by Ciara Shayee
“Bodhi. His name is Bodhi.” Looking up at Reagan with a small smile just as he snapped a photo of her cradling her son, she added, “Bodhi Laker Reagan. That’s his name.”
Chapter twenty-eight
Earlier that morning…
The heavy clang of the metal door sliding shut made Smith jump. He stumbled toward the pallet in the corner and fell onto it with a huff.
“Don’t get too comfortable, asshole,” the police officer called through the letterbox opening. Smith could only see the man’s eyes through the thin hatch, but the amusement and disgust were clear as day.
“Why? Am I being moved somewhere else?” His voice was dead; detached and void of emotion.
The officer merely chuckled, slamming the hatch shut.
The cell was silent.
For a few minutes, at least. A large bluebottle fly buzzed around the small space, hitting Smith every now and then. Not that he noticed.
The police officers at the desk watched him on the monitor with a sick sense of morbid fascination.
“He doesn’t look like a crazy person,” the younger officer said.
“They rarely do, Jones. They rarely do.”
Smith was sitting perfectly still with his hands folded in his lap, his eyes closed, and head tipped back to face the concrete ceiling.
He’d been forced to change into a standard-issue hoodie and tracksuit bottoms when he arrived, his other clothes stained crimson with blood—Laker’s blood—and confiscated as evidence.
Hours later, the senior officer got bored of watching the motionless felon and headed down the hall to get a drink and use the facilities.
Jones, a twenty-something rookie, slumped back in his chair and set his booted feet on the desk as he observed Smith on the screen. He really didn’t look as crazy as the report made him sound. He just looked like a dirty, weary, old man.
Heavy footsteps drew Jones’ attention away from Smith. Two suited men stood before him, their expressions serious, eyes hidden by matching pairs of tinted black glasses. “FBI. We’re here for Smith. We’ve got a warrant.”
Jones frowned, but he took the paper they handed over and skim-read it. “I’m sorry, he’s not going anywhere until he goes before the judge in a few hours.”
The taller, lighter haired agent sighed in frustration and slammed a hand on the countertop; Jones flinched. “Look, you can either let us do our job and take this piece of shit with us for questioning, or you can make this an issue and I can have the director on the phone in ten seconds to kick your ass from here to Timbuktu. Now, what will it be?”
Jones’ grey eyes flickered down the hall. His senior officer would be pissed to not even be consulted, but it was pretty likely he’d be even more pissed if Jones didn’t do as the FBI said and ended up getting the station in trouble. There had already been issues with the lack of communication between the police and the FBI. And Jones did like his job…
He didn’t want to lose it because he was too nervous to make a decision for himself.
“He’s in cell B.”
The agents nodded, their faces transformed by their sinister smiles. Jones felt a sudden frisson of panic as he led them towards Smith’s cell.
That frisson turned into a tidal wave of fear when Harris returned from his snack break to find Smith gone.
Later, when the phone call came that Smith had been discovered just a mile away from the station after an anonymous tip-off, Jones knew he was going to lose his job for letting Smith go.
Harvey Oliver—no longer undercover as ranch hand Paul Newley—and Gregory Chance, a pair of federal agents, crossed their arms and grinned at the small monitor sitting on the dashboard. Officers swarmed the prostrate form on the ground, the pool of blood surrounding it visible even from the CCTV camera some twenty feet away. It had been a stroke of luck for Oliver and Chance that the camera was already there. They’d wanted to make sure the police found him without leaving any traces of themselves behind, so it was handy that they’d only needed to tap into an existing camera feed. Chance had already set everything up to blow the camera once they’d finished watching, and with the help of Benjamin, their go-to tech whizz, he knew they were watching on a heavily encrypted feed that nobody would be able to track.
“Do you think we were too hard on him?” Chance asked as they watched the crime scene officers arrive in their white suits.
“Not even close,” Oliver grumbled, a little disappointed he hadn’t been able to draw out Smith’s torment. But with the police looking for him, as well as the FBI agents who were unaware of this off-the-books mission, it was just too risky.
Riley was going to be incandescent with rage when he found out.
Oliver felt a pang of sick satisfaction as he watched the evidence of Smith’s demise being bagged up.
Kidneys in one bag.
Intestines in another.
A third for a bunch of other, mangled organs. Oliver had lost his temper a little when removing those. He’d be surprised if the pathologists managed to sort spleen from liver.
His black heart was last.
A few more photos were taken before what was left of Smith was loaded into a body bag and carted away; his face was almost unrecognisable, his hands were tied with zip-ties cutting into his skin, and he had what looked and smelled like burns marring the flesh of his entire right leg; again, Oliver had gotten a little carried away.
His murder had been brutal and he’d been kept awake for as long as possible. Nobody wanted him being let off lightly.
Oliver had derived a sadistic pleasure from hearing and seeing Smith’s torture.
As he and Chance watched Smith be driven away, they decided it was about time they left, too. After all, they still had an alibi to create. Oliver shoved the portable monitor into the back seat as Chance started the engine; they melted seamlessly into the traffic on the dual carriageway as Oliver pulled out his phone to send a text. He scrolled through his contacts until he found the right one, typing a simple, two-word message before hitting ‘send’ and tossing it into the back seat with the monitor and their holdall full of bloody clothes.
It’s done.
~ oOo ~
“Dad, this isn’t necessary. I feel fine,” Indie insisted, her eyes darting towards the clock in panic as Reagan tried to soothe her by squeezing her shoulder. “We’re going to be late, Dad.”
“No, we’re not. Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere without you, okay?”
Indie sighed to make sure they knew she wasn’t happy but she allowed the doctor to continue his examination. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his smile. She’d made one comment about her C-section wound being a little sore and Reagan had rushed her straight down to the ward for a check-up. Thankfully, they weren’t very busy, so Dr. Stephens had stepped away from his paperwork to examine her.
Finally, he leaned back, a grin firmly in place as he snapped off his gloves and tucked them into the bin attached to the trolley beside him. “Everything looks fine, Indie. It’s healing up well. I’d say take a couple paracetamol and try not to do too much, and you’ll be right as rain, okay?”
Reagan shot his daughter the stink-eye. “See, Indie? Rest, he said.”
Dr. Stephens looked between Reagan and Indie. “Have you not been resting?”
Scowling at her dad’s grunt, she admitted, “There’s just so much I need to do, that’s all. I’ll take it a bit easier.”
“So long as you do. I don’t want to have to re-admit you.”
With Indie’s promise that she’d rest more, Dr. Stephens declared her fit to leave, chuckling when she hurriedly righted her t-shirt and climbed from the bed.
“Big day today. You’d never know you’re excited,” he teased.
Indie’s grin had never been wider as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “It’s discharge day.”
“I know,” Dr. Stephens chuckled. “I hear about him courtesy of my daughter every day. He’s doing well, I gather?”
; “Oh, right, I forgot Emma’s your daughter. He’s doing so well, Doctor. He’s such a fighter. My little soldier.” As she spoke, Indie pulled her new phone from her pocket—a gift from Reagan, so she could take photos and send them home from the hospital. “He’s two weeks old now.”
In the photo she showed Dr. Stephens, Marley was holding her new baby brother, completely nonplussed by the camera. She was staring intently at Bodhi, a big, toothy grin in place. She’d adored him on sight and wouldn’t stop talking about ‘baby Bodhi’ to anyone who’d listen. It didn’t matter who she was speaking to, Marley referred to her brother as ‘baby Bodhi’. And the pictures she’d drawn…
There was barely any wall space left at any of the houses she frequented. Reagan, Peter, Mark and Josie, Andrew and Sarah—all of their homes were littered with her artwork.
“Show him the one of Bodhi and me, Indie,” Reagan urged.
Indie glanced towards the door, antsy to get going to her boy, but she relented and scrolled through the numerous photos she had of her family, finally landing on the one Reagan wanted. She turned the screen towards Dr. Stephens, smiling automatically at his belly laugh.
“Oh, I can definitely see the likeness, Pawpaw.”
In the two weeks since Indie’s surgery, she’d seen a lot of Dr. Stephens. Marley had too, and Peter often joked that she only went to the hospital to see him. She adored the tall, dark-haired doctor, and always brought him presents.
Yesterday’s was a drawing of him, Marley, ‘baby Bodhi,’ and Emma. Oh, and a half-eaten lolly.
Dr. Stephens had graciously accepted both gifts, but only pinned one to the board above his desk in his office.
“Dad decided to grow his moustache out, God knows why, and he thought it’d be funny to have Bodhi do the same, apparently.”
In the photo, proud Pawpaw Reagan held Bodhi, exactly a week old at the time. He was dressed in a simple white onesie—Bodhi, that is—and had a dummy in his mouth. It was this that made Dr. Stephens laugh. A black moustache had been printed on the clear plastic pacifier, making it look as though the newborn had a moustache to rival his Pawpaw’s.
“Mummy? Unca Archie, where’s Mummy and Pawpaw?”
“Ah, that’s your cue, I think,” Dr. Stephens said with a laugh, opening the door to the examination room once he was sure Indie was ready.
“Oh! Dr. Stephens! Hi!”
Marley was climbing the legs of her favourite doctor before Indie could tell her not to. She gave her daughter a reproachful look when she stepped out into the hall, watching Marley settle herself on Dr. Stephen’s hip.
“Ooh, guess what!”
Dr. Stephens pulled an appropriately confused face, Indie and Reagan watching with smiles on their faces. “Hmm, you had a haircut?”
Marley rolled her eyes—a trait she’d picked up from Carl-Roman. “No, silly. Guess again.”
“Okay, not a haircut. You…went to the zoo?”
“Ah…” This cut Marley short, because she had been to the zoo since she saw Dr. Stephens last. Archie took her with his boys and Kristen. Indie had been gutted to miss her first zoo visit, but Marley promised to show her around next time. “Well, yes, but there’s somethin’ else. You’re rubbish at guessin’ so I’ll tell you. Baby Bodhi is coming home!”
By the time Dr. Stephens had satisfied Marley’s need to chat, Indie was more than ready to be getting her boy from the NICU. Dr. Stephens offered to walk up with them, ushering her ahead and promising to entertain Marley on the way. Indie gratefully accepted his suggestion, leaving Reagan behind—because even though she trusted Dr. Stephens, she wasn’t comfortable leaving Marley with anyone but the family just yet.
“Morning, Indie!” Emma sang as she scrubbed in quicker than ever before, still remembering to be thorough. She then darted through the room to Bodhi at the end. He was wide awake this morning, eyes open and alert as she leaned over his cot to grin at him. For the first few days of his life, he’d had them shut the majority of the time. She hadn’t been able to get a proper look at their colour until the last few days, but there were smiles all round and pictures aplenty when it became clear whose eyes he’d inherited.
“Oh, look at those beautiful eyes,” Emma cooed, joining Indie and Bodhi. “He’s definitely got your eyes, Mummy.”
Her words warmed Indie from the inside-out. “Hey, baby boy. You ready to come home?”
Bodhi peered up through wide, blue-green eyes, wriggling his little legs.
“I got him dressed earlier this morning, but I wasn’t sure if you’d changed your mind on what you wanted to put him in. I figured you’d like to do that anyway, so I just put him in the blue onesie you like, with the teddy on it,” Emma explained, carefully folding the blankets over the side of the cot. At this point, Bodhi had quite the collection of gifts, most of which had been taken home the previous day. A couple of blankets and a selection of clothes had been left purely so Indie would have a choice if she changed her mind overnight on his going-home outfit. She hadn’t, and she was glad Emma hadn’t gotten him ready for her.
As adorable as he looked, kicking his legs and waving his tiny fists in the air in a soft blue onesie decorated with teddy bears, Indie knew he’d look even cuter in the outfit she’d chosen.
“All right, little soldier. Let’s get you dressed, huh?”
In the two weeks since Bodhi’s birth, Indie had gotten used to feeling his barely-there weight in her hands. She was still petrified of breaking him, but after two weeks of guzzling milk like a champ, he’d finally started to fill out a little. As his mother carefully scooped him from the cot to place him on the changing table, Emma cheerfully chimed that he’d tipped the scales at five pounds, thirteen ounces earlier in the morning during the consultant rounds.
He’d gained over a pound since his early birth, putting on an average of forty grams a day despite the doctors warning Indie he could be in the NICU for some weeks and predicting an average weight gain of twenty to thirty grams a day.
Just as Archie said the day he was born, Bodhi was a true little soldier. A fighter, just like Indie.
Reagan and Marley arrived with Dr. Stephens just as Indie finished dressing Bodhi. She tugged on his grey booties, turning to smile at Marley. She was still chattering away. Now she’d started, there was no stopping her. She was still quieter around new people, but with her family? Marley rarely kept quiet for longer than a minute or two.
“Hey, baby Bodhi,” she sang, stretching right up onto her tiptoes to smile at her baby brother. He turned his head towards her voice, the pair staring into each other’s matching gaze. Indie quickly snapped a photo, tears welling up in her eyes. They already adored each other.
“Well, hello there, bud. Looking handsome,” Reagan commented wryly, peering over Indie’s shoulder at his youngest grandchild.
“Doesn’t he? I saw it, and it just…it’s perfect.”
Reagan nodded, snapping a photo on his own phone. “Sending this to Pete, that okay?”
Indie nodded, returning her attention to Bodhi to snap a few photos of her own. She’d seen the outfit online and couldn’t resist buying it, like she’d told her dad. He was sporting a white bodysuit with the words ‘Hello World’ emblazoned in the centre of a circle made of grey arrows, and a pair of sweatpants with a wide grey waistband and cuffs, the white pant legs decorated with teal, grey, and black arrows. He had a matching white hat bearing the same pattern, but she hadn’t put it on him just yet. The NICU was notoriously warm so he wouldn’t need it until they were ready to go.
Bodhi had one more feed in the NICU, Indie sitting in the chair beside his cot for the last time, before she tucked his hat onto his little head, covering his tufts of hair. It had started to lighten already, and many people had placed bets on it turning the same shade of strawberry blond as his grandfather and mother. Well, his mother’s natural colour, anyway. Indie had grown attached to her new, chocolate brown locks.
After a nappy change and cuddles with all the NICU nur
ses whose hearts he’d stolen in his short, two weeks of life, Bodhi was finally passed back to his mother to be tucked into his car seat. He looked lovely and cosy once he was all strapped in.
With her boy secure in his seat, sleeping soundly with a full belly and clean nappy, Indie said her tearful goodbyes to the nurses and doctors who’d helped her through the past fourteen days; soothing her when she sobbed over her tiny baby, and laughing with her when he did his first poo mid-nappy change.
“Keep in touch, okay? I need my little soldier fix,” Emma said, dashing tears from her cheeks.
Indie smiled, hugging her hard before stepping back to watch Reagan pick up Bodhi’s seat. Marley helped by carrying his binky and the teddy bear she’d brought in for him from home. ‘Only the light things,’ she’d insisted.
“I’ll send you a text later, when we get home.”
Emma’s smile turned sympathetic as she remembered the pit stop Indie had to make before she took Bodhi home. Reagan had insisted she could wait, but she was adamant she couldn’t take Bodhi home without making one vital stop first. “Lots of photos, okay?”
“Of course! I’ll take loads.”
With that and a few more hugs from various members of staff all wanting one last peek at Bodhi, it was time to leave. Reagan, Indie, Marley, and Bodhi walked through the NICU doors for the final time with smiles on their faces—a milk-drunk smile, in Bodhi’s case. Marley skipped along beside her mother, their hands linked, while Reagan walked a few steps behind with Bodhi. Indie couldn’t help but let a few tears leak free. Tucking his blankets under her arm to free up a hand, she pulled her phone from her pocket and turned, snapping a quick photo of Reagan looking down at his sleeping grandson as he walked.
“Are you sure you don’t want to just head home, Indie? Laker would—”
“I’m sure, Dad.”
Reagan sighed, the smile playing on his lips beneath his burgeoning moustache making it very obvious he’d expected her answer. “All right, then.”