by Sean Platt
While Cassidy didn’t know the first thing about raising a kid, Emma was family, and she’d be damned if she’d give her up to Jon Conway. His family had done too much, hurt too many people, to ever be entrusted with such a sweet child like Emma. And while Jon was perhaps the best of the lot, it wasn’t saying much. He might not be an evil prick, but she’d seen him on TV, getting drunk, into fights with paparazzi, sleeping with models, actresses, and singers. He was just as much of an addict as she was.
No, Cassidy decided, no way she could turn Emma over.
Cassidy stroked Emma’s hair as she pulled the girl into a tight hug. Tears streamed down Cassidy’s face as she wondered what in the hell she would do next. She was sick and goddamned tired of being at the mercy of others, particularly the Conways. She should have left Hamilton Island years ago when she had a chance. Now she had obligations, a mother who, despite what she said, needed her, and now a child to take care of.
Why did you have to die, Sarah?
Fuck.
Cassidy felt a flash of guilt. Sarah had been dead since Friday, but Cassidy had barely had time to miss or mourn her twin sister before she was thrust into the role of caregiver. She had to arrange the funeral, call people, and talk with lawyers and insurance people. Someone had already screwed up, cremating Sarah instead of burying her properly, for which Cassidy was being blamed by her mom. “Just another Cassidy Fuck-Up.”
Cassidy wasn’t sure if burying ashes was better for Emma than seeing her mom’s dead body, but she thought maybe it was. Perhaps she should thank God for the mistake which spared Emma one more horrible memory.
The past few days had been filled with too much to do, and Cassidy hadn’t even had time to sort through her own feelings of loss of not only her twin, but her best friend.
Perhaps the worst part in all of this, was that Cassidy had known Sarah would die.
Three weeks ago, Cassidy had fallen asleep in front of the TV, and woke up thinking someone was in her apartment. There wasn’t anyone there, but as she woke, she remembered a dream she’d had, vivid as daylight. Someone at the school had started shooting kids. A bullet went through the wall between the classrooms and struck Sarah, killing her instantly.
The dream on its own might not have meant much. However, she had the dream again every night for the next two weeks. Every night.
She wanted to tell Sarah about the dream, and to warn her.
But what could she say that wouldn’t make her sister think she was using again?
When Cassidy was using, she’d had several instances where she dreamed something that was going to happen. They were little things, usually, but accurate enough to make shit weird. So she told Sarah. But she’d been so manic when she told Sarah, that Sarah came down hard on her, knowing that she was using.
There was no way Cassidy could tell Sarah about these dreams without her sister thinking she was using again. And besides, she hadn’t had any of her weird prophetic dreams since she’d stopped using. In all likelihood, she figured these were just regular dreams, fueled by a preoccupation of Cassidy’s fears of responsibility for others.
So she kept her mouth shut, not wanting to see that familiar look of disappointment in her twin’s eyes.
She could take that look from her mom, her friends, her lovers, and co-workers, but not from Sarah. She didn’t care if everyone in her life thought she was the black sheep of the family, the “bad sister,” and the “fuck-up,” but letting Sarah down was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. She owed her sister too much.
And yet, in not telling her sister of the dreams, she had done just that. She let her down. And now Sarah was dead.
Cassidy began to cry harder.
Emma saw and felt Cassidy’s tears. She put a hand on Cassidy’s face, wiping a tear away, saying in a soft voice, “It’ll be okay, Aunt Cassidy.”
Cassidy squeezed her eyes, and Emma, tighter, wishing she could believe the child.
* *
Emma fell asleep in Cassidy’s arms, and Cassidy found her mind glazing over from the soft glow of the TV cartoons, and returning to a familiar place.
She couldn’t take this much more. The familiar itch began to gnaw at her brain, telling her how to make everything okay.
The pills.
Once an addict, always an addict.
For the first time in who knew how long, Cassidy needed the drugs. Not wanted the drugs; she always wanted the drugs. She was a fucking addict, always would be. And life for an addict was one day at a time. But now, she needed them. Again.
The addict lived in the back of her brain; nested like a parasite crouching in the dark, waiting for its host to grow less vigilant, more complacent, no longer willing to do the hard work of digging the well and dipping the bucket into the pure water.
Cassidy had a friend from rehab, Gina, who had been her N.A. sponsor. She’d been hooked on the hardcore shit, heroin, and was sober for four years. But sure as shit, three months ago, she went back out and started to use. One month ago, she was dead.
Once an addict, always an addict.
There is no starting over. The addict in the back of your brain can nudge its way to the front whenever the fuck it wants. It drives the bus when it decides to get behind the goddamn wheel, or when life makes it an offer it can’t refuse.
Cassidy would never be cured, could never afford to walk away from the things that got her sober and kept her clean.
Like Sarah.
And Emma.
And the three of them together.
Once an addict, always an addict.
Cassidy could picture the look in her new sponsor’s eyes when she called in the morning to tell Roberta she’d relapsed. She could hear Roberta’s voice saying she’d already buried too many friends, and didn't want to bury another.
No, she didn’t have to relapse.
Except she did.
Once an addict, always an addict.
The addict inside her was working hard, hungry for its first pill in three years, seven months, and 16 days. Each of those days filled with emotions which threatened to steal her sobriety at any moment.
Pain. Fear. Fury.
Guilt. Rage. Grief.
Panic. Dread. Anger.
Agony. Blame. Terror.
Misery. Sorrow. Despair.
Torture. Sadness. Suffering.
Bitterness. Resentment. Indignation.
And now those feelings were returning in full force, and all at once, ready to take her at her weakest moment.
One pill. Instant gratification. Immediate relief from every unpleasant emotion.
Relief and relapse were both a phone call away. Her addict was doing a Snoopy dance inside her, knowing Cassidy was minutes from crossing to the darker side of her inner fissure.
The little girl who had lost her mother might be months away from losing her aunt. Hell, maybe Emma was better off with Jon Conway. Who was she to think she could ever take care of another when she could barely take care of herself?
Once an addict, always an addict.
She rose from the sofa, and carried Emma to her bedroom at Gram’s house. Surprisingly, Emma barely stirred as she slipped her into her bed and covered her in the same strawberry colored blanket she’d had since she was four. Cassidy then passed her mother’s room, the door ajar, the blue light of the TV illuminating the woman asleep in her bed, sleeping away her half bottle of Pinot which was on the nightstand.
Cassidy left the house, dialing Craig’s number before she even had her car in reverse.
She had to call Craig instead of Lewis, since Lewis worked at Shipwrecked and had a big mouth. Craig was more expensive, but he knew how to shut the fuck up. Besides, Lewis was sometimes dry. Craig never was.
The addict inside her didn’t want her clean side to get a chance to fight back.
Craig was happy to hear her voice, and ready at the door when she traded several twenties for a barely rattling bottle.
Once an addict, always an add
ict.
Cassidy was going to go back to her apartment to zone out, but decided she’d get less friction if she went back to her mom’s place and slept in one of the two guest rooms as she’d done for the past two nights.
She went to the guest room set up for her, and crawled into bed. She pulled the covers over herself and clicked on the TV, and found an old episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm.
Cassidy slipped two pills out of the bottle, downed them with a bottle of Diet Coke, and closed her eyes, waiting for sweet oblivion to claim her.
* * * *
CHAPTER 7 — Jon Conway Part 3
Wednesday
September 6
11:57 p.m.
Jon woke to find himself in a jell cell, one of four in the tiny Hamilton Island Police Station. This was the first time he woke in a jail cell sober, though the pain in his head felt like a hangover. Then he remembered the dart he’d been shot with by the rent-a-cops.
The other cells were empty. He wasn’t awake long when the red door leading into the jail opened and a young police officer with jug ears and a big toothy grin entered. Jon was pissed that he’d been detained, but was glad that Paladin had at least brought him to the police station, instead of taking him to the Paladin Security Headquarters, a pristine high tech palace which hid the heavy handed thug-like behavior of many of the Paladin guards.
The cop with “Henry” on his badge said, “Chief Brady says you’re free to go.”
Officer Henry slid a key into the cell and opened the squeaky cell door. He lowered his head as Jon walked by. “Sorry about all the trouble.”
“No problem,” Jon said, turning his head toward the cop. “Not your fault. Besides, I needed a nap, and nothing says comfort like the Hamilton Island Police Station, though I was disappointed not to find a mint on my pillow.”
Officer Henry laughed, though it was a delayed laugh, as if he wasn’t sure if Jon was joking or not. Obviously, Hamilton Island Police Department attracted a different caliber of cop than Paladin.
They walked through the red door that led from the tiny prison and down a hall with three open doors, along with a fourth closed one. Jon looked at a giant old clock on the wall over the door which led to the front of the station and its lobby. Before they reached the exit, the only closed door in the hall opened, and the familiar face of Jon’s old friend Kevin Brady came into view. Though they were the same age, Brady looked pudgy and tired, his dark curly hair graying above the ears. Jon wondered if he looked so ragged because of stress from the job or from having a wife and twin six year olds.
Brady thanked Officer Henry, who went through the door to the front of the station, and then met Jon, slapping him on his shoulder with his left hand as he offered him his right. “Sorry about the trouble, Jon,” he said.
Jon shook his hand, noted the clammy palm, then said, “Thanks for letting me go with a warning.”
Brady said, “Of course,” then gestured toward his office, stepped inside, waited for Jon to enter, and closed the door behind them.
Brady sat behind his cluttered desk and waved a hand to Jon to take a seat opposite him. Jon did, as his eyes scanned the small, messy office, which looked about 30 years past due for a makeover. As did Brady’s ancient desktop computer. Yellow smoke stains pocked the ceiling tiles above the desk.
“So,” Jon said. “You made police chief, eh? Damn, you’re the youngest chief by two decades.”
“Well, I don’t know how impressive it really is. Nobody else wanted the job, if I’m being honest. The real money is with Paladin.”
“Yeah, don’t get me started on those assholes,” Jon said.
“You mean the assholes on your family’s payroll?” Brady said, and then looked like he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Yeah, well obviously they’ve forgotten who butters their bread. So what’s the deal with the fence? And all the security? How many damned officers do they have?”
“Officially, they’ve got 40 guards. Unofficially, I’d say triple that.”
“What the fuck?” Jon said, shocked. “They starting an army?”
Brady smiled nervously, and then answered the other part of Jon’s question. “The fence went up two years ago. This your first time seeing it, I guess?”
Jon nodded.
“Yeah, they fenced off the whole northeastern part of the island. They had some lab break-ins, but it was mostly to cut down on the deaths.”
“Deaths?”
“Yeah, you know that bridge that runs across Tanner’s Pass? Well, kids have been crossing the girders along the bottom of the bridge on dares and stuff. And a lot of them have fallen into the water and hit the rocks. We had 10 kids die two years ago, and another 15 kids and adults who’d gone missing, believed to be suicides that either washed out to sea or into some of the caves along the pass.
“Jesus,” Jon said.
“Yeah, and since your family owns the land, they’re looking to cut down their liability, though I’m not sure who in their right mind would sue the Conways.”
Jon nodded. He knew all too well how vicious his family was when it came to the courtroom.
“So, they put up a fence and set up guards around the perimeter.”
“A lot of work to keep people from killing themselves on an old bridge,” Jon said. “Don’t you think?”
“I dunno,” Brady said, clearly wanting to change the subject. “So, what brings you to town? The funeral? Sarah?”
“Yeah,” Jon said. He considered asking Brady if he knew anything about Emma’s paternity, but decided to keep that question close to his vest for now. Though Brady had been a close friend, that was many years ago.
“I’m sorry,” Brady said. “I know how close you two were.”
Jon sighed, “Yeah, it’s a tragedy. You all know what happened? Why the teacher snapped?”
“No, not a thing. Hell, five minutes into the shooting, the Feds swooped in and took over the investigation.”
“The Feds?”
“Yeah, and get this . . . they’re coordinating efforts with Paladin.”
“Is that even legal?” Jon asked.
“Well, the township made Paladin the same as us, really. Though given the size of Paladin, I’d say we’re nothing more than figureheads at this point.”
“Shit,” Jon said. “So they’re keeping you in the dark, even though you’re the chief?”
“Pretty much. They took all the evidence we collected, and acted like they were doing us a favor. To be honest, they probably are. We don’t really have a staff to handle something like this. And the way people are pissed off, let Paladin and the Feds deal with this shit.”
“You sound burned out,” Jon said.
“You don’t even know, brother. Used to be that being the chief meant something, you know? But now, I’m just the hired help. But I figure if I keep my head down, just handle the shit I’ve gotta handle, I can provide for my family, ya’ know.”
They talked a bit more, catching up as much as Brady’s reticence would allow. It was around one in the morning when Brady walked Jon to his car. Brady looked around, making sure Officer Henry wasn’t within sight, then reached into his jacket and handed Jon his stash of weed.
Jon felt his face turn flush. Even though Brady had been a friend a long time ago, he was still a chief, and to see his stash in the hands of the law sent a chill through Jon, fearful Brady was about to come down on him.
“I think someone accidentally left this in your car,” he said, handing the stash to Jon.
“Yeah, I’ll see if I can return it to its rightful owner. Probably an old guy with really bad glaucoma.”
“Yeah, glaucoma,” Brady said with a grin.
The smile faded as Brady looked around again, however, and then met Jon’s eyes. “You need to leave the island, Jon.”
Jon stepped back, confused. “Huh?”
“You need to get out of here. Something bad is going to happen.”
“What do you mean?” Jon
said, noticing the fear in Brady’s eyes.
“I can’t say anything more. Not here. They’re probably watching.”
“You sure you didn’t smoke any of this?” Jon said, patting his pants pocket where he’d put the stash.
Brady didn’t laugh.
“I’m serious, Jon. Get out while you still can.”
With that, Brady turned, and headed back inside the station.
“Hey!” Jon said, trying to get his attention so he could ask a few follow-up questions. But Brady kept walking.
Jon got into his car, shut the door, and glanced in the rearview and side mirrors, looking to see if he could see anyone watching.
There was only darkness.
* * * *
CHAPTER 8 — Liz Heller
Wednesday
September 6
10:14 p.m.
Liz was cuddled on her bed, the comforter and blankets pulled tight around her as she stared at the TV, watching a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond. She wasn’t in the mood to laugh, and wasn’t really paying attention. She just wanted something familiar, something to make her feel a little less alone in the bed she’d shared for so long with Roger. Something other than the constant barrage of news coverage of her husband’s shooting “rampage,” as the talking heads on the TV news were calling Friday’s tragedy. Rampage, like some Roger was some sort of monster, instead of the sweet, sensitive, if not sometimes goofy, man she married 20 years ago.
Five days had passed, and though reality had forced itself upon her, it all still felt unreal.
Five days of going through the motions of life, trying to pretend that they would ever have anything close to a normal family again.
Five days of wondering if she could be strong enough for Alex and Aubrey.
Five days of kicking herself for missing the signs that the “experts” said “someone” should have picked up on.
Five days of having her husband’s life dissected and invaded by specialists, authors, and news anchors, who were all suddenly experts on the subject of Roger Heller.