Sorry I forgot to mention this. Just in case anyone is confused, this story is a continuation to "Finding the Boy".
Please review!
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May your hands always be busy,
May your feet always be swift,
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
May your heart always be joyful,
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.
--Bob Dylan
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August 31, 1967
8:39 am
"Oh no," I murmur, staring at my hands, which rest in my lap. Fresh beads of sweat break out on my forehead. Just like they had shaken when I was held captive with Blonde, my hands are shaking now.
Again, the sticky sensation falls upon me. This time, I snap my eyes shut and go with it. I feel without something, something I need. My mouth waters. Then the nausea builds up until I scramble from the bed, disrupting sheets and pillows. Quickly, I find the nearest trash can and empty myself.
Finished, I slide to the floor, resting my palms on the cool tile. I take a breath, hoping the waves of nausea and headaches are over for the time being. Earlier this morning the nurse mentioned withdrawal again and I can only suppose that this is it.
Although it would have been nice of her to move the trash can closer to my bed.
"Pone," a low voice says.
I look up; ready to catch a scolding from Darry or Soda for being out of bed. Instead, it's Johnny.
"You made it out of there." He doesn't smile.
"Yeah. Barely."
"That's all that matters." Johnny leans forward. "They'll wanna know what happened. You'll have to tell them."
I sit up straighter. "I ain't gotta tell anyone anything. It's over." I throw my hands up, struggling to pull myself up. "You said it yourself. I made it out of there." I climb back into bed, tugging the sheets up.
Johnny's eyes are so dark he doesn't even look like himself. "Did you?"
I jab the heels of my palms into my eyes. I don't know who says it, but it doesn't matter because either way they're true. The words float around the room and hook their teeth into my soul. "He's gonna come back for you. You're the only one who knows what he looks like."
My hands shake again.
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August 31, 1967
8:40 am
Soda's on the pay phone when I approach. I lean against the wall and wait for him to finish.
"I'm not sure," he says to the person on the other end. "I know but…" He breaks into a laugh and then sighs. "Ok. I'll check with Darry and call you back."
He hangs up. "The guys want to come down."
I smile slightly, knowing our friends have stayed away as long as they can. I have only spoken with Two-Bit once since they found Ponyboy, having called his house to tell him the news. I know Soda's been keeping them in the loop better than I have been.
Soda sees the indecision on my face. "It might be good for him. Something not so…serious."
"Ok," I agree, knowing he's right. "When you want distraction bring in Two-Bit."
Soda breaks into a wide grin. "Shoot, knowing Two-Bit he'll probably challenge Pone to a wheelchair race or something like that."
I laugh. "He does that, and we're really gonna have problems." The laugh dies away. "Tell them they can come down – but only for a while. I don't want Ponyboy to get worked up."
"Sure, Dar," Soda says, phone already in his hand.
Truth be told, I'm not sure if Pony wants to see anyone right now. But anything that will help, I'll do it.
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August 31, 1967
8:49 am
A woman is arguing with the policeman stationed outside Pony's hospital room. My eyes narrow and I pick up the pace.
"I'm sorry miss," he instructs. "I can't give out any more information. You better than anyone should know—"
"Can I help you?" I ask, startling her. The policeman – David Teller – shoots me an apologetic glance.
She spins around to see who has interrupted her. Annoyance flickers across her face but quickly dissipates as she sees me. "You're the brother," she announces happily. "I can tell."
This catches me off guard as usually Soda is the one to be compared to Ponyboy looks-wise, but I shake this off. "One of them. Can I help you?" I snap, not in the mood for reporters right now.
"I'm Lisa Paillard – the EMT who took Ponyboy to the hospital." Surprise must show on my face because she rushes on. "I just wanted to come by and see how he was doing."
"I'm sorry," she says sheepishly, moving away from Teller. "I'm pushy."
I follow her to the corner of the hallway. "No problem. I thought you were a reporter." I hold out my hand. "Darrel Curtis."
She takes my hand, holding it a brief minute before releasing. "Is he doing ok?"
I'm about to lie, but something about Lisa brings the honesty out of me. Maybe it's the eyes – they're green, like Pony's.
"Not really. He's not talking."
Lisa purses her lips. "And the withdrawal? How's that going?"
I raise an eyebrow and utter a soft snort. "Are you sure you're not a reporter?"
"I'm sorry. I'm nosy too." She bites her lip, brushing long strands of caramel-gold hair away from her face. Butterscotch, I think and then blink at the random thought.
Lisa unfurls her hands, gesturing at the air. "Your brother was so scared when I helped him…I just couldn't get him out of my head. I wanted to come by and see him."
I see an opportunity for news, any insight that Ponyboy won't give. "Did he…did he say anything when you picked him up?"
She looks at me strangely and fiddles with the gold necklace she's wearing. But she doesn't mince words. "He was afraid to see you."
Feeling like I've been punched in the gut, I exhale sharply.
Lisa reaches out to squeeze my arm. "Don't worry. It's that way for everyone. You'll be amazed at what time can do." But as she says this, the corners of her mouth turn down.
"Thanks," I reply gruffly. "I think he's sleeping but I'll let him know you stopped by."
Waving her hand in dismissal, she says with a smile, "It's not a big deal. I do work here after all." She begins to walk away from me, but then pauses and turns back. "Who posted the guard?"
My brow furrows. "Detective Jessup."
Her pretty face clouds up. She doesn't say anything more as she takes off down the hall.
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August 31, 1967
8:58 am
I walk into Ponyboy's room just in time to hear him say, "Leave me alone, Johnny."
"Pony?" I ask cautiously, ignoring the sick feeling brewing in my stomach.
He's sitting in the dark, palms pressed into his eyes. Dropping his hands, he manages, "Hey Darry."
I flip a light on and glance around the room. "Who were you talking to?"
"No one."
I decide to drop it, even though I'm pretty sure I heard him talking to Johnny. "That EMT stopped by. The one who took you to the hospital. Lisa."
"Why'd she do that?"
"Because she cares, Ponyboy. You know that."
Abashed, Pony drops his head.
My eyes narrow, noticing the disarray of his bed, the blanket and pillow that have slid to the floor. "Did you get out of bed?"
"I puked," he tells me before launching into his plea. "Darry, when can I go home? I can't stand it here. I hate it."
I smile slightly at his fierce hatred of hospitals. Lord knows, he's earned it. "Believe me Ponyboy, Soda and I are about sick of hospital food ourselves." Not that he's been eating anyways. Pony'susing the same defense he used after Johnny and Dally died. Not bologna.
He doesn't say a word, instead waiting on a real answer from me. I perch on the edge of his bed. "Just a one more day, kiddo," I reassure, touching his shoulder beneath the thin hospital gown. "Then home."
In fact, there's nothing more I'd like to do then take him home, get him away from the cops, the press and the hospital. Someplace safe.
He nods mutely, stiffening at my answer.
"You feel up for some company? Two-Bit and Steve?"
A little bit of life flickers into his eyes. "Ok," he says, trying to smile. "Ok."
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August 31, 1967
10:59 am
"It's such a relief, knowing that he's been found," Hannah Ezra sighs, her fingers entwined around a cup of tea. "I'm sure his family is overjoyed."
Beside her, Stan nods. "We'll have to go see him."
"Of course, honey. As soon as he gets out of the hospital." Hannah smoothes her son's hair back. "Refill, detective?" She nods at the teapot sitting in the middle of the table.
"No, thanks." My current cup of tea is untouched; I'm more of a coffee guy. "I have some questions for you and Stan." I keep my eyes trained evenly on her face.
"Of course," she says again.
"Anything," Stan agrees eagerly. I smile at the kid, so anxious to help in this case.
"Ponyboy confirms what we thought. The two men who took him believed he was Stanley."
Hannah pales. "Excuse me?" She sets her teacup back on its saucer.
"Apparently, they mistook him for Stanley and once they realized the error tried to get rid of Ponyboy. No kid, no evidence."
Stan grimaces and shakes his head. "Oh man."
I slide the two sketches we've compiled from Ponyboy Curtis and the two young boys who saw his abduction across the table. "One got shot. This one," I tap the sketch, "got away."
The sketches are a bunch of bullshit. From the two different sources – Ponyboy and Ricky Riverside – there are varying differences in profiles. But I'm hoping there are enough similarities between the two sketches that when we see the bastard we'll know him.
Her hands shake as she touches the sketch. "Who on earth…?"
"Do you know him?"
Indignant, she draws back. "Of course not. You think I know this person?"
I ignore her protests and turn to Stan. "Do you?"
Genuinely puzzled, he stares hard at the drawings. "No. Should I?" He looks at Hannah.
She stands up and grabs the teapot. Hannah slams it down, wincing as it hits the marble countertop. "This is ridiculous. I don't know why you'd think—"
"I ask because Ponyboy Curtis said the kidnappers spoke about him – Stan – as if they knew him. As if they knew his family."
"Well, we don't," Hannah snaps, twisting the wedding ring on her finger. "And if they know us, I have no idea how."
"Ok," I say, gathering up the sketches and standing up. "I appreciate your help. If you think of anything…" I pull out a card and hand it to Stanley. "Be sure to give me a call."
He takes it, his face twisting into a pained grimace. Stan and I know the same thing: his mother is lying.
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August 31, 1967
1:07 pm
"You're a son-of-a-bitch, calling here."
"Would you rather we meet?"
She's silent, and then says. "What do you want?"
Roger presses the phone to his ear, taking in her words. "Have the cops visited yet?" Through the glass doors of the phone booth, he watches the people cross the intersection, cars zipping through lights. But he ducks his head quickly, remembering he's a wanted man.
The voice in his ear hisses, "This morning. That detective knows I know you." She begins to cry. "Why would you do this? I never meant for it to turn out like it did…I never—"
"Shut up," Roger growls, slamming his hand against the glass. People turn to stare and he shields his face again.
"You still did it, you turned. I never forgot." He ponders something. "It was supposed to be revenge."
"I forget. No one does revenge quite like you."
Roger freezes, the familiar bitter tone, the familiar words causing fury inside of him. "You never did learn when to shut your mouth." He smiles. "That's what won you that husband of yours. That pretty life of yours."
There is a long pause and for a second Roger thinks she has hung up on him. But when she speaks next, her voice is small. "You're not going to come after Stan, are you?"
He wants to toy with her, make her worry, but the ordeal with the other boy has tired him. "No," Roger says. "But I ain't done. Keep your trap shut and the shit won't land on you."
"You're going after him," she states, matter-of-fact.
"Of course. The two of you are the only ones who know who I am." Roger twists the phone cord. "And after the last time, I know you've learned your lesson. You won't talk."
"You're right, Roger," she murmurs. "I won't."
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More to come. Please review – they are all devoured lovingly. Thanks!
Pardon any typos.