Second Chances
"Violence erupted today on a quiet street outside of downtown Detroit. Several gunman opened fire on a row home that belonged to the late Evelyn Mercer. Some of you may recall that Ms. Mercer, a retired social worker and community activist, was herself a victim of a horrible act of violence last week that left her and a convenience store clerk dead. That investigation is still open and it is unclear if this most recent event is tied to that shooting.
Several bodies were recovered at the scene and one victim was transported to the hospital. He is listed in critical condition with multiple gunshot wounds to the legs and torso."
Bobby looked at the television, feeling as detached from the story as the woman reporting it. "Critical condition" didn't even begin to describe it. "Shot to hell and barely hanging on" was more like it, but reporters never got that shit right. It was bad enough hearing how fucked up Detroit was in story after story on the nightly news; if they gave every bloody detail, the sane people still left in town would hightail it the hell out of there and chaos would run wild on the streets.
Angel dropped into the seat next to him with a sigh. He looked at the TV, the reporter wrapping up the story while standing in front of the crime scene that bore little resemblance to the house they'd grown up in. There were cops behind her, gathering evidence, making notes, talking and laughing while standing inches away from a huge patch of red snow … the spot where his little brother ... Angel gripped the cup he was holding so tightly that the plastic lid went flying, spilling hot coffee over his hand and down his arm.
"Jesus, Angel," Bobby exclaimed, jumping out of the way before he got scorched.
"Sorry, man," Angel muttered. "Just where were all those fucking cops when we needed them?" He motioned toward the TV, but the story had ended and now a map of the city was up and the way-too-fucking-cheerful weatherguy was talking about yet another snowstorm heading their way.
"You born yesterday or something?" Bobby sneered. "You know how cops around here work. It's easier to clean up the mess than it is to storm in and stop it."
Jerry wandered in, his youngest asleep on his shoulder, followed by Camille and a tired looking Daniela, dangling a Barbie doll by the hair, her plastic feet dragging on the floor.
"Anything?" Angel asked and Jerry shook his head.
"The nurse said he's still in surgery," Jerry started to explain but Camille interrupted him with a wave of her hand.
"Which I told her we know he's still in surgery. Any fool can figure that out. That wasn't what we were asking." Camille's eyes flashed with anger and frustration and Jerry just looked burnt out - Bobby had a feeling Camille was the one wearing the pants that particular relationship. He wondered if Jerry realized it – probably not.
Jerry sat down next to Angel with a sigh. "Longest damn night of my life."
Bobby looked down at the string of green beads he'd wrapped around one hand, the crucifix dangling down toward the ground. They were his mother's but Jack had snagged them from her room after the funeral and he'd worn them around his neck ever since. He worried one of the beads, the whisper of a Hail Mary niggling the back of his brain, but he was through with praying. He was hollowed out and spent and God certainly didn't want to hear what he had to say to Him at that moment.
"Where's Uncle Jack?" Daniela asked as she drug a plastic brush through the tangle of her doll's hair.
Camille put an arm around her daughter and squeezed. "He's hurt, baby, but the doctors are trying to make him all better."
"Is he going to be with Grandma Evie?"
Bobby's chest tightened as a vice gripped his ribs and threatened to choke him. He jumped up before Camille could answer. All eyes were on him. "Shit, sorry" he mumbled. "I gotta get out of here."
"Bobby …" Angel called after him as he practically ran from the waiting room.
XxXxXxXxXx
Evelyn met him at the front door, catching him before he could go inside. Cutting him off at the pass, he supposed.
He hitched his duffel bag up on his shoulder with a sigh. "I didn't drive all the way here to stand outside, Ma." No, he drove all that way for some home cooking and to vegetate on the couch for a week or two since the season had just ended and he had nothing better to do.
"I know, honey, there are just a few things you need to know before you go storming in there and scare him," she said with a smile. She sat down on the step and patted the spot next to her, waiting expectantly for him to join her. "Come on, humor an old woman."
Rolling his eyes, he dropped the bag and sat down. "You ain't old, Ma."
"You're my son, you're supposed to say that," she chuckled. "Anyway, the reason I called you …"
"Some kid."
"His name is Jack. He's eleven. And he's scared of his own shadow."
"And bringing me home will somehow help?" he snorted. He made his living playing hockey – basically, he got paid to beat up people, not to mention all the people he beat up in his free time that he didn't make a dime on. He wasn't a nice guy. He certainly wasn't the first guy who came to mind when you wanted to make some foster kid feel safe.
"It's bad, Bobby," she whispered and he turned to look at her. Her eyes were glassy, like she was on the verge of tears and she looked worried as hell. He'd never seen her this worked up over a kid, not even when she decided to adopt Angel and Jerry. "The last family he was with, the father …"
It was then that Bobby realized she had her green rosary beads in her hand, the beads he'd only ever seen dangling from the lamp in her bedroom. Her hand was trembling and he reached out, covering it with his own. "It's okay, I'm here for ya," he said quietly, feeling a murderous rage bloom at the thought of whoever would hurt a kid enough to make his rock of mother shake like that.
She smiled through her tears and placed her other hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I knew I could count on you."
XxXxXxXxXx
"I fucked up," Bobby said maybe a little too loudly and the woman in the pew in front of him glared back over her shoulder.
Somehow he'd found himself in the hospital chapel, the lights dim and the seats cold and hard. He didn't feel any presence around him – no divine intervention letting him know things were going to be okay and that his little brother wasn't going to pay the ultimate price for his bad decisions.
"I'm sorry," his whispered to the ceiling and whoever was listening, his throat catching on the words. He couldn't cry - Evelyn's death was the first time he'd cried since he was a kid and he couldn't let himself be that vulnerable again.
He looked at the cross in his hand. It had blood on it – Jack's blood. He heard the gunshots and the screams in the distance and he squeezed his eyes shut, as though he could somehow shut out the memories. Jesus, the kid had yelled for him and he'd done nothing, just left him to die in the snow.
He rubbed the cross against his jeans, desperate to get the blood off as his vision blurred.
"Please forgive me, Ma."
XxXxXxXxXx
The kid was on the couch, his shoulders rigid and his back perfectly straight. Bobby couldn't even be sure if the scrawny thing was breathing, he was so still.
But his eyes … Bobby would never forget that look in his eyes. Like a trapped animal … feral almost. Scared out of his fucking mind.
Evelyn stepped up and put a hand on Bobby's shoulder. "Jackie, this is my oldest son, Bobby. Remember I told you about him?"
Jack swallowed but didn't say anything as Bobby just stared at him, as unsure of what to do as the kid seemed to be. Evelyn's little plan was quickly circling the drain.
Evelyn gently nudged him in the back with her elbow. "Say something, stupid," was implied in the gesture.
"Hey, kid," Bobby mumbled half-heartedly.
Evelyn let out a deep breath. "I'm going to go to the kitchen and grab some cookies. Who would like cookies? Jack?"
Jack remained silent. Big fucking surprise, Bobby thought.
"They're store bought, but I won't tell if you won't tell." She winked and forced a grin as both boys continued their sad mime impressions. She was trying, Bobby would give her that much. Patience of a saint, he thought to himself as his mother left the two of them alone in the family room. And as subtle as a sledgehammer to the gut.
The clock on the wall was ticking so loudly in the silence that Bobby's breathing starting to synch up with it. Finally fed up with standing, he went over to the couch and flopped down, grabbing the remote from the coffee table and flipping on the TV – all in one fluid, practiced motion. That finally elicited a reaction from the kid, granted not the one Bobby was hoping for. Jack scooted away from Bobby, hugging the arm of the couch as he tried to make himself as small as possible.
Bobby glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He had no clue what to do – he thought back to when he first met Evelyn. He was more angry than scared – he hated everyone and made damn sure everyone knew it. The vile words he spewed at Evelyn, trying to get her to break, to make her slap him and push him away like every other adult who'd entered his life, made his stomach turn with shame.
He'd thought he was so strong – that nothing could break him, but he'd been busted into a million little pieces inside and just didn't realize it. Evelyn helped fix him, helped mend the broken boy and give him a shot at a future that didn't end behind bars or dead in a ditch somewhere. She was good at that – fixing people. If this Jack kid stood any kind of chance, it was with Evelyn and in that house, otherwise he should just dig his grave now and go lie in it.
The scene remained the same when Evelyn came back in the room with a tray of cookies, a glass of milk for Jack and a beer for Bobby. He could tell she was a little disappointed they weren't chatting away or tossing a ball between them or at least making eye contact.
Bobby sighed and picked up the plate, holding it out in the space between him and the kid. "Come on, have a cookie, Jackiepoo. I promise I ain't gonna kill you."
XxXxXxXxXx
Bobby roughly swiped the back of his hands across his eyes, trying to remove all evidence of his breakdown. Patting the pockets of his jacket, he found what he was looking for – Jack's cigarettes and lighter. It had been a while since he'd had a smoke, but he needed something to settle his nerves.
The ambulance bay by the Emergency Room was empty. Bobby's only company was a nurse on a smoke break who was on her cell phone. Ignoring her, Bobby lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag, the smoke filling his lungs. His hands stopped trembling a bit – it was a start.
He was about to light a second one, when an ambulance pulled up, lights flashing, sirens blaring, the whole nine yards. Several cop cars also screamed into the lot and Bobby instinctively backed up, hugging the shadows, trying to disappear.
The backdoors of the ambulance flew open and it was a mad scramble of paramedics, pulling a stretcher out. Being nosy as usual, Bobby couldn't help to peer closer, trying to get a glimpse before the disappeared into the hospital.
"What the fuck?" he said, but the words were swallowed by the commotion.
Green. Covered in blood. One paramedic holding a mask over his mouth, pumping a bag to make him breath, a second guy straddling his chest, doing compressions.
Cops started to swarm, their eyes on the guy on the stretcher – the guy Bobby had a sinking feeling was one step away from being a corpse. One cop in particular caught Bobby's eye – his gaze followed him as he walked a little apart from the rest of the group.
Fowler. Green's partner.
Bobby didn't like the guy, not one bit. Granted, Green was the only cop he ever tolerated and even then it was only on those rare occasions that he let it slide that his former hockey pal decided to protect and serve.
No, there was something about Fowler – something that made him stink even more than your usual guy in blue. Just that day, Green told Bobby and his brothers that he had to look into a dirty cop – it wasn't hard to make the leap to that cop being Fowler. Fucker had it written all over him. And if you would compromise yourself as a cop, it was only a few short steps to having the balls to shoot your partner when confronted about it.
Leave it to Green to be trusting enough to let the guy get a shot in.
Fowler stopped just before going inside and Bobby swore he could feel his eyes on him. Bobby didn't flinch, not as a smile spread across Fowler's face.
"It's a shame," Fowler said loudly with a dramatic shake of his head, as though he was talking to no one in particular. "Not enough good cops left in this town. Damn shame."
Bobby swore he could hear the bastard chuckle as he stepped inside and the automatic doors slid shut behind him.
XxXxXxXxXx
Not much had changed since he'd left the waiting room. Everyone was still waiting. Still sad. Still silent.
Sofi was there now, leaning against Angel. For once, Bobby didn't care and didn't bother to say anything.
"Green's dead," he announced to the sullen room.
Jerry sat up in his chair, careful not to disturb Amelia. "What?"
"Dead. I'd put every cent I have on Fowler being the one who did it."
"What does that mean?" Angel asked.
Bobby sat down with a weary sigh. "That means the only cop I trusted in this damn town is gone. That means all bets are off."
He looked at Angel and Jerry, silently communicating the gravity of the situation to them.
"Jack," Jerry said quietly.
"What about him?" Angel asked.
"Without Green, how can we be sure he'll be safe?"
"I don't know what you're getting at, Jerry," Bobby said, running a hand over his face, weary of all the shit that had gone down that day.
Jerry gently transferred his sleeping daughter to the chair and made his way over to Bobby. Hunkering down, he whispered, "Assuming he pulls through …"
"What the fuck do you mean by 'assuming'?" Bobby growled.
Jerry closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. "Fine, when Jack pulls through, he's going to be a sitting duck. If I were Sweet …"
"You'd go after the weakest link," Angel said, hanging his head.
"Fuck." Bobby stood up and smashed his fist into the wall, the pain cutting through the numbness that had settled over him.
"So what do we do?" Angel asked just as a surgeon in blood stained scrubs entered the room.
"Is the family of Jack Mercer here?" he asked the group. The doc looked just as tired and worn out as they all felt; Bobby couldn't decide if that was a good sign or not.
Bobby glanced between Angel and Jerry, the wheels slowing coming to life in his brain, turning in fits and starts. "I got an idea."
XxXxXxXxXx
"An update on that shooting we told you about yesterday, the gunshot victim who was taken to the hospital for treatment has since died. His name was Jack Mercer and he was twenty-one years old. Still no word on the motive for the shooting and no arrests have been made.
In other news, a veteran detective with the Detroit police force was gunned down yesterday outside a local bar …"
Bobby clicked off the television set and sat the remote on the end table next to the bed. "Told you it would work," he'd look smug if he wasn't so emotionally drained.
"You got lucky," Angel said from his corner of the room. ICU had damn tiny rooms and only one chair would fit and somehow Bobby decided he would be the one to sit. For once, no one felt like arguing.
"No, what we got was a surgeon with some gambling debts," Jerry said. "Otherwise the whole thing wouldn't have worked and we wouldn't have had anything to bargain with."
"But we did," Bobby said, annoyed at the fact that Jerry could never see the glass half full. "And it worked like a fucking charm. We just gotta bury an empty coffin and Jackiepoo here gets to be Jane Doe for a while until we take care of Sweet."
Bobby looked at Jack, hooked up to so many machines that he could barely tell where they ended and his brother began. At this point, he wasn't breathing on his own and the doctor said they still had to perform more surgeries on his legs, that he still might lose the right one. It was a clusterfuck of grand proportions, but at least he was alive and still had a chance.
That was more than he was going to give Sweet.