Mason's Run

by Mellanie Rourke

  “Shhhh… Kiddo, it’s going to be okay,” my rescuer said as he worked on me, his hands strong and confident.

  “Dreyven…?” I managed to groan questioningly. I was pretty sure I was a dead man, but I couldn’t let my savior get caught by Dreyven.

  “The fucker’s gone. I saw him drive off in some beat up old Dodge when I was on my way back,” he said, tearing some kind of tape with his teeth and wrapping something against some of the worst injuries on my back. I moaned as he moved to work gently on my broken arm. His fingers felt strange, rubbery… Was he wearing gloves? I tried to blink and clear my eyes but couldn’t get my vision to clear up. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything for the pain,” he whispered. I didn’t care about the pain. Pain I was used to. It was his kindness I couldn’t understand.

  “Why…?” I tried to ask. “Why’d you… come back?” I managed to whisper.

  A gasp escaped me as he laid my arm down on the bed next to me. With quick, efficient moves he bound my arm to something I couldn’t see. A sob escaped me, half fear, half pain as he gently set my arm down, turning his attention to other parts of my body. A fiery something… Anger? Shame? Burned up through my chest as he continued his ministrations. Tears began leaking from my eyes, blurring my eyesight even further.

  “I came back because I said I would,” he said, as if, duh, that was the only answer there could be. I shook my head, or at least, I tried to. The mere effort caused another bout of retching. Each time I spasmed the world seemed to turn black. He pulled one of the bandages away from my body, and even with my shitty eyesight, I could see it was covered in blood. The room reeled around me, and he must have thought I was passing out, because he patted my face gently.

  “Hey kid, stay with me. Stay with me! Talk to me! What’s your name?”

  “M’not… a kid…” I managed to gasp out as he pressed something against my ass, the pain causing me to heave again, but I collapsed backward after the spasm passed.

  “Okay, Okay, not a kid,” he said grimly, his hands continuing their gentle ministrations. “So, what’s your name, Not-A-Kid?” His body remained silhouetted against the sun from the doorway and windows, and while I heard the concern and attempt at levity in his voice, I still couldn’t see his face.

  “M-Mason…” I stuttered, my remaining teeth chattered. Despite the hot summer sun pouring through the window, I felt so cold, as if all the warmth in my body was being leeched away. “M-Mason Malone.”

  “Okay, Mason,” he sighed, looking me over, then taking something off his hands – I was right, he had been wearing gloves – those blue medical ones you’d see people wear on hospital shows. In the distance I could hear sirens getting closer. I saw him stuff the gloves in his pocket, then levered himself to his feet.

  “I have to go, Mason,” he whispered, “I hate to leave you like this, but you need a hospital right now,” he muttered, and almost to himself added, “And I really don’t need to go to jail.”

  “No…” I moaned, grabbing the man’s hand. “Please… don’t… don’t go…” I cried, his fingers slipping away from mine. I could handle dying, I just didn’t want to do it alone.

  “I have to, Mason, I’m sorry, but… I’ll see you soon, I promise.”

  The sound of sirens got louder, but it was as if the sound was swallowed up in the darkness that finally overtook me.

  When I woke many hours (or was it days?) later, I was in a hospital room with two people. One was a man in a suit jacket who looked vaguely familiar and the other was an older African-American woman. I saw the man, a coffee cup in one hand and pad of paper and a pen in the other. The woman looked at me in surprise as I started to move, and I noticed she had startling blue eyes, just like Zem’s.

  “Zem?” I asked groggily, trying to sit up, but the agony in my body kept me from moving far.

  The woman reached over and patted my arm, brushing a stray curl back from my forehead.

  “Zem’s fine, dear,” she said. “Thanks to you. I’m her grandma, Tira Graham.”

  The pain was making everything kind of white around the edges and I was panting like a woman in labor, waiting for the spasm to pass. My ass was on fire and my arm felt like white hot pokers were running through it.

  “She… she made it to you?” I finally managed to whisper. Tira nodded.

  My glance flicked to the man in the sports coat. He was probably about my height but had to have a good thirty pounds on me. All of it looked to be muscle, if the thighs that strained the seams of his pants and the way his shoulders filled out his suit jacket were any judge. He was hot, but in an understated way.

  “I’m Detective David Jarreau, Mason. I work on the City of Milwaukee’s human trafficking task force. I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened at the hotel.”

  Jarreau.

  “The beat cop…” I whispered, not realizing I had spoken out loud until I saw the confusion cross his face. He was the one who had sent me back to CPS years ago.

  “What?” He asked.

  I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry. Tira offered me a sip of water from a cup on the bedside table. I didn’t think anything had ever tasted as good as that water did right then. She cautioned me not to drink too much, then set the water back down and let me speak.

  “You bought me a burger and took me to the hospital after I got bit by a rat,” I rasped.

  I could see Jarreau sifting through years of memories before recognition dawned and I saw his skin go a little paler.

  “Shit, kid,” he growled, running a hand over his tired face. “I tried to find you, but CPS said you had moved with no forwarding address.”

  I swallowed hard. I’d always regretted not telling him what had really been going on. There was a kind of quiet strength about Jarreau that made me want to trust him, but I’d learned the hard way that trusting cops was never a good idea.

  “I… I don’t remember anything,” I said, looking away and feeling my cheeks heat in embarrassment as I said the words, unable to hold the detective’s gaze.

  “Really? I haven’t even asked a question yet,” Jarreau said, a sad smile on his face, like it was the answer he had expected me to come up with.

  He moved closer to the bed and sat in a chair beside me. Our heads were almost the same height now, and it was easier to look at him.

  “Ricky’s dead, Mason. He can’t hurt you any more,” he said. I closed my eyes in relief.

  “I know this is hard, kiddo, but do you know who killed him? A friend? A rival?”

  “I don’t remember anything,” I said, wishing I could escape back into the darkness. Confirmation that Ricky was dead was a balm to my soul, but I also knew it wasn’t over. Dreyven was still out there.

  “Are you saying you don’t remember anything?” He asked again. “The smallest detail might be the clue we need to put these guys away. And anything you say would be held in the strictest of confidence,” he said.

  I shook my head. No way. No fucking way was I painting that bullseye on my back. Ricky might be dead, but Dreyven wasn’t.

  “So, what do you remember?” he asked. “Because that little girl had quite the story to tell about being rescued from an evil monster with, and I’m quoting here, ‘four hands, eight legs and at least six butts,’ he smiled gently and quirked an eyebrow at me. “She was very specific about the butts.”

  I started to chuckle, but the pain turned it into a groan. Tira stood. “I’m going to go find a nurse to give this poor boy some pain medication. Don’t you tire him out, David,” she said, shaking a finger at the detective.

  “No, Ma’am. I will do my best to make sure he’s able to have some peace,” he replied.

  Peace. What an odd choice of words I thought to myself. Was there such a thing? Tira made a beeline out of the room, and I could hear her in the hallway calling for a nurse.

  I looked back at Jarreau and caught him watching Tira with an affectionate smile.

  “She’s a little old for you,
isn’t she?” I asked, my words turning to a gasp as I tried to use my legs to scoot up a little in the bed.

  A bark of laughter escaped Jarreau before he could stop it.

  “Tira? She’s like a second grandmother to me. I worked under her husband when I was a probie in Solon Springs. I’d just been hired by the Milwaukee Police Department when her husband passed. He was a good man, and Tira is a good woman. Shame about their daughter, though,” he said, pausing to take a sip of his coffee.

  “…daughter?” I asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of my voice.

  “Yep. She ran away from a rehab facility several years ago, and they never saw her again.” He sat back in his chair and looked at me, his eyes piercing. It was almost as if he was weighing me. Measuring me. After a moment, he continued.

  “Mason, I’m going to be straight with you. I’ve pulled your record. I know you just turned eighteen, but you’ve got about five or six convictions for solicitation. Each time, you were returned to the care of your…” he looked down at the paperwork he had pulled from a briefcase next to him. “…your uncle? One Richard Taylor? And his ‘friend’ Dreyven Reckner.”

  I froze in fear. Surely, they wouldn’t send me back to Ricky and Drey. Wait… no, Ricky was dead. At least, I prayed to a god I didn’t believe in that it hadn’t been a dream. The detective had said I’d turned eighteen. Huh, go figure.

  “Richard Taylor…” he began reading. “Arrested for gun possession, drugs with intent to distribute, pandering...the list goes on and on. He was also suspected of being one of the biggest human traffickers in Milwaukee.”

  I almost cried in relief when he said “was”. Ricky really was dead.

  He shook his head at the paperwork. “Why the fuck would they keep sending a kid back to him?”

  I tried to shrug, but it hurt too much. I’d wondered the same thing over the years, but Ricky and his buddies had connections. Nothing stuck to them.

  “Look, Mason, I’ve been putting a case together against Ricky and Drey,” he said, his brown eyes boring holes in mine as I glanced up in surprise. “Ricky is now a moot point, but Dreyven is still out there. He is a sadistic bastard of exceptional proportions. And he needs to be put away where he won’t be able to hurt any kid, ever again.”

  Jarreau sighed. “Truth is though, I need help, Mason. I need evidence. A witness. Something. No judge in the city is going to go up against them without hard evidence.”

  I suddenly realized where this was heading. Me. He wanted me to testify against Dreyven.

  I closed my eyes a moment, the fear rolling over me and bile rising in my throat. Tiny goosebumps ran across my skin, and suddenly I felt incredibly cold. There was no way I could testify against Dreyven.

  I shook my head at him. “I can’t,” I whispered. The goosebumps had changed to tremors and tears started leaking out the sides of my eyes, the room narrowing down to just the sight of my arm in the cast. This was what Dreyven and Ricky had done to me for running. Dreyven might let me go if I lay low and didn’t make a fuss, but there was no way I could testify. “I can’t. I can’t…I can’t.”

  Jarreau just watched as the words bubbled from my mouth, a sad sympathy on his face.

  “Okay, Mason. It’s okay,” he said, reaching his hand out to touch my arm.

  I jerked away from his touch, which only made the pain in my body worse and I cried out.

  “Just... just leave me alone, please?” I begged, tears running down my face.

  Jarreau nodded at me, then set a card on the tray table next to the bed.

  “If you ever change your mind, this is the phone number for Milwaukee’s confidential informant line. If you need help, if you ever need a way out, call this number, leave this code and wherever you are, I will find you and we will take him down.”

  I nodded, and first the doctor, then the nurse, entered the room with Tira. The nurse carried a syringe filled with some clear liquid, which she injected into my IV. The tremors stopped, the bright edge of pain became muffled, and my eyelids got too heavy to remain open. I closed my eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  1

  Lee

  “Where the hell is he?” I growled, watching as yet another car pulled out of the parking lot and drove away from the not-so-grand opening of Twin Peeks, my brothers’ bookstore. Gold and black helium balloons hung limply near the cash register, tired ribbons losing their curl in the afternoon heat.

  Hand-made signs announcing autograph times for comic superstar Mason Cameron hung lopsidedly on the door. The original printed time was crossed out with a black Sharpie, and progressively later and later hours had been added until we’d finally stopped guessing. The tape on one side of the poster board gave way with a sad swish, and the poster hit the ground with a dull thud that echoed in my chest.

  The air conditioning had crapped out early in the day, and even at 6 p.m., it was still over ninety degrees outside, which probably meant it was one-hundred degrees in here. I wiped the back of my hand across my sweaty forehead and was glad I still had my hair cut short. I’d been out of the Navy for over eight years, and I still couldn’t seem to shake the high and tight habit.

  Box fans scattered around the relatively spacious store area chugged heavily, but all they could do was blow hot air around. We’d called all over today trying to find an air conditioning repairman who wasn’t crazy busy, but the soonest anyone would be available would be tomorrow morning.

  I unpacked another box of graphic novels and stacked them next to the table while trying to keep my muttering to myself. Dramatically printed signs announced Mason Cameron’s headlining of the Akron Pop Culture Festival, and a whole-wall poster covered the back of the store. The wall poster had been sent by his publisher and announced the compilation of his “Dark Angels” series into a hardbound graphic novel.

  Mason Cameron was a massively popular independent comic book writer and artist, at least, according to my brothers. I wasn’t that familiar with him, but he had self-published a series for four years before he’d been picked up by Fathom Comics.

  The twins knew someone who knew someone, and they’d convinced Cameron to fly to Ohio for the grand opening and to headline at the Akron Pop Culture Festival, our annual comic, sci-fi, fantasy and memorabilia show that ran in Akron at the end of July.

  He’d been scheduled to come to their store for over a year and at first the rescheduling seemed like normal things... sickness, travel delays, conflicts, etc. But this was the third time he’d been scheduled, and again was a no-show.

  Cameron was notoriously private. He never did interviews, never did signings, and most people didn’t even know what he looked like. He was the Hemingway of comic books. It had been a major coup for the twins to have gotten him to agree to come, but “major coup” had turned into “major headache” as he’d failed to show twice before.

  “Dude, he’ll be here,” Hudson murmured in answer, walking over to pick up the sign. Hudson “Sonny” to his friends and “Fuck You” to anyone else... lifted the fallen promo poster almost reverently, before laying it down carefully behind the counter.

  “He’d better be,” I replied. I’d sacrificed a weekend of video games and beer with some ex-military buddies to help launch my baby bros’ store. The least this Cameron character could do was show up.

  Sonny eyed me warily as I growled and restocked the “Magic: The Gathering” cards on display with rather more force than necessary. Okay, maybe “rearranged” would be a better word than “restocked”. We hadn’t sold enough of anything to warrant restocking.

  As I arranged the plastic-sheathed cards inside the glass case, something bothered me about the layout. Sonny and Hicks had spent the last eight months designing and remodeling the new store location when they’d purchased it from the previous owner, and I’d been helping them prep the store for the Grand Opening, so I knew the stock pretty well at this point, and something was missing.

  “Sonny, where’s your Black Lotus?” I c
alled, looking around anxiously. The Black Lotus Alpha was the pride and joy of Sonny’s Magic collection. He had practically drooled over the thing daily since Hicks had given it to him on their tenth birthday. Hicks had found the treasured card in an unopened pack of cards he’d bought at a flea market. The card was worth tens of thousands of dollars.

  Sonny mumbled something at me without looking up, making my Spidey senses tingle like there was no tomorrow.

  “What?” I asked loudly, walking over and putting my hand on the stack of comic books he was reaching for, effectively stopping him from working. He glanced guiltily behind me at Hicks, who was still on the phone, then grabbed my arm and dragged me out of sight of the break room.

  “Keep it down!” he hissed quietly, glancing around my shoulder to where Hicks still paced on the phone. “…I sold it!”

  “You did what?” I exclaimed, before his hand slammed over my mouth. There was no way Sonny would have willingly parted with that card.

  “Why?” I asked, lowering my voice as he pulled his hand away.

  “Please, Lee,” he begged, “Don’t say anything to Hicks. He will totally freak out, and things are bad enough today already,” he explained, a pleading sound in his voice.

  “We needed the money for the Con sponsorship and the airfare and hotel for Cameron,” he explained. “We spent a shit load of money on the lease and getting everything up and running for the new store. What we’d saved… it just wasn’t enough.”

  He sighed, looking away, obviously embarrassed by his admission. He ducked his head, then continued, “Plus, Cameron’s agent demanded that he fly out first class. That more than doubled the cost of the airfare.”

  “Fuck, Sonny! Why didn’t you tell me? Us?” I demanded. “I would have helped you, or the moms…”

  A confusing array of emotions ran through me. Hurt that he hadn’t felt he could come to us, to me with the problem, anger that he’d parted with something that he’d cherished so much, and a sneaking suspicion of just who might have taken advantage of his need.