by Rob Cornell
A sharp pain twinged in Harrison’s chest.
Down the hall at the nurses’ station, a male nurse with a receding hairline told two female nurses a joke. He spoke softly, so Harrison couldn’t pick out details, but judging by their laughter, it must have been a good one.
Harrison’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and declined the call like he had the last dozen times a call came from that same number. Jake’s number.
Kamille touched his elbow. “Why don’t you grab a coffee? I’ll sit with him.”
He nodded, then watched his brother for a few more seconds before walking down the hall toward the elevators. He felt like the air had thickened somehow, like an invisible sludge that made his movements slow and his senses numb. It seemed to take forever to reach the hospital’s cafeteria.
It was after nine, but the cafeteria was thankfully open until ten according to the placard by the entrance. When he first entered, it looked completely empty and wondered if the sign was wrong. Then he noticed a woman slouched behind a register reading a beat up paperback.
He started for the coffee dispenser when his phone buzzed again. Growling under his breath, Harrison drew the phone and answered.
“I’m in the middle of a family emergency,” he said before Jake could speak. “Stop calling me.”
“They cut off her finger.” Jake’s voice was thick and wet as if he’d been crying. There was also an edge in it Harrison had yet to hear from him. He sounded ready to crack or explode.
But that’s not your problem, Harrison.
“I’m sorry,” Harrison said. “But none of this would have happened if you’d stood up to your psychotic mother in the first place.”
Jake didn’t say anything for a while. Harrison would have thought the call had dropped if not for the sound of Jake’s labored breathing coming through the line.
“She gave me names,” he said.
“Names?”
“The smaller fish you insisted I get. She gave them to me, but only after cutting off my wife’s ring finger and shoving it in my face. It still had her wedding ring on it.” He said all this in a dead monotone. And yet that new edge remained through it. Harrison realized the guy was probably suffering from shock.
But, again, that wasn’t Harrison’s problem. He had his own family to worry about. “I’m sorry.”
“You already said that. And I hardly believe you.”
“Believe what you want. I can’t help you right now. Frankly, you don’t want my help. Every time I try helping someone, it all goes to hell.” Harrison laughed. “You of all people should realize that by now.”
Jake’s hard breathing quickened. “You sent me back to her to get these names. Because of that, Mother felt she had to punish me.”
“See what I mean?”
Harrison noticed the woman behind the register had stopped reading her book and was staring at him. He turned and left the cafeteria.
“But she gave me the names” Jake said. “You have to help me. I don’t know what to do with them.”
Harrison leaned against the wall down the hall from the cafeteria entrance. This section of the hospital was quiet except for the occasional bing of the elevators around the corner.
“Track them down. Ask them questions.”
“By myself? No. You can’t—”
“Jake, I’m done with your case. I’m sorry. I’ll contact you in a few days about refunding a portion of your retainer.”
“I don’t give a damn about your apologies or the money. I just want my wife back.”
“Then go get her.”
Harrison cut the call.
He headed back up to the ICU. Kamille stood at Dylan’s bedside, holding his hand. Dylan was still asleep. When Harrison entered the room, Kamille turned to him, looked him up and down, and asked, “Where’s the coffee?”
“Son of a bitch.”
He’d forgotten all about it.
Twenty-Nine
Jake snapped awake to the sound of Jen screaming…but the sound that followed him out of the nightmare was of his mother laughing.
He lay still, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. His sheets had twisted around his legs. The air-conditioned air chilled the sweat on his bare chest. Light poured through the window, the vertical blinds casting wide bars of shadow across the bed.
As the fog of sleep cleared, the weight of all that had happened yesterday fell onto him. His stomach knotted up. He grasped a handful of sheet and squeezed. He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled slowly out his mouth, trying to relax. After a dozen or so of these controlled breaths, his cramps eased.
But this left room for cold dread to fill his belly.
What the hell was he going to do?
You’re going to find that damn flash drive, return it to Mother, and get your wife back.
Amazing how much bravado that internal voice had. If only he felt as confident as it sounded.
“Stop being a coward,” he said aloud. He pounded the mattress with a fist. “Stop. Being. A coward.”
He flung himself out of bed and marched into the bathroom to shower. Two hours later he sat parked across the street from a single family ranch style house in Grosse Point Shores.
The house belonged to the first name on Mother’s list, a man named Tyrone Bellspar. Jake wished Mother had given him a little more information about these “smaller fish” than their names and addresses. The only thing Jake could discern about this particular person was that he must be wealthy, like most everyone in Grosse Point Shores, and he was probably black, based on his name. Jake had never met a white man named Tyrone.
These facts were not very helpful.
Did it matter?
No matter what, Jake was out of his element. He didn’t know how to interrogate someone. Didn’t know how to lean on them, as the PI put it. His only leverage was his name. He was a Seelenberger, damn it, and if this Tyrone Bellspar was on Mother’s list, then he should know well enough to fear that name.
Oh, there was that secret, internal hubris that talked a good game when it spoke inside of him.
So drag it out into the light, you fool!
Jake tipped his rearview mirror so he could look his reflection in the eye.
“Stop being a coward.”
He got out of his car, straightened his tie, and strode toward Tyrone Bellspar’s house.
His shoe caught in a weedy crack in the street, and he nearly tripped. He scowled down at the concrete and resisted the urge to spit on the crack. This was supposed to be one of the richest neighborhoods in the state. Couldn’t they keep up the conditions of their streets?
Realizing it wasn’t the cracked pavement he was angry with, he straightened his tie again, shot his cuffs, and made it across the street and up the curb without further incident.
The house really didn’t look like much from the front. A squat brick structure with a circular driveway—though the Cadillac with the tinted windows parked in the drive spoke of money as much as the zip code did. The eaves were painted a fresh white. Brass trimmings like the porch light, the address plaque, and the door knocker added a rustic touch to an otherwise modern design.
Not to Jake’s taste, but he’d learned long ago that not everybody with money knew how to spend it well.
He rang the bell. A melodic chime played a couple bars of a song Jake recognized but couldn’t place. It was a pleasant change from the standard ding-dong. He even caught himself smiling. The second he did, his stomach twinged as if to remind him that his wife’s life was at stake. This was no time for smiling.
The man who answered the door surprised Jake. While he was black, as Jake had suspected, his size seemed all wrong for his name. Tyrone was a big man’s name. This gentleman was no taller than five-six, with a smooth, childlike face, and long, delicate fingers. When he spoke, his voice betrayed his appearance—a deep, pleasing baritone. The kind of voice you’d hear on the radio.
He wore a pair of athletic shorts and a flowe
r print shirt usually reserved for old retired men who wore black socks pulled up to their knees with sandals.
“Hi, there,” he said. “Listen up, I’m not into the religious scene. So no need to waste a pamphlet on me.”
This threw Jake off for a moment, leaving him speechless.
The man began to close the door.
“Wait,” Jake blurted. “Are you Tyrone Bellspar?”
“That’s me.” He narrowed his eyes. “What of it?”
Jake straightened his posture and reveled in the fact that, even while standing down on the front stoop, he stood taller than the other man. A rare occurrence for him. Jake had decided to go down Mother’s list in the order she’d written the names. Perhaps luck was finally with him, as fate had put this smaller man at the top of that list.
“You don’t know who I am?” Jake asked.
Tyrone squinted at him suspiciously. “I guess you kinda look familiar, but I meet a lot of people in my biz, man.”
Jake wondered what business he was referring to, but didn’t waste time asking. “My name is Jacob Seelenberger.”
The dawning realization was obvious in the way Tyrone’s eyes widened for an instant, then how his face pinched up in a deeply pained expression only Mother could inspire.
“I already explained to Ona I was gonna be late on my payment because of this other dude putting the screws to me. She said that was all right.”
Jake blinked in surprise. “She did?”
“Yeah. I swear. Ona’s always been fair with me. Well, as fair as any woman threatening your livelihood can be, I guess.” He reared back and held up his hands. “No offense or nothing.”
“None taken.” Jake had to admit, he was intrigued by this view Tyrone had of Mother. She had her share of admirable traits—persistence, fearlessness, even her ruthlessness could be looked at as an asset if you weren’t the one on the receiving end of it. But fair? Mother? He’d have never called her that.
His curiosity got the better of him. “What is it you do, Mr. Bellspar?”
The small man smiled as if the question washed away all worries about Ona and blackmailers. “I’m a music producer. In fact, I’m the founder of the latest and greatest sound coming out of Detroit. Motown Alternative. A blend of grunge rock and classic R&B. Imagine if Pearl Jam and The Temptations collaborated on an album. This shit’s gonna top the charts, baby.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. He could not fathom the noise that would result from such a combination. “I’m sure. Listen, may I come in? I’m starting to sweat out here in the heat.”
Tyrone made a hesitant sound. “It’s like I told you. I’m square with Ona.”
“Yes, but there is the matter of this other blackmailer.”
“I don’t know who it is.”
“Don’t know, or are afraid to tell?”
“I honestly do not know.” He sighed, stepped aside, and waved a beckoning hand. “Come on in. I’ll tell you what I can.”
That was easy. Too easy? Jake thought he felt a smidge of disappointment. Here he had built himself up to intimidate this man, to finally put his cowardice aside, and the man had shown only the faintest resistance. He was embarrassed to realize he’d made a mountain out of a molehill, as Poppy used to say.
“You coming or what?” Tyrone asked.
Jake smiled awkwardly. “Yes, of course.”
Thirty
Harrison’s back ached from so much time in the thinly padded chair beside Dylan’s bed, with it’s presswood frame and lack of cushion on the narrow arms that cut off circulation if he leaned on them for too long. Would it have been so hard for the hospital to invest in slightly more comfortable furniture? Or were they hoping to make patients out of their visitors through sheer torture? That would make for a hell of a scam.
He’d dozed again, which meant he couldn’t feel anything from his elbow to his fingertips, this time on the right side. He alternated leaning on either side to avoid permanent damage to a limb.
The small ICU room only had a single, tiny window with an opaque plastic curtain that blocked all but a sliver of pale light from outside. Last night, Harrison had pulled the curtain across the room’s glass wall to block the light from the hallway as well. The effect gave the room a twilight feel, where the bulk of the illumination came from the blinking vitals monitor and electronic display for the IV.
Harrison fingered the sleep crust out of his eyes and checked the time on his phone. Nine AM.
Dylan now lay curled on his side, his back to Harrison. At some point while Harrison had slept, Dylan had finally moved. Harrison wondered if his brother had woken up, and cursed himself for missing it. While the doctor had assured him Dylan was merely sleeping off the side effects of lithium toxicity, Harrison wouldn’t relax until Dylan actually spoke to him without showing any signs of permanent damage.
He stood slowly, all the aches and kinks in his body from sleeping on the uncomfortable chair barking away as he straightened. Something in his lower back popped when he stretched. He groaned.
Dylan stirred, rolled onto his back, and blinked at Harrison.
Excitement rushed through Harrison. He smiled down at his brother. “Welcome back.”
“Did that popping noise come from you?” His voice was croaky, but still carried a humorous tone.
“The chairs in this place are hard on the body.”
“Or you’re getting old.”
Harrison laughed. “Or that.”
Dylan started to smile, then his lips pressed together in a thin line. His eyes watered. “Are you mad?”
“Mad? Why would I be mad?”
“My dramatic gesture. This must really be a big let down. You’ve been trying so damn hard to save me.”
The machine beside Dylan’s bed whirred suddenly as the blood pressure cuff around his arm began to inflate automatically.
Harrison watched the digital numbers on the machine tick upward as the monitor got a read on Dylan’s BP. He waited until the monitor finished with a beep and the cuff deflated with a steady hiss. Not because he worried about Dylan’s blood pressure—the machine took it at regular intervals and Dylan’s had been normal for some time. He needed the time to think about what to say next.
“Are you still mad at me?”
Dylan closed his eyes for a moment. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. “You didn’t read my note.”
It took a second for Harrison to realize what he meant. And Dylan was right, he had never opened the envelope on the table. “I didn’t need to read it to know what was happening. I wanted to get you safe.”
Dylan opened his eyes. “It’s fine. As far as suicide notes go, it’s probably pretty lame. I might have rambled some. The TL;DR is that I’m sorry for what I said to you about you making me want to…” More tears leaked from both eyes. He smeared them away with an agitated swipe of his hand.
“It’s okay,” Harrison said.
“No it isn’t. It was a horrible thing to say.”
“I’ve been crowding you. I get it. Trust me. I’ve seen how my efforts to help only tend to make things worse. You’re not my only victim.”
Dylan reached out and grasped Harrison’s hand. Harrison could feel the faint moisture of Dylan’s tears on his fingers from when he’d wiped them away.
“You are not the reason I’m in here,” Dylan said with a wild clarity in his eyes. “That’s the problem, Harrison. You think you have more influence on my shit than you do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You can’t save me.”
“Fine, but—”
“Shut up and listen.”
Harrison pulled back a little. Dylan still held his hand. The tears had already evaporated from his fingers. His skin felt warm and smooth. His hands had always naturally felt that way. Harrison used to tease him that they were his soft, delicate artist’s hands. Dylan, in turn, would claim his brother was just jealous that he didn’t have softer hands to jerk off with. Ah, the Hart brothers in t
heir teen years. Simpler times.
Harrison gave Dylan’s hand a squeeze. “I’m listening.”
“The opposite is also true,” Dylan said. “You can’t save me, but you’re not going to wreck me either. This shit in my head that twists my thoughts against me? That’s the thing to blame. Not you. Not your well-meaning but slightly overbearing efforts to help. Understand?”
“I think so.”
For a while, they let a comfortable silence settle between them. Harrison stood by his brother’s bed, holding his hand, their gazes meeting, then moving away, only to come around and meet again, and they’d smile each time. Despite what had brought them to this place, the moment they shared felt nice. Right.
But something nagged at the back of Harrison’s mind, something he tried to ignore, but couldn’t. Shouldn’t.
“Why did you take those pills, Dylan? If it wasn’t because of me.”
Dylan sucked in his bottom lip and bit down. His eyes shifted, seemed to focus on the heart monitor. He pulled his hand away and crossed his arms tightly across his chest as if suddenly cold.
Harrison waited, refusing to push, much as he wanted to.
“I’m…” He grunted. “I’m tired of being a burden. I’m forty years old, but I live like I’ve regressed to my teen years. It wasn’t fair to Mom, and it isn’t fair to you.”
“Whoa. Hold on a damn minute. You are not a burden.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “You quit the FB-freaking-I to come take care of me. You can’t say that wasn’t a huge sacrifice.”
“Yeah, and? You are my brother. I love you. Fuck the FBI. If you want me to be here with you, I will be here. No questions asked. And if I’m doing it wrong, you tell me how to do it right. I will bend my whole life to support you, however you want to be supported.”
By the time he finished talking, Harrison’s vision had gone watery, and the lump in his throat stopped him from saying more. He hoped it was enough.
Dylan sniffled, rubbed under his nose with the back of his hand. Tears rolled their way through the dark scruff on his cheeks.. “Jeeeze, dude. Don’t get all emotional on me.”