It was close to 11 when I turned my key in the door and walked in on a ringing phone.
"Don't hang up. Hello?" I said, fumbling the receiver. "Hello?"
"Aye, girl, m'still here."
"Murphy," I sighed, but his voice was thick. He'd been crying. My blood chilled and my stomach clenched. "Connor?" I croaked, near hysteria.
The response was a soft mewl of pain that stopped my heart and wrenched at my soul. I had never heard Murphy like this, he was heart-broken and I only wanted to touch him. "Murph?" I asked again.
"Lass," came Connor's voice through the line, and I relaxed a bit, tears of relief spilling down my cheeks.
"Oh, God, Connor," I sighed, closing my eyes. Then it hit me, like a bucket of cold water. "Rocco," I said, not asking.
"Aye. We're in rough shape, lass."
"Anything you need, you know that. Talk to me."
He gave me an address and a room number at a hotel on the other side of town. I wrote it down, quickly. "Be there soon. Take care," I said and he hung up without saying goodbye. I dropped to my knees beside my phone and wept. Sobbing and heaving, unable to conjure up any other image in my head, than Rocco wedged in my bookcase the night before.
Rocco was gone.
Rocco was cold.
Rocco was dead.
But my boys were still alive.
My sobs stopped almost immediately.
My boys were alive and they needed me.
"So get your shit together," I said to myself, wiping at my eyes. Galvanized by the sound of my own voice, I got to my feet and started packing up anything they had left behind, loading their duffle bags. I grabbed my own and started loading it with first aid supplies, not wanting to draw anymore attention than I was already going to. Carrying three huge duffle bags was going to be conspicuous enough, but two and a giant first aid kit would really be pushing it. Nothing for it. Just do what I could.
I changed out of my work clothes and into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, pulled on my boots, laced them, loaded the bags onto my shoulders, locked up behind me and tromped to the elevator. I had a buddy from work that lived in the building that let me borrow her car when I needed it, so I stopped by her door. Fed her a story about a cousin in a wreck upstate. She handed over the keys with no fussing and offered to tell Keith my manager the next day that I wouldn't be in. I told her thanks and that if Keith didn't like it, he could fire me. Then I trudged down to the garage.
It had only been about 45 minutes since I talked to Connor as I pulled into the parking lot of the motel. The room was on the first floor at the end of the building and I parked a few doors down. I hauled my first aid duffle out of the car and headed for the door.
I exhaled deeply as I stood in front of the door, ran a hand through my hair, and knocked, heavy enough to be heard, but not heavy enough to be mistaken for pounding. I heard shuffling inside and the unmistakable click-clack of an automatic round being chambered. I took a step back so I would be visible through the peephole and held my hands out to my sides. "It's me," I squeaked.
I could hear voices, but not words, then the lock was drawn and the door opened a crack. I caught a flash of Connor's eye through the opening and started forward, pushing the door out of the way and wrapped my arms around him and I felt the tears start again. He returned my hug and I felt my hair stick to his face as he leaned down into me. He slid a hand underneath the strap of the bag and slid it off of my shoulder as he picked me up by the waist and squeezed. I got my arms around his neck and was reasonably sure I'd never let go.
I heard creaking wood off to my right and glanced that way expecting to see Murphy, but instead saw an older man. Gray hair, long and curly, rising from a chair beside a table where sat a sidearm and a smoking cigar.
"Um," I said stupidly in Connor's ear, but he wasn't letting go.
"Did ye have other bags, child?" he asked in a brogue more pronounced than the boys', a chill in his voice that made me shiver against Connor.
"Yes, sir," I said, reaching into my pocket and taking out my keys. "Three doors down, the-"
"I saw ye pull in, child. I'll find it," and he was gone out the door.
"Lord Almighty, lass. Thought I'd never see ye again," Connor whispered into my hair.
I hugged him tighter and held on until I heard the door open behind me again. The older man dropped the boys' bags on the floor, put my keys on the table, took the gun and the cigar and withdrew silently again.
"How badly are you hurt?" I asked softly.
"Been worse," he said, his arms loosening around me, allowing me to slide to the floor.
"And Murphy?" I asked, looking down, wiping tears from my cheeks.
"Bathroom," he said as I looked up at him, seeing him for the first time. It wasn't pretty. His face was swollen from a hell of a beating, covered in drying blood, his leg wound obviously reopened.
"Oh, Jesus, Connor," I said, tearing up fresh again.
"We're alive," he said, heavily.
"Yea," I squeaked as the bathroom door opened and Murphy emerged, in his boxers, covered in bruises and blood, cradling one hand against his chest. "Oh," I said, pathetically as he looked up at me, his mouth set in an angry line, his eyes drowning in sadness, "baby," I finished as I crossed to him.
He grabbed me almost violently leaning down to put his forehead against my shoulder and wrapped me up so tightly I couldn't breathe for a second. "My fault," he sobbed, his voice angry.
Sweet bleedin' Christ, I thought as I hugged him back. My hand instinctively reaching to stroke his hair as I tried to soothe him. "No, Murph," I whispered to him. "I don't believe that."
"Brought him in," he said, harshly, his voice jagged. "Wouldn't have been there. My fault."
"Shut up," I said, touching his back. "Roc knew what he was signing on for when he started running with Yakavetta's crew when he was a kid. He always knew it could end like this." I had no idea how it had ended, but I knew Rocco had loved Connor and Murphy like his own blood and he wouldn't have wanted them to self-destruct over this, and as Murphy thrummed under my hands, torn apart by more emotions than I could probably count, I worried that was what he was headed towards.
Slowly he loosened his limbs around me and I took his hand softly in mine and led him to a padded bench that sat at the foot of the bed. "Let me look you over," I said, sitting him down. I turned to get my bag and found Connor sitting in the recently emptied chair, gun in hand, looking out the window and chain-smoking.
Jesus, they were strung out. I lugged the bag to my feet beside Murphy. Went to the bathroom and got the ice bucket full of warm water and a washcloth and slowly started cleaning. Starting at his feet, I worked my way up, the warm water sluicing through the hair on his legs, dampening the mats of dried blood enough for me to wipe them away, carefully cleaning the flaps of skin, scraped away by what looked like it had been handcuffs.
Kneeling in front of him, I started on his thighs, my breasts brushing against his knees as he sat, statue-still, staring into space. Moving beside him on the bench, I started on his stomach, gingerly. Rubbing only hard enough to clear away the blood trying to avoid the places where the deep purples and greens told me he had probably cracked a rib.
His chest was not bruised, but a mess of dried blood, where the blood from his mouth had trickled down and seeped through the material of his shirt. I kissed the tattoo over his heart, and still no reaction.
I started down his arms, found more handcuff scrapes, worse on the side with the dislocated and possibly broken thumb. "All I can do with this is splint it," I said, my voice loud in the silent room. Murphy didn't respond so I turned to Connor, "but he needs to have it looked at."
"Tomorrow," Connor agreed, looking at me briefly before returning his gaze to the parking lot. "Someone'll see to it," he trailed off.
I nodded, washing Murphy's blood-slicked hands, careful of his thumb, which I immobilized and wrapped, unsure what else I could do for it.
I moved to his face next. A mass of bruises marring his fair skin. I wiped gently, before going in with my alcohol and butterfly stitches, disinfecting all the cuts and scrapes and covering them in antiseptic before applying bandages where they were needed.
I stood up, pulled a bottle of painkillers from my bag, handed him two and got up to rinse out the bucket and get a new washcloth. I was just filling a glass for him when he came up behind me and met my eyes in the vanity mirror, his hands sliding around my waist, resting on my belly. "Thank you," he said to my reflection, a hint of spark in his eyes and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Anything for you," I said, touching his hands. He kissed my cheek, took the glass from me, swallowed the pills and sat in the middle of the bed, his back against the headboard.