“You can do this.” His voice echoed hollowly in the cabin. Carefully, he pulled the car out into traffic. He wondered how his father and the others were doing. He had received a message from them saying that Autumn’s father no longer lived in Poughkeepsie but they had been able to discern clues about his possible new locale in Albany. The wait for news was intolerable, preventing him from being able to truly rest.
He arrived at the hospital, and the bright lights illuminating the smooth sidewalk stung his over-worked eyes. The interior of the lobby was only slightly less lit, and his squinting was misinterpreted by some of the other visitors, who gave him a wide berth.
Leaning heavily on the elevator wall during his trip upstairs, he hid his face in his massive palm. Part of him wished that it would all go away, that he would arrive at Autumn’s room to find her fit and ready to go home.
As he entered her room, he noted that she was not alone. Sal was there, as well as several of her friends from the parlor. A nurse was checking on Autumn’s vitals, and was giving the unusual crowd cautious glances.
“Hey, sugar,” said Autumn as he came in, sitting up a bit in her bed.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. He turned to address Sal and the others. “Thanks for coming by.”
“No problem, sir,” said Sal, shaking his hand with a surprisingly powerful grip. “We were just leaving anyway, weren’t we guys?”
The strange procession filtered out of the room, and Steve moved a bouquet of flowers and balloons out of his path to sit next to Autumn.
“You seem tired.”
“I’m fine, beautiful. I arranged for time off, so I’ll be able to sleep in tomorrow.”
“You’re not fine.” Her mouth straightened, and her eyes narrowed. “Sal says you went by the shop yesterday.”
Steve grinned and arched his brows twice in rapid succession. “I might have done that.”
“He says you got a tattoo.”
“That’s also a distinct possibility.”
“Damn it, Steve,” she said with more vigor than he had seen in days. “I told you not to get my fucking name—”
“It’s not your name.” He doffed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. He slowly slipped the sleeve off his left arm, revealing a white gauze bandage. Carefully peeling up the corner, he revealed the design to Autumn.
It was a large image, taking up most of his deltoid region. An oak leaf, its edges crisp and tinged with a brilliantly illustrated profusion of color. Had it not been on Steve’s arm, she felt as if it could have been falling gently from a tree. A slow smile spread on Autumn’s face, her eyes shining.
“It’s beautiful.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked, taking her hand in his.
“Not so bad today. Last night after you left, my legs were itching like you wouldn’t believe, and I threw up a couple of times this morning, but I’m all right now.”
Steve’s face was crossed by dark clouds, as he was torn between telling her about the crew trying to find her father or keeping her in the dark so she wouldn’t have to worry. He finally decided that she needed to know.
“Autumn, uh…I should probably tell you something.”
She squeezed his hand. “You can tell me anything.”
“This might not be easy to hear…”
“Oh my god.” Her mouth formed an O. “You slept with Eleanor.”
“What? No!”
“I was kidding, sugar. It’s been a week since I made fun of you; I didn’t want you to start getting soft.”
“Perish the thought,” he said, a bit irritated.
“Sorry. Go ahead and tell me what you wanted to.”
He took a deep breath, looked into her beautiful eyes, and blurted it out. “My dad and sister are trying to find your father.”
Autumn’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened, muscles playing along her jaw, but no sound came out. Then her brows descended low over her eyes and she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Steve, he didn’t want anything to do with me before. What makes you think he’s going to care that I’m dying?”
The casual mention of the worst case scenario made him flinch.
“He can donate a kidney, Autumn!”
“Why would he do that? He never cared about me before! You’re wasting your time. I can’t believe that you would do something like this without even talking to me first.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
“Yes, you should have! This is my life you’re fucking around with!”
“Oh, imagine that, someone you care about keeping a big secret. I wonder what that feels like.”
“So that’s it, then. You’ve got your revenge now, don’t you?”
Steve flinched a bit, feeling guilty but unable to let go of his anger. “Well, maybe I didn’t tell you for me, and not for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Autumn crossed her arms, indignant.
“To avoid this, for one thing. Besides, you’re stubborn.”
“I’m stubborn? Me? You’re the one who refuses to see reality.”
“And what reality is that?” Steve tilted his head to the side.
Autumn sighed, spread her hands out wide as if in exasperation. “I’m dying, Steve. You have to accept that, and all your stupid schemes can’t stop it.”
He reacted as if struck, causing her fierce glower to melt away. Her mouth went slack, and her eyes lost their fiery glint. Steve shook his head, feeling as if she were not only giving up on her own life, but on him as well.
“You know I can’t do that. Why is it a bad thing that I want to save you?”
“I never said it was—” Autumn’s voice abruptly cut off. Her head hit the pillow and her arms went slack, one limp hand brushing Steve’s arm.
“Autumn?” he said, slapping her hand rapidly. “Autumn!”
He slammed the nurse call button and shouted for help.
“I don’t think this is it,” said Phil, leaning forward to look past Crawley. The ramshackle structure was a single-story, rough wooden roadhouse. A row of shiny motorcycles stood leaning next to each other, streetlights reflecting off the chrome. Loud music blared from inside the establishment, which bore the correct numbers on its side in fading neon paint.
“It has the right address,” said Susan, her hair tickling Phil’s nose as she thrust her head right in his way. “Keep an open mind.”
“I’ll go see what’s up,” said Phil, opening up the door. Gratefully, he stretched his legs, blood flowing back into his starved limbs. He stiffly made his way to the entrance, pushing open the flimsy door and coughing in the thick smoke that rolled out into the night.
At first no one seemed to notice him. Large, burly men with hair bristling from every conceivable inch laughed boisterously as they drank, played darts, and howled at the football game on the old style television. Phil shuffled between the haphazardly arranged tables and chairs to the bar, getting the attention of a middle-aged bartender. She was dressed provocatively, her large bosom straining against a tight shirt with strategic cut-outs. Her shorts were not any more modest, and when she bent low to wipe up a spill he was treated to a flash of her lace undergarments.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but do you know a Jonathon Winters?”
“What?” The woman eyed him up and down with suspicion.
“Jonathon Winters.” Phil patiently tried not to stare at her cleavage. “He was listed as living at this address.”
The barmaid put her hands on her hips and cocked at eye at him. “Are you a cop?”
“What? No, I’m not a cop! I’m just looking for Jonathon Winters, have you seen—”
A big, meaty palm dropped onto Phil’s shoulder. He turned, staring up the hairy limb it was attached to, into the equally hirsute face of a man who seemed not the least bit amused.
“Is this guy hassling you, Shelly?”
“Just some creep. Get rid of him, will ya?”
“Time to
go!” The big man seized Phil’s arm in a painful grip.
“Now wait just a minute,” said Phil, stumbling along as the man dragged him through the bar.
“Take a hike, queer!” The burly man swung his torso forward and propelled Phil with great speed out the door. Phil hit the sidewalk and skidded a few feet. He stared down at his stinging hands, shocked to find them torn and bleeding.
“Hey!” he heard Crawley’s voice say sharply. She dove out of the van, leaving her door standing wide open and rushed to Phil’s side. Glaring up at the burly biker, she seemed as if she wanted to throttle the man. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“You’re with this clown, sweetie?” said the biker. He laughed, then glanced down at Phil. “Either you’ve got a foot long pecker, or she’s waaaaay slumming!”
“You son of a bitch,” said Phil, getting his feet under him. He was determined to knock the man’s head from his shoulders in his rage. He never got the chance as Deathslayer strode between them. The big biker blanched, staring up into the face of a man much larger than even himself.
“Is there a problem?” said Deathslayer, flexing his considerable muscle and bearing down on the biker.
“Not with you.” The man licked his lips nervously. “You’re our kind, buddy. Little buffer boy can’t come in. That’s the way it is.”
“No reason to throw him out on his ass,” said Deathslayer, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder as if he were an old friend. His gaze remained icy, however, as he continued to speak. “I’ll take it as a personal favor if you apologize to him.”
“Sure, man,” said the biker, smiling up at Deathslayer’s whiskered visage, “no problem!”
The biker turned his own whiskered visage on Phil, bleary eyes full of fear. “I’m sorry, man,” he said.
Phil nodded, too stunned to reply vocally. Steve’s father patted the man on the shoulder firmly and then the two of them went into the bar, Deathslayer winking at Phil.
About twenty minutes later, Phil was wincing as Crawley applied Band-Aids to the cuts on his palms. She was cajoling him about being a baby when the door to the bar swung open and Deathslayer came striding out. He pulled the van’s side door open, a defeated slump to his shoulders.
“No go?” said Susan.
“Afraid not,” said Deathslayer sadly. “The place used to belong to a guy named Jonathon Winters, but he sold it about five years ago. The new owners, well, they never got around to filing their paperwork with the state, it seems.”
“Great,” said Phil, “I got tossed out like garbage for nothing.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Susan. “This was the only lead we had!”
“Calm down,” said Deathslayer, “it’s not all bad news. One of the boys in there says he thinks Jonathon may have found work with a construction company in Buffalo.”
“Buffalo?” said Phil. “We’re running all over the damn state!”
“This is just one of those gnats on the asshole of life,” said Deathslayer.
Phil and Crawley were overcome with laughter at the colorful analogy.
“What?” said Deathslayer as Susan grinned ruefully.
Steve stood outside Autumn’s room, nervously chewing on his knuckle. The frantic sounds from within had died down, making him hopeful that Autumn was well, or at least as well as could be expected. He jumped when the door opened and a doctor exited, flanked by two nurses. Steve’s expectant, hollow-eyed gaze asked the question his mouth could not form.
“She’s stable. I don’t see any immediate cause for alarm.”
“What happened? She said she was feeling better, and then…”
The doctor sighed, rubbing his own tired eyes. “Mr. Borgia, when someone is as sick as your fiancée, sometimes the body just kind of gives up.”
“Gives up? Where did you get your medical degree? Guam? What kind of fucking stupid ass thing to say is that?”
“Mr. Borgia, please keep your voice down.”
“I bet if I had a platinum credit card, you wouldn’t be blowing me off like this.”
He entered the room, cautiously approaching her bed. Autumn turned her head weakly toward him and tried to smile. She struggled to speak, but the words kept catching in her parched throat.
“Shh,” he said, sitting down next to her in his customary spot and taking her clammy hand in his own. “Don’t try to talk. I’m here.”
Autumn’s eyes fluttered closed, though she had a serene smile on her face. Her hand weakly squeezed his own, and soon she had drifted off to sleep once more.
Steve did not budge an inch, even when his bladder urged and the skyscrapers were dotted with light. It was not until a nurse came and politely but firmly told him visiting hours were over that he finally rose from his vigil. Casting one last glance over his shoulder at her slumbering form, he wondered if it would be the last time he saw her alive.
Chapter 20
THE SUN BORE DOWN on them cheerfully, as if in mockery of their grim purpose, as the van sped along the highway. They had hastily left the motel rooms they’d rented the previous evening as soon as the sun creased the horizon, and their bleary faces reflected their lack of sleep. Crawley’s good mood did not diminish, however, and she seemed to enjoy the change of pace from her day-to-day schedule.
Phil did not. He was a creature of habit, and life on the road was fraught with inconveniences that he found unsettling. Using gas station bathrooms had lost its charm almost immediately, and using cold bottled water to rinse the greasy sweat from his hair was something he was not eager to repeat.
He glanced over at Crawley as she sang along with a song on the radio while he looked at the books on her iPad. Her taste in literature was surprising. There was a definite “damsel in distress” theme in the erotic novels she had, lots of fair maidens whisked away by devious pirates. She seemed more sexually aggressive to him, but clearly she wanted to be in a submissive role. That put his neophyte self in an awkward position. Did she really want him to act like that? Could he really be that way? He wondered if this was the test of his manhood that Rich had spoken of, then rolled his eyes at himself when he realized how incredibly ignorant the notion was.
Crawley pulled the van off the highway at the exit they had been waiting for. In short order they were driving through a sleepy village, arriving at the small headquarters for the construction company Jonathon Winters allegedly worked for.
“Jenoine Contracting,” said Phil, reading the sign on rickety posts outside the brick structure. “This is the place, but I don’t see anyone around.”
“Mostly, they just store their equipment here,” said Deathslayer. “There should be someone in the office, though.”
Deathslayer went around the side of the building to relieve himself in some tall weeds, though his head still poked above the verdant patch. Susan, Phil, and Crawley made their way inside the building, pushing through a glass door equipped with a buzzer. A stout man with a thick neck lumbered up to a long wooden counter and leaned on it. He plastered a cheery smile on his ruddy, sun-wizened face when he spoke.
“Hello there. How can I help you young folks?”
“Hello, sir,” said Phil, walking forward and offering his hand for a shake. The man seemed put off a bit by the gesture, but did briefly seize the offered limb in his own meaty paw. “We were wondering if you have a man named Jonathon Winters working for you?”
“Johnny?” The man’s eyes flickered in recognition. A second later they narrowed. “Now why do you want to talk to Johnny? What are you about?”
“Please, sir,” said Susan, “it’s a matter of life and death. We really need to speak to him.”
“Oh, give me a break,” said the man, his eyes narrowing even more until they were fierce flint like slits. “I know what this is about. You just want to hassle Johnny, like that crew from the SBC last week! You can go to hell, and take your opinions with you!”
“Uh,” said Phil, “crew from the SBC? Look, we don’t want to c
ause trouble—”
“Fine. If you don’t want to cause trouble, then leave.”
“What?” said Susan, striding forward. “Come on, dude! We’re not here to—”
“Get. Out. Do I have to call the police? Because the chief is just like Johnny, you know, and he won’t take kindly to you hassling him!”
“We’ll go,” said Phil, swallowing hard at the thought of dealing with police. “Sorry to trouble you, sir.”
“We’re not leaving,” said Susan with conviction.
Phil grabbed her by the bicep and yanked her toward the exit. “Yes, we are. Come on, Susie, there’s a better way.”
“What do you think he meant?” Crawley asked as soon as their feet were crunching on gravel. “I mean, about the chief of police being the same as Jonathon?”
“Maybe he’s a deadbeat dad too,” said Susan grimly. “Maybe these SBC goons are from the state or something…”
“I don’t know,” said Phil as they approached the van, “but I think I figured out a way to find Jonathon.”
“How so?” Susan asked, standing with one hand on the door handle.
“I handle the Jenoine Contractors payroll account. I have access to all the employee data, including their addresses.”
“Um, sweetie,” said Crawley with a touch of concern, “can’t you get in trouble for that?”
“Probably,” said Phil with a shrug, “but it’s not like I’m using their information to open up fake credit card accounts, or apply for a loan. It’s for a worthy cause.”
“I say do it,” said Susan. “We’re not getting anywhere with the Skipper.”
“Huh?” said Crawley and Phil in unison.
“Skipper,” said Susan, reddening in the cheeks. “You know, from Gilligan’s Island?”
She was met with blank stares.
“Oh, what a couple of nerds! If I’d have said he looked like some Han Skywalker bullshit you’d have laughed!”
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