by A. M. Arthur
Morrell reached into his jacket again, this time removing a slim business card. He approached slowly, the card held out between them. “This is my contact information. If you think of anything important that you’d like to share, please call me.”
Taz glanced at the card—narcotics division caught his eye—then tucked it into his palm. Drugs. No way. No fucking way was his dad involved in drugs. “Sure, okay.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Zachary.”
He let the detective out, then locked up behind him, his brain a whirling tornado of doubts and concerns and unanswered questions. Why was a narcotics detective asking personal questions about Peter? Was Peter’s sudden new job assignment a big fat coincidence? The detective hadn’t mentioned any knowledge of Peter going out of town. Maybe he didn’t know yet; maybe Taz should have told him.
Maybe Peter was totally innocent, and this detective was some old enemy trying to stir up trouble in Peter’s personal life.
The only thing Taz did know for sure was that he needed to talk to his dad. Except he couldn’t seem to move away from the front door. His limbs were frozen up tight, the business card crumpled in his hand. The door blurred out. Breathing got harder and harder.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, vaguely aware of the urgent need to pee. His rumbling belly. His aching feet. Mostly just the unfocused door and heavy weight in his body, keeping him still. Shackled by all of the fear rattling around inside him.
Something banged loudly outside. A car backfiring, maybe, but the noise kicked Taz out of his episode. He nearly fell over twice in his haste to get to the toilet before he pissed himself, and the relief was instantaneous. After he washed up and dressed in some real clothes, he finally noticed the time on his alarm clock—nine thirty.
So early and so much had already happened.
He collected his phone. No texts or calls from anyone. He double-checked the unknown calls from earlier against the business card. One of them belonged to Morrell.
At least he tried calling before landing on my doorstep.
Part of him wanted to call back the other unknown number to see who it was. But he hated cold-calling strangers. He needed to call Peter, but he had no idea what time his flight had been, or if he was still in transit. Leaving a voice mail was better than—His phone lit up with a call from Will.
Startled out of his internal debate, he answered before it got through the first complete ring. “Yes, Will? Hello?”
“Hey.” Will chuckled, but the sound was scraped and raw. “Did you have your phone in your hand, or something.”
“I did, yeah. Look, I’m so sorry about bailing today. I just... I got some weird news and I was really upset, and I didn’t want my bad mood to upset you.”
Will didn’t respond right away. “You could have put some of that in your text.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Are you doing okay? You sound weird.”
“I’m not sure how I am. I just... I know you don’t want to see me today, but I wanted to talk it out with you, which is why I called. Do you have time?”
Taz realized, in that moment, that he didn’t want to talk over the phone. He wanted Will to be there, so they could talk about their problems together, like normal people. Like real friends did. He could tell Will about his dad and the detective, and Will could share whatever had upset him that morning, because he knew Will’s problem was more than just Taz brushing him off last night.
“Come over,” Taz said. “Please? I know what I said last night, but I’d really like to see you this morning.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. I can order a pizza or something. We can let it get cold before we eat it.”
“Okay. I can’t with the pizza, though, because I have to be at the fund-raiser setup by eleven.”
“That’s cool.”
“Thanks, Taz.”
“Of course.” He might as well reach for it. “Does this mean you forgive me for being a dick via text?”
“Yes. You’ve been there to support me through every crisis I’ve had this week, from seeing that guy in the bar, to the case getting reassigned to Morrell. The least I can do is forgive you when you have a crisis.”
Taz’s brain stuttered to a halt as he realized why the detective’s name had sounded familiar. He vaguely said goodbye to Will, and that he’d see him soon. He kind of ended the call. The name kept racing through his brain.
Morrell. Narcotics.
What were the odds the same division had two detectives with the same last name? Detectives who’d been in contact with Will and Taz separately, within days of each other, about different matters. But even if it was the same detective, Morrell hadn’t asked Taz a single question about Will. Only about Peter.
Morrell was a coincidence, someone they happened to share. He had to be. No way this had anything to do with Will’s past. Will and Peter had met, and neither one seemed to recognize the other, so they weren’t connected. At all.
Nope.
“Then it would surprise you to hear Peter Callahan spent time in prison?”
Taz put his hands over his ears, as if that would shut off the sound of his own thoughts. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Right then, it didn’t matter. Didn’t matter about Morrell and it didn’t matter if Peter had been in prison. The only thing that mattered was making Will feel better about whatever was going on. He could do that for his friend.
Chapter Eight
Will never should have answered his phone that morning. He should have let the call go to voice mail, so he could delete the message without listening to it, and then he’d be none the wiser.
Except he’d gone back upstairs and answered the damned call, and as he walked the seven blocks to Taz’s apartment building, his comforting sweatshirt already soaked through, he couldn’t stop replaying the conversation.
“What do you want?” Will had said, not even bothering with a proper hello. He hated his mother’s lawyer simply for the fact that he’d represented her in court. He’d fought for her and he wasn’t a public defender, but Will had no idea who’d hired him. His mother obviously didn’t have the money.
“Good morning, William,” Banks had said. “Are you all right? You sound stressed.”
He’d have laughed out loud if Banks hadn’t actually sounded concerned. “I’m talking to you, of course I’m stressed. What do you want?”
“Marjorie called me a few minutes ago and informed me that Detective Morrell interviewed her last night about another alleged dealer she may or may not have done business with in the past.”
Will grunted. He hated lawyer doublespeak and words like alleged. “So? What did she tell them?”
“Now, you know I can’t violate my client’s confidentiality, but I was hoping you could tell me about the incident?”
Anger bubbled up inside him, and he resisted the very real urge to toss his phone against the wall. “And which incident would that be? The time this Christopher guy fed me heroin before raping me? Or the time I spotted him in a bar and nearly shit myself?”
“William, I understand this entire experience has been traumatic—”
“You fucking think so?” Will practically shouted the words, not caring that he was probably disturbing the other house residents. “Fuck you. I’m not telling you anything. I’m not a complete moron. You’re trying to get information that you could use to help that bitch get a reduced sentence in exchange for cooperating with the cops. No. She can fucking rot.”
“She’s your mother, William.”
“No, she’s not. She stopped being anything to me the first time she sold my ass for dope. Don’t call me again. Ever.”
Will hung up with shaking hands, then dumped the phone on his bed. He stalked the short length of his narrow room, going in circles, despe
rate to release the torrent of anger swirling inside him without knowing how. He never knew what to do with his anger, or his guilt, or his humiliation—three things he’d allowed to bottle up once until it nearly cost him his life.
But he hated talking about it. Any of it. Even with his shrink, he hated every single embarrassing moment of reliving the past, of working through how he felt about it. The self-hatred for never fighting back clung to him like a second skin, and he’d never rid himself of it. Everything he did to scrub it away—therapy, volunteering, sex—failed. It was still there.
And the very idea that Morrell had gone to his mother—no, not mother, Marjorie—for information to help locate Christopher no-last-name infuriated him. Will wanted Christopher caught and punished, but he also abhorred the idea that Marjorie could dangle what she knew about the guy over Morrell’s head in exchange for anything. He didn’t know exactly how all that legal shit worked, but didn’t people get released early for things like good behavior? Or whatever.
He didn’t want Marjorie back on the streets. He didn’t want Christopher, a known drug user, rapist and pedophile, on the streets, either.
“Fuck!” He shouted that to the ceiling, so tangled up inside that he didn’t know what else to do except scream.
Someone knocked on his door, then opened it. Jimmy stuck his head inside. “Will? You okay?”
“Not really.” Will collapsed onto his bed, as if his room had been a vacuum and once the seal was breached, all of his anger had fled, leaving him bone tired. He wanted it all to be done. But it never would be. “When will it stop, Jimmy?”
“When will what stop?” He came deeper into the room but left the door half-open.
“How am I supposed to get better and move on when the past keeps fucking with me?”
“Hate to say it, man, but that’s life. We all got pasts that keep fucking with us. Some worse than others.” Jimmy frowned, so sympathetic Will both loved and hated him. “You got more than most to work through, but you can get to the other side of it. The side where the good things start to matter more than the bad.”
“I thought I was getting there. I really did. And then I saw that guy, and now it feels like all the progress I made has gone to shit.”
Jimmy tilted his head. “Did you quit the Stanley Center?”
“What? Of course not.”
“Did you quit your therapy sessions with Dr. Taggert?”
“No.” What the hell with the stupid questions?
“Did you stop being friends with Taz?”
“No!” Will stood, hands balled into fists. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Showing you your progress hasn’t all gone to shit, like you seem to think. There will always be setbacks and challenges. That’s life. But Will, you got a fire in you to do better. To be better. Not everybody has that fire, so use it.”
Not everybody’s heart stopped for ninety seconds.
For some reason, he heard that in Taz’s voice instead of his own, even though he’d never told Taz about it.
And then he heard Dr. Taggert’s voice giving him the same advice he’d given over and over, for the last three years: “Don’t let the past control your present. Doing so gives your mother power over you again. Keep that power to yourself.”
He didn’t want to give her any power back. None. It was why he’d told Mr. Banks to fuck off with his questions. “You’re right,” Will said.
Jimmy chuckled. “Uh-huh. Once more, with feeling.”
“You’re right, okay?” He shook out his aching hands. “Nothing has actually changed. It’s in my head.”
“Hey, what’s in your head is still real. But it don’t change what’s on the outside. The life you built and the people who care about you. We’re all still here.”
Will stared at Jimmy as his words sank in. Jimmy and Gloria weren’t just supervising him, they actually cared. For the first time in his life, Will was surrounded by people who cared about his future and well-being, and he didn’t know what to do with that. He’d spent most of his life feeling alone, unwanted, and unnoticed.
His eyes prickled. “Thank you, Jimmy,” he said.
“I’ll remind you whenever you need to hear it. You ain’t alone, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Then how’s about breakfast? Natasha made some kind of baked egg thing. Think she called it a strata? Smelled good last time I was downstairs.”
“Breakfast sounds good.” Will scrubbed a hand through his tangled hair. “I’ll be down in a few, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
After Jimmy left, Will stared at his phone for a while. He wanted to call Taz, but Taz had made it clear last night that he wanted a time-out. So he left it alone, stopped at the bathroom to clean up a bit, then went downstairs to eat breakfast.
Everyone was at the table, even Sydney. He looked more stable than the last time Will had really interacted with him, which was some time last week. Sydney was bipolar and had paranoid schizophrenia, and when he decided he wasn’t taking one of his meds, he could be...scary. But today he was eating his plate of food with slow, dazed bites. He even smiled at Will when Will sat across the table from him.
“Does Will know about the microwave?” Sydney asked.
Will stopped studying the glop of baked eggs and...stuff on his plate to stare at Sydney. “What about it? Did it break?”
Gloria cleared her throat. “Syd has asked that we refrain from using it today.”
“It’ll send signals,” Sydney said, so perfectly serious that Will almost believed him. “If we turn it on, it’ll send signals.”
Last time the tap water was poisoned; now the microwave was possessed. “Okay, well, I don’t have any plans to use it today,” Will said.
Sydney smiled, then shoveled eggs into his mouth. Down the table, Cherie rolled her eyes. They’d all lived with Sydney long enough to tolerate his episodes. Saved the screaming fits if they didn’t go along with it. Gloria had probably already called his psychiatrist.
The breakfast strata was better than Will expected, so he ate the small portion that he’d accepted. It had bacon and bread and potatoes and cheese, so it was kind of heavy for him, and his stomach felt funny afterward. But he didn’t hurt Natasha’s feelings by complaining, so he waited until it was time to clean up, then asked Jimmy for some antacids.
While he was busy wiping down the dining table, Donata sidled up to him with a smirk on her face that he didn’t like. He didn’t know her deal, other than she had a lot of old scars on her forearms, talked too loud and always smelled like vanilla. She rarely paid him any real attention, though, preferring to focus her snarky attacks on the women in the house, so he side eyed her while he cleaned.
“You gay or somethin’?” Donata asked out of the blue.
Will straightened, the dishrag in his hand, and glared across the table at her. “Yeah. So?”
“Jus’ askin’ is all. Cherie said a boy came to see you the other day. Said he was real cute, too. And tall.”
“Cherie gossips too much.”
“So’s he your boyfriend?”
I wish. “No, we’re friends.”
“Oh.” She almost sounded disappointed—which was really weird. “How come?”
“It’s complicated, and it’s not any of your business.”
“Fine.” That smirk came back. “Just tryin’ to make friends, jeez. Don’t be so uptight about it, butt boy.”
His mouth fell open, but Donata sauntered off before he could respond. He didn’t know what he’d have said, anyway, other than fuck off. Which she’d done on her own, so whatever.
I do not understand women. At all.
After that bizarre exchange, he’d retreated to his room to surf the web, watching random cat videos, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t
manage to concentrate on any particular thing. His thoughts had kept swirling around to Marjorie, Morrell and getting to see Taz again. Soon. So he’d finally given in and made the call, and now he was nearly to Taz’s building.
He wanted to talk to Taz about his morning, sure, but more than that, he wanted to cement Jimmy’s words into his brain. He wanted to know for certain Taz still wanted to be his friend, was still there for him. The real test of Taz’s friendship would be how he reacted once he learned the full truth about Will’s abuse, but Will wasn’t ready to toss all that onto the table. Not yet. Not when he had to be in his right mind for the setup later today.
If the cops found Christopher, it would all come out in the open anyway, but until Will was forced to shed light on that side of his past, he wasn’t going to share it with Taz.
Taz opened his apartment door with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked like someone getting over the flu, and it made Will feel guilty for insisting they get together.
“Hey there,” Taz said. “Come in.”
Will did, immediately shedding the bulky sweatshirt, allowing the air-conditioning to cool his overheated skin. “Thanks for letting me come over. I know I don’t have a whole lot of time.”
“It’s okay. I’m really glad to see you.” Taz looked like it was taking all of his energy not to reach out and hug Will. “My dad went out of town suddenly.”
“He did? Why?”
“Work. He mostly freelances, but a company he does a bunch of work for wants him to go to California and fix their staff out there. Or something. But he’s gone for a couple of months.”
“Months?” Will stared at Taz’s distressed face, unsure how to feel. Yeah, work happened, but Peter was Taz’s lifeline to the outside world. How could he pick up and leave? “So that’s it? He’s gone already?”
“Flew out this morning. He called me last night. It’s why I texted out of the fund-raiser today. I felt really shitty. Nervous and scared but also determined. I want to show him that I can get along without his help.”