“Sure thing,” he replies, replacing the clipboard on the edge of my bed as he walks out of the room.
As soon as the door closes, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and test my weight on them. I manage to stand with no issues. There’s a clip on my left index finger that I remove. I look quickly at the wound on my left shoulder, which is exactly as advertised by the good doctor. I’ll barely notice it after a couple of painkillers.
I’m wearing what I had on pre-bullet wound, and my tee shirt has a new hole in the short sleeve. I sigh, stretch, and look over at Josh.
“We need to get out of here,” I say.
“Figured you’d say that,” he replies as he completes the same ritual as I just had.
We both stand and regard each other silently for a moment. He seems reluctant to speak, but finds the words he’s looking for after a moment.
“So, is this it?” he asks. “Is this the moment where you get pissed off beyond comprehension, Hulk up or whatever, and go and kill everyone?”
He doesn’t ask with any humor. He just sounds tired, almost defeated — like he just wants it all to be over.
“Josh,” I say. “I’m not sure what the next move is just yet. I might be wrong, but I think Dominique did this on purpose.”
“No shit, Sherlock!”
“No, I mean, she shot us and left flesh wounds on purpose. She didn’t intend to kill us, she intended to let us get away and make it look convincing.”
He shakes his head with confusion. “I don’t follow,” he says, frustrated.
“She was paid one-point-five million dollars by Wilson Trent to kill me. I offered her two million to not kill me and say she did… She knew me by reputation, and I think she might have taken my offer.”
He’s silent for a moment, staring at me in disbelief. When he speaks, he gestures wildly with both arms — then with just one when he remembers his bullet wound.
“Are you out of your tiny, stupid, American mind?” he asks. “She wouldn’t go back on a contract, Adrian. Same way you wouldn’t!”
“Actually, Josh, I kinda did once, remember? Extenuating circumstances, et cetera…”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Exception To Every Rule! Look, I’m sick of the dancing around, and the mind games and the uncertainty, okay?” He points to his arm. “I’m sick of getting shot! Whenever I’m with you, I get shot. It’s like you’re a magnet for random gunfire for Christ’s sake!”
Without warning, he slaps me hard across the face with his good arm. We both stand there in silence — equally shocked but I imagine for different reasons. After a moment, he speaks again.
“Will you please, for the love of all things Holy, just kill this sonofabitch, so we can all go home?”
My eyes are wide with shock. I understand and share his frustration, and I know he’s trying to rally me into action, but in all our years together, he’s never laid his hands on me. And vice versa.
But I’ll admit, it’s worked.
I feel a rush of unbridled rage explode inside me, tearing through my body like wildfire through a dry forest. I look around, not knowing how to handle the sudden influx of fury. It’s a small room, literally empty besides the two beds, a couple of monitors, and a window. And the door. Beyond which are two cops who are most likely on Trent’s payroll.
Either way, I can’t afford to waste time on them.
Like lightning, my right arm flies out and grips Josh by his throat. My Inner Satan behind the wheel for a moment. It’s like I’m looking on from the outside, like an out-of-body experience or something.
“Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” I snarl through gritted teeth. “Now, stay close — we’re leaving.”
I release my grip and he massages his throat, taking in some deep breaths. But he looks calm. He’s not angry with me, and he isn’t afraid. I think, if anything, he seems relieved.
“Atta boy,” he says, quietly.
I quickly check that I have everything with me, and walk toward the door. As I reach for the handle, it swings open and a man walks in, stopping in the doorway. He isn’t a cop, and he isn’t a doctor. He’s a good height, around six feet tall. He’s not fat, as such, but his middle-age spread has gone unchecked around his waist and chin. He needs a shave and with his thinning, graying hair and old, stained, knee-length raincoat, he could easily be confused with a homeless person.
But he’s not homeless. At least he wasn’t the last time I saw him, which was close to ten years ago. He looks like shit, but I guess that’s to be expected. He’ll be close to fifty now, and the last decade is unlikely to have been good to him.
“Adrian?” he says, his voice like gravel and his breath like whiskey. “So it’s true… you are back.”
I take a step back, my rage quickly subsiding and making way for shock. I’ve got no idea how he found me, but the conversation I figure I’m about to have has been a long time coming.
“Hey, Frank,” I say.
Behind me, I can sense Josh quietly figuring it all out. I don’t think these two have ever met before, but he’ll know who he is, I’m sure.
“Frank?” he says out loud behind me, to no one in particular. “Jesus… you’re…”
His words trail off, so I fill in the blanks for him.
“That’s right. Josh, meet Frank Stanton — my brother-in-law.”
Silence descends on the increasingly awkward reunion for what feels like hours. Frank’s hand disappears inside his pocket and comes back out holding a small pistol. I flash a quick glance at it. It’s a Taurus 605, which fires .357 caliber magnum rounds. He aims it at me, the tiny barrel just inches from my face.
“My sister’s dead because you, you heartless bastard!”
His voice is icy calm and laced with venom. I imagine he’s rehearsed that line a million times in his head, waiting for his chance to face me and seek whatever answers he needs for his own piece of mind.
I take a step forward, allowing the barrel to touch my forehead. I push against it lightly.
“Frank,” I say. “My wife’s dead because of me. And my daughter. Whatever pain you’re feeling… whatever hatred’s been driving you… trust me, I’ve been there and bought the t-shirt. Please…” I hold my hands out to the side, palms open — total surrender. “Please… can we talk about this? I’ll tell you everything you want to know, I promise.”
His breathing gets more erratic. His eyes narrow and his lip curls as he battles his own inner demons. After a tense few seconds, he lowers the pistol, which I immediately snatch out of his hand and throw on the bed behind me. He takes a step back in shock.
“You left her…” he says. “You let them die.”
I sigh, massaging my temples as I look at the floor. While he’s probably spent the last God-knows-how-long picturing this moment, I’ve honestly never even thought twice about seeing him again. And for him to show up randomly at right now has really thrown me off my game. I have no idea what to say to him, but the truth is really the only option I have. And it’s not going to be an easy conversation.
“Frank, can we do this somewhere else? You’ve kinda caught me at a bad time…”
He looks at me, then at Josh. He sees our wounds and frowns. “Why would someone shoot you both?” he asks.
“Same reason you were about to,” mutters Josh, who’s sitting on his bed and watching everything unfold.
“It’s… a long story, Frank,” I say.
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he replies.
“I’m sure you have, but unfortunately I don’t. Not right now. There are two cops out there who are more likely to wanna shoot me than ask me questions, and as it stands I suspect I have pretty much the entire state of Pennsylvania trying to kill me. It’s the middle of the night, I’m tired and sore, and the longer I stay here, the greater the chances of me getting dead. Can we please do this later?”