REKT - Chapter 15

Missed Calls

Niko is a deep sleeper. She’s also a blanket stealer and a tunnel builder. My bed has bulked up with four new pillows and a weighted blanket since she moved in. In the dim light of almost dawn, I can detect the curls from her hair spilling out from gaps in her pillow defenses. There’s a curve in the covers which looks like her bottom. I give it a gentle shove and get a swift kick in reply. She thinks I’m coming for the blankets, but I am a furnace when I sleep. A tiny sheet is all I need, even in the dead of a Chicago winter.

I try again and this time she mutters something in Greek. She had been going for nineteen hours before her trades got sloppy and the results turned more red than black. I talked her into a couple NyQuil gel caps, closed the laptop, and canoodled her into bed for an episode of Downton Abbey. Niko has been trying to ship Carson and Barrow, but we all know Carson is destined for Mrs. Hughes. Niko passed out before Edith ruined everything…again. That was five hours ago. She needs a couple more uninterrupted hours to be fresh for today’s trading session. That makes me question whether I should wake her or not. She’ll be confused if she finds herself alone without explanation.

My phone lights up again and I stare at the lock screen. The first missed call was Andy from jail. He wants me to be careful, because he’s getting close, too close. I could have used some details, but we work with what we get. The second missed call was jail telling me that Andy has been moved to West Palm Beach Memorial Hospital for psychiatric evaluation. They also have Kim Haggerty in custody and are prepared to release them on my remand. Who is Kim Haggerty? Why do I want some woman in jail? If she put Andy in the hospital, then I want as little as possible to do with her.

I need to get moving. My flight from O’Hare to ATL leaves in ninety minutes, then it’s a quick shuttle to Palm Beach. Time to change tactics. I whack Nikola with a pillow and give her a wet willy. She burrows deeper into the bed. Fine. She can find out via iMessage.

***

We are walking out of jail, down a narrow cement path, around the back to the parking lot where my rental car is.

“You played that cool.”

“Seemed like the way to play it. Why do you have a New Zealand passport with the name Kim Haggerty on it?” I ask.

“That’s my name. I’m a kiwi.”

You learn something new every day. Deacon Joe is a New Zealander named Kim Haggerty. Why not? Nothing makes much sense anymore. I might as well give myself over to the currents and get carried out to sea with these people.

There’s nowhere to put the key into the ignition. There’s no key on the keychain. Right, I sorted this out in the airport. Just press the start button and put the car into reverse. As we back up, the car starts beeping, the tempo picking up, the intervals diminishing until all I can hear is a solid constant warning sound. I’m in a tight spot, the coppers took all the good ones. These stupid fucking machines and their smart technology. The steering wheel spins and the beeping stops, but my nervous system is crackling. If I get any free time today, I need to figure out how to turn that obnoxious fucking assist off. My guess is that it’s a safety feature and I won’t be able to. I’ve never used the term ableism before, but something in that ballpark applies here.

I’ve got to get online and find some resources. Maybe there are rental agencies that are friendly to highly sensitive people, maybe there are car makes and models that aren’t so over the top intrusive. This shit is really starting to affect my life, especially since my current situation is nothing but agitation. Are we so distracted, tied to our devices, that we can’t be trusted to back a car out anymore?

“Houston. I was born in Houston.”

Right, it’s Deacon Joe telling me how he’s really Kiwi Kim Haggerty. Sounds like a wrestler. Joe would be an awesome WWE manager. We should talk about that sometime when we aren’t revealing true identities while on our way to a psych ward.

“So, you grew up here?” I ask.

“Dad is from South Island. He’s an engineer, went to school in Edinburgh, then got work in the North Sea fields. After that he was transferred to Houston, fell in with my mom, and three years later he hightailed it off to Saudi to work for Aramco. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a boy named Kim in Texas?”

Am I the only person who grew up in Arizona, had parents from Arizona, went to school in Arizona, and then made the big move to exotic Chicago as an adult? All these people with their continent hopping and weirdo backgrounds. Maybe it’s crypto, like I’m on the island of misfit toys or something. “Ryan, hello? I’m trying to complain about my childhood.”

My bad. Joe is still here. He’s actually bitching which is a rarity. Funny what a night in jail does to people.

“Sorry Kim, yeah that must be hard. So, Deacon Joe? How did that come about?” I ask.

“I was the youngest deacon at my megachurch. You should have seen me work my youth group. I had the power of the Lord inside of me. Joe is my middle name. I tried going by KJ, but kids always asked what the K stood for and then it was all over. Hey, turn in here. I need to eat.”

I make a sharp turn off the main drag into a Jamaican jerk place. The car does not approve of my aggression. It lets off a series of warning beeps that reminds me of a torpedo homing in on a submarine. If this car keeps at it, I’m going to turn it into a torpedo and crash it into a brick wall. I’m fully insured, this vehicle can go fuck itself.

“Where’s your security? Why did I have to get you?” I ask.

“They’ve gone undercover. They are in the Bahamas working some leads.”

“Bahamas, leads.”

“Erskine man. He’s like a looming cloud down here. You can feel him in the air. We are going to get this fucker and get him good.”

Fucking aye. Andy has gotten Joe into the case. Why did I think to send him after Andy again? Because my priorities were shit, and now I have to clean up the mess I made. First, Joe needs to eat. We can break the broom out after lunch.

***

We arrive at the hospital and take the elevator to the fifth floor. It’s been a bit since I’ve seen the inside of a hospital, but it all comes back to me. The fluorescent lighting, waxed hallways, dull pastel paint. Doors that don’t lock. Half present patients, unkempt, drugged up. Zombies walking back to their rooms after a session of slobbering on bingo cards. There’s a sadness here that hits you deep in the belly. A broken-down collection of humanity stuck in a system that doesn’t work for anyone. Overtaxed nurses trying to hold it together for another day, orderlies wondering how many more buckets of shit they have left in them before they up and quit.

Joe has never been in a place like this. I can see it in his face. The first time is always a shock, that we can systemize the broken, lock them away. I’m not going to pretend I have the answer, only that I have answers for Andy. We have Dr. Wendy and I have Andy’s health care proxy. This gives me the power to direct his care when he is unable to do it himself. Not a very common arrangement for people our age. Andy was once trapped in a hospital for a month while ill-equipped interns yo-yoed psych meds searching for a chemical balance good enough to justify his release. That Andy was there a month says everything about the shape he was in. Insurance companies always want to boot patients too soon and there are so few available beds.

After that ordeal, he drew up proxy papers. That and Joe’s jet are going to get him shipped off to Maui where we have a trusted relationship with mental health professionals. Small miracles, such privilege and even then, it will be a grind. I’ve already reset my expectations on fundraising. Niko will need to next, but she knows nothing thanks to me. One good look at Andy is all it would take. Too bad she’s not here. It would explain more than any words I can conjure. Better she’s not though. Seeing Andy here sedated in his hospital bed is hard. He’s dead behind the eyes, one black and swollen, scars across his knuckles. He took a swing at the wrong person. Paid dearly for it.

“Joe, what happened?”

We talk softly even though nothing could wake Andy. Quiet is the nature of the room. No lights on inside, hallway fluorescence spilling in, Andy’s roommate out cold. Matching IV stands, saline drips, heart rate monitors.

“We were blowing off some steam after a day working the case. I was in a shit mood, low, on the whiskey. Just bad juju. Andy’s running a mile a minute, working angles, drawing connections together. He was using the dart chalkboard to write on. A couple guys wanted to play and asked if they could clear it off. Sure, not a problem, Andy said. I went to the loo and when I came back it was a problem.”

“Andy got in a fight with those guys?”

“Nope. Bouncer did that to him. Have you ever seen Andy look down his nose at the wrong guy? He started goading him, toying with the line, all the time thinking he was safely behind it.”

“Yup.”

Shudder, I’ve been there before. Beyond mortifying to watch your friend act like the most colossal ass in the world.

“Well, now you know what happened. There’s more of course. The police came and Andy talked their ear off about Erskine, the Deep State Pedo Conspiracy. His role as the sword of purity. Honestly, I think mentioning Erskine is what landed him here. I think they’ve shot him up with crazy meds to take him out of the picture.”

I take Joe by the hand and lead him into the hallway. I scan the reception area, sit us down near an older guy with his hospital gown untied. He hasn’t been shaved in a week, smiles at us with rotted teeth.

“You understand that I need to take him to Dr. Wendy, right? After his arrest, they won’t let him out on his own. Andy either stays here or he goes to Dr. Wendy's. If you really think this place is in on the conspiracy, then we need to get him out of here and with friends.”

Joe is squirming, uncomfortable. He’s smart enough to know what I’m doing to him, but he’s too shocked to realize it. That’s what I wanted, why I staged the conversation in this spot. Andy taught me this trick, how poorly people think when in extreme discomfort. I’m using it to get Joe onboard. I need his jet, so I need to show him just how ugly mental health issues can be, how ill-equipped he is to handle it. Everyone has a plan until they get hit in the mouth. I’m hitting Joe with everything I got.

“Is Dr. Wendy’s like this?”

“Not at all Joe. It’s nice, small, and peaceful. Their facility is halfway up a mountain overlooking a sunny valley. Patients spend the afternoon on a lanai surrounded by plants and flowers. Hummingbirds dart in and out. There’s a lot of running water too. It helps with the healing.”

I’m laying it on very thick. Maui Lutheran looks a lot like this building, but it does have a private wing that accepts Andy’s insurance. The neuro psych staff is top notch, and they understand his history.

I need Joe’s jet. I’ll tell him anything to get that plane.

“Let’s do it,” Joe says.

“Good man Joe. I need to have Dr. Wendy’s people call the hospital and work out the details. Should be a couple days to get everything together.”

“You don’t mind if I stay behind?” Joe asks.

He’s really on this Erskine thing. I might need to start giving it some credence, stop dismissing these two. Did something happen at that party they aren’t telling me?

“Not at all,” I answer.

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