"Catherine didn't want to go through with the abortion so late in her second trimester but she was forced to. Donald Summers made her and promised to marry her which he never did. He's a selfish bastard who didn't want an illegitimate child to complicate his married life and future social standing. She wanted to bury the fetus instead of letting the doctor dispose of it. A male friend of mine, a technician, cut the clinic's power supply while I retrieve the fetus. We buried it without Donald and Peter Masters knowing and Catherine became entrenched in deep depression- suicidal at times in fact. She had grown very attached to the baby growing inside of her. However, she seemed fine after a year and remarried. Then, with my help, she adopted Robert who does look a little like Donald. Robert would have been the same age as Donald's son had she given birth to it. After that, I never heard from her until she contacted me to tell me she divorced her husband and moved to Maine to lead a peaceful life with Robert. I visited her a few times and it was so obvious she was not of sound mind but to take Robert away would kill her so I didn't. And when she died, Robert didn't want to come stay with me. He followed her soon enough."
"Stacey, did any one contact you out of the blue in the last few days? Any weird letters, phone calls or alike?"
"Funny you should ask because I did receive some prank calls. But they stopped for a while… just silence over the other line as I kept shouting my 'hellos'. I was on the verge of going to the police when it stopped. Got busy and I didn't pursue it but I kept the number, just in case."
"It showed up on your Caller ID?"
"Yes, why?"
Frank sucked in a deep breath, "Can I have it?"
"Yes…… but tell me… is Robert really still alive? Did he really do all those things that you said he did?" Now, it was she with the begging eyes, "I knew I should have taken him away from her… but they were so devoted to each other… and he just seemed a little too reserved…"
Frank had no easy answer for her. His mind and heart screamed, "Yes", but he decided to spare her the agony for the moment.
"There's always a chance I can be wrong."
She smiled at him sadly, "But there's something about your eyes that tells me you are very sure of yourself."
***
It had taken him quite a while to get the number from Stacey Bettis. First, they had to return to her place and then, he called his father and had him do a reverse online-people search using the number. The owner of the number was a sixty-eight years old man called David Marlon and the corresponding address pointed to a now defunct farm on the outskirts of Porters' Bay.
The police, Simon and his dad would be there soon but Frank was faster since Port City was nearer to the house than Bayport was.
He slammed the car's door shut hurriedly and noted the sole flickering light in the attic of the house built like a cottage. The front door was unlocked when Frank tested it, surprising him a little. But, wasting no time congratulating good luck, he cautiously stepped into the darkness and, when all seemed safe enough, shone his pen light around and found the stairs.
A gunshot echoed through the blackness. Frank froze for a split second as a Callie's face flashed across his mind's eye.
Who's shot? Joe can take care of himself…
Callie…
He snapped out of the trance and raced up the stairs, three huge steps at a time. There was no time for fear or paranoia. There was only time to follow the direction of the gunshot and get to scene quickly. Adrenaline pulsated through his veins, forcing him into a single- minded course of action. All the way up the stairs to the attic and prepare to pummel Robert Thompson, a.k.a. Terry Birch, into pulp.
"Wake up… please… please… wake up…wake…"
It's Joe… sound like Joe… injured…
"Joe!" He tore into the attic, almost heaving out his heart when he saw Joe with his head lying on a fallen man's chest. The two bleeding, still figures bathed under the mutely scintillating light which illuminated the haphazard pool of crimson blood like a lake of scarlet crystal. Blood decorated the attic- in long, smeared trails on the floor, on a pool spreading from underneath Richard Thompson's head, on a mist-like splatter on the wall mingled with some brains…
On Joe- on his face, on his body, on his hands…
"Frank... Callie's injured too. But get Joe to help first… now! Call for an ambulance for Cal…"
Callie…
He looked past the bodies and saw the girls for the first time- he had seen them but his eyes didn't register the sight before. Confused and powerless, Frank wanted to go over to Callie and hold her, to keep her safe. But Joe's condition was critical- he was losing blood as fast as a damned man losing hope.
The actual decision process took less than a split second but to Frank, it was the agonizingly treacherous.
He knelt down and gently but swiftly lifted Joe away from the man and leaned Joe against his body as he felt for a pulse. It was there- weak pulsations pleading for permission to slow down and fade away. No way was he going to let Joe go. He didn't want to guess what happened, that could come later. He only wanted to bring Joe to help. Quickly but proficiently, he felt the kidnapper's neck for a pulse- Frank wasn't heartless. A life was a life.
Richard Thompson was as dead as anyone could be.
Ripping off his short-sleeved shirt, Frank noted the bullet hole somewhere at the upper left side of Joe's abdomen. His brother moaned then for Hallie- not that Frank could make out the verbal word but he could make up the desperate begging. He was taken aback, having thought that Joe was already unconscious. The knowledge that Joe was perhaps still cognizant enough to be mindful of the definite, insufferable pain sped Frank's actions in trying to check the bleeding. He tied his shirt firmly across Joe's abdomen, hoping the applied pressure could slow the blood flow, and cradled Joe in his arms before he struggled up to bring Joe immediately to a hospital or any health clinics since Porters' Bay didn't have its own hospital and the nearest one, Bayport Hospital, was at least a forty minutes drive away.
He didn't know how long ago Joe had been shot- maybe a few minutes. But he knew the golden hour was hurriedly passing them by. Love for Callie prompted him to glance briefly at his fiancée, his heart breaking with what he must do first.
Sorry, Callie. I'll get help for you. I promise. I need to bring Joe to safety first.
"Hale…"
"Shh… don't speak…" Frank shushed his brother whose head was lolling about against the support of his right forearm, "Elle… I…"
"Just go! What are you dallying for? Go and call for an ambulance! Cal…"
He didn't wait for Elle to finish. Already, he was out of the attic, rushing down the stairs to his car as fast as he could.
***
Doctor Rigor sat down in his chair and sighed, taking his five minutes break- it was going to be another long day. Porters' Bay was a generally peaceful town, sluggish at times even. As an emergency room doctor, he had his fair share of hustle and bustle. But being stationed in a health center and not a hospital, there were times when he felt like he was not feeling urgent enough. Many minutes a day, he would pass time ignoring snide comments about his name. Rigor as in rigor mortis. How ironic that his God-given profession was a doctor…
"Gunshot wound! Get Rigor!!!"
His head snapped up. Gunshot wound- that wasn't new but neither was it common to this area. Most street fight fatalities occurred due to a baseball bat or similar hard objects whacking against a vulnerable part of the head. Gunshot wound, well, it was almost a month since his last one. He hurried down the hallway, absentmindedly slipping his stethoscope over his neck. Always, he prayed it was not serious because, being a health center, they were not equipped to handle critical situations.
He stepped into the trauma room and knew he had to rush and wrack his mind to pull off something the health center wasn't prepared to. On the bed was a delirious young man, seemingly bleeding from head to toe. Two nurses were trying their best to control his bleeding. Another man, with dark-brown hair, hovered protectively over the victim of violence, his face a contortion of unspeakable emotional pain.
"He's shot, in the stomach. I don't know for how long but I took twenty minutes to drive here… please… save him. He's my brother…" The dark-haired man gazed at him and begged him the moment he came in, tears choking in the healthy brother's throat.
Gauze was plastered on the injured head to protect a superficial gash from the elements and pollution. Most alarming was an obvious hole in his stomach. Without even investigating further, Rigor knew this young man was lucky to be alive.
Grim, serious but speedy, he strode quickly over to the patient, knowing the exigency and urgency of the next few, important minutes. The nurses looked to him for action and he delivered.
"We'll have to wheel him to the cardiac room! Hurry! And call the outpatient surgical clinic!"
"Is he going to be all right? Please… tell me he's going to be all right…"
Rigor found it too difficult to answer the flustered brother asking for what would almost be a miracle. As a doctor, he could only be sensitive but truthful.
And at times, most wretchedly cliché.
"We'll try our best. Please, wait outside."
How much impact these three words had, Rigor had no way of gauging but he had seen enough loved ones breaking down in hysteria, too worried and anxious to be torn apart from the patient. This brother's face crumbled but he understood. He cast one final glance at the patient- an imploring glance which spoke volumes about their relationship- and, with deliberation, hurriedly left the professionals do their job.
It was intense and nerve-wrecking for the next few minutes which would be as long as eternity to the brother waiting outside and as short as the blink of an eye to those in the cardiac room. The surgeon, anesthesiologist and nurses, called from the outpatient surgery just next to the health center, had blasted down the corridors in answer to this emergency and were determined in their efforts to save the young man. As the seconds passed, so did the patient's life ebb away and no one had the time or romanticism to marvel about how a normal, almost dull urgent care clinic morphed instantaneously into a full trauma unit.
No one and definitely not for Frank Hardy, seated outside the room, hunched over with his hands clasped in an earnest, wordless prayer to God to hasten with a miracle.
