Present Danger (17 page)

Every muscle in James’s body screamed in protest at his sudden start. “What? How?”

“He felt bad about leaving you, so he went back to find ya.”

“And you let him?”

“Christ, now you sound like Aunie. You
know
what he’s like when he sets his mind on something, Jimmy. How do you think—”

“Aunie
knew
about this?”

Aunie walked out of the kitchen where she’d gone to avoid James. She met his accusing stare head-on. “I didn’t know about him being in the hospital until Bob got here, but I knew he’d given him the slip.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“To what purpose?” she inquired coolly. She’d just about had it with his surly attitude, pain or no pain.

“To what? … Christ, I coulda—”

“Hey!” Bob angrily interrupted. “Don’t blame her. I told ‘er not to tell you. Shit, Jimmy, ain’t you the guy who’s been broadcasting how fed up he is with taking care of everybody’s problems? What the hell do ya think you could’ve done, anyway? From what I heard, you couldn’t even get up the walk without the help of this little lady here.”

James scowled. Did everyone have to keep throwing that in his face?

Bob’s tone softened. “By the time I found him, so had the goons. But I’ll tell y’ somethin’ interesting, Jimmy. Last night was the first time I’ve ever seen Paul pass up a chance to score some blow. He lost his supply, y’know, getting away from the dealer he tried to rip off. Ordinarily, you know damn well that woulda had him hittin’ the streets in search of a new score. But for once in his life he was more concerned with someone else’s problems. He was pretty damn shaky, which is how they caught him, I imagine, but still …”

“Where is he now?”

“Harborview.”

James pushed himself painfully to his feet. “Let’s go.”

Bob knew better than to argue with him. Jimmy was as muleheaded as they came once he’d set his mind on a chosen course and Bob knew from experience it was a waste of breath to try to change his mind. He lumbered to his feet.

Aunie was tempted to try to dissuade him, but she held her tongue. He should be in bed, but clearly whatever good sense he might have once possessed had been knocked out of him the night before. She ground her teeth in impotent anger, her feelings for James T. Ryder at the moment somewhat less than fond. She couldn’t help wincing in sympathy, however, to see the awkward slowness in this man who was usually as quick and agile as a cat. Silently, she went to the closet to retrieve his battered leather jacket. “Try not to do anything stupid,” she recommended as she held it out for him to slide his arms into.

Bob turned his startled laugh into a cough. “Uh, thanks for the coffee, Aunie.”

She smiled at him with genuine warmth. “You’re more than welcome.” For all his unkempt looks and occasional bad grammar, she found Bob immensely likeable.

Bob turned to James and gave him a pointed look. James rolled his shoulders irritably, but reached out and cupped Aunie’s throat in his large palm, tilting her face up. He rubbed the calloused pad of his thumb over her soft lower lip. “Thanks,” he said shortly. Then he released her and walked away.

“Don’t mention it,” she muttered to the door closing behind his back.

Paul looked even worse than James felt. That wasn’t too surprising, according to the doctor with whom James and Bob had spoken out in the hall.

“Your brother is severely undernourished … not an uncommon affliction in an addict,” he said, stuffing his stethoscope into a pocket. “He didn’t stand up to the beating he took as well as you did.” He leaned forward to examine James’s contusions. “Want me to check you over while you’re here?”

“No, I’m okay.”

The doctor nevertheless whipped a small penlight out of the breast pocket of his white lab coat, pulled down James’s lower eyelid, and examined his pupil reactions. “No concussion,” he concurred. “Any blood in your urine?”

For the first time that day, James almost smiled as he tipped his head in his brother’s direction. “Like I told Dr. Bob here, no blood.”

The doctor grinned at Bob. “You’ve gone over the list, hmm?”

“Yeah.” Bob shrugged. “We grew up in the Terrace.” He knew there was no need to elaborate. Not only was the project just one bluff over from Harborview Medical Center, divided only by the entrance to the I-90 corridor, but the hospital itself had the best trauma care in the city, so it got a lot of business from Terrace residents. Rapes, gunshot wounds, stabbings, beatings, all were sent there first. “Y’ learn young what needs medical attention and what you can fix yourself and still live with.”

“Ah.” The doctor nodded in acknowledgment of Bob’s blunt assessment. “Well, as to your brother Paul,” he said, “the bad news is he has multiple contusions, a broken nose, a cracked rib and some bruised internal organs. But he’ll live. We’ve got him on a high-protein drip to build up his strength and we’ll give him as much food by mouth as he can handle. He’s got a few loose teeth, so it’ll have to be soft food for now. The good news is he’s expressed a strong desire to kick his dependency, a desire fueled, apparently, by the thought of you”—he tipped his head at James—“taking a beating that was meant for him.”

James wasn’t overwhelmed with hope. “He’s been in rehab before,” he commented glumly. “It never seems to stick.”

“I’ve got a program in mind that’s a little bit different.” The doctor went on to outline an experimental program that used a drug widely prescribed for epileptic seizures. “We’ve had some amazing results with this.”

“Is this anything like the methadone program?” James inquired dubiously. He wasn’t about to get
excited over a drug that was every bit as addictive as the substance it replaced.

“No, that’s the beauty of it,” the doctor replied. “Methadone substitutes one narcotic for another. CBZ is not addictive. It’s a specific antidote to cocaine craving in the brain.”

Bob scratched the side of his neck. “Run that antidote business by me one more time.”

The doctor explained about a process called kindling, which he likened to an electrical impulse in the brain’s limbic system. “Kindling is like a cellular memory of cocaine, which is what causes the intense craving,” he said. “CBZ eliminates or significantly reduces kindling. In effect, what it does is give responsibility back to the individual. By curbing the craving for the drug and getting involved in therapy groups, the recovering addict can control his cocaine use. So, you see,” the doctor said, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet, “if your brother consistently attends counseling and takes the CBZ as prescribed, he has a markedly better chance of recovery than he’s ever had before.”

James shook his head, trying to absorb the novelty of hearing good news for a change in relation to Paul’s addiction. “It sounds pretty damn miraculous,” he said and glanced at Bob to see how he was taking it. Then he stuck out his hand. “I’m having a hard time taking it in, but thanks, Doc.”

“You’re wel—” His beeper went off and the doctor thrust the hand he’d been reaching out to James into his pocket to turn it off. “Oops, gotta run.” He turned on his heel and in only moments, it seemed, had disappeared down the corridor with a ground-eating, brisk stride, his lab coat flapping behind him.

James and Bob exchanged incredulous looks, then
simultaneously broke into smiles. They pushed open the door to their brother’s room and entered. A television was turned on and tuned to a Saturday afternoon sports program but Paul was dozing. He awoke a few moments later when James clicked off the wall-mounted set. “Hey,” he said thickly, and worked his tongue unsuccessfully against his dry lips. He gestured weakly toward the roll-away tray that held a pitcher, plastic cup and straw, and a box of Kleenex
^TM
. “Gimme a drink, will ya?”

Bob held the cup of water for him to drink. The small effort required of Paul to sip it through the straw seemed to exhaust him, and his head dropped back on the pillow, his eyes closing.

“We talked to your doctor, Paul,” James said.

Paul’s eyes opened and focused briefly on his younger brother. “Jesus, you look about as good as I feel,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.” His eyes drifted closed, then opened once again. “Doc tell ya ‘bout the CBZ?”

“Yeah. Sounds pretty great, doesn’t it?”

“Sounds too fuckin’ good to be real, but the doc swears he ain’t jerkin’ me off.” Paul could feel his nose threaten to drip and instinctively started to raise the back of his hand to it. He was brought up short by the IV. Bob whipped a Kleenex
^TM
out of the box and handed it to him. “Thanks, Bobby,” Paul said as he accepted it. He blotted the moisture from his nostrils. “Will one of you call Willinger for me Monday mornin’ and let him know I’ll probably be out the rest of the week?”

“Sure.” It had always been a source of amazement to James that Paul had managed to hold the same warehouseman’s job for the past seventeen years, despite his longstanding addiction. James wasn’t
quite sure how he’d done it, if he stayed straight at work or if he was simply wily enough not to get caught tooting in the men’s room. But the fact remained that up until about the middle of last year, he’d juggled his payroll check to cover both rent for the cheap room where he boarded and his escalating habit. Then it had begun to slip beyond his control and he’d resorted to stealing. Only incredible luck had kept him out of jail.

But all that actually had a chance of changing now.

James felt almost euphoric by the time he and Bob left their brother to rest. Some of the stiffness had worked out of his abused muscles and he was moving with more ease. Plus, Paul’s prognosis was more promising than he’d ever dared hope. Altogether, the day was turning out a helluva lot rosier than it had looked this morning. All that was left was to ask Otis to go with Bob to fetch his Jeep from the Terrace, since he didn’t quite feel up to the constant shifting of gears that would be necessary to drive it home himself. Then he could take it easy for the rest of the day. Well, just as soon as he talked to Aunie, he could.

He had come to the reluctant conclusion that he owed her a larger apology for his behavior this morning—not to mention thanks for her help last night—than he’d begrudgingly given her so far. Okay, so he still wasn’t thrilled to have her entangled so thoroughly in his life. The fact remained that she had gone out of her way to help him. When he thought of her tipsy ninety-odd pounds supporting his one-eighty frame, he reflected with wry humor that it was a wonder they hadn’t both landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. He had to admit that she’d given it her all. And as much as he hated to, he also had to
admit that while she was about it she’d been generous, concerned, efficient, and gentle.…

And funny. God, he loved humor; it was the cornerstone of his life. How was it that she could always seem to make him laugh?

Dammit to hell, she was working her way under his skin and he didn’t know what to do about it. He hated the fact that she’d been in his apartment this morning. Really hated it. He’d found it difficult enough to drive her from his mind before … just witness his asinine behavior last night when she was out with her friend. Now that he knew she’d been inside his home, maybe even handled his possessions, it was going to be ten times worse. He didn’t care that she’d only been thinking of his comfort. His apartment was his fortress, dammit, and she should have stayed the hell away from it.

Still …

She had lent him—and his brothers—a helping hand, and she hadn’t asked a lot of dumb questions while she was doing it. He’d repaid her help with obscenities and surly, adolescent behavior.

So … he’d apologize.

But then he was staying the hell away from her.

Again.

“Where is everyone?” Otis hung his jacket in the closet. He walked over to where his wife was seated, bent down, and gave her a kiss. “I figured the place would be jumpin’.” He grinned and gave her another kiss. “Instead, it’s like a ghost town.”

Lola set aside her needlepoint, turned down the reggae she’d been listening to on the CD, and filled him in on the morning’s events. She hesitated for
the space of a few heartbeats at the end of her recital, then took a deep breath. “Can we talk, mon?”

“Sure, babe. Let me grab a cold one first. You want some pop?”

“Please.”

She waited while he popped the top off a bottle of beer and poured her a glass of cola. When he was settled next to her on the couch, she rattled the ice cubes in her drink for a moment, straightened the bright cotton of her skirt with uncharacteristic fussi-ness, then finally looked up at him. “The way James treated Aunie this morning made me angry, Otis.”

“Babe …”

“He acted like a spoiled brat wid her. The woo-mon knocked herself out to help him both last night and this mornin’ … and her reward was to have him snarl at her for enterin’ his precious apartment. He sounded as if she’d spent hours in there, goin’ over the place wid a fine tooth comb. I tell ya, Otis, I felt like grabbing him by the collar and … what’s the word?”—she searched her mind, then suddenly snapped her fingers—
“impartin’
a few home truths for the mon to chew on.”

Otis groaned. “I’m sure that would’ve gone over real big, Lola, especially on top of last night’s beating.” Very gently, he continued, “Baby, it’d be obvious to a blind man that Jimmy wants that little gal. But he’s gonna have to come to terms with it on his own. Your smackin’ him upside the head with the knowledge is
not
gonna help the situation.”

“I know.”

The beer bottle paused midway to Otis’s mouth. “You do?”

“Yes, mon, I do. The way he acted angered me, but in here,” she thumped her fist against her breast—
“I understood he’s runnin’ scared from feelin’s he doesn’t want to be feelin’.” She glanced away. “That’s not the problem.”

She had placed her feet in his lap while she was talking and automatically, Otis picked one up in his large hand and began to massage it. “So what is?” he asked as his thumb kneaded her high arch. He searched her face in fascination. One of the things that kept their marriage lively was Lola’s unpredictability. After seven years, he still never knew exactly what to expect from her.