by Brian Shea
“We need to go back to the hospital. Can you tell the others?” Anaya asked in a whisper.
She knew the importance of empowering the teenager by giving her a role. It would be much more agreeable to the other girls if the request came from Maria. By default, she’d become their leader and they’d trust her over any cop or social worker.
Maria nodded and began whispering to the other girls crammed on the beds. Anaya was glad to see Maria’s willingness to help. It would be beneficial to the investigation. But, more importantly, it gave Anaya hope that the girl would be strong enough to later battle the demons of her recent past.
37
The fluorescent light bled into his eyes, causing them to water. With each blink, his surroundings became clearer. He looked at the intravenous line running from the back of his hand up to the clear plastic bag hanging off the thin metal rack. Nobody was in the room, but he could hear voices outside. The blinds were drawn and the analog clock on the wall said 8:52. Nick had no idea if it was morning or night. The disoriented confusion bothered him.
He adjusted himself in the bed when he heard the click of the door’s latch. His left side protested the movement. The pain was strong enough to make him wince. Nick was prepared for a more intense sensation and the dull throb indicated he was on pain meds. The fog in his head was also a telling sign.
“Mr. Lawrence, I’m glad to see you’re awake,” the nurse said as she entered the room.
She approached slowly, first checking several of the machines surrounding his bed. She picked up his hand that had the IV attached and manipulated it, checking the tape. She placed his hand back on the bed without much care.
“What’s the damage?” Nick mumbled. His speech was impacted by the dryness of his mouth.
“The doctor will be in shortly to go over everything with you. How are you feeling?” she asked, with a curtness that was neither rude nor pleasant.
“I feel like someone stabbed me,” Nick said, making a feeble attempt at levity.
“Very funny, Mr. Lawrence. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your discomfort?” the nurse asked, dryly.
“I feel good. The pain isn’t bad at all. I would give it a three,” Nick said, hoping his self-evaluation would lead to a speedy discharge. He hated hospitals and wanted to leave as soon as he was able.
“Well, you’re a very tough man. Most people wouldn’t be so lighthearted after going through an ordeal like yours.” The nurse gave a flaccid smile.
“I’ve been through worse.” Nick paused, recalling the injuries sustained from the standoff with the Translator eight months ago. The reminders of those wounds still plagued him. He continued, “How long until I’m out of here?”
“Let’s not put the cart before the horse. You’ve got quite a bit of recovery time before you’re going to be out chasing bad guys,” the nurse said, sounding like a parent trying to get her child to eat his vegetables.
Nick didn’t respond. He would save his argument about an early discharge for the doctor. The nurse set about her business, re-checking the different monitors and noting the information on a chart.
“Are you up for some company while you wait for the doctor?” the nurse asked, as she made her way to the door.
“Sure,” Nick said, softly.
“Well, this damn case went to hell in a handbasket quicker than shit,” Jones said, as he strolled into the room with Anaya in tow.
Jones’s drawl was in full effect. He even added a slight swagger to his walk. Nick watched the Austin detective saunter to his bedside, imagining him in a pair of spurs and a ten-gallon hat. Nick laughed at the thought.
“Hey Jones, don’t get all emotional on my account. I don’t want you to drown yourself in a stress-induced brisket-eating-frenzy on my account,” Nick retorted.
“This is what you need, my fit friend,” Jones said, gripping the excess around his waistline. Chuckling, he added, “Extra bulletproofing! I’ll bet that knife wouldn’t’ve even penetrated my outer layer”
“How are you feeling?” Anaya said, not giving into the childish banter of the two investigators.
“I’m good as gold,” Nick said, repositioning himself to look at Anaya.
“I answered your phone for you while you were out of it.” Anaya said, sheepishly.
Her fingers twiddled, and she dropped her eyes slightly. Anaya had a worried look, as though she was a child admitting to stealing a candy bar.
“Thanks. Anything important?” Nick asked, showing that he wasn’t fazed at all by the intrusion.
“It was a friend of yours,” Anaya said, pausing for a moment before she continued. “Izzy.”
Nick saw the slightest of facial tics in Anaya’s face at the mention of Izzy. Her left cheek muscle spasmed, pulsing once. Nick knew it was an involuntary response. He wasn’t sure of its meaning but was intrigued by the prospects.
“Oh, what did she say?” Nick asked, hoping to see another reaction.
“She said to tell you that she was on her way. She also told me to tell you that Declan was with her,” Ayana said, relaying the message. This time without the tic.
“What? Why?” Nick asked. The question was more to himself, knowing that Anaya wouldn’t hold the answer.
Anaya shrugged.
“I’ve got something big!” Jones said, slapping a manila folder on the railing of the hospital bed.
Nick waited, knowing Jones was only pausing for effect and would give the big reveal to his news without further prompting.
“Check this out,” Jones said, opening the file and sliding out a photograph.
Jones handed over the glossy image. Nick held it close to his face. His eyes scanned the image. He’d already seen it before and squinted hard, wondering what detail he missed.
“Maybe I’m still coming off the anesthesia but isn’t that the same picture I already saw?” Nick asked, confused.
Jones smiled, frustrating him further. He was going to make him work for it. Nick again looked at the image of a branded hip of one of the girls from the motel.
“It is, but we missed something the first time around. Look carefully,” Jones said, teetering on the verge of giddy.
Nick cocked his eyebrow, showing his disinterest in playing this game any further with his Austin counterpart.
“I give up. What am I looking at?” Nick asked, sighing loudly.
“I didn’t see it at first either. None of us did,” Jones said.
The portly detective leaned over the railing of Nick’s hospital bed. His belly pressed hard against it, spilling over onto Nick’s arm as he pointed at the squared outline that framed the brand. He retracted and shoved his hand into his pants pocket.
“Look at this,” Jones said, holding up a plastic bag.
“What’s that?” Nick asked, looking at the small black objects inside. They were the size and shape of scrabble tiles.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before. Have you?” Jones asked.
Jones raised both eyebrows expressively as his eyes widened. He tossed the bag to Nick. It landed on his chest. The contents of the ziplock jingled.
Nick clicked the button on the bed, bringing him into a more upright position. The excitement about this new bit of evidence muted out the pain of the movement. He held the bag in his hand and delicately manipulated its contents.
“Is this what I think it is?” Nick asked, almost gasping.
“Your guess is as good as mine, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say we’re looking at some type of computer chip,” Jones replied.
“Holy shit! That explains a lot,” Nick said.
The realization came crashing down on him. He quickly surmised that this was how the bald man found the girl at his apartment and shook his head in disbelief.
“I’ve heard of trafficking organizations using things like this to keep tabs on their merchandise but have never seen it in person,” Anaya said, inserting herself into the conversation.
“They track t
hem. Makes sense. This is big business and they appear to have come up with a way to control their assets,” Nick said.
“This group has got to be big time. A low-level operation isn’t going to have the funds to support this kind of technology,” Jones said. He added, “I’m going to get these over to digital and see what they can come up with.”
“Leave one with me. I want to run it by someone,” Nick said.
Nick saw Jones grimace at this request. Without waiting for approval, he opened the bag and slipped his fingers in, retrieving one of the black chips.
“If this is some type of tracking device, then we have a much bigger problem,” Anaya said, pausing momentarily before she continued, “Mouse. There is no place that she can run that they won’t be able to find her.”
“That’s why we’ve got to find her first,” Nick said.
“What’s this we stuff. You were turned into a human pincushion a few hours ago. You’re not going anywhere,” Jones said, looking down at Nick’s bandaged side that was slightly exposed through the opening in his gown.
“The hell I’m not,” Nick said, his face flushed with anger. The rage was not directed at Jones, but more at his current condition.
“Anaya and I are going to head back to headquarters. Call when you find out when they’re releasing you and we’ll come pick you up,” Jones said.
“I’m still in this. Don’t count me out,” Nick said, grinding his teeth.
“Get some rest,” Anaya said, giving a wink.
The two walked out into the pale light of the hallway and Nick grabbed his phone from the tray next to his bed. In his other hand, he held the black computer chip between his thumb and forefinger.
Before he could pull up his contacts to make his intended call, the phone in his hand rang.
“Jesus Nick, I can’t leave you alone for a damn minute!” Declan boomed through the phone’s receiver.
“Deck, what the hell? How did you know to come?” Nick asked, struggling to understand how Declan Enright had come to the conclusion to drive to Texas.
“Truth be told, we were already on our way out to see you,” Declan said.
“Hey, tough guy, you had us worried,” Izzy said.
Her voice was more muffled than Declan’s, indicating he was the one holding the phone that was obviously on speaker. Her voice was a welcome sound. And the tone was much better than that of their last conversation.
“Aw, this is nothing. I almost lost an arm once,” Nick said, trying to play the tough-guy role. An unnecessary display of bravado to the girl who’d applied the tourniquet that saved his arm and his life.
“What am I going to do with you?” Izzy retorted, sighing audibly in the backdrop.
“Do you need me to give you two some alone time?” Declan chided.
“All right, let’s cut to the business at hand. Who did this to you and where can I find him?” Declan said, intensity replacing his light-hearted candor.
“Don’t know. Big guy with a bald head. That’s about as much of it as I can remember,” Nick muttered.
His fist balled and the heartbeat monitor revealed the steady incremental rise. His elevated heart rate was in sync with his anger. He felt as useless as most of the witnesses he interviewed during his investigations. Nick breathed out heavily, trying desperately to calm himself so he could recall something useful.
“Okay. Who are you working the case with?” Izzy asked.
“Kemper Jones. He’s a detective with APD,” Nick said.
“What about the female?” Izzy asked.
Nick thought he noted a trace of annoyance in her question.
“Oh, I assume you mean Anaya Patel?” Nick asked and then added, “She’s with Child Protective Services. She said you had called earlier this morning while I was recovering?”
“She answered your phone when I called,” Izzy said.
Nick could tell this bothered Izzy, but he wasn’t completely sure why. Anaya was just helping with the case. Izzy shouldn’t care anyway. She had moved on. She had Bill now. That’s what she told him during their last conversation. Nick chewed on some ice chips to help distract this train of thought. The crunch drowned out the annoying jealous rantings of the voice inside his head.
“Anaya’s good people,” Nick said, throwing out the words Izzy used when she described Bill. He knew it was childish but couldn’t help himself.
The room got awkwardly silent before Declan interjected, “We want to help. But we’re not going to be there officially.”
Nick processed this and then asked, “You said you guys were already on your way out here? Why?”
“We were worried about you,” Izzy said.
“And, apparently, rightly so,” Declan added.
“I know there’s no point in trying to talk you two out of it,” Nick said.
“You got that right,” Declan chuckled. Then he added, “We should be in this evening. Maybe sooner. Izzy drives like an asshole. We’ll call when we’re close.”
“See you then,” Nick said, ending the call.
The doctor entered and gave Nick a welcoming smile. His mannerisms contrasted with the nurse who’d been in earlier. He saw that Nick had his phone in hand and stopped.
“Would you like me to come back in a few minutes?”
“I’m all set with the call, thanks,” Nick mumbled.
“Okay, then. The damage wasn’t as bad as we initially thought. You were bleeding heavily so we sent you straight into the OR,” the doctor said. His voice was engaging, and he had a good bedside manner. He added, “Normally we would send you in for a CAT scan but, under the circumstances, we bypassed that and sent you in for surgery.”
Nick nodded his receipt of the information.
“The knife’s blade missed any vital organs. We packed the wound and bandaged your side.” The doctor gave a contented smile.
“So, how long until I’m out of here?” Nick asked, cutting right to the chase.
“We’ll keep you for observation. Maybe only for a day, but you’re stable. I would say we could have you out of here tomorrow morning. You’re going to have some pain and discomfort for a while,” the doctor said.
“I’m used to that,” Nick responded, rubbing the old injury to his arm and then adding, “Tomorrow morning isn’t going to work for me.”
“You’re going to be out of commission for a while during the healing process,” the doctor added, coming to the realization that his patient was planning a speedy return to work. He continued, “You may not feel too much in the way of pain right now, but that is due to the low-dose morphine drip in your IV. I will prescribe something to help you manage the pain when you leave.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Nick said, flatly.
There was no macho bravado in the statement. He refused to take anything stronger than an ibuprofen, regardless of the pain. His brother’s PTSD had been worsened by an addiction to pain meds. Nick was convinced the combination drove him to end his life. He never wanted to put himself in a similar situation.
“I’m going to let you rest. I’ll see you in the morning before your release,” the doctor said.
“Doc, I don’t know how much you know about what I am working on, but a young girl’s life is at stake. If you’re telling me that my injury is stabilized, then I need to be discharged immediately.” Nick was terse but calm.
“I’ll see what I can do,” the doctor replied.
“Do better than that,” Nick pleaded.
“This will be against my recommendation, but I will begin the discharge paperwork. Give me an hour or so and I should have you moving toward that door,” the doctor said flatly, giving into the agent’s request.
“Thank you,” Nick said.
“You’re a brave man. The world could use more like you. Just don’t go getting yourself killed.”
The doctor exited the room, closing the door behind him.
38
The morning brought with it a stiffness unlike anythin
g he’d felt in recent years. Cain embraced the sensation. A reminder of his shortcomings during the previous night. A reminder of the kindness of the Pastor, allowing him another opportunity to serve as The Hand. He’d hoped that, after this was completed, he would be rewarded by an opportunity to see the Pastor in person. It had been a long time. The Pastor sent him CDs with his sermons, but to feel his embrace and hear his words while face-to-face was like being in the presence of God himself.
He put the selfish thoughts out of his head and focused on the task that lay ahead. The warehouse and makeshift hospital had also become his hotel room. But he did not require much. The surgeon was gone, as he’d assumed he would be. The table where his wounds had been treated became his bed. In the light that fell from the warehouse’s high windows, Cain took in the amenities. He could make out a toilet and sink in the corner.
Cain sat up, resting the weight of his massive body on his right arm. His neck protested the movement and pain radiated. Even though the bullet was now removed from his thigh, it did little to lessen the discomfort as he slid over the edge of the table. Cain gingerly stepped down onto the cold concrete of the slab floor. Favoring his good side, he shuffled over to the door-less bathroom. He stared at his image through the filth-covered mirror.
His shirt was stained, and his body was covered in a combination of crusted blood and iodine. Cain set to work, dampening his undershirt and using it as a towel to wipe himself clean. It was a slow process, hampered by his current condition. The duffle-bag he’d brought with him was on the floor by the table. He ambled back and rifled through it, gathering a fresh set of clothes. Cain rolled all of the blood-covered clothes into the sheet that had been draped over the table and hoisted it over his good shoulder. Grabbing the duffle, he walked out of the warehouse to the gray Ford Escape parked in the alley where the Range Rover had been.
There was a large dumpster in the recesses of the alley, just past the SUV. He dropped the duffle by the Ford and continued toward the trash bin. He tossed the sack of stained clothes into the rusted interior. He could hear the claws of the rats scratching at the metallic surface as they scurried to avoid the dumpster’s newest arrival. Cain closed the heavy plastic lid and walked away, returning to the car.