by Callie Hart
Casey and I kept in touch for a long time. She’d send me pictures of her daughter, telling me about all of the milestones she’d been able to witness in her child’s life. After a while the letters stopped, though. A couple of years into my residency, I learned that Casey had died from a secondary bout of ovarian cancer that had snuck back in and taken root. By the time they started treating her, it was already too late.
“You like it?” I show Millie the reflective glass face, marked with years of use and abuse in St. Peter’s of Mercy Hospital. She nods. Quickly, I unclip the strap and slide the watch onto her rail-thin arm, fastening it as tightly as I can. “Do you think you could look after it for me while you’re here? I keep banging it on things.”
Millie studies the watch for a second, her tiny index finger tracing over the scratches and scuffs on the glass, and then she nods again. “I’ll look after it for you,” she says. “I’ll give it back when Mason takes me home.”
“Thank you, Millie. I’d like that.”
******
Dr. Bochowitz isn’t exactly a rule breaker, but the old guy knows when not to ask questions. He doesn’t seem to find it out of the ordinary at all that I might want to house a six-year-old patient in the morgue. Millie doesn’t seem to be bothered by the lack of natural lighting or the strange chemical smell that permeates the room, either. In fact, she seems quite comfortable in her new surroundings, away from the hustle and bustle of nurses running through the corridors and people coding around her twenty-four seven. Bochowitz makes sure all of the bodies he was working on are securely locked away before she can lay eyes on them, and then he brings her some dinner and sits with her as she eats, telling her stories about his granddaughter, who is apparently the same age as Millie.
I wait for Mason to arrive upstairs on the trauma floor, hoping a horrific car accident is brought in so I don’t have to explain to the guy that his little sister is now safe and sound downstairs in the morgue. The poor kid’s probably going to have nightmares for years.
No natural disaster strikes the city, though, and the roads are free of ten car pile-ups. Mason finds me twenty minutes behind schedule, covered in grease and dirt, looking beyond stressed as he turns his car keys over and over in his hands. “Where is she?” he demands. “I went by her room and the bed was fucking empty. I thought something terrible had happened.”
Mason stares at me, wearing a blank expression as I explain what I’ve done. I can’t tell if he’s happy I’ve found a work-around of sorts, or if he’s really mad that Millie is now the only living resident in the St. Peter’s morgue. He blinks once, and then blinks again. “Can you take me to her?” he asks.
I do. People sometimes do take the elevator down into the morgue, primarily so they can view the bodies of their dead loved ones and relatives, to say goodbye, but it’s not the norm. Mason doesn’t seem anywhere near sad enough to be in mourning as we ride down into the sub-level and exit, but the young nurse standing beside him gives him a sad, reassuring smile all the same.
Millie’s sitting up and talking to Bochowitz when we enter the room. Her eyes light up when she sees her brother, and Mason’s voice catches in his throat as he says hello. “I see you’re creating mischief as per usual, little Millie Mouse.”
She feigns annoyance, folding her arms across her body. “Am not. Mister Richard was telling me ghost stories. I wasn’t even scared, Mase. I listened the whole way through!”
Bochowitz looks a little sheepish as he stands from his seat by Millie’s bed. “Ahh, yes, well I may have gotten a little carried away with my stories as it goes. But I couldn’t help myself. Young Miss Reeves here is quite the little lady. Very brave indeed. Seemed like a shame to leave out the exciting parts.”
Mason offers out his hand to Dr. Bochowitz, who shakes his in return. “Thanks for watching over her,” he says. “And thanks for keeping her entertained. If she has nightmares, I’ll be sending her over to your place for you to deal with, though.”
“I won’t have nightmares,” Millie says. “I’m too old for nightmares.”
“Everyone has bad dreams sometimes, baby. Even grown ups.”
Millie looks stunned by this information. She wriggles down into her pillows and tilts her head to one side. “That’s not very fair,” she says. “Grown ups shouldn’t have to be afraid when they’re big.”
Mason lets out a shaky laugh, rocking his head from side to side. “Grown ups get scared all the time, I’m sure. All of us. We can just handle it better than little kids, Mill.”
The sweet little girl in the bed flares her nostrils as she pulls a giant lungful of air into her body. She looks from Dr. Bochowitz to her brother, and then to me, at which point she shakes her head. “You don’t get scared, Mason. You’re the bravest brother ever. You’re never, never afraid of anything.”
I can see her wanting to believe this so badly. If Mason never gets scared, then Millie knows her protector is brave and capable of taking care of her. Mason must be all too aware of this, too. He chucks her under the chin, grinning. “Fair enough. You caught me. I don’t scare easy, that’s for sure.”
I know the truth, though. Mason, like anyone in charge of another person’s wellbeing, especially a child, is scared all the time. If he’s like any of the other parents who walk the hallways of St. Peter’s, he’s paralyzed by fear. He does a good job of hiding it in front of Millie, though.
“When can we go home?” Millie tries to throw back her covers, as though she’s ready this instant. She’s thwarted by the tightly tucked in sheets, so she doesn’t make it far.
“Soon, baby. We just need to—” He stops short as his phone starts ringing loudly in his pocket. “Shit. I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to switch that off.” He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket, and his expression darkens as he looks at the screen.
Bochowitz waves off his apology. “That’s okay, Mr. Reeves. As you can see normal rules don’t apply down here. Feel free to answer that if you need to. You can step out into the hallway.”
Mason shoots him a rueful smile, nodding his head. “Thanks. Unfortunately I do have to take this call.” Getting to his feet, his eyes meet mine as he moves past me to exit through the door; I couldn’t work it out before, how he felt about me moving Millie down here, out of sight, but now I can see the gratitude in his eyes. Thank fuck for that. He could easily report me to the Chief, and that would be me finished. Bochowitz starts talking to Millie again, distracting her while her brother is indisposed. I’m turning, about to join them, when I hear Mason answer his phone. The door is closing quickly behind him, but I still have time to register the first words that come out of his mouth, and I’m chilled to the bone by what I overhear.
“Detective Lowell,” he says. “I haven’t been able to check in on Mayfair today.”
Chapter Six
MASON
Lowell’s pissed. She doesn’t seem to understand that if I’m at the hospital with my baby sister, I’m not going to be able to do her dirty work for her. She is prickly as fuck as she dresses me down over the phone. “You realize, Mason, that we’re working with a time limit here. If I don’t find any evidence relating to this murder soon, I won’t be able to pursue Mayfair as a person of interest. That’s bad for me. Very, very bad, which means it’s very, very bad for you, too. And your little sister. I mean, all it would take is one phone call to child services…”
“Fuck. Can you—can you just give me another day or two? I’m doing the best I can, okay? Zeth’s a hard man to get a read on. He keeps his cards close to his chest. It’s not as if he’s spilling his guts about the dead bodies he’s buried in the mountains every time we spar. He’s not that stupid. He barely knows me.”
“You sound like you respect him,” Lowell says. “You sound like I’m making you unfairly spy on an innocent man. Remember this, Mason. Men like Zeth are charismatic. They’re charming. They lull you into a false sense of security.”
“I don’t know who the fuck you’ve
had dealings with in the past, but Zeth’s not charming or charismatic in the slightest. He’s an unfriendly, prickly motherfucker, and I am scared shitless of him. I have no sense of security at all, false or otherwise.”
Lowell just grunts. “Whatever. You know what the stakes are here, Mason. Get him talking.”
“I don’t know how to do that! I’m not a fucking interrogator. I’ve got no experience with this kind of shit.”
“Jesus. Just get him drunk. All men love to boast about the shit they’ve done when they’ve got a gallon of Jack Daniels inside them.”
This woman has no idea what she’s asking of me. If she does, then she obviously doesn’t give a shit about my personal wellbeing. In the brief time I’ve known Denise Lowell, she doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to allow other people’s safety to get in the way of what she wants, though.
“I’ll do my best,” I tell her. “That’s all I can do.”
“Bullshit like that is for five-year-olds and losers, Mr. Reeves. Do better than your best. Do my best. Do whatever it takes.” The line goes dead, and I’m left standing in the hallway with my cell phone still pressed against my ear, wondering how the fuck I got myself dragged into this mess.
I head back into the room and find Millie counting off her best friends on what looks like both her hands and both her feet. The old guy doctor is good with her, I have to admit that. He puts up a good front, showing interest in who Octavia, Rosie and Samantha are. Dr. Romera, on the other hand, is wearing a sharp, hostile look on her face that I recognize all too well. I was wearing it earlier when she was trying to convince me to keep Millie at St. Peter’s. If looks could kill, I’d be hanged, drawn and quartered and already buried six feet under.
“Is everything okay, Dr. Romera?”
She jumps, as if we haven’t been staring at each other since I walked back into the room and she’s only just noticed me now. “Yes. Yeah. Everything is fine,” she says. Her voice is flat, though. Cold. It’s as if she’s a different person, all of a sudden gone is the warm, caring, friendly doctor I was dealing with a moment ago, and in her place stands…I don’t even know who she is now. “Everything is perfect,” she says, unfolding her arms from across her chest and placing her hands slowly into the pockets of her white lab coat. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me for a moment, guys. It’s my turn to make an important phone call.” She gives me another frosty, appraising look, and then flashes a perfunctory smile at her colleague. “You won’t mind if I step away for a moment?”
Dr. Bochowitz grabs one of my sister’s toes through the sheets and tugs on it playfully. “Of course not. There’s nowhere I would rather be.”
Dr. Romera leaves. It feels like she wants to run out of the room, but she’s doing her best to walk instead. A cold chill runs up and down my spine. What the fuck is up with her? What could possibly have happened during the time I left the room? Doesn’t make any goddamn sense. I swear, I will never understand women.
******
Millie falls asleep around nine. I feel like shit for leaving her again after being gone all day, but my hope is she’ll sleep through and won’t miss me until morning. I thought about calling Ben and canceling my fight tonight, but we need the money. Desperately. If I don’t fight, I’m two grand down, and that’s our rent money for the month. That’s money I need to pay our utilities and put food on the table for Millie. It won’t be anywhere near enough to cover the bills we’ve racked up at the hospital—I’ll have to fight again next week to even come close to settling those, which makes me worried. If I don’t win, if I get injured, if Millie’s ill again and I can’t leave her…
I’m plagued by ifs.
The night air is cool as I climb into my car and head south, out of the city toward La Maison Markets. French’s, an enclosed, dusty, airless storage facility under the markets, will already be thrumming, alive with crowds of people expecting to see blood tonight. They’re bankers and stockbrokers, baggage handlers, mechanics, nannies and chefs. They’re everyone, you and me, people from all walks of life. They’re the people of Seattle unafraid to show their true colors, to cast their money hand over fist as they bay for violence and carnage. They are how I keep the devil from my door, though most of the time they somehow make me feel like I am the devil.
I park up and head down the narrow staircase that leads into the basement where the fights take place, my head still back at the hospital with Millie. I’m third on the card tonight. I haven’t lost a single fight yet, but I’m still not the main event. There are other fighters, favorites who’ve been kicking the shit out of people way longer than I have, that still claim the title fight. They’re earning upwards of twenty grand a match if they’re good negotiators, and the guy fighting tonight is that and more. Jameson Rayne. He’s notorious for his round one knock outs. His right hook is fucking terrifying. You see that thing coming and that’s it. No time for blocking. No counter on earth is good enough to prevent a serious concussion and a few missing teeth. Only the maddest of the mad take on Rayne. Only people like Ben.
My best friend greets me out the back, where a hot blonde with gigantic fake tits is stroking her hand up and down his bicep like he’s some kind of fucking demi god. When he looks up and sees me, he slaps the chick on the ass and sends her packing.
“She won’t be so eager to bounce up and down on your dick later, when you’re black and blue and humiliated, asshole,” I tell him.
Ben smirks. “So what? My dick’s chaffed raw from her bouncing up and down on it already. I need some time to recover. There’ll be another chick just like her ready to ride my cock in a couple of weeks, and I’ll still be flush from this fight.”
He’s right. Rayne may make a shit load of cash from thrashing Ben tonight, but that’s not to say Ben will be going home empty handed. Everyone knows there’s no chance they’ll win against Rayne. It requires a decent purse to entice fighters to come and take the beating of their lives, and tonight it’s Ben’s turn to get thrown around the cage. Crazy bastard.
“You given any more thought to what we talked about?” he asks, holding up his hand wraps. I take them from him and begin to wind them around his right hand.
“No. You know I can’t leave, man. If there was any way…” A few weeks ago, Ben mentioned that he’s thinking about moving to LA to train with the pros and he hasn’t fucking let up about it since.
“They have schools in California, dickwad. They have auto mechanic shops, too.”
“It’s not that simple. Millie’s settled here. She’s got friends. I’d be screwed if Wanda didn’t pick up Millie from school every day. I wouldn’t be able to work.” I don’t mention that I have a DEA agent shoved so far up my ass, she knows exactly what I ate for breakfast. If I try to leave the state, Lowell will have CPS on my doorstep quicker than I can blink.
Ben flexes his hand when I finish wrapping him, easing the material around his knuckles so he can still form a fist. “All I’m saying is Los Angeles is where we need to be if we want to start making any headway in this industry. You know it, and I know it. If we stay here, fighting for chump change every weekend of the year, we’re never gonna end up on cards in Vegas. Joe Rogan ain’t gonna be talking about us on his podcast. This will be it for us. Until Jameson Rayne finally gets knocked the fuck out and makes room for the rest of us, we’ll always be playing second fiddle.”
I don’t give a shit about playing second fiddle. I’m not trying to build a career for myself here. I wouldn’t be fighting at all if I didn’t have Millie to take care of. Ben doesn’t understand this, because he’s young and he has no fucking responsibilities. I may be the same age as him, but I’m fifteen years ahead of him in the dependent stakes, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Every decision I make, every single action, every last move—it’s all for her, and it will be until the day I die. “Whatever, man.” I wrap his other hand while he tries, yet again, to tell me how easy it would be to get a job in LA. How kids Millie’s age always
make new friends easy. It’s only when he starts bullshitting about how the hospitals are so much better in Cali and Millie would get better treatment out there that I cut him off.
“Look, dude, I just can’t. I’m sorry. Not right now. Maybe in a year or two. I’m sorry.” Ben can tell from my tone of voice that this is the end of our conversation on the topic. He sighs, thumping his fist into his palm, disappointment rolling off him.
“All right, Mase. But fuck. A year or two’s a long time in the UFC. I don’t know if I can hang around that long.”
“You should go,” I tell him. “Fuck, go and make your name, man. I don’t wanna be the one keeping you here. You don’t owe me anything.”
Ben grumbles. “You’re such an asshole. If you said don’t go, wait for my ass to be ready, then I’d get mad at you and go. But when you say that shit instead, there’s no way I can leave.”
He’s fucking ridiculous. He makes no sense half the fucking time. I punch him in the gut, hard enough that he doubles over, groaning melodramatically. “If you want me to suck your dick, man, it ain’t gonna happen,” I tell him.
Ben howls with laughter. “I already told you, my dick’s chaffed right now. Maybe after I beat Rayne I’ll hit you up for some victory head, though.”
Chapter Seven
MASON
I win my fight, but not without getting my bell rung pretty hard. The guy I’m matched against is a seasoned vet, and I make the mistake of believing he’s flagging in the third round. I get cocky in the fourth, dropping my guard to showcase a little, trying to rile up the crowd some, and that’s when the bastard smashes his fist into the side of my head, right where my jaw bone connects with my skull. They call that the button. The off switch. Get hit hard enough right there and it’s lights out, motherfucker. Thankfully I manage to feint to the left a little, which lessens his blow, otherwise I’d be counting stars and my ass would be hitting the canvas. I stagger back, slamming into the chain link of the cage, and my head starts swimming.