by Draker, Paul
Hospital staff made way for all three of us as we passed them. The attention of the two paramedics stayed focused on the patient on the gurney they were navigating through the corridor ahead. They never looked back. I followed them through a couple turns, keeping my head lowered as I scanned each corridor intersection we passed from beneath the bill of my cap.
Spotting what I needed, I ducked down a side corridor and listened as the bustle of my fellow paramedics receded into the distance. Then I slipped into the single-sink bathroom, locked the door behind me, and gently lowered the sixty-pound trauma bag to the tile floor.
Ignoring the rolls of gauze, compresses, ice packs, syringes, and scissors bulging from its exterior pockets, I unzipped the spacious main compartment and helped Amy climb out.
“Don’t open this door for anyone else,” I said, and she nodded. I stepped back into the hall and waited until I heard Amy twist the lock behind me. Then I hurried away.
Standing in the busy hospital cafeteria line, I leaned past a tired-looking surgeon in scrubs to grab a yogurt, but I overbalanced. Brushing against him as I steadied myself, I mumbled an apology, then crossed to the other side, yogurt in hand, to where the hot entrees were. Checking what was being served, I shook my head, put the yogurt down, and left.
The door to the staff changing room around the corner was locked. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out the badge I had plucked off the tired doctor in the cafeteria, held it up to the magnetic reader to disengage the lock, and pushed inside. I stripped off the EMT jacket, turned it inside out to hide the bright yellow, and jammed it deep into a cart of dirty linen. Then I found a set of pale blue scrubs, tops and bottoms, and pulled those on. A white surgical mask over my nose and mouth completed the ensemble.
The rolling linen hamper was a triangular lidded frame of stainless steel tubing on wheels, supporting a large drawstring bag. I dumped the hamper’s contents and tossed in a bunch of clean scrubs. Then I pushed it out the door.
Seven minutes later and five stories up, I rolled the now much heavier hamper through Trauma ICU. Passing the nurses station, I checked the dry-erase whiteboard on the wall, noting the room number next to my wife’s name. I continued down the corridor, coughing loudly and continuously, trying to make the hacking coughs sound as wet and phlegmy as I could.
Staff turned their heads away instinctively, averting their eyes as I went by.
The guard stationed halfway down the hall stepped back a pace as I rolled the cart past him with an especially explosive cough. I opened the door to Jen’s hospital room, pushed the cart inside, and closed the door.
Monitors and carts surrounded the Stryker bed where my ex-wife lay. Three IV stands with electronic pumps supported a half-dozen dangling bags of clear fluid. Both Jen’s arms were resting on top of the covers. A thick bundle of IV lines disappeared under the swaths of medical tape that wrapped her left forearm from wrist to elbow. Swollen fingertips projected from the gauze that wrapped her hand. Even beneath the tape I could see the purple blotches of bruising on her arms.
Sorrow blanketed my chest and made my eyes sting.
Blond curls stuck out from the layers of bloodstained gauze that wrapped her head. An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth. Her face was bruised, too—the orbits of her closed eyes blackened, her cheekbone swollen on one side. A thick gauze pad wrapped her chest, which rose and fell in shallow breaths.
According to the notation on the whiteboard above the nurse’s station, Jen had come out of surgery two hours ago. They had repaired a lung puncture and taken out her ruptured spleen.
Seeing what I had done to my wife stabbed me through the heart. I wanted to take her place somehow, to change things so that I was the one hurt instead of her, and she was all right again. But I couldn’t undo this, no matter how badly I wanted to.
I yanked my surgical mask down to hang around my neck, then raised the lid of the rolling linen hamper and lifted Amy out. She joined me at the side of the bed, her eyes brimming.
I took my ex-wife’s uninjured hand in mine.
“Jen,” I whispered. “Amy’s here.”
Jen’s eyes opened, focused on me for a moment. Then they shifted to her daughter beside me and widened. She shook her fingers out of mine and groped for Amy’s hand. Clutching it with desperate force, she tried to speak through the oxygen mask. Then she closed her eyes, and the bed shook as silent tears of relief streamed down her face.
Amy was crying too. “Daddy came and got me,” she said. “Just like I knew he would. I wasn’t scared, Mom. I wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Jen. We can’t stay,” I whispered. “I knew you needed to see with your own eyes that Amy was okay. But now I’ve got to hide her somewhere safe.”
Jen’s eyes snapped open to stare at me, and the bleakness in them shredded my gut. Whatever Frankenstein had showed her had convinced her that Amy was dead. Or worse. It had hurt Jen far worse than the car accident had.
And now I was telling her it wasn’t over yet.
“Forgive me,” I gasped, dropping to my knees at her bedside. I curled over until my forehead pressed against the edge of the mattress. I couldn’t look the woman I loved in the face anymore.
I was terrified I would see that she hated me.
“I’m so, so sorry, Jen,” I choked out. “Forgive me, and I swear I’ll go away and never come back. Because what happened to you… what happened to Amy… this is all my fault. All of it.”
My chest tightened and I couldn’t breathe any more, couldn’t look at my family. All I could do was try not to shatter.
Jen’s body shifted a little, and I heard a slight sucking noise as she pulled the oxygen mask away from her face. Then her fingers caressed my scalp. She gently stroked the side of my cheek.
“Of course it’s your fault, Trevor,” she whispered. “It always was.”
“I’m going to take care of this,” I said. “I’m going to punish the ones responsible. They’ll never endanger you or Amy or anyone else again.”
“I thought I had lost her,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you, too. Don’t do this. There are lines you shouldn’t cross. Once you do, there is no turning back.”
Jen’s fingers slid from my cheek as I stood.
“They took our daughter,” I said. “They hurt the people I love. There are no lines. Not anymore.”
CHAPTER 88
“He knows everybody we know,” Amy said. “He got the address books off your and Jen’s phones, Dad. Call and text histories, too.” She hesitated. “I think he even friended me on Facebook.”
“Motherf—” my fists tightened on the wheel, and I took a deep breath. “When?” I asked.
“About a week ago,” she said.
A week ago was when I first hooked up the Trevornet. I had given Frankenstein Internet access and he had immediately used it to stalk my daughter.
“What did he want?” I asked.
“She,” Amy said. “Francesca. She was tweeting stuff about American Girl dolls—she knew lots of things about them nobody else does. She said her dad works at the factory, and she gave me a coupon code for Meatloaf, because she already had a Meatloaf—”
“There’s an American Girl doll called Meatloaf?” I asked. “What is she, morbidly obese?”
Amy rolled her eyes. Then she laughed at my joke, and my heart melted with relief.
Steering the Camry, I turned my head to check the mirrors for anyone following—and to keep my daughter from seeing what was happening on my face. This was the first smile I had seen from Amy since I found her tied up in Hensley’s trailer.
It told me our baby was going to be okay.
“Meatloaf’s a pet bulldog, not a girl,” she said, still giggling. “You’re being silly on purpose.”
I had borrowed our nondescript car around the corner from the hospital, in the parking lot outside Suzy’s Adult Superstore. On our way through the hospital’s parking structure, we had passed plenty of cars we could have taken. But
it would have been wrong to inconvenience someone visiting a sick or injured relative. They had enough problems to deal with already.
Amy was silent as we crossed the bridge over the Truckee River.
“Daddy...?” she asked. The guilt in her voice made me slow the Camry and pull over on the side of the road. I climbed over the seat back to hug her, and she started bawling.
“Sh-h-h,” I said. “Everything’s fine now.”
“You told Jen it was all your fault,” she sobbed. “But it isn’t, Daddy. It’s mine. Francesca told me she was having problems in school and seeing a psychiatrist, too. That story about the yard duty killing people? It was her idea, not mine. I’m sorry. I was so stupid. I caused so many problems, and now Jen’s in the hospital because of me.”
“You couldn’t know what would happen,” I said. “But I should have. Now I need your help to fix my mistake, Amy. Where will you be safe?”
“He can lie to anyone, Daddy.” She dried her tears on my shirt, and pulled away, her face thoughtful. “He can call all the day cares and shelters at the same time to find me. Even a police station won’t work. The man who brought the phone onto the plane so I could talk to you while he took me away? He was a policeman.”
“Think, Amy,” I said. “There’s got to be someone around here you’ll be safe with for a couple days. Someone who Frankenstein would never guess I might leave you with.”
“But everyone you know was in your phone,” she said. “Or he knows about them because he heard you talking to them. Could he see out of the phone’s camera?”
I nodded. “Probably.”
“You don’t know even one single person around here whose information wasn’t on your phone?” she asked. “A person Frankenstein would never guess that you might leave me with?”
I thought about her question for a minute. Then I closed my eyes and hugged my daughter tight.
“You’re way smarter than your dad, Ames. There is someone like that. But first, there’s another mistake I made, which I need to fix.”
• • •
Holding the driver’s license to check the address again, I looked at the house as we drove by. Raymond Cullinan’s shiny, spotless blue pickup truck was in his driveway, the Dora and Hello Kitty stickers still visible on its window. A two-wheeled minitrailer was hitched behind his truck, holding a rolled-up bouncy house. The signage on the trailer advertised “Ray’s Astro Entertainment.”
Several more party rentals—deflated jumpy houses and waterslides—were lined up alongside Ray’s garage, rolled up like giant, colorful burritos. Over the side fence, I could see the peaked green roof of a jumpy house that he had inflated and left permanently in his backyard. “Princess Kelly’s Castle” was silk-screened across the top.
I grinned. Kelly must be his daughter. Despite all his tough talk and steroid-fueled size, Tank-Top Ray was a big teddy bear.
I parked fifty yards away, around the corner and out of sight. Then I handed Ray’s driver’s license to Amy. “You didn’t listen to your mother when she asked you to stay off Facebook,” I said. “Make sure you follow my instructions to the letter.”
She nodded.
“I love you and your mother very much, Amy.” I kissed her nose. “Never forget that.”
Closing the door, I walked away before I lost it.
I rounded the corner into Ray’s driveway and stopped next to his pickup. Taking a deep breath, I slapped his hood open-handed, making a resounding bang.
Curtains twitched behind the house’s windows.
“Get out here, Ray,” I yelled. “I want to give you your birthday present.”
The screen door banged open and Ray burst out into the yard, baseball bat in hand. His muscles bulged beneath his tank top—a green one this time. He looked scared, but furious, too.
“What do you want, you little motherfucker?” He pointed at the purple and black bruises coloring his face. “Doing this to me wasn’t enough for you?”
“I didn’t do that to you,” I said. “A bar top did. Seriously, Ray, take a look at the two of us”—I glanced at the bat in his hand—“and tell me you really need that.”
He tossed the bat aside and clenched his fists. “Get out of here right now, before I fuck you up so bad that you can’t even crawl away.”
I raised my guard and stepped closer.
“I didn’t fight fair last time,” I said. “I sucker-punched you. Then I slapped you around like a punk bitch, right in front of”—I grinned—“everybody, Ray. They all saw, but the cops wouldn’t do anything about it. Evan Peterson even laughed about it with me.”
I watched his face darken further and chuckled. “Guess they don’t like you very much. Must be some history there. But I bet it means you won’t call them, no matter what I do to you right now.”
“Are you crazy?” he shouted. “My family’s inside.”
“Your little girl is the reason I’m here,” I said, and that was all it took.
Ray snarled and swung on me like the undisciplined bar brawler he was. His arm came around in a huge, looping blow, aimed at my head—comically easy to step under and circle behind him, driving vicious jabs into both kidneys to drop him. But I didn’t do that. Instead, I brought my arms up in a half-speed, futile block and stepped into his punch.
I caught it with my face.
It sent me down on one knee, darkened my vision for a moment. Shaking my head, I pushed myself back up. My cheek was numb, but I could feel it swelling already. I laughed.
“Would your daughter like to have a playdate?” I asked, raising my fists.
He nailed me on the other side this time. I staggered but didn’t fall.
Ray was squeamish. If he really had wanted to finish me, he should have hit me in the same place again.
I would have.
I stumbled toward him, throwing a weak cross and missing. He caught me in the nose this time. I felt the crunch of bone as it broke.
“What is wrong with you?” His breath sobbed in and out. But I was pleased to see he kept his body between me and the house, protecting his family.
I lunged for him and he hit me again, across the mouth, sending me onto to the ground.
“Stop it, Ray!” A woman’s voice shouted from the doorway. “This time they’ll put you away for sure. You won’t get to watch your daughter grow up. Get away from him right now, before you kill him.”
Blinking, lying in the dirt with one swollen eye nearly closed, I turned my head toward the doorway. I watched Ray’s wife hurry across the yard, wrap her arms around him from behind, and drag him away.
They stopped together on their doorstep. She kept a restraining hand on his shoulder while their heads bent together in urgent conversation that I couldn’t hear.
Looking her over, I liked what I saw—she carried herself with the same confidence and inner strength that Jen did. I had figured Ray’s wife would be strong. Someone would have to be, to housebreak a guy like Ray—or like me.
Leaving her husband at the door, she walked over to where I lay flat on my back, spitting bubbles of blood. Frowning, she stared down at me.
“What do you want from us?” she asked.
“I’m really sorry for what I did to him two weeks ago,” I said. “I know I can’t make up for that. But I need your help.”
“Go inside, Ray,” she called over her shoulder. “Bring some ice.”
“My little girl’s name is Amy,” I said. “She’s seven years old, and she’s around the corner, waiting in the car. I can’t let her see her father this way.”
“You’re a fucking piece of work,” she said. “You knew Ray couldn’t have this on his record. He’s this close to going away already.”
My whole face throbbed and hurt, filling with pressure as if I had a baseball glove stitched under my skin. Clearing my throat, I rolled onto my side and got up. Blood poured from my nose into the dirt.
“I know Ray’s a good father,” I said. “I won’t say anything to anyone. But my
wife’s in the hospital, and I’m in bad trouble. My daughter needs a place to stay.”
“You want us to take care of your little girl?” she asked. “For how long?”
“Just a few days,” I said. “Until her mother is well enough to pick her up.”
• • •
Five minutes later, I sat in the bedroom holding my unused icepack in one hand, waiting out of sight while Ray’s wife, Margot, led my daughter through the house and out into the backyard. I stepped out into the hallway, hanging back to watch through the back door’s mosquito screen as Margot introduced Amy to her 3-year old daughter Kelly. I stayed in the shadowy hallway until Margot came back inside. Glancing at me as she passed, she went out in the driveway and had another stern conversation with Ray there, just outside of my earshot. I could see them through the open front door.
Ray threw a contemptuous glance in my direction, then crossed the yard to his truck and hopped in. Head high, he started the engine and pulled away.
Margot closed the front door and walked over to join me.
“I sent Ray to buy her a few clothes,” she said. “He’s not a bad person, you know. But men like Ray will always be boys. What you did out there…”
“Don’t tell him.”
“For the last two weeks, he’s been almost impossible to live with—moping around here, depressed, not sleeping, not eating. His friends call and he won’t go out with them.” She laid a hand on my arm. “I know you had your own reasons, and I can’t believe I’m saying this now, but… thank you.”
I nodded, returning my gaze to the back door, to watch Amy through the mesh. She was kneeling next to Kelly, sliding her sleeve up to show the younger girl her forearm. Kelly leaned forward eagerly, pointing at one of Amy’s Silly Bandz.
My daughter smiled, slid the charm bracelet off her wrist, and handed it to Kelly.
“Kelly’s three now?” I asked. “She needs a brother or sister, Margot. It would be good for Ray, too.”