Fix It for Us (24 page)

It is impossible to escape Randall’s grasp
, even though I twist as much as I can to endeavor to do so.  It’s futile.

“LET HER GO!”  It’s Davis.
  His voice is ferocious.  I can hear him, but I can’t see him.   How did he find me?  Painfully, moving my head side to side to try and look around Randall, I localize that Davis is behind us when he bellows, “NOW!”

Randall spins us both around
in a single, rapid move.  My arm flings out away from my body and I shriek. There is no stopping the cries now.  I am engulfed in agonizing pain, fear and anger.  My eyes meet Davis’.  His face is stoic.  Emotions masked, but I know – He. Is. LIVID.

Anger in his voice, Davis asks me, “Are you okay?”  I don’t hear any concern, only the anger.

“My… my arm,” is all I get out between sobs.

Davis’s looks away from me and focuses his fury on Randall. “Did you not hear me?  Let
. Her. Go!”

“Why, w
e were just leaving.  Right, Bizzy baby?” Randall kisses me on the temple and replies, unaffected by Davis’ tone.  He’s taunting Davis.  I shake my head no and can see Davis rankle at Randall’s words.

Looking down slightly, I notice Davis is holding something in his right hand, behind his back down by his thigh
, and then I see it.  Davis slowly brings up his right hand and points it at Randall and me, but it’s not just his hand, it’s a gun.  Not a shiny cowboy-type gun, but a heavy looking squared-off flat black handgun, like a police officer would carry.  What is Davis doing with a gun?  He hates guns.  I didn’t know he had a gun.

I said, “LET HER GO.  I won’t tell you again.”  I have seen Davis angry before, but never like this.  Never so intense and scary.  He is scaring
me
. 

Davis must be scaring Randall, too.  I can feel Randall’s heart rate increase and a drop of his sweat falls on my shoulder.
  Sirens begin to be audible and seem to be moving closer.  Randall gulps in my ear and says to Davis, “Okay, man, relax, you can have the bitch… I just want the money.”

“You can have the money
and, if you hurry, a head start,” Davis tells him.  “Now, walk over here and give her to me,” Davis directs.

Randall pushes me forward, his hand stil
l encircling my rag doll arm, his other hand holding the crossbody bag with the money, having dropped the bat to take it from me earlier.   Davis lowers the gun ever so slightly. Randall roughly shoves me toward Davis, who catches me against his chest, wrapping his left arm around me.  Davis whispers, “Got you, baby.”

POP!
POP!  Loud gunshots ring out and I twist my head violently around to see blood running from the side of Randall’s neck, near his earlobe.  He screams, “FUCK!!” 

A swash of black appears in my peripheral vision.
 Randall smashes the gun, which must have fired while he was wrestling it from Davis’ hand, into the side of Davis’ head
.
I collapse, with Davis, to the ground, trying and failing with my damaged arm to soften the impact.  As we hit, there is a loud crack and an even more excruciating pain rips through my shoulder and neck.  I’m pinned down.  Davis is lying on top of my uninjured arm, his head on my chest. His green eyes are open, but glassy and without expression. He is not moving.  Black and blue is forming on his swelling temple and face.  One area looks like hamburger and there is blood everywhere, but I can’t make out where it has come from. 

             
With a earsplitting howl, I plead with Davis, “Nooo …wake up, baby, please, please, wake up.”  I can’t move.  I can’t tell if Davis is breathing.  I push the thought that he could be…dead…out of my reality.

             
Randall stands over us, Davis’ gun pointed at me.  I can now see that Randall’s left earlobe is dangling below the rest of his ear, blood dripping off it, down his neck and onto Davis.

             
Randall rages, “He shot my fucking
ear
off.”

             
The sirens are getting louder, closer.

             
Randall pins me with a glare and growls, “Get up, Biz.  Get up, you’re coming with me.”

             
I don’t even recognize the next voice I hear. “NO!” I roar, “I am NOT fucking coming with you, Randall.  You have two choices.  Shoot me.  Shoot me right here.  Right now. OR.  Run… You hear those sirens, you sick bastard?  They
were
coming for Neil, but they’ll get
you
…so, shoot me now or RUN THE FUCK away!  I’m good with either choice.”  I have never spoken to anyone ever with such hate and honesty.  And I’ve never meant anything more in my life.

             
Randall backs up and looks away from us to consider the sirens. “We aren’t done, Bizzy.  I’ll have you one day.”  Randall points at me with the gun and then he runs.  I should have guessed he would.  Slimy piece of shit.

             
I squirm under Davis’ weight.  I
think
he is breathing.  God, I hope he is breathing and I’m not just wishing it.  The sirens are really loud now.  Exhausted, I place my head on the ground gingerly and look up to see the red and blue lights from the police cars dancing on the underside of the bridge above us.  Turning my head away from Davis, I vomit spectacularly next to myself.  I can see Neil lying motionless a few feet away.  My vision tunnels and…

***

              “One condition.”  Meredith Brandon howls at me upon storming into the ER treatment room in which I have been placed. “We gave you that money under one condition… that Davis not be hurt… ” She pauses and hold her hand to her chest.  There is a moment when I think she will sob, but it passes.  Mrs. Brandon waves her hand in the air as if to dismiss the sadness and then continues in a low, threatening voice, “Biz, what were you thinking?  No, I don’t think I need to know.  I don’t
want
to know what you were doing with that man, Neil Ireland.  The more I find out the sicker I feel.  You didn’t abide by the condition.  You know what that means, right?”

I do.  I know exactly what it means and I have been dreading this conversat
ion ever since Davis fell to the ground.

“Mere – Mrs. Brandon, I can explain.  Please don’t
.  Please don’t make me.” I plead

“Give me the engagement ring, Biz”

I am sobbing relentlessly.  I knew the risk and I took it.  For Davis.  To protect him and my family, his family from embarrassment.  Now, I have to pay the price.  I am unable to take my engagement ring off myself, because my right arm is in a sling from a bad shoulder dislocation and I have a brace stabilizing my broken collarbone. There is an IV in my left hand, delivering pain medication.  This is all so surreal.  I hold my left hand up to Mrs. Brandon and she takes my engagement ring.

As she yanks it off, through
sobs, I ask, “How is he? How’s Davis?”

Mrs. Brandon replies, her voice bitter, “I shouldn’t even tell you.”  She grinds her teeth audibly. “He is alive, no thanks to you.  He just got out of surgery and they are keeping him heavily sedated for now.  They evacuated blood from his skull to release the pressure.  Subdural hematoma. 
Repaired something in his ear.  Cleaned up and sutured his face.  His face, Biz! We’ll know more later, but he’s going to be okay.”  She gulps out the last few words between tearless sobs.  Her anger takes hold again and she stiffly informs me, “We will give him the ring and tell him you’ve broken the engagement when he’s well enough to hear it.  You, Biz, have a day or two to come up with a good reason for the break-up.  One he will believe.  I’m sure Davis will insist on seeing you when he wakes up.  Until then, STAY AWAY from my son.”

“No, please don’t do this, no, no, no, Mrs. Brandon, no.” I would beg on my knees if I could get off this gurney.

Mrs. Brandon’s next words drip with malice, “Stop it, Biz.  Begging is pathetic.  Now, I need you to tell me you will honor your promise.” 

Biting my tongue, an expression I’ve heard, but never done,
I wince and shake my head no, then stop myself and say, “I…I will.”

Without another word, Meredith Brandon
turns on her heel and marches out of the sliding door of the treatment room, sliding it back into place hard.

After she leaves, I cry out in anguish.  It reverberates off the walls of the too quiet room.  She’s right.  I broke
the condition.  The condition was simple – If I used that money for something that hurt Davis at all, I would remove myself from his life.  I thought I was going to save him from pain.  I was trying to avoid hurting him and look what I did. Caused him real, physical injury.  He could have been killed because of me and my poor decision making.  I deserve this outcome.  I can’t stop the noises that are emanating from my mouth.  Loud, pitiful moans and sobs.  Like a wounded animal in a trap.  A trap I set for myself.

A nurse rushes in, “Ms. Connelly, are you in pain?” She begins to adjust
the syringes of medication infusing into my IV.

“YES!” I howl.

Yes, but not physical pain.

I answer, “Yes, more than you know.”

I only calm when the pain medicine takes effect.

***

“Ms. Connelly? 
Are you awake?” It’s a male voice I don’t recognize.

             
I am awake.  I’m just pretending to be asleep, because I don’t want to talk to anyone.  What can I say?  I open my eyes a slit and stare at the privacy curtain next to the gurney.  I half-heartedly try to make sense of the swirl of colors, what pattern they are forming.  Anything to distract me from what I’m avoiding.  Anything to stop the endless reel playing in my head of what happened last night in the skatepark.  Anything to try to stop the worry about Davis.

             
My extremely kind and compassionate nurse, I can’t seem to retain her name, tells the male voice, “Detective, Ms. Connelly has been through a lot.  She has a non-displaced clavicle fracture and a dislocated shoulder.  The doctors have everything back in place, but she’s in quite a bit of pain and on lots of medication.  I don’t know if now is the right time to ask questions.”

             
The male voice responds gently, “I understand, Carrie.”  Either he knows my nurse or he’s reading her nametag.

             
There are footsteps and then a rugged looking man in his late 30s is in front of me, blocking my oh-so-important view of the curtain.  He has short, cropped red hair, more red than mine, very fair skin and freckles across his nose.  He smiles at me with his eyes only, but I can tell he smiles often by the crinkles around them.  The rest of his face appears serious, concerned.  I can’t make out what he is thinking.  Then again, the medicine is making me sort of blurry.  He’s wearing a blue button down shirt, charcoal gray blazer and jeans.  He raises a hand and flashes his badge.

             
“Hello, Ms. Connelly, I’m Detective Donovan Garrett, STL Metro Police.  I’d like to talk to you about what happened last night, if that’s okay,” the face to which the voice belongs says.

             
I ask, voice slurred,  “Am I in trouble?  Am I under arrest?”

             
Detective Garrett answers my questions evenly, “Ms. Connelly, you and Mr. Brandon were found injured, alongside Mr. Ireland, a suspect on drug-facilitated sexual assault and pornography charges.  There are three victims and no obvious perpetrator, as of now.  You are the only victim that is conscious.  You’re not under arrest and you don’t have to talk now.  I just would like to get some more information about what occurred under that bridge.”

             
I probably should have a lawyer, but I can’t afford one.  I just lost my entire savings to a sleazy, dirty pornographer and in all likelihood, rapist, and not the one I thought I’d lose it to.  I start at the beginning and tell Detective Garrett everything.  Meeting Neil, being handed off to Randall, my suspicions about being sexually assaulted, Dr. Matt’s theories about possibly being drugged… Neil’s arrest, his blackmail call to me after getting bail, procuring the money, and then all the events during the disastrous meeting under the bridge in the skatepark.  I assure the detective that I knew nothing about Neil’s plan to jump bail.  I would never have agreed to give him the money, if I knew he was intending to do that.  I was a moron and believed his story about needing the money for lawyer’s fees.  Detective Garrett is writing the entire time I am talking.  As I tell the rest of the story – Randall arriving and attacking Neil with the bat, Randall’s threats, Davis showing up and pulling the gun, I visualize it like I’m watching a movie.  The gun?  Where did Davis get a gun?

             
I even see myself in the movie, only I’m an observer watching the heinous events play out.

             
I shudder and ask again, “So, am I in trouble?”

             
Donovan Garrett is tapping his pen against his lips and swaying back and forth between the balls and heels of his feet.  He seems to be thinking through everything I just spelled out for him.  “I’ll be honest, Ms. Connelly…may I call you Elizabeth?”