"The fiercest anger of all,
The most incurable,
Is that which rages in the place of dearest love."
— Euripides, Medea and Other Plays
The days and nights blurred together in an oily smear of yellow sunlight and humid blue dusks. They passed in a tilt-a-whirl chain with no events to differentiate them from one another other than the amount of light that filtered through the yellow-bronze curtains, and under the week's rain, even that had failed.
Chris didn't sleep, these days. When he rested, there was no set pattern, no real relief. Chris would return back to his home base at various times of the day and fall into lapses of unbeing that were too close to death to be called sleep. He never felt refreshed when he rose, but he certainly felt tired. He was always tired.
Chris awoke that day in a gradual way that filtered from the blackness of sleep to the dingy newspaper grey of mid-day. There used to be a brief moment between sleep and waking where only confusion lived as his brain came down to his surroundings, but now his surroundings were ground into his being with such permanence that he recognized them even when not fully conscious. That space was filled with weariness.
The air conditioner, a metal box set in his window, banged and whirred like a car engine readying to throw a rod. A deep ache reverberated from Chris' knuckles and the slender bones in his hands, like someone had bent those bones to almost breaking and then left them to their throbbing and their swelling.
Chris pulled himself on sore joints and stiff muscles to sit on the edge of his bed. He had fallen asleep in his t-shirt and his jeans again. They were rumpled, warm with the animal heat of his sleeping body. He'd forgotten the last time he'd walked across the street to the Laundromart coin-op and slammed the silver quarter slots, and it was probably time, but that jaunt seemed like a marathon to his tired mind.
Chris looked around the room. Laundry. A shower — his hair was getting greasy. You knew it was bad when you could kind of smell it. He should probably eat, at some point. Chris wasn't a man that could be called a lover of food, most sophisticated flavors getting lost and blunted under the ever-present taste of cigarette smoke, but eating was something he did now simply to keep himself from getting low blood sugar shakes. He took no real pleasure in it, like a chore.
There had been things that made him happy, that made him excited, that were looked forward to. Chris couldn't remember what those were, and now there was only the not-being and the being, pulling him along like a heavy chain welded to a manacle around his neck. But his happiness didn't matter; not now. What he did now would be the reason he would be around to be happy later. He and millions of other people.
Chris stripped off his shirt, determined to drag himself into the shower, at least. That would make him feel better, maybe jog his brain into getting ready for the day through rote memorization. Muscle memory. Chris pulled off the white cotton sheaf, over his head. The warm, thin jingle of metal dog tags getting caught and then bouncing against his bare chest. He was caught, frozen, halfway through — the shirt was covered down the front in rusty brown Rorschach splotches of blood. The picture in that blood was unclear; the artist had gotten too caught up in the medium to communicate the message effectively.
Ryman's face, bloodied and swollen and broken open, flashed into Chris' mind like a discordant note from an intrusive song, gone as soon as it came. It made his chest sore; it clenched on itself for a brief moment where his heart didn't beat. Chris threw the shirt across the room like a large insect he'd found on his arm, shocked and dismayed, desperate to get away from his sudden interloper.
He tried to remember. It wasn't a dream — most of Chris' dreams these days were of violence, of blood, but never any as vivid as this. Chris covered his face and tried to remember. He'd had a lead, one which had now died under the power of simple human selfishness. Its heat and promise congealed into something cold, like the smell and tracks of fresh quarry leading around in a circle, eventually blown away on the night air. Chris had expected loyalty from Ryman once he'd divulged exactly what he needed and why, and when loyalty ended up not mattering to Ryman, Chris was certain that his coward's self-interest could be bent and broken in his favor. Cajoled, somehow. Convinced. But Ryman had passed out before he talked… at least, that's what Chris remembered. He didn't recall much about that night, the memories having fallen into a black pit of nothingness; like sleeping, but on your feet. He remembered talking. He remembered considering using… something, it was hard to remember, but deciding against it. After that, everything was hazy and dark and impossibly loud, like the terror of being screamed at by a stranger from pitch black corners of a dark house. Chris had awoken on his feet, Ryman's limp, lifeless body outstretched beneath him, a fount of garnet red blood that bubbled and spilled from gashes and broken places, soaking the carpet. It was all over Chris' fists, spots on his face, in his mouth, on his clothes.
Chris remembered throwing up, having to make a break for the toilet before he let loose his dinner all over the carpet. He shook, shook like a stubborn leaf clinging to the branch in a stiff wind. His strength flagged in and out under cold tingles and loose joints. He checked Ryman's pulse, nicotine-stained fingers trembling against pallid skin slick with sweat, desperate for reassurance. When he found it beating, the stubborn pump of a stout heart, Chris' own slowed. Chris tried to wake him, shook him, splashed water on his face. Ryman wouldn't come to the fore; straight dark eyelashes fluttered in effort, but his lids remained shut. His shudders of breath and swollen face were hard to witness, each glance an icy splinter against something soft and open and essential deep in Chris' brain. Eventually, Chris rolled Kevin onto his stomach, dragged him into the bathtub, made sure he wouldn't suffocate, and left. The investigation and the pools of Ryman's blood had both cooled at about the same clip, losing their heat and meaning with each passing moment.
Chris rubbed his eyes. The rain pattered and plinked outside, bouncing off of the failing air conditioner, and he looked at the circular wall clock and its accusatory ticking hands. 2:30pm.
Something in his brain folded. He laid back down. He'd already slept most of the day away — he could sleep a little while longer. What would it matter? It could wait a few more hours. Maybe then he'd have some energy to do laundry.
Carlos didn't like the feeling in the air.
Ever since he'd woken up this morning (at half-past nine, which felt weird, but he'd never called in before so fuck 'em) that feeling was was tense, laid over with a silence of words saved up like a stormcloud. Jill was already awake, messing with a pot of bubbling coffee. It felt to Carlos like a hesitance of the first to move, of trying to feel out the other person. As much time as they'd spent together, Carlos liked to think he was getting a handle on her moods and quirks, and she on his: it could easily be read as the silent treatment, but something in his deepest, most instinctual parts recognized it as much more sympathetic, studded with a feeling of vulnerability that softened it.
Carlos' stubborn tendency to play peacemaker reared its head. He approached Jill as she sat on the couch drinking from a steaming mug of coffee, a blanket spread over her lap. Carlos leaned one shoulder against the doorway, and Jill sensed his presence, turned to him. He squinted into the air in thought, held up one long finger, then asked:
"D'you hear about the guy who invented the knock-knock joke?"
Jill blinked at him, prettily, her lips pursed; she tilted her head just so in an expression of interest. She wasn't wearing makeup, dressed in an oversized sweater, her brown hair bent and rumpled. It was getting longer, now down to the middle of her slender neck, and it moved with her while she shook her head. She took a sip of her coffee while she waited for him to speak again.
"He won the no-bell prize."
Silence. Carlos spread his hands with an open-mouthed smile on his face, as if inviting the laughter that wasn't coming.
After a moment, Jill snickered, forced herself to swallow, and it sounded like her drink almost went up her nose. "What is wrong with you?"
"I'm practicing! C'mon, that one was great."
Jill laughed, a low, warm sound that somehow also managed to be sarcastic. "No it wasn't."
"The fact it wasn't good means it's good. See? I'm a natural."
"Oh my God. You're not allowed to talk anymore, not until this cup is totally empty."
That weird, stagnant feeling in the air lightened, as if those word-clouds realized they'd gotten the wrong idea and began to blow away, left cracks of sunshine in their wake. He sat down beside her and she looked glad of it, as if relieved to finally be talking to him though he'd been within twenty feet of her all morning.
"How're you feeling?" He asked.
"I'm okay," she said, and indicated her cup by holding tilting it to and fro, "drugs help. How about you?"
Carlos shrugged. He bounced his heel on the floor; a habit of the constantly moving. "I'm always good. You don't gotta worry about me." Then, "I think I'm gonna go see Kevin today. See how he's doin'." It was partially true, not really a lie. Good enough for government work. "You got any plans?"
"Not sure yet. I might just go over my notes again." She took another drink. "But I think I've read them enough for my eyes to bleed at this point. I could probably recite them backwards at a traffic stop."
"Sounds like… fun. You know, you can watch TV or something instead."
Jill raised an eyebrow like she wasn't sure what that meant. "Like what?"
Carlos' expression was blank. She may as well have just asked him to describe the color blue or the number two. "I dunno, Sally Jesse? Beavis and Butthead? Turn off the ol' noodle and take it easy, maybe?"
"That does sound kind of nice. Not…" she clarified, giggling, with a hold on now raise of her hand, "…Beavis and Butthead, but… taking a break, maybe. My head hurts."
"Well," he reached out, gently tousled the hair on the top of her head, "you should stop doin' the thing that's hurtin' it."
"Thinking?" She leaned into his hand and closed her eyes.
Carlos nodded. He trailed his fingers down the side of her face, thumbed her chin affectionately. "That'll get you every time." Carlos found himself mentally tracing the outline of her profile while she looked away, smiling. Wondering about her chin and her nose; who she inherited them from.
"You're probably right. Maybe I'll just take today off."
"Sounds like a good plan." Carlos pushed himself to a stand. Normally so self-assured, he found himself fumbling, not sure what to say. He clapped his hand on top of a fist in a gesture of wordless awkwardness as he backed away, then asked, "I'm gonna be gone for a while, but do you… want anything on my way back? Food, or…?"
Jill shook her head. "Nothing sounds good. But… thanks."
"Right. Okay. I'll see you later."
She smiled again, as if his sudden awkwardness was charming and not embarrassing. "Be careful." She said, with an expression of lifted eyebrows; I'm trusting you to do the right thing, it said.
Carlos excused himself with that, aimed a great mental kick at himself, wondering where his normally abundant powers of social lubrication had suddenly fucked off to. He was partially grateful for it — she hadn't predicted the real reason for his departure, and if she had, didn't say as much. She definitely would have tried to stop him if she had, maybe given him some sort of fiery speech, as was her way. No dice. Not today.
Of course, it wasn't totally a lie — he was going to see Kevin. But before that, Carlos had a date at a motel, somewhere down by the waterfront.
Chris woke up again at just past 8:30 at night. The rain hadn't stopped. The dark, the sounds of the drops off of the pavement outside; it was what his little sister Claire had declared as "nap weather" when she was tiny and hadn't learned to pronounce her Rs as Rs and not Ws yet, "nap wedduw", curl up and sleep under a blanket wedduw. The rain made Chris dozy and tired, blurred the world around the edges, like the side effect of a drug. But he couldn't sleep all day long. There were things that had to be done, even if he dreaded the thought of them.
Chris thought about washing the white shirt. Maybe scrubbing it with some vinegar or some bleach. He couldn't bring himself to touch it where it sat in a rumple against the corner of the floor and the wall; he walked over and around it, like a sleeping rattlesnake, studiously avoided looking at it. Eventually he shoved it into a trash can, glad that it was gone. Chris gathered his clothes into an olive drab gunny bag, slung it over his shoulder, and started his journey in a trudge, walked down the hall, over the outdated carpet, its brown and orange swirls lost under a wide stripe of grey dirt drug over its fibers from countless sets of feet. The girl behind the counter didn't look up from her homework, huddled over her textbook with one headphone over her ear like always. He pushed the front door open, rubbed at his eyes, still not completely awake.
Then, and voice, loud and clear: "Chris."
Chris stopped, then looked up. Oliveira stood with his powerful arms crossed, leaned back against the hood of Chris' truck. He was wearing a coat with a high collar, the hood of a sweater pulled up around his face. The rain beat around his shoulders like a mist, and his face was hard and unkind under the shadows.
Oliveira unzipped his jacket, threw it on the ground. The rain immediately pelted his sweater, turned it from a light grey to dark. He'd removed the laces from the hood. Smart. Oliveira leaned away from the truck. He was wearing thick-soled workboots, and they hit the ground under his weight in heavy thumps. He approached, and Chris' arm moved on its own; he dropped the heavy bag over his shoulder to the pavement. He started towards Oliveira, conversation the last thing on his mind.
"Don't look so shocked, fucker," the larger man said, "I'm here to talk about what you did to Kevin."
Chris paused. Kevin's voice, pleading and screaming for Chris to stop, cut through the night air, and then ceased back into the pattering of the driving rain.
Oliveira stopped, close enough to start a war, close enough for Chris to smell what brand of deodorant he used, his hands remained on his hips, his torso completely open, like a challenge. His eyes were tilted down. Direct contact. "Would you believe that he doesn't want me to beat your ass? Took off parts of his face like a fuckin' can opener, and he was still tellin' me how good of a guy you were. He seems to think you're sick. Like…" Oliveira twirled a finger by his temple, whistled a brief, sharp note. Cuckoo.
Chris flinched, forward momentum stopped like someone had clapped their hands directly in front of his face. His eyes blinked hard and narrow, and he backed away, by just a twitch. "I didn't mean to," Chris said, "I told him. We were talking. I didn't… just… just stop saying that."
"What, that you're crazy?" Oliveira didn't flinch. "'Talking'. Fuck you. You still need someone to beat on, or they gotta be half a foot shorter than you to get your dick hard?"
"None of this would have happened if you would have just left," Chris said, wincing against a sudden, throbbing pain in the side of his head, "why are you still here?"
"Because fuck you, that's why. That's your problem. You think people are scared of you. You don't know how to handle it when you're not the biggest gorilla in the jungle anymore and nobody gives a shit about your orders. You wanted me so damn bad you were willin' to turn Kevin's face into hamburger over it, so-"
Something attracted Oliveira's eyes; they searched Chris' face like a man looking for evidence, fluttered over his lines and his crags.
"Jesus Christ," he said, with an expression like he'd seen something particularly horrifying, with a tone in his voice that another man may have wondered who the comment was really meant for - Chris or Oliveira himself. "You really are sick."
The word freed something in Chris' brain, let loose some monster shackled to the wet red walls of his skull. With a cry that started as a sound deep in his throat and crescendoed into a yell of anger, of frustration, of loss, Chris launched himself at Oliveira, rammed his shoulder under the tall man's ribs and carried him, slammed him against the side of his truck. There was a brief scuffle in which they struggled for the high ground, and between Oliveira's reach advantage and the slippery effect of the rain that made him impossible to hold, Olivera looped his arms under Chris', yanked him up to a stand with a force that was surprising. His forehead met Chris' twice, knocking him back in an explosion of stars and ringing. When Chris rushed him again, the larger man was nowhere to be found, ducked out of the way, save for his hand that wound around Chris' throat, long fingers biting into the throbbing pulse on either side of his windpipe.
Chris' feet left the ground. Everything spun, and he landed hard, flat on his back and his neck into a puddle of ice-cold rainwater, and the world blinked out into blackness, the air sucked out of his lungs. Oliveira looked down at him, his breaths ragged. Chris expected Oliveira to round on him, slam one of his huge workboots into the side of his head, maybe break his ribs into shards under them. Oliveira just watched him, hands on his hips, as the cold rain belted Chris' face. "Just fucking stop, man. We don't gotta-"
"Shut the fuck up," Chris groaned, the taste of blood in his mouth. Oliveira extended a hand to him to help him up and Chris ignored it, rolled onto his side, struggled back to his feet. Oliveira sighed, shook his head, took a circling step back and away. "Just... just shut up."
It was impossible to tell how long the fight lasted, but was over before Chris realized it; Oliveira was content to eat Chris' punches in order to move in close, taking blows directly on the chin, in the stomach, always bobbling back up for more like one of those inflatable clown dolls that rocked on its base. Oliveira took one of Chris' particular hard blows directly on his jawline, then turned, slammed his own fists straight into Chris' mouth in a chain of freight-train punches that were freed with speed and accuracy that, he realized too late, marked him as trained in and terribly suited to doing just this sort of violence. He'd been goaded into standing up against a man who excelled in knocking people down. The last punch, a haymaker that Chris saw in the last flash of a second before impact but his body refused to dive out of the way of, disoriented and sluggish, sent Chris tumbling and spinning, landed him hard on concrete that bit into his elbows and knees. Blood poured from the root of a tooth in the back of his mouth that had suddenly been freed from its moorings and it felt like he'd been hit by a cement truck, the whole side of his face numb with the promise of later pain. His mouth wouldn't work, sluggish and drooling and bleeding. One of his ears rung, a high-pitched sonic whine that made him want to vomit.
The world blinked and faded, that same blackness swallowing the parking lot and his assailant both in its gradual shift into sleepwalk aggression; Chris awoke again when one of Oliveira's huge boots was against his wrist, stomped it to the ground. One of the delicate bones inside it snapped, its broken pieces grinding against each other. Chris cried out in pain, and Oliveira leaned over. Picked up Chris' pistol, which just a moment ago had been in its holster against his side, but was now freed, in Chris' hand, the safety switched off.
Chris looked at the gun in desperate fear. He had no idea how the pistol got into his hand: he hadn't reached for it. Hadn't planned to use it, though he carried it everywhere he went. When he looked back up, Oliveira's face as he studied the pistol's chrome angles and edges was murderous: mouth set in a line, head shaking in slow disbelief, nostrils flared, his dark eyes flashing with something close to malice. To hatred. After a long moment, that look of murder, of hiding bodies, died. Faded back into something like resolve. He re-engaged the safety and shoved it into the back waistband of his pants.
The rain drove and splashed on the empty parking lot, only the two men around to hear its song. There was a deep scraping and Chris was dragged, dragged into the cover of decorative bushes beside the building, through the sticker brambles and colorful flowers deep into the hedges, away from sight. Oliveira's arms clamped around Chris' neck, squeezed like a cinch being tightened. No air got in or out, stopped curtly at the median of his arm around Chris' throat. The man wrenched him, made to roll him onto his stomach where Chris would have no way to fight back to his feet, where death would be imminent. Oliveira's weight was on his back, oppressive and consuming. He felt the taller man's hair, wet and thick and dripping cold water down the side of Chris' face, down his neck. Chris fought him like a wildcat, but his injuries were too great, and Oliveira strained against him. It was a foregone conclusion - he had the high ground, was relatively uninjured, was taller, perhaps stronger than Chris. Oliveira eventually overwhelmed Chris' struggling, slamming him down on the cedar chips and the dirt and the mud on his stomach, crouched over his form on strong legs, hovering like a carnivorous insect waiting to nip its prey's head off once that prey finished its ineffective flailing throes of disbelief in its own demise.
"I'm doin' you a favor, fucker." Oliveira snarled in hot puffing breaths through his teeth, directly in Chris' ear. "Just shut the fuck up and go to sleep before I slam your ass again."
Chris was strong, but the reach advantage of those precious few inches, the length of the taller man's arms let him wind out of range of Chris' elbows and still keep his grip in those long, agonizing minutes as the world flickered and faded. Chris was a fighter; no doubt about that. He fought and fought, and a few times got close to freeing himself. But his brain, starved of oxygen and determined to keep him alive, eventually convinced him it was okay to just let go for now. To save what air remained for his vital organs, like a mother doling out scant food to too many children while she went to sleep starving.
Chris' arms stopped doing what he bid them. Blows turned to taps turned to impotent waves and then to nothing. Eventually Oliveira let him fall face-first into the brambles and the cold, wet soil chips, the smell of earth and water was his world as his body fought for breath. The ground below disappeared, nothing but air under his chest and his hands and his face, and everything tilted into blackness.
Kevin's mouth was agape, like a fish. The hole where his teeth had been punched out on the right side of his mouth winked blackness at Carlos, and he thought Kevin looked like one of those hillbillies you'd see on cartoons, barefoot, dressed in overalls and backed by a jug band. "Did you…" Kevin sputtered, "is he dead?!"
Carlos looked at the form in the backseat, slumped and rumpled, face-down on the upholstery. Chris' back rose, slow and sure, fell in time. "Breathin', isn't he?" Carlos tried for a joke, but found it fell flat in the distance between he and his friend under the seriousness of the circumstances. "I just… y'know, choked him out. A little."
"A little?!" Kevin repeated, incredulous.
"Maybe a lot," Carlos said, as if correcting himself on a minor lie of omission, "but not all the way. I think."
"Well… not like he didn't deserve it, or nothin'…" Kevin agreed, after a moment's consideration. He fished in the pockets of his blue jeans for a smoke, and when he returned with one, lit it with hands that tremored. "God bless America. You gonna take him to the hospital?"
Carlos rubbed his face. His short beard made a sandpapery noise against his fingers. "Maybe," he said, "think his wrist is hurt."
"I meant as a psych patient, genius. The E.R. takes those too." Kevin took one look at Carlos' empty expression, and sighed. "I keep forgetting you weren't a cop. They'll, uh… they might believe me cause of my face if I tell 'em he attacked me and you took him out. Right?"
"Dunno. Will they?"
"Yeah. Probably. It's our best shot. Either way he needs to be somewhere the walls are padded and they got them 19-inch pythons strapped down."
"Okay. Well, get in before he wakes up and I gotta choke him out all the way, this time."
"Ohhh, look at me, I'm Heavy," Kevin mocked him as he rounded to the passenger side, pitched his voice low, deep in his chest, "hurr durr durr. I'm so big and strong. Get in my car before I punch it and we gotta walk."
Carlos threw the first thing he saw at Kevin, an empty Gatorade bottle in his cup holder. It hit Kevin's temple with the corner of its round base and spun away into the night with an empty noise — plonk.
"Ow! Motherfucker, what's your problem?!"
"You," Carlos said, and laughed. "Just buckle up, asshole."
"Swear to God, zero respect," Kevin grumbled as he clicked his belt secure, and they were off into Washington rain with their quarry in tow.
Chris awoke in a groggy, fitful way that made him feel like a smear of human residue on the underside of a truck. There were bright colors all around him; whites and creams and blues, and he struggled to make sense of what he saw as the images tilted and bobbed. A cry from somewhere far away, a scream of refusal. It curdled Chris' blood and perked his ears, jolted him all the way awake. Chris saw Ryman, in his blue jeans and black t-shirt; he winced, jogged across the room to close the door and block out the noise.
"Jesus," said another voice.
When Ryman turned around, his eyes caught Chris, and he came close to the bed. "Hey, you're not dead!"
The room swam in milky impermanence. Everything was light and airy, like gravity had been turned down by a notch or two. It made memory difficult. Chris groaned; his entire body hurt, especially the back of his head.
"Where…" he stammered, "I feel… what'd you do to me…?"
"I didn't do shit," Ryman said, and pointed across the room to the other side of Chris' bed, "you want that guy."
Chris turned his head. It was slow, like turning a heavy piece of camera equipment determined to scan everything on its journey across. His eyes settled on Oliveira, who stood beside the bed with his hands on his hips. He'd taken off his sweater and set it over the room's radiator to dry, and under the harsh clinical lights of the hospital, the white of his tank top was stark against the strong tawny brown of his skin. Even the ringlets of his hair, dark as volcanic rock, had dried in a way that looked intentional. Chris remembered in a way less like recalling fact and more like trying to grab scraps of a dream in his fists and smash them together to make some sort of sense — whatever had transpired in the fight between them hadn't mussed Oliveira up too bad; not even a split lip or a black eye to be seen, a detail which hurt Chris' pride in a distant way all the same from his hospital bed.
"I remember," Chris said, his voice a simmer, just north of a growl. "I remember you trying to kill me." Chris expected a grimace of anger, a yell, maybe even to be grabbed up by his lapels and shaken; Oliveira laughed, a dismissive tch of a noise, rolled his dark eyes.
"This asshole," Oliveira said, and shook his head.
"He could have killed you," Kevin interrupted, "but he didn't. Remember that part before you start runnin' your fuckin' yap in your glass house, Chris."
"I'm supposed to think I'm laid up with a broken wrist you and two are… what, worried about me?" Chris said, unconvinced. The ridiculousness made him smile, laugh. It made both the men who hovered by his bed take on expressions of discomfort and look at each other in tandem. "Right."
"You may not believe him," Oliveira said, "but the name Jill ring a bell? She's awful worried 'bout you."
Chris paused. He tried to remember what Jill's face looked like, and when he couldn't recall it, it made him frustrated. "I don't need to be in a hospital. I'm not…" Chris flinched, made to sit up, "I'm not crazy."
"Crazy or not, you need medical help." Kevin said. "We all do, and we all got it. Except you. You're in here 'cause we want you around," his gray eyes, the color of the iron sky outside, were serious. "That's all, man."
"He's undersellin' it." Oliveira said. "Both Kevin and Jill told me you were a good dude, and you ain't been actin' like one. They're both better people'n me, so I trust their judgment. You've all got history, but I don't, and someone had to set your ass straight before you really hurt someone. Fact you were tearin' a hole through people I love to get to me just made it easier to justify."
Chris looked at Kevin. "Is that true?"
Kevin sputtered, through a laugh. "I mean — yeah. We worked together for like ten years, dude. You think I secretly thought you were Patrick Bateman the entire time? You went through some heavy shit and you need help to handle it. I meant what I said, whether or not I can make the same sounds with my mouth now."
Chris shook his head. "Why? Why not just…" Chris stopped short. It might have been easier for everyone if Oliveira had finished the job, and to his addled brain, the larger man's reasons were still unclear.
"You don't wanna hear it from me," Oliveira said, "but we got more in common than we got otherwise, like it or not. You don't gotta believe me, but they already took enough from us. Don't start givin' things away you can't get back."
"They," Chris said, "you mean you?"
Oliveira shrugged. "I can't go back and not work for 'em. That's on me to wrestle with. You gotta focus on what you're fighting with, or you're gonna start lookin' more like Umbrella than I ever did."
The flint hit the tinder, but no spark spat into the dry brush of Chris' brain to light the wildfire. They'd given him something — something made it easier to think, easier to exist. He didn't realize how painful existing had been now that it was different. Now that his jaws weren't locked together, teeth grinding. Their arguments began to permeate; to make sense, in a distant, roundabout sort of way.
"Not everyone gets a second chance," Kevin added, "and I know you deserve one. Maybe you just need some help to realize that."
Chris let his head fall back against the pillow. "Why didn't you do it?"
Oliveira blinked at him. "Do what?"
Chris fixed him with a look, and was otherwise silent.
Oliveira's heavy brows knit down; he moved, an uncomfortable half-squirm which, under his broad, powerful build, looked odd and even a bit childish. "I don't wanna hurt nobody," he said, "we already got enough hurt for a lifetime. That's not me, man."
"He's right," Kevin said. "Whatever past is past, but we're gettin' into shit that stays broken once you smash it. You gotta let it go. We can't let them do what they do then pit us against each other. There ain't a lot of us left."
Chris swallowed. Made to argue. But Kevin's face, with its shining cancerous bruises and puffs of swollen flesh, quieted him. Made him ashamed. Instead, he looked at Oliveira. "Is she okay?"
"Jill?"
Chris nodded. At the mention of her name a ghost of a smile turned up Oliveira's features, lit his face from within, like remembering she existed put him in a better space in his mind. Chris remembered the feeling well. "She's good, man. Maybe you guys can talk in a little while. I told her about what's been goin' on, but I don't gotta tell her about this. Not unless you want me to."
"I'll know if you're lying to me." Chris said. "If you hurt her, they won't be able to give me enough drugs to keep from taking it out of you."
"Make you a deal," Oliveira said, "if I hurt her, whatever's left after Jill's done with me and I get done kicking my own ass, you can have what's left."
Kevin pulled up a wooden upholstered chair. Its legs squawked against the tiled floor. "I know what you're thinking — you're gonna wait til nobody's lookin' then get outta that bed and beat feet. Not fuckin' so, Kemosabe. I'm gonna sit my ass right here and watch you. I can scream like a little girl if I need to, don't test me."
Chris felt odd and annoyed about being fretted over; the compassion overwhelmed his already weak mind, and he was still not sure he was wrong. But it made it easier to accept if he was. Doors he'd slammed shut and bolted from the inside were now cracked, propped open for him if he cared to come back through. It was a lot to digest. A lot to adjust to. His head hurt, a little, under a swimmy, pleasant sort of feeling which set him on edge because the pain — his constant friend — was now gone.
"So this is what it's like being on the other side," Chris said. The men were quiet, confused, and then he said by way of explanation, "being in custody."
"A joke?" Kevin laughed, "From you?"
"I'm impressed," Oliveira said with a breath through his nose, one side of his mouth pulled up.
"I think I'm going to sleep." Chris said. "It's… been a long few days."
"No shit," Kevin said, "I'm gonna go have a smoke. Heavy, you good?"
"I gotta go in a few, but yeah, go ahead."
Kevin left them alone. Oliveira took the seat beside Chris' bed, distracted by his phone; he clicked the buttons with a large thumb, his face tired, propped on his other hand.
"I'll try," Chris said, and Oliveira blinked up at him. In that moment, with the help of the drugs, Oliveira didn't look malicious or evil or sly, he just looked like a man — vulnerable and open and listening to another human's emotions. "But it's… raw. I can't tell you I'll be able to. I'm not like…" Chris grumbled and shook his head, "I'm not like Kevin, Oliveira. I don't know if I can."
"Carlos. Haven't been Oliveira since I got out of the Corps." He said. "And we can both try. S'all we can do, man."
Chris considered this. "What changed? Was it…" What I did to Kevin?, Chris wanted to say, but his mouth wouldn't form the words, weighted by shame. Carlos seemed to understand, thought this over for a few long, quiet moments, his eyes cast down under their heavy, dark lashes.
"It's always changing, man," Carlos said, "let's just leave it at that."
When Kevin returned, Chris was already asleep, head bowed under the weight of heavy sedatives. Carlos watched the window, leaned back in the chair, bounced one heel on the ground.
"That was quick," Kevin said, "guess you really wore him out."
"Yeah, well," Carlos said, and stood from the chair, "seems like it did him some good. You said you're straight to stay?"
"Yeah. I can stay for a few days," he said, "'til Monday. Wonder if he'll be better by then. After that, maybe Jill—"
"No," Carlos cut him off, abrupt, and louder than he intended. Kevin looked at him in surprise. "No." Carlos quieted his tone, as if in apology. "That's not gonna work."
"They were friends a long time, Heavy," Kevin said, with a touch of wariness that wasn't without understanding, "whatever's between them's been over a long time, and I think—"
"…wait, what?" Carlos said. "What're you talkin' about?"
"Oh, uh—" Kevin stammered, now aware he'd shoved his entire leg into his gob. "I mean, I thought she— I thought you— um… well, fuck. Well, they did kinda have… y'know, something, way back in the day, and—"
"It's not about that, man. Just… we gotta think of something else."
Kevin regarded him with a breed of suspicion, but didn't push the issue. "'Til Monday," he repeated, "we can think of somethin' else then."
They were both quiet. Kevin spoke again. "Did you mean it?"
Carlos looked at him. "Mean what?"
Kevin shrugged, uncomfortable now that he was made to explain. "You uh… you said you loved me. And Jill. Earlier."
Carlos didn't even take a moment to think about it, just fired back with a smile, "Course, man. I mean, they're different kinds of love, but sure. You're my dude." A jab of his thumb back towards the bed, "You see how I fucked this joker up for you?"
Kevin nodded, held out his hands, walked into Carlos' body and encircled him in a hug. Carlos was shocked, but returned it, clapped Kevin on the back. "You good?" He laughed.
"Yeah," Kevin said, "I just needed that, I think."
Carlos didn't know if Chris would be better by Monday. Or if he'd be better, ever. He hoped he would be, for Jill's sake; he didn't much care about the man past how what happened to him would hurt her. It felt like rooting for a certain sports team because a loved one sorely wanted to see them win some sort of pennant or a cup after a long dry spell. But left to his own devices, Carlos had not seen a single game in Chris' season; not witnessed his injuries and disqualifications and the comebacks he'd mounted just to make it to the playoffs. And while Carlos wished no harm on the man, he found precious little reason to care if he fell to harm due to outside forces, either.
Carlos cracked the front door and the faded smell of meat and spices wafted out as the air was released. His stomach yelled at him with sudden urgency. Carlos would know the smell anywhere; it was picanha, his favorite, barbecued steak seasoned with coarse salt and garlic and parsley. A side dish of fragrant grilled onions and egg was nestled against the cut of meat, and it took a Herculean amount of self-control to not grab up the dish and devour it, cold, with his bare hands. Jill had picked up some kind of take out in black plastic containers, had set the table, fallen asleep on the couch with her head against the armrest. The TV flickered with the residual light of grey-blue images against her still, lovely face, her food untouched.
Carlos took a quick shower to scrub the night's misgivings off of him. He could smell the rain, the dirt, the blood, and a strange, thin tendril of medical alcohol stink. He put his hands over his face to rub the soap over his skin and the scraping jingle of the shower curtain on its rod sounded above him; a slender pair of arms circled his hips, the warmth of a face against his upper back.
"Did everything go okay?" Jill asked. The sound of her voice bounced around in the tiny plastic cocoon, competed with the sizzling spray of water for his ears.
"Oh yeah," Carlos said, and rinsed his face under the jets with his eyes squeezed shut, tried to keep the tone in his voice light, conversational. "He's good now."
Jill nodded. Her hair, now wet, slid against his skin. He could feel her eyelashes beat against him, like the wings of a moth.
"Would you tell me if you went somewhere else other than Kevin's?" She asked.
It felt close to being caught in an affair — something Carlos had stumbled into once or twice in his younger, dumber years, when your brain hadn't yet matured enough to care about other people outside of your own self-interest. That feeling of being caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing, of having to come up with an excuse on the spot, of jumping into the shower to wash the night's deeds off of you, trying to dispose of the evidence and getting caught all the same. The air caught in his chest and he took a deep breath in through his nose, finished washing his face. Jill was quiet, still leaned against him, her arms low around his waist.
He remembered her face when they'd first spoken on the swings in the swirling bouts of snow, how her eyes had implored the truth and he'd made the decision to not keep it from her. How long ago that felt, now.
"Yeah," he said, and the note of defeat in his voice was clear. "Yeah, let's talk about it after we get out."
"I'd rather talk now," she said, and he knew what she was doing — not giving him time to think up an excuse that sounded plausible. Jill was without a doubt the most intelligent woman he'd ever been with, let alone the most intelligent person he'd ever met. Her chess-club detective's brain erected hurdles he wasn't used to having to jump, ill-prepared to come home to the human equivalent of a scalpel that made surgical cuts in his little white lies and excuses and removed them in a way that made it sound like Carlos' idea. How she did it was still a mystery to him, and though her intelligence was a turn-on, it was also a complication. "Where did you go?"
Carlos sighed. It wasn't a noise he made a lot in day-to-day life. He untangled Jill's arms from around him, turned to her, looked down into her face.
"Look," he said, "do you trust me?"
Jill's eyes searched his face, as if looking for the reason behind the question. There was a faint breed of panic there. "Of course," she said, quiet.
"Kevin and I ended up takin' your friend Chris to the emergency room. Kevin's idea."
Jill's face didn't move, didn't change. "Why didn't you bring me with you?" She asked. "I could have helped — he would have listened to me. Why the emergency room? Did you hurt him? Did…" she searched Carlos' face again and found no injury, looked at his hands. Carlos removed them from her before she could get a good look at his knuckles, put his palms on the sides of her face.
"I did it to make sure you were safe," he said, "I couldn't risk you bein' around him, not like he is now. Not with…" Carlos trailed off.
"Did you hurt him?" Jill asked, again.
Carlos paused. "His arm's a little banged up. Might have a black eye." 'Might' was a massive understatement; he'd given Chris what was known as The Business when he'd decided he wanted to get aggressive and turn it into a stand-up fight, and was shocked when none of the bones in his face had turned out to be broken. "He didn't wanna go. But Kevin and I got him to a hospital where they can treat him for whatever's gone wrong in his brain. Kevin's idea. Funny, right? Kevin doing the thinking, for once." Jill didn't laugh. Didn't find this funny at all, if her face was any indication. Carlos let the joke deflate. "Look… I know you're not happy. But you gotta understand. You didn't see what he did to Kevin. I couldn't risk that happening to you. I couldn't let you do that."
"I'm not a thing that gets risked or not." Jill said, her voice not scolding or unkind, and it was strange, her tone at total odds with the words. "You still have to include me. You don't get to make these decisions for me."
"Sorry," he said, "I just did what I thought would be best. Y'know… considering."
It changed her tack. Softened it. "Did he hurt you?"
Under the beat of misting shower jets and the intimacy of their shroud of steam, this conversation about about truth and lies, Carlos considered letting it all loose — considered telling her how Redfield had pulled a gun on him before he'd broken the man's wrist to get it away. They always said your life flashes before your eyes in those moments, but Carlos' didn't. He didn't think of the dusty trails and towering piles of bright technicolor houses of his childhood home in Brazil, or of New York, with its everpresent blink of lights and frenetic energy, or his mom, or his entire football league's worth of cousins and aunts and uncles, or even Jill; it was an abject refusal to go not because of where he'd been, but of some responsibility unfulfilled. A responsibility beyond the drama of viruses in little glass phials and mercenaries with intimidating layers of gear that clanked as they marched, spread into doomed cities like rows of ants. Something simpler. Something he had yet to do, and wasn't sure what it looked like, but knew it had to be him. It flashed before him all the same, guided his actions as surely as the past ever had.
"He tried," Carlos said, "but he wasn't on it, tonight. The point is we're both safe, and he's gonna get the help he needs." To her unchanged face, he said: "I did it for you. You said he was your friend — I didn't want him gettin' hurt, either. And hopefully now he won't." He paused, tried to think of something else to add, but only came up with: "I'm not used to… not… runnin' off and doin' what I think is right. But I get where you're comin' from. You just gotta believe me."
Jill touched his face in turn. "If that's what you said happened, then… that's what happened. Just promise me you're not going to keep anything else from me. Okay? Even if you think there's a good reason."
"Okay," Carlos said, surprised. It felt like a gift, of being let off easy. "Promise. But Kevin did say somethin' that you didn't mention… he said that you and Chris were… back in the day. You know."
Jill blinked at him. "Maybe," she said, "once. It didn't get very far, though. He left me. Just up and vanished."
"Well, finders keepers," Carlos laughed. "What a dumbass." And that was that.
"I'm not going to disagree with you. But — one more thing we have to get straight," she said, traced the line of his collarbone with her fingertips, "you're not letting me do anything. You don't suddenly have dominion over me. Got it?"
"Alright, I'm not sure what that means," he leaned closer in response to her touch, his voice soft, "but I'm pretty sure you just told me to go fuck myself."
Jill smiled at him. "I never ask people to do things I can take care of."
Carlos grabbed her up, and Jill made a shriek of surprise, pushed at him as he kissed and nipped at her throat. Jill tried to lean away, giggling, and slipped, braced herself against the walls with a shocked look on her face.
"Maybe the shower's not the best place for this anymore," she said with a nervous laugh as he pulled her back to her feet, "my balance is way off."
"That's okay," he said, undeterred, "I got enough for the both of us."
It seemed Jill's condition changed a few key things. Chief of which, the amount of energy she had to expend at any moment. It made for an interesting experience; no sooner than they had finished, she turned from energetic and even aggressive to a yawning, flagging slump. Carlos had to drag her back to the couch with him from where she tried to lay down on the bathroom tiles.
"You gonna eat?" He asked. He poked her gently with the plastic fork provided with the meal. "You should eat. C'mon, you got some good stuff."
Jill shook her head, eyes closed. "Not hungry," she said.
"I'm gonna eat your dinner if you don't."
"I gonna," she mumbled, and was gone.
Carlos shrugged. He'd given her fair warning. He dumped Jill's food onto his plate, settled back with her under the blanket, ate his cold dinner while she slept against one of his legs. He was content to refuel his tired body and — once he was sure she was asleep — watch Beavis and Butthead until the wee hours, a simple reward for a night of jobs well done.
Carlos was unaware, as was his way, of the impact his actions that night would have going forward into the next few months, even the next few years. Of how the power of his branching decisions would change his own life, and the life of the woman sleeping against his thigh, and even the life of the tiny little thing inside her body, no bigger than a marble or a pea at this juncture. Of how the mercy he'd shown would end up resulting in doom, as mercy often did.
Kevin didn't need to stay after Monday, or even to Monday. He spent Saturday flirting with the nurses to amuse himself. He tried to cajole stilted conversation out of Chris, who obliged, but only just so, in the stiff, proper way a man offers small talk to strangers in an elevator but is back to looking at the glowing numbers in silence at the first available opportunity. Whether it was the fault of medicine, or guilt, or both, it was progress from punches and the frosty, awkward silences they'd shared at the RPD. He'd wear Chris down, given enough time.
At about four in the afternoon on Saturday, when the sun beat in with cheery golden insistence just before retiring to the horizon, the door to Chris' room opened with an urgency as they both slept: Chris in his hospital gown, white with blue polka dots, and Kevin with his legs kicked over the side of his chair, fingers laced over his stomach as he nodded off into dreamland. The sound roused Kevin first and he blinked awake to a sight unexpected; a young woman, tall and pretty, who wore a black leather jacket over a t-shirt he recognized as an Alice In Chains album cover. A pair of tight black jeans torn at the knees, scuffed leather boots laced up her shins. Though her clothing screamed I'M TOUGH DON'T FUCK WITH ME, everything else about her lacked that same hardness; she was Kevin's height, eyes as blue as wildflowers, skin smattered with nut-brown freckles. She was blessed with so much rust red hair that it couldn't decide where it wanted to drape over her shoulders, so it decided on "everywhere". There was a certain predatory edge to her movements, an unapologetic sense of taking up space, her spine straight and shoulders held back.
The woman's eyes were full of urgency and worry as she scanned the room. When she came around the corner her face broke into a wide, dimpled smile, and she ran to the bedside, did everything but throw herself on top of Chris, who made a loud noise of confusion. She pulled back, inches from his face.
"Why is it always something with you?" She asked with a relieved laugh. She grabbed him in a tight, airless hug, closed her eyes as she squeezed. Kevin moved to grab her, and hustle her to safety away from Chris, but Chris just winced with a laugh and allowed the battery upon his person. "I can't leave you alone for a single second." She continued. "You're like a toddler, always falling off of shit and hurting yourself."
Behind the redheaded woman, a small girl appeared, slight and blonde and dressed in a striped t-shirt and a pair of shorts. She wore sneakers that blinked with pink and white lights as she compressed their soles with her steps. When Kevin looked to her, the little girl waved, timid. Kevin waved back.
"You know me," Chris said, smiled a crooked smile at the woman who refused to release him, "easily bored. Then I get into trouble. How'd you get here?"
"We were already flying out next week for the trial, so I bumped our tickets ahead." She replied, kissed him on his forehead, straightened to a stand. As if she just now realized Kevin was even in the room, she asked Chris, "Is this your friend?"
Chris squinted at Kevin for a long, long moment. "Yeah," he said, "we worked together at the police department. That's Kevin Ryman."
"Oh, I know you! You're the Kevin!" She said, effusive, with childlike excitement.
"The Kevin," Kevin said, and liked the sound if it. "That's me."
Kevin expected a handshake. When she approached, she also grabbed him into a hug, as if they'd been friends forever. She smelled like hairspray, leather, and some sort of perfume that reminded Kevin of the scent of vanilla ice cream. "I'm Claire, this klutz's little sister. Nice to meet you." She smiled. "Officially."
"I… I… uh..." From behind Claire's back, Chris glared, shook his head in dire warning, the goodwill drained from his face. If you thought I beat you before, his expression said, just try it. Even the medicine couldn't dull the edge of some things inborn, Kevin figured.
"And this is Sherry," Claire continued, gestured to the little girl. Sherry seemed to naturally drift behind her, like a baby bear hidden behind its mother's haunches for protection. "Why don't you say hi, Sherry?"
"Hi," the little girl said, shy and quiet.
"Well, come here," Chris said, and gestured the girl over, "let me take a look at the newest addition to the family."
Sherry looked to Claire, unsure, and Claire ushered her on. She walked to the side of Chris' bed, searched his injuries and his hospital gown with eyes that weren't trusting, but weren't unhappy, either. "I guess you're my new Uncle," she said, with the trademark over-familiarity of small children, zero filter applied. When they all laughed, her eyes tracked over them in turn, smiled as if to ask if it was her question, or something else, which was clever enough to have pleased a room of grown-ups so.
Chris laughed and spoke to her in a low, kind voice that made Sherry giggle, her mouth covered with one small hand. He asked her if she was hungry — he had some pudding they'd offered him, and he made a face to indicate how gross he'd found it. She could have it if she wanted. Sherry nodded, insistent and hungry, and made to climb on his bed. Kevin expected Chris to wiggle away, to make a face as if to signal the closeness was too much too fast, but he didn't, and like that, they were thick as thieves, bonded over sugar and a soft bed after a long plane ride.
"Hey, Kevin," Claire said, "can I talk to you for just a sec? Out here?"
"Sure," Kevin said, "you good, Chris?"
"Huh?" Chris said, distracted from where Sherry was nestling in beside, Kevin already forgotten. "Oh. Yeah, go ahead."
Kevin followed Claire into the hallway. His eyes stole a brief, deep once-over of her body; no wonder Chris turned out to be such an asshole who punched first and asked for forgiveness later if he was charged with protecting her, as big brothers were. Kevin also got the distinct idea, under Claire's playful chiding and superhero jaunt across the country at even the sniff of bad news, maybe Chris wasn't the protector in this dynamic.
Claire leaned against the wall, her hands behind her back, feet crossed.
"So what happened?" She asked. "I was expecting way worse than this. They made it sound serious. Tubes and beeping machines and traction pins. Chris hasn't ever been to the doctor under his own power… no way he'd come for a banged up wrist."
Kevin didn't realize he'd been distracted by the earnest blueness of her eyes until she laughed at his facial expression and said, "Well?"
"Oh," he stammered, "sorry. It's uh…" he scratched his head, "it's more of a… y'know, psych… thing. He's been havin' a hard time since the incident."
Claire's mouth draped open. "His wrist… he didnt…?"
"No, no. Nothin' like that." Kevin said. "We were just worried about him, is all."
Claire's eyes became distant, downcast, and her smile faded. "We all have. But he takes tragedy really hard. Carries the weight of the world, you know. Always has." As if she remembered something at the last moment, she looked around. "Where's… Jess? Jessica?"
Kevin was confused for a brief second. "You mean Jill?"
"Jill," Claire repeated, "that was it. I would have thought she'd be here."
"Well…" Kevin trailed off. He figured he'd let Chris explain it, when Claire gleaned the meaning from his expression all the same.
"I kinda figured," she said, with a bit of a sympathetic wince. "Kinda the way it goes, with Chris. Poor guy."
Kevin nodded. "He said you'd come from somewhere far away, right?"
"Colorado. I'm finishing up school there, but they called me to let me know there'd been an accident. I was expecting the worst." She peered at him. "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"
Kevin remembered the state of his own face. His black eye still remained, puffy and bruised, but most of the swelling had gone down. "Oh, uh… no, nothin' like that. Got mugged a few days ago." He lied. "Dangerous town."
"I bet," she said, "you at least give 'em some back?"
"Oh yeah," Kevin said, "he got his licks in, but I like to think I came out the winner in this one."
"Good," Claire said, optimistic.
Kevin intended to stay for another hour or so — long enough to not seem like he was revved to get away from Chris, but he also didn't want to overstay his welcome now Chris' family was here to provide care. Kevin and Claire spent most of the time making jokes at Chris' expense, which he shouldered with resigned, unamused seriousness while Sherry napped beside him, her tiny form cuddled boneless around the line of his shoulder. Claire brushed her fingers through the girl's baby-fine blonde hair as she slept. The television still played a re-run of the Pink Panther from where Chris had changed it for her, even though Sherry was long asleep.
"She took to you easy, didn't she?" Claire asked Chris. "Do you want me to move her?"
Chris just chuckled. "Guess so. You can leave her there. It's okay."
A nurse with green scrubs and her hair tied in braids came in and gave Chris another shot of clear medicine into the line in his arm — Claire asked her questions which bordered on exhaustive about dosage, timing, what it was for, the side effects — and somewhere in their conversation Chris ended up succumbing those side effects, his head leaned back, mouth parted in heavy breaths that came short of snores.
For Kevin's part, his conversation with Claire didn't stop once his reason for staying did; with Chris' buffer of threats removed, the conversation flowed thick and fast. Claire was kind and funny and easy to talk to, full of jokes and pop culture references and human interest. Kevin was an extrovert who charged his batteries on conversations like this, lost with ease in the connections between people — new people even moreso. When Kevin looked at the clock again, it was a few minutes shy of 9pm. He checked it three times in shock.
"Well," Kevin said, grudging, and stood from his chair, "hate to do it, but it looks like I've overstayed my welcome. S'about that time for me. You all are good here?"
"We're good," Claire said. Her smile was sunny but tired. "Thanks for staying. We really appreciate it."
"No prob," Kevin said, "anything to help out. You guys let me know if you need anything else, okay?"
"Sure," she said, and returned her attention to Sherry, who smacked her lips in her sleep like a baby nursing upon her blanket, nuzzled her small, heart-shaped face against the pack of Chris' shoulder. "Thanks, Kevin." Then, as if unsure she should add it, "I had fun hanging out. Don't be a stranger, okay?"
Kevin laughed. "Wouldn't think of it. G'night."
Kevin was about halfway home when he realized. He watched the lights dance across the back window in his cab, when the familiar weight of his wallet was missing from his pockets. He patted those pockets in sudden, horrified realization, he cursed under his breath, asked the cabbie to turn around.
"That'll be a return trip," the man informed him, gruff and unsympathetic. "Double fare."
Kevin jogged back through the hospital's hallways. The thick rubber soles of his Chuck Taylors tapped against the polished sanitized floors, and he rode the elevator up seven levels beside an elderly woman strapped into a gurney, surrounded by nurses and doctors. He departed before they did, signed in at the nurse's station and returned to a room enrobed in dark save for a small, ambient bedside light. Kevin checked the room number — it was the correct one.
At first Kevin assumed Claire had left. Her chair was empty at Chris' bedside where she sat a short time before. When Kevin's eyes adjusted to the darkness and the inky shadows, he saw Claire had removed her boots, climbed into bed on the other side of her brother, ducked under his arm and was cuddled against his chest. They were all asleep, Redfield in the middle like a stabilizing rock formation. Kevin watched them for a brief moment, and he marveled at the duality of the thing; a man with fists like granite, a mind like a pointed weapon waiting to be directed at someone deserving, dogged and capable of such terrible atrocities; and that same man, soothed so by something as simple as human touch. And a cocktail of nerve medicine… but mostly love, it looked like. If only for the moment, something as simple as family, as something to love, as something to protect, had calmed him and salved his broken heart, packed all his despairing violence back inside its pumping walls.
Maybe not something to protect and love… maybe something to protect and love him. Something that wouldn't leave.
Maybe it was as simple as that.
The destructive power of familial instinct gone awry was a sight to behold. But here, it made Kevin feel like there was maybe hope for the man in the hospital bed. And if there was hope for him, maybe there was hope for them all.
Kevin tiptoed to the table, collected his wallet, and closed the door behind him.