Rooke

by Callie Hart

  “Fine. Fine. It’s okay. I’m go—” Something occurs to me, then, stealing my words. Something hits me in the gut with the force of a battering ram, and I’m nearly bent double with the force of my realization. “The other doctor,” I say. “Was he talking about someone in particular? Did he mention a specific doctor by name?”

  Margot’s brow creases, like she can’t imagine how this could possibly be relevant information. “I don’t know. Yeah, I suppose he did. Clark? Campbell? Carter? I can’t remember.”

  Ahhh, fuck. Dread cycles through me, chilling me to the bone. “Connor?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that was it. Connor. He said he was going to find Doctor Connor. Now get the fuck out of my house.

  TWENTY-SIX

  SURPRISE VISITOR

  SASHA

  Waking up alone is never fun, especially when it’s in someone else’s bed. Rooke left me a note telling me to stay at his place and wait for him, but honestly it felt weird being there without him, like I was intruding or something. I take one look outside and decide trying to walk anywhere is out of the question, so I call a cab and wait by the front door for thirty minutes until the guy eventually shows up to drive me home.

  I’m not in the mood to make small talk, so I sit in the back seat in silence, watching the world slowly crawl by, everything white, everything silent and peaceful, the sound of the city somehow deadened by the snow, and I keep my thoughts to myself.

  My heart sinks in my chest when I get out of the cab and see the broken pane of glass in my front door. I forgot Rooke had to smash the window to get in yesterday. If I’d remembered, I would have called someone, had them come over and at least board it up until it could be replaced. As it stands, my place has been open and unprotected for close to twenty-four hours. Anyone could have let themselves in and helped themselves to whatever they wanted inside.

  I take out the pepper spray Ali bought me just in case. No sense in calling the cops just to see if someone’s inside. The front door is set back from the road in such a way that it’s actually really hard to see, so it’s unlikely anyone’s noticed the broken glass, anyway.

  I unlock the door with my key despite the yawning hole in the window and I let myself inside. “Hello? Is anyone here?” The house is freezing cold. There are papers scattered all over the floor in the hallway; the wind must have blown them from the phone stand. A strange rushing sound is coming from the kitchen. I’m careful as I walk through the ground floor, checking in the living room and the dining room to make sure I’m alone before I head to the back of the house, toward the sound.

  The cold tap is running, water rushing like crazy out of the faucet. A soaking wet tea towel is on the floor, along with a clear glass bowl full of murky water. I know I’d thrown up when Rooke found me. The hallway floor was clean just now. Rooke must have cleaned up the mess and left the tap running when the ambulance showed up for me. Luckily the sink was empty, otherwise it would have flooded and water would have been pouring out over the tiles for the last twenty-four hours. I turn the tap off and head back through the house, looking for signs that someone might have been in here.

  There are none. Nothing has been moved. Nothing’s been stolen. Apart from the stack of paperwork from the museum that’s now on the floor in the hallway, everything is as it was left. I call out, checking upstairs as well, can of pepper spray clutched tightly in my hand, but there’s no one there, either.

  My cell phone starts ringing. It takes a long time for me to find it at the bottom of my purse. It’s Rooke. I miss the call, but my cell starts ringing again almost immediately. I pick up, and loud street noises blast down the line.

  “Sasha? Where are you? Are you still at my place?”

  “No, I’m at home. What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  “The guy who attacked you at the museum. Casper. His name is Casper. He’s looking for you. Does he know where you live?” The words are jumbled, all running together. It’s hard to make out what he’s saying over the sounds of the city in the background—car horns blaring, sirens wailing. My limbs suddenly feel very heavy. I can’t seem to move, like my feet are cemented to the ground.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He could have found out, though. There are ways to do that, right?”

  “Yeah. There are. Don’t stay at the house. Leave. Go somewhere safe, somewhere with a lot of people. Text me and tell me where you go. I’m coming to you.” I can tell he’s trying to sound calm, but there’s a clear edge to his voice. He’s worried, and if Rooke is worried then I ought to be terrified.

  “Okay, I’m going. I’m leaving the house now.” I hang up, panicked. Casper. How did he find out the guy’s name? Is that where he went this morning? To go look for this guy? My stomach rolls. Good god, please don’t let him come here. I can’t take it. I can’t handle seeing him again. Not alone. God, not even with Rooke. It takes a monstrous force of will to make myself move. Once I convince my body to cooperate, I’m suddenly galvanized and running, hurtling down the stairs, charging toward the front door.

  Nearly there.

  Only a few more feet.

  I step on a piece of paper and skid, but I manage to keep my footing. My heart is a trip hammer in my chest, thundering, racing out of control. Glass crunches under my feet as I reach the front door, then I’m racing down the steps of the brownstone, my lungs prickling from the cold.

  I slip again, only this time it’s on ice. I stumble, scrambling to grab hold of something, to remain upright, but there’s nothing. I clutch at thin air, and then there are hands on me, clawing at me, grabbing at my jacket. I scream, alive with fear, alive with terror, trying to rip myself free of the person who has just caught me and stopped me from falling over. I can’t, though. He has me tight. He pulls me up, presses me tight against his body. A familiar smell washes over me, a smell that hits me like a wall of pain. It’s not stale coffee and cigarettes though. It’s Tom Ford aftershave. It’s seven years of marriage and a dead son. It’s deceit and disappointment and cheating. It’s my ex-husband.

  ******

  “What are you doing here, Andrew?”

  I still haven’t regained myself. I can’t slow down my erratic pulse; my heart seems determined to burst its way out of my chest any second now, and no amount of deep breathing appears to be helping. Andrew stands in front of me on the sidewalk, looking very much like himself, which is to say smug, arrogant and pathetic all at once.

  “Why do you think I came?” he says, frustration thick in his voice. “You didn’t respond to my letter, and then boom! I see you on national fucking news, the victim of a serious hostage situation. You didn’t think I’d be worried? You didn’t think I’d want to know that you were safe? Goddamn it, Sasha. I come back here and the house is wide open. I was about to call the cops when you come flying out of the place like a goddamn lunatic.”

  I press my fingers into my forehead, closing my eyes. “I don’t have time for this, Andrew.”

  He gives me a hurt, wounded look now. The same one he gave me the night he told me he had fallen in love with someone else and he was moving to Texas to start over. Like he was the kicked puppy, and I had no right feeling sorry for myself. “I know you might not believe it, Sasha, but I do still care about you. You were the mother of my son.”

  I choose to pretend he didn’t just say that. I pull my jacket tighter around my body, scanning up and down the street. There are no signs of the guy who attacked me at the museum. That means nothing, though. He could be hovering in a doorway somewhere, ready to come at me the moment I walk by. I am really unhappy about Andrew being here, but damn. Walking with him to find somewhere safe to wait for Rooke is better than walking there alone. I look at him, holding eye contact, probably the longest I’ve done so in three or four years. “Do you really want to make sure I’m all right?”

  He has the audacity to look stung. “Yes! Of course I do. Jesus, I’m not a monster.”

  He is a monster. He went and had another son a
nd called him Christopher; it doesn’t get any worse than that. I just raise my eyebrows. “I need to get to Ali’s place. Will you come with me?”

  Doubt flickers across his face. Ali tore him a new one when he left New York. I can imagine how unappealing the thought of seeing her again must be. “Seriously?” He shoves his hands into his pockets, letting his head tip back as he groans. “Fine. But I’m not going inside.”

  “I didn’t ask you to. Come on.”

  I don’t explain why I’m still limping a little as I attempt to speed walk away from the house. I don’t tell him who I’m texting as I message Rooke and give him Ali’s address. I tell him nothing. If I did tell him that we’re probably in danger right now, he’d undoubtedly bail and run away all over again. That’s just how he handles his shit.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ESCALATE

  ROOKE

  I get the address. It’s close to Sasha’s place, within walking distance, so it shouldn’t take her long to get there. Jake calls me as I’m burning across the city in a stolen Nissan Skyline. Not the most inconspicuous car I could have taken, but fuck. You do what you gotta do.

  I almost don’t pick up the phone, but some sixth sense tells me I ought to. I make a habit of never ignoring my gut. My friend sounds stressed the fuck out when I hit the green answer button. “Rooke? Where are you, man?”

  “Running errands.” About to fucking kill a man. “What’s up?”

  I swing the car through a left-hand turn, trying to force myself to slow down. If I get picked up now, I’m in serious shit. “Well. A guy showed up at the house. He was asking for you. I let him in, and then he proceeded to beat the shit out of me. He’s currently holding me at gunpoint. He says he’d like it if you came home now.”

  “What? What guy?” A rolodex of potential assholes spins wildly before my eyes. It could be one of many people, but now? Today? The timing is off. This has something to do with Casper. Has to. Jake makes a hawking spitting sound, then a pained grunt echoes down the phone.

  “He says…his name is Jericho.”

  What the fuck? Jericho? I only left him a couple of hours ago. Why the fuck would he be at my house, assaulting Jake? “Put him on the phone,” I snarl. “Put him on the phone right fucking now.”

  There’s a rustling sound, and then a familiar, heavily accented voice in my ear. “Cuervo. I am not a happy man. I had to drive over here. You know how much I hate to drive.”

  “Explain what’s happening. Explain why you’re at my house, laying hands on my friend.” I have never fucked with him before. I have never screwed with his shit. He’s made a big fucking mistake screwing with mine right now. I don’t care how crazy he is; I don’t care how many people he’s murdered. He is going to fucking bleed for this.

  “Oh, you know. It’s all a coincidence really. I love a good coincidence.”

  “Jericho—”

  “See, you came to the shop before, and I was busy, was I not? I was in the middle of something. I was working on a guy in the pit. He told me something very interesting after you left. He said he knew you. Said you spent time together in juvi over at the Goshen Secure Center. Imagine how upset I was when he said you were released early…for working with the cops.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve never worked with the cops. Never.”

  “Well, that’s unfortunate, Cuervo. This kid seems to think you did. He knew an awful lot about you.”

  I haven’t seen anyone from Goshen since I left the godforsaken place. I have no idea who the hell he’s talking about. It was a long time ago now. Five years, to be precise. I’ve made an effort to forget the thieves, racists and petty criminals I shared such a cramped, closed space with back then. People were in and out of there every other day. There’s no way anyone would specifically remember—

  My hands reflexively tighten on the Skyline’s steering wheel.

  Oh.

  No fucking way.

  God, you have got to be kidding me.

  I grind the name out through my clenched jaw, shaking my head. “Jared Viorelli. Jared fucking Viorelli.”

  “Ahh, so he was telling the truth. You do know him.”

  “Yeah, I know him all right. He’s a fucking liar, Jericho. I never worked with the cops. I refused to take a fucking shiv from him after he stabbed someone in the neck with it. The guards found it on him. He was transferred out and sent to Edgecomb.” Goshen was bad, but at least it was a juvi facility. Edgecomb, on the other hand, is not. It’s a full-blown correctional facility, and Jared’s stay there would have been un-fucking-pleasant to say the least. “Why the hell are you listening to that guy?”

  Jericho is silent for a moment. “People are often most truthful when they’re having their fingers cut off, my friend. It takes concentration to lie convincingly when you’re about to lose a thumb. Jared was very convincing.”

  “He’s a fucking psycho. If I was working for the cops, why wouldn’t they have shut you down by now? I’ve been running cars for you for years.”

  Jericho doesn’t say anything. He’s quiet for a long time. Far too long. “You’d better come home, hijo. I need to look you in the eye.”

  “Fuck you. I can’t come home. You know I can’t. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Then your friend dies. Just as a precaution, you understand.” He hangs up.

  I can’t let Jake die. No fucking way I can let anything happen to Sasha either, though. I message her, asking if she’s safe, asking her if she can sit tight for a couple of hours. I hate doing it. I hate trying to prioritize my friend and the woman I’m in love with, but it has to be done.

  Sasha: I’m okay. At Ali’s now. I wasn’t followed.

  Me: Are you sure?

  Sasha: Positive. I had someone keeping an eye out.

  I don’t know what that means, but I don’t have time to ask questions. It takes me thirty minutes to redirect and head back home. Traffic is a nightmare, but the Skyline’s aggressive and so am I. I bully my way through the city, not caring about the cops anymore. Let them try and pull me over. Just let them fucking try.

  There are no cars parked out the front of the house, but no surprises there. Jericho isn’t stupid. He must have parked his ride a few blocks over. I let myself into the house, ready to fucking destroy the man who’s harmed my friend, and I’m immediately met with four guns pointed directly at my head. Seems like people are really determined to use me as target practice today. Jake is sitting on the middle step of the staircase, head hanging loose. He looks up and his face is a mess. Nose broken. Black eye. The works. Jericho is leaning against the bannister, typing something on his phone. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to. Why would he when he has four of his guys, mean looking motherfuckers, pointing their weapons at me?

  “Nice place you have here, Cuervo.” He tap, tap, taps into his phone. Sniffs. Puts the phone into his pocket. “I’m glad you made it back here before I got bored and broke both this bitch’s hands.” I see Jake’s guitar laying shattered in pieces on the floor. Jericho must have figured out pretty quickly that he was a musician. Broken his instrument to fuck with him. Better that he did break the guitar than Jake’s hands, though. I would never have forgiven myself if he lost his ability to play.

  My hands are itching by my sides. I haven’t felt like this in a really, really long time. Not even when I kicked the shit out of that tweeker who was trying to steal my payday. I want to hurt the fucker. I want to damage him, tear him apart, fucking rip him limb from limb. The odds are stacked against me, though. I have to try and play this smart.

  “How many cars do you think I’ve brought you over the years, Jericho?” I ask quietly.

  A look of confusion flashes across Jake’s face. “Cars? You actually know these guys?” It shouldn’t really be a huge shock to him that I do. He knows about my checkered past. He knows that I’m hardly a model citizen. I get up and randomly vanish for hours in the middle of the night. I come home bloody, bruised and manic t
hree nights out of the goddamn week. He’s a little naïve, though. Clearly more than a little. I give him a warning look. A keep-your-fucking-mouth-shut look. Jericho shrugs, looking down at his hands. He’s changed his shirt from earlier, but his hands are still covered in blood. There’s a good chance a lot of it is Jake’s but I’m betting Jared Viorelli’s DNA is still caked around his fingernails, too.

  “I couldn’t count, hijo. It’s been a while. I don’t exactly keep a record of these things, y’know?”

  “Well I’ve been keeping track. It’s forty-three. Forty-three cars. How many do you think I’d need to hand over to you for the cops to make an arrest? Three? Five? Ten, maybe? It sure as fuck wouldn’t take forty-three. That asshole played you. And now you’re burning bridges. Now you’re making enemies. Now, I am seriously fucking pissed.”

  Jericho frowns, both of his eyebrows banking together—a strange look on his normally stoic, expressionless face. “I am enemies with everyone in this town, Crow. And all business relationships end sooner or later. It’s just a matter of when. And where. And how. I’ll admit…perhaps I overreacted a little in this instance.”

  “Overreacted? Let’s go ask Jared if you overreacted. I’m going to fucking kill that son of a bitch.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. The matter has already been taken care of.”

  I take a step forward, my pulse throbbing at my temples, and Jericho’s guys, guys who have opened up the garage for me countless times, all raise their guns an inch higher, bristling, baring their teeth.

  “Calm the fuck down,” I hiss. “I’m not insane. I assume you’ve destroyed every stick of furniture in the house? Did you find anything to prove Viorelli right?”