pep in her tone. “The Starry Night is Van Gogh and this one,” Melody gestures as she rises off the bed, making the metal legs squeak as she does so, “Blue Nude is Picasso.”

  I know she’s right, because I picked out the classics when Bethany wanted help choosing what art to order. They’re only cheap prints, but they’re still beautiful.

  “I love them. Wonderful choices,” I comment and hold out the little cup for her.

  Her smile fades and she gathers the covers before climbing back into bed and finally accepting the cup.

  “What do you think of Officer Walsh?” she asks me and then lets out a small chuckle. “The good officer, as I like to call him.”

  The small hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “What do I think of him?” I repeat her question, giving myself time to think of how to reply while she accepts the cup of water and downs the medicine.

  “If you want to talk to him, you should. If you don’t, you shouldn’t.”

  “That’s not quite an answer to my question, is it?” she asks as she crumples the little cup.

  “The thing is, I have to tell someone. I used to have Father John,” she says and her tone turns remorseful and longing. The cold comes back, clinging to my skin. Walsh said she was the last to see him. I just can’t imagine this girl killing anyone. Conspiring to do so or otherwise.

  “The priest who… passed away.” I don’t say murder. I don’t want her mind to move back to the crime and go quiet. Some piece of me has to know the truth.

  Walsh’s words echo in my mind but they’re quickly silenced by Melody. “I didn’t know he’d go.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say, pressing her for more as I pull the corner chair closer to her bed.

  She readjusts under the sheets, lying down as I take my seat.

  “I told him everything. He knew what that man did to me and my thoughts. I told him all about the others too. He knew and he never approached any of them. He never did anything but absolve me of my sins.”

  “Father John?” I ask to clarify.

  “Yes.” She turns to look me in the eyes as she adds, “It’s a sin to think these things, you know? When you want others to hurt… it’s a sin.

  “So when I told him… I helped…” she trails off as her throat goes tight and Melody closes her eyes. My pulse races and I can barely hear her over the pounding of my heart. Is she really confessing?

  “When I told Father John in church that they were going to die, I told him where, I told him how and he asked me when.” Melody doesn’t cry. She merely stares at the ceiling, as if watching, not remembering, not a part of it. Only watching the scene unfold.

  “I told him I wanted to be in the church when it happened and that it was happening now.” She turns her head to the side, her wide eyes piercing through me. “I didn’t know he’d go. I didn’t know once he left, he’d never come back. I stayed there in the confessional waiting for him. I stayed there all night.”

  A numbing prickle dances over my skin. To be involved in something like that… and she’s only twenty. Watching the remorse, the confusion, the guilt, but also the anger play in her eyes is frightening. A part of me is terrified that she did go through with a plan to murder. Even if she wasn’t there. Even if they deserved it.

  She heaves in a breath and the emotional pull of it all drags her down to the hells of her own mind. Her bottom lip quivers and her voice shakes. “He left me to stop it from happening. He said he had to save them.”

  “It’s okay,” I console her, feeling her pain, but also my shock, my own horror.

  “Why did he go?” she questions me as if I have answers. “Why would he go to them?” Her voice breaks and the tears fall fast and furiously. Unable to stop. Her elbow props her up as the small girl asks me again, “Why would he leave the church, leave me there, to go to them?”

  The way she says them resonates with anger, with disgust. It’s the hint of a side to the young woman that sends a chill down my spine.

  “I can’t say,” I answer her, keeping my voice even. I’m silent, she’s silent. No one speaks as the air is permeated with an influx of anger and betrayal, finally ending with sorrow when Melody’s face crumples and she lies back down on her back.

  “Do you want to tell Officer Walsh?” I ask her and she shakes her head violently, wiping at the tears.

  “He already knows,” she confesses. “I didn’t have to say it for him to know,” she adds in a whisper.

  I wait a moment longer and it’s then the meds begin to kick in, her eyelids turning heavy. When I stand though, my heart leaps from the quick grab of her hand onto mine.

  “He didn’t absolve me of my sins.” She rushes the words out as if she’s being strangled. Pain from her grip rips up my arm and I struggle not to show it, my back teeth clenching.

  “Absolve me… please. Please, absolve me of my sins.”

  Fear strikes me, witnessing the dire need of this girl. Watching her reality slip to the point where she truly believes I could help her.

  “What is my penance?” she asks as her wide eyes beseech me.

  “I’m not-” I
start to get out. I can barely breathe.

  “Please,” she begs me. “How many Hail Marys? He never did anything ever when I told him what that man had done to me. He always did nothing. He sat there. He never did anything but listen. I didn’t know he’d go… I didn’t know he’d die! Please! How many?”

  “As many as you need,” I answer her and she shakes her head, releasing my hand to wipe the new tears from under her eyes.

  “I keep saying them, but I don’t feel better. Please!” she screams, on the verge of a breakdown, arching her back as she does and I answer, gripping her hand in both of mine.

  “Fifteen,” I yell and then swallow, quietly repeating myself as Melody lies back down, calming herself until she’s eerily still. I have no idea how many is a lot or a little or whether she’ll even accept the answer. I’m not Catholic. I’ve never been to confession, although I have plenty to confess.

  “Is that all?” she answers sweetly, in a tone not unlike the one she used when she told me the names of the art on the wall. “Fifteen,” she marvels.

  Seth

  There are at least two hundred bodies in the bar. It’s packed for a Monday night. The Red Room is never quiet though. Never a dull moment. Just like Allure. Long legs barely covered by short skirts, hard bodies clad in tight jeans sway and grind on the dance floor. The bar is dark, but the lights transition with every beat of the vibrant music.

  The dark red paisley wallpaper that lines the walls and the black chandeliers hanging from the sixteen-foot-high black ceiling keep the atmosphere sinful and decadent.

  Alcohol is a constant and tonight I stand behind the bar, waiting for one person in the hundreds to show. The liquor bottles behind me give plenty of light, even in the half beats of darkness. They’re lit. This entire side is always lit which is why I stay behind the bar, always watching the moves made in the crowded place.

  “Did he say when?” Jase asks me, fixing his jacket as he walks behind the bar to join me and the three bartenders.

  “Around one.” Walsh left a message on my voicemail. One o’clock tonight in The Red Room. The last time we met, he blackmailed us. Tonight should be a better experience than that.

  “Good. An update in a public place. Maybe Walsh has what he wants.” Turning to Jase, I watch the background fade and focus on him. Freshly shaven with his tailored suit, he looks more like a CEO than he does the head of a crime organization. It’s the air around him though and the way others look at him, with a hint of fear, or perhaps jealousy, that give it away. He stands apart from everyone in here. I’ve been doing my best for years to blend in, but right now, I wonder if I stand out the way he does. I wonder if the way he’s perceived now is the way I was perceived years ago in my own club.

  “You think he really found Marcus?” I ask Jase, barely breathing the name aloud. Marcus. His gaze meets mine and we share a look. If that list led him to Marcus, Marcus wanted it to happen. We’ve been following his men for months and we still haven’t identified the man in question.

  Movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention. Walsh doesn’t blend in like the other men in this club. They all have smirks, smile easily, laughing and enjoying the atmosphere. A few watch the dance floor, taking notes on potential women to pursue. Even the ones who are less than fine, and come for a strong drink after a long day, look like they belong.

  Walsh is all business. He’s always all business. Even without his uniform, he looks like a cop. As he takes a seat on the leather-enveloped barstool, a man in the corner of the room stills, the pause at odds with the remainder of the club, grinding recklessly and swaying to the music. That man I know well and I’m damn sure he can tell Walsh is a cop just from the straight rod shoved up Walsh’s ass that keeps him perfectly upright with that grimace on his face.

  Jase catches the eye of the man in the corner and waves him off.

  “Drink?” I offer Walsh, watching every detail of his expression. His eyes are narrowed as he does the same to me.

  “I thought the list would be something you’d find agreeable,” Jase comments after a moment of silence. “You don’t think it’s helpful?” he asks Walsh.

  Something’s off and wrong. He has resources and two days later Walsh should know by now that the list consists of six men on a rotating schedule doing Marcus’s dirty work. At some point, they’d lead to him.

  “You don’t know, do you?” Walsh’s expression changes as he drops his gaze to the slick bar top of black quartz. “Vodka, no ice.” Hard, late nights and no sleep paint the face of the man sitting across from me.

  “Straight,” I answer, nodding toward Anthony, a bartender to my right who’s listening in. Everyone who works in this bar works for Cross.

  “You got it.” He’s a young guy, earning his way and learning how things are done. Not bad looking and knows how to take an order, so Jase stuck him here. I know he’s itching for more. He’s motivated and wants to move up. This right here, having him close enough to hear is more than a test to see how he does, what he does and what comes out of his mouth after the fact. It’s everything for him to be on this side of the bar right now. Given the nerves that are evident as he nearly drops the shot glass, it’s showing.

  “Don’t know what?” Jase asks calmly, although I can see just beneath the surface rage is brewing. I don’t like to think that I have a temper. Jase though, he’s got a hot one for both Walsh and Marcus.

  Maybe when it comes to Laura. I have a bit of a temper if she’s involved, I’ll admit that, but when it comes to business, I like to think I can set my emotions to the side. I think that’s why Jase and I make a good fit. I’ve enjoyed working under him even. Watching the way he does things and learning new methods. I didn’t start at the bar though, I started in the parking lot, with a gun in my hand.

  The music pounds, the bass thrumming through my veins and the lights dip low with the sound of a roar of excitement from the dance floor.

  Walsh exhales, low and steady, flexing both of his hands on the bar. I’m conscious of where they go and every move he makes. Public place or not, Walsh is a desperate man fueled by revenge. I don’t trust either of those aspects.

  “You gave me six names,” Walsh starts and then a chilled heavy glass of clear liquid is placed in front of him. I nod a thanks to Anthony, and wait as Walsh sips it first. It takes Anthony a moment to get the hint not to stay close, but he gets it as Walsh throws it back.

  “I put them through the database and got six addresses,” he says flatly, tilting his empty glass on the table. In my periphery, I watch as Jase crosses his arms. The way his jaw is clenched is an indication that he’s holding back and he’s on edge.

  “Another?” I offer, and Walsh shakes his head, meeting my stare. It’s then that I realize, all his attention is focused on me. None at all on Jase Cross. He’s barely looked at Jase. I don’t like the unease that climbs up my spine.

  “When I got to the first address, I knew something was wrong. The lights didn’t work. Electric had been cut. Next to the body on the floor was a note. Same with the next address and the next. All but the blonde woman on the list. She’s missing, but her body wasn’t dead at her place.”

  My blood runs cold. Dead. “They’re all dead?” Jase questions.

  “Every single one of them.” Walsh’s nostrils flare and the tension between the three of us is at an all-time high. This is fucked.

  “If you think you can fuck with me,” Walsh practically spits, the anger but also the frustration showing in his reddened eyes.

  “No one’s fucking with you,” Jase says and slams both of his hands down on the bar, getting the attention of a number of patrons. I don’t touch him or hint to anything at all with Jase.

  “What did the note say?” I ask Walsh, needing information. Information is everything.

  Walsh’s hard gaze turns to me and he says, “Funny you should be the one to ask. It said: Was it Fletcher who did it, or Laura’s father?”

  The confusion weaves its w
ay through my expression quickly enough and that’s when the coldness hits, followed by the heat of rage. Marcus got to them first. He killed the men, knowing we knew about them.

  My jaw twitches and I move for the first time since Walsh has been in here. Fuck! Adrenaline courses through me.

  “I knew of Fletcher and you. I knew that one.” Walsh keeps talking. I can barely keep my focus on the words spewing from his mouth. I can’t even fucking breathe.

  Fletcher or Laura’s father. Marcus’s note comes back to me. He’s playing with us. One step ahead. He’s always one step ahead. Motherfucker!

  “I didn’t know who Laura’s father was referring to. Not until last night.” Walsh continues. “I figured if Fletcher was related to you, so was Laura.” Jase says something but I can’t hear him over the ringing and slew of curses in my ears.

  With my hands in fists, I raise them to the top of my head, closing my eyes and praying for calm. He’s bringing Laura into this.

  Marcus brought Laura into it, and put her on Walsh’s radar.

  I finally speak. “Marcus… he knew about the list and got to them first.”

  “How did he know?” Jase’s question is accusatory and I sneer at him, “How the hell should I know?”

  “Calm down,” Jase urges me, his dark eyes narrowing as he watches me. I want to pace; I want to throw something across this fucking room.

  “He dragged Laura into this.” I can barely speak her name. I feel like a caged animal, ready to attack anything that comes near me.

  “He brought you front and center.” Jase’s response is quick and again I catch a tone that I don’t care for.

  “What does the note mean?” Walsh asks.

  “I don’t know,” I answer Walsh harshly. With both of my hands on the bar, I inhale once, then look around us. The barstools have cleared, no one daring to come around us. When I look up, no one has the audacity to look at us, but I know they’re watching. Some of them are. Others are leaving as quickly as they can.