Dreamspinner Press Year Six Greatest Hits

by JD Ruskin

  “Stay the hell away from her or better yet, start looking for a new job. Eventually, greed will get the better of her and you don’t want to be anywhere near her when it does.”

  “Why not go to Klass and get him to call the police?”

  “Most of our investigations into employee theft don’t end in criminal charges even when we’ve got solid evidence.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because it’s about business and not justice. Companies believe it is better to keep it quiet—avoiding media attention—than to prosecute.”

  “Let me get this straight. They catch the employee stealing and all they do is fire the guy? That’s just asking for someone else to try it.”

  “I tend to agree, but the alternative isn’t much better. It’s harder to convict than fire, and civil suits are expensive and the company rarely ends up recouping losses.”

  Finally understanding, Logan said, “And even if you caught the guy with a box of iPods, you couldn’t prove all the other shit he likely stole before then.”

  “Exactly, and that’s when there’s proof. Everything I’ve found out about Foster is circumstantial. It shows she has the profile of a typical employee that steals, but it doesn’t prove anything.”

  Logan rubbed his aching forehead. “I can’t just quit, Michael. A steady job is a condition of my parole and my PO was the one who got me this job. There aren’t many options with a felony conviction for assault on my record.”

  “If you need—”

  “Don’t. Just don’t, man. I don’t want your money.”

  There was a long pause and then Michael said, “How about my friendship, Logan? Do you want that?”

  Logan knew the answer he should say, but he couldn’t get the word “no” past his lips. Instead, he found himself saying, “They have Al-Anon meetings at the center where I go. Would you be willing to try going to one?”

  “Isn’t that for family members of alcoholics?”

  “Friends, too. But you’re more family to me than my old man ever was.”

  His voice sounding a bit strangled, Michael said, “Just let me know where and when.”

  Grateful, Logan ended the call with a promise to call back with the information. When he reached Caleb’s building, he found himself heading up the stairs, three at a time. Once at the door, he knocked, louder than usual. When he tried again and got no response, he pulled out Klass’s spare key. He hesitated a moment before putting the key in the slot and unlocking it. He tried to open the door, but the security chain was actually in place this time.

  “Hey, Caleb. It’s Logan. Get off your ass and unchain the door.” He listened, trying to hear any sign of movement from within the apartment, but heard nothing. “Open the door or you’ll be paying a locksmith to fix it.” When he got no response, he turned to the side, butting his shoulder against the door. He grabbed the doorknob and shoved against it with all his weight. The metal snapped under the strain, sending wooden splinters flying. He quickly scanned the main room and kitchen. Finding no sign of Caleb, he headed for the bedroom.

  He’d never been in Caleb’s bedroom before. To the right, he spotted a doorway that presumably led to the master bathroom. A treadmill sat on the left side of the room and a king-sized bed in the middle. Logan spotted a motionless lump buried under a mound of dark blankets. His heart made an appearance in his throat, and he forgot how to breathe. He rushed over to the side of the bed, but hesitated for a moment before touching what he thought was Caleb’s shoulder. After an incredibly long three seconds, Logan heard Caleb groan in his sleep, his body rocking back and forth slightly. Logan dropped to his knees and rested his forehead against the comforter, trying to calm his racing heart. Looking down, he realized the damp towel he knelt on was clicking. He pushed back the towel, revealing the phone off the hook. “Caleb,” he said, peeling back the blanket from Caleb’s head.

  Caleb was lying on his side with his arms crossed like a mummy, looking every bit as pale as the walking undead. Logan noticed how pronounced the bags were under Caleb’s eyes and how sallow his skin appeared. Logan blinked and then squinted in the dim light, pulling the blanket back further to get a better look. Duct tape? Why would he have tape wrapped around his wrist and hand? “Aw, hell.” Caleb’s fingers had swollen to twice their normal size and the skin looked red and angry.

  Logan flinched when Caleb’s eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide. For the span of two ragged breaths, no one moved. Then adrenaline kicked in. One minute Caleb was buried under the covers and in the next, he was across the room, scrambling on his hands and knees with no regard to his likely broken wrist. Logan imagined he could hear the bones grinding as Caleb moved toward the other side of the room. Jesus. He needed to stop him before he caused permanent damage.

  “Let me help you,” Logan said, kind of loud, and Caleb jerked back, scrunching himself into the corner, his head bowed on his knees, cradling his injured arm to his chest at an awkward angle.

  When he got no response, Logan tried again, willing his voice to sound calm. “Everything’s going to be okay.” He held out his arms the way one would when pacifying a frightened horse. He moved sideways, not approaching Caleb yet, to position himself in front of the bedroom door. Caleb might be frantic enough to make a break for it. “You need to go to the doctor and get that wrist fixed,” Logan said, moving closer and ignoring Caleb’s flinch from either his words or his sudden nearness.

  “Please don’t make me,” Caleb whispered, lifting his head to look at Logan.

  Logan swallowed hard. The pain and misery in Caleb’s eyes was difficult to witness. “You gotta let me help you.”

  Caleb’s whole body seemed to wither as his shoulders slumped even further and his chin dropped to his chest. His voice sounded like a ragged plea. “Let me stay here. My wrist is fine.” Logan could hear the tears in Caleb’s voice even though his cheeks were dry. Caleb kept repeating the word fine over and over again as if he could wish it so.

  Logan wanted a drink so badly, but the booze would never make it past the lump in his throat. Part of him wanted to agree, to let Caleb stay home just to stop his voice from sounding so goddamn broken. But Caleb needed help and hiding under the covers wouldn’t magically reset bone. Logan pulled out his cell phone and texted a message to Klass: Need help. C hurt. He hoped the old man was wearing his cell phone. He didn’t want to risk talking to Klass on the phone in front of Caleb, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave the room. Caleb had spent far too much time alone and in pain. My fault. Guilt threatened to rise up and take hold of Logan, but he pushed it down. Caleb needed him now.

  His cell phone beeped, and Logan fumbled to turn off the sound as Caleb started hyperventilating. Logan read the one word message: ambulance? He looked at Caleb trembling against the wall as he gulped in huge breaths. He texted Y and hit the Send button. He was so focused on the button, he nearly missed Caleb’s escape attempt. Caleb darted to the side pushing off the wall in an effort to get around Logan. Logan grabbed him around the middle, and lifted him in the air before settling the frightened man in his lap. He made shushing noises against the back of Caleb’s neck as Caleb whimpered and struggled against the hold, trying to pry Logan’s hands from his waist. The pungent smell of sweat and the faint odor of vomit made Logan’s nose itch, but he didn’t dare loosen his grip. “I’m so sorry, Caleb. I shouldn’t have waited. I shoulda made Klass hand over the key on Friday.”

  Caleb sobbed into his hand, refusing to look at Logan. The sight of his tears tugged strings Logan didn’t know he had. “You’re okay,” Logan said into the side of Caleb’s throat, kissing his warm skin.

  A few minutes later, Logan heard loud knocking and the sound of voices from the main room. The paramedics move fast in this neighborhood. He could hear Klass’s voice, likely explaining about the panic attacks.

  Logan felt faintly embarrassed when the paramedics and Klass stopped in the doorway, eyes wide as they took in the sight of Caleb cradled in his lap.
His glare compelled the guys to get moving. He slid Caleb to the ground, but stayed close by. The paramedics traded info back and forth that meant nothing to Logan as they assessed Caleb’s condition. Heart rate one-fifty. Blood pressure one-forty over ninety. Sweating but not diaphoretic. “We’re here to help you, sir,” said the paramedic on blood pressure duty. “I need you to tell me what happened, Caleb.”

  The other paramedic turned to Logan. “Can you get us some more light?”

  Logan leaped to his feet, glad to have something to do. He took two steps toward the window before Caleb made a low keening sound. Turning, Logan saw the paramedics scramble to keep Caleb from moving.

  “You’re hurting him,” Logan said, and it came out in a snarl that surprised even him. Caleb twitched violently and the paramedic holding his arms looked warily over his shoulder. Logan sighed and made an effort to lower his voice again. “His wrist looks broken.” Something caught his eye and he angled his head to see into the bathroom. “The shower curtain’s been torn off the rod.”

  The paramedic’s expression changed, looking chagrined and then crossing over into concerned. “If he fell, there’s a possibility he hit his head as well. He could be suffering from a head injury in addition to the anxiety.” He shared a look with his partner, and Logan’s gut rolled. “Sir, when you fell in the shower, did you hit your head?” the paramedic asked as his partner rose and walked to the bathroom. “Did you lose consciousness?” He moved his hand slowly over Caleb’s scalp.

  Caleb froze, and his eyes grew distant. “It hurt and then time got all slippery like the soap.”

  The partner came back into the room, looking grim. “There’s some blood and vomit on the floor.” Looking behind Logan, the man said, “We need to prep him for transport.”

  Logan had forgotten Klass was in the room until he spoke. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

  Logan valiantly resisted the urge to strangle the man.

  Seemingly unfazed by Klass’s question, the paramedic said, “He has obvious physical signs of trauma in addition to the psychological. He needs to see a doctor and we’re more likely to get him to the hospital quickly and safely than you can. But he needs to consent before we can take him, unless you’re his medical proxy.”

  Caleb vigorously shook his head. “No hospital.” He struggled into a sitting position. “They’ll chop, chop, chop. Not going.” His faced went even paler, and he swallowed hard.

  While Klass stood there waffling, Logan kneeled in front of Caleb. “You need to go to the hospital.” When Caleb turned away, Logan grabbed his face, forcing their eyes to meet. “I won’t let nobody hurt you. Do you hear me?”

  “Promise?” Caleb asked, sounding like a child desperate to learn that monsters weren’t real.

  Logan brushed a hand across Caleb’s stubbled jaw. “I’ll squash their tiny heads with my size twelves.” He kissed Caleb’s forehead. “I promise.” Klass’s clearing his throat caused Logan to pull back and stand. Logan stared straight at the wall, not wanting to see the expression on his boss’s face. I’ll be lucky if I still have a job after all this. He knew he should be more upset about the prospect of unemployment. His focus was entirely on the man struggling to his feet. The paramedics moved to either side of Caleb, walking him into the main room and lowering him onto the stretcher.

  Logan walked in front of the paramedics, wanting to be in place if Caleb reacted badly while they negotiated the stairs. The last thing Caleb needed was to take another tumble.

  As they loaded Caleb into the ambulance, Logan asked, “Which hospital are you taking him to?”

  “Mr. Sellers,” Klass said, putting his hand on Logan’s arm. “Thank you for your help, but I can handle it from here.” When Logan opened his mouth to protest, he said, “I’ll speak with you tomorrow at work.”

  Logan gritted his teeth. “I promised him.”

  The paramedic put a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “He’s going to be okay, but we need to get moving.”

  Not wanting to delay treatment, Logan stepped back.

  Hand clutching the ambulance door, Klass asked, “Did we lock the door?”

  Logan shook his head. “I had to bust the chain to get in, but I can fix it no problem.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I will arrange to have the door repaired and the locks upgraded. Could you lock the door in the meanwhile?”

  “Yeah.” Logan ground the word out between his teeth.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sellers,” Klass said, scrambling into the back of the ambulance.

  Logan watched them secure the door and pull off, hating how helpless it made him feel. He reentered the apartment complex, adrenaline draining away with each step he took. The trip back to the fourth floor felt like he was walking up the wrong way on an escalator. He wanted to stop resisting the flow and let it take him out of the building, away from the crushing weight on his chest. He found himself standing in front of Caleb’s bathroom. Forcing himself to step inside, the sharp smell of sickness and fear hit him. The blue-checkered curtain hung by only one plastic ring and covered the floor like a painter’s tarp. A smear of blood stained the pine cabinet below the sink. The fall was bad, but it coulda been worse, Logan thought, fingers tracing the corner of the granite countertop. He coulda been bleeding out while I walked away like a fucking coward. His knees buckled at the thought, dumping him on the floor. He felt a sharp jab of pain on his ass, and he reached into the back pocket of his cargo pants. He’d retrieved the bottle of booze from under the bed this morning with the intention of tossing it out. Liar. Just don’t want Dabb to find it. Looking at it now, he noticed the plastic seal was frayed from the times he’d fingered it this weekend, but it remained unbroken. Logan closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. He couldn’t afford to fall apart now.

  His fingers felt fat and clumsy as he took out his cell phone and pulled up the number. He heard murmuring voices and phones ringing in the background when Michael answered.

  Tapping the bottle against his bottom lip, Logan said, “I need you to remind me of what it was like.”

  “What do you mean?” The sound broke a little as if Michael were on the move. “Is everything okay with Caleb?”

  Logan smacked the back of his head against the wall. “Tell me what it was like to have a drunk for a best friend.”

  “What’s going on?” Michael asked, his voice echoing.

  Logan guessed where Michael was headed. The ambient noise of traffic and howling wind in the background confirmed that he had escaped to the roof for a nic fix. Michael swore under his breath, and Logan pictured him with his hand cupped around the lighter as the wind conspired to steal his flame.

  “I’ve been carrying a minibottle of booze around in my pocket for the past three days. I bought it off a panhandler before I ran into you.”

  Michael made a noise of disgust. “You shook my hand after touching something a homeless guy touched.”

  Logan snorted. “Way to focus on the important part, OCD man.”

  Michael cleared his throat. “Right, did you drink it?”

  “I haven’t had a drop of liquor since detox and I need to remember why.”

  For a dozen heartbeats, Michael didn’t speak. When the words finally came, his voice didn’t break. It shattered. “You were a cruel drunk,” he said, his breath hitching. “You seemed to get off on rooting out people’s insecurities. You’d pick at their scabs until they bled.”

  Logan couldn’t remember when a few drinks became a bottle and then two bottles every night. He couldn’t point to one single moment or event as the cause. From his first drink at fourteen, alcohol began soaking into his skin, the moisture rotting him on the inside. Every few years he’d use a chisel to hack away all the wet, unsound wood without trying to find the source of the moisture. The rot always came back, stronger than before.

  “That night in the bar was the first time I was afraid of you instead of for you. You grabbed my wrist and honest to God snarled at me. It was lik
e there was nothing human left in you. You were going to kill that man and anyone who got in the way.”

  Logan threw the bottle into the cabinet and slammed it shut. He didn’t trust himself to pour the contents into the sink instead of down his suddenly dry throat. Leaning his forehead against the door, he asked, “Why would you want anything to do with me after going through all that?”

  “Because you stopped,” Michael said quietly.

  Logan sat up. “Stopped drinking?”

  “The girlfriend of the man crawled over broken glass to get in your way and to put her hand on your arm. And I remember thinking that if you hit her, then you really had become your old man and there’d be no saving you.” Michael took a long indrawn breath before expelling it. “But you didn’t hurt her. She begged you to stop and you did.”

  Logan remembered almost nothing about that night, but he was sure of one thing. “I didn’t give a shit about that girl. I was thinking they didn’t serve shots in lockup. I don’t want that drink any less now than I did then.”

  “You’ve changed, Logan. You may not be able to see it, but you have. You might have wanted that drink today, but you picked up the phone instead. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

  “You sure you don’t want me to lose your number?”

  “I want you to get off your ass and go wash your hands before you get hepatitis.”

  Logan’s mouth curled unwillingly into a smile. “The AA meeting I go to meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 6:00 pm. They have an Al-Anon meeting that goes on at the same time down the hall. You up for it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ending the call, Logan realized what Michael must have felt. The feeling of wanting to help someone and being powerless to do it. Looking around the bathroom, he decided there was something he could do.

  In the kitchen, Logan rooted around until he found a trash bag, paper towels, and cleaner. Detaching the torn curtain from the pole, he folded it up roughly before shoving it into the trash bag. After scrubbing the mess on the cabinet and floor, he tossed the paper towels away. He doubted his efforts were up to Caleb’s standards, since he was a bigger neat freak than Michael, but at least Caleb wouldn’t have to come home from the hospital and clean up his own blood and vomit.