21
Designed Intent
Chapter 4
Tuesday
Eames was at her desk early Tuesday morning. She was a wreck. Too little sleep and too much crying and booze will do that a person.
Sledge had called Eames the night before and said he wanted to come over. She told him no, but opened the door when he got there.
"Why are you here, Edward?"
"Why did you open the door?"
"Fuck you."
"Alex, Hon, you need to talk about this shooting this afternoon. It will eat you alive." He turned and locked the door behind him. Then walked to the fridge and reached for the bottle of wine that always sat on the bottom shelf of the door, but it was already in the recycle bin. "How much of this have you had? Did you drink that whole thing tonight?"
"That is none of your goddamn business. I don't want to talk to you about anything. Why did you even call?"
"Why did you open the door?"
"Fuck you."
"I notice a pattern emerging here. Goren would have predicted such a thing. Come here; sit with me. Hon, you have to talk about this. Alex, come here." Sledge moved to the sofa and sat in his usual place, he patted the spot beside him – her usual place. "Hon?"
Eames was just drunk enough to have no backbone. She was a mighty force sober, but pretty much a wet rag drunk. She looked at her lover and realized how much she missed him – and how much she needed him. Eames started toward him and lost her footing, Sledge was there in an instant to catch her.
"Whoa, Missy!" Edward swept her up into his arms and said, "Why don't we talk in the bedroom? That way, when you pass out, you will already be in bed. Sound like a good idea? I think so." With that, he headed to the bedroom.
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Gleason soon realized that living three blocks from campus made for a brisk, healthy walk when you are twenty-something; but at forty-something, it was a different story. She was huffing puffing and the weight settling on her chest was mildly worrisome.
"Hey, pretty lady, can I give you a lift?" a voice called from a vehicle on the street beside her. Gleason ignored the rude intrusion and tried to pick up her pace. "Gleason! Let me give you a lift!" At the sound of her name, she stopped, turned and bent to see who it was.
"Oh, Malcolm! Yes, yes, thank you." She headed for the car and he reached to open it for her. She slid in and pulled shut the door. "Thank God it was you."
"Why are you walking? Do you have car trouble?" Malcolm glanced at her and noticed her pallor, near gasping and the fact that her left forearm was vertical against the center of her chest. "Are you all right?" He pulled to the curb and parked illegally. "Gleason?"
She struggled to catch her breath and waited with her eyes closed for a minute, then whispered, "Yes . . . yes I'm fine . . . fine . . . give me just a minute."
Malcolm reached over and put his hand on her shoulder. "Can I do anything? Should I call 911?"
"No!" Gleason shook her head and waited, as her gasping became breathing again and the pain eased. "This happens occasionally. It always goes away after a few minutes." Malcolm studied her, not sure whether he should call for help or not. He watched her take a deep, shuddering breath and then push the hair from her face. "There, there. It always ends."
She turned to face him and recognized the look. Bobby had had the same look that morning in his office, after their first date for coffee, when she had gone to him to report the vicious messages that had started the awfulness. Right then, she knew for sure that Bobby was her 'one.' She saw in Bobby pained love, a love that would care for her forever. Gleason looked away quickly and said, "Malcolm, please, let's go."
Malcolm looked at her deeply for another minute and then he pulled from the curb.
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"Mr. Brine? . . . Mr. Brine are you all right? . . . I am going to call 911 if you do not answer me. . . . Ok, I am going to call them. . . . Last chance. . . . Here I go. . . . Mr. Brine?"
Mrs. Nicholson was old, gray, plump, widowed, and took in boarders to make ends meet. She was not nosey, made the washer and drier available to those who chose to use them, and would provide a light breakfast and simple dinner for a nominal, additional charge. Her boarders were generally quiet, gaunt, stubbly-looking men in age from twenty to ninety-three. She was a kind, good, generous woman who was certain she would be raped and killed in the night by one of them.
She had been knocking on Brine's door for twenty minutes. Sylvester Brine was one of the nicest gentlemen ever to visit her house. He was quiet, clean, polite, and very private. Mrs. Nicholson decided to check on him, as he had not yet come downstairs.
"Ok. I'm going to call the police now." Mrs. Nicholson waited another minute and then walked to the table at the end of the hall to use the phone.
"911, what is your emergency?"
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Bobby arrived reading the folded newspaper while walking from the elevators. He dropped the paper on his desk and shrugged out of his coat, hung it up and sat.
"Morning," Eames said to him as she had nearly every morning of their partnership.
"Yeah. You want some coffee?" he asked as he had nearly every morning of their partnership.
"Thanks," Eames said holding up her cup. Bobby took it and headed off.
Eames' head was still pounding and she felt sluggish, but knew the coffee would set her straight. She glanced over at Edward and saw that he was watching her. He sat leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out with fingers in front of his lips in a Bobby-like way.
They locked eyes for a moment and he imperceptibly nodded toward the crash room. Eames looked at him and stood. She met Bobby on the way and took the cup from him. "Thanks," she said, continuing to walk. A minute later, Sledge passed Bobby heading in the same direction. Bobby just shook his head.
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Malcolm held onto Gleason's elbow as they walked slowly to Margrave Hall. "Gleason, I really think you should go to the clinic."
"I am fine, Malcolm, please, let's say no more about it, all right?"
He did not believe her for one minute. Malcolm wanted to ask her about her heart, but was not sure how she would react, so, he did, "Do you have a problem with your heart?"
Gleason shut her eyes and stopped. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. Please, don't push me on this." She looked at him directly and he knew to let it be.
"All right, Lass, all right. I am worried about you, though." They continued in silence until they were at Margrave. He opened the door and ushered her through. Together they walked up the steps to the second floor. "Get your things for your class and I'll walk with you."
"No, no. My class is at eight-forty, I have some time to get some things done here. Thank you, Malcolm. Thank God, you drove by. I'll be fine now. Really."
Malcolm stood a wee bit close and then ran his hand down her arm, "All right. How about if we have lunch? I want to make sure you are all right."
"I, I don't know. We'll see."
They stared at each other and then he turned to leave. "Don't drag that body bag around with you today, ok?"
She smiled and sat at her desk.
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Man, where is he? I knew he was too good to be true. Turnbuckle was getting antsy. He and Brine were to meet and begin to discuss the particulars of this next job. He did not want anything to go wrong.
Where the fuck is he?
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"Where am I?" Brine whispered.
"You are at Methodist General, Mr. Brine. How are you feeling?" the nurse asked.
"What happened? Why am I here?" Brine's lips were cracked and his tongue felt like it wore a wool mitten.
"Your landlady called the paramedics when you wouldn't answer your door this morning. You must have passed out from dehydration and starvation." Turnbuckle's blood work had shown absolutely no sign of recent nutrition. He was drug free and relatively healthy except for evidence of malnutrition.
"What time is it?"
"It is . . . nearly six o'clock, Tuesday evening."
Brine thought and thought. There was something I was supposed to do today, tonight, he thought. His mind raked through ideas and snatches of thought. What was I supposed to do? Then he remembered . . . oh, yeah, Turnbuckle. Brine slid back to sleep.
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Bobby was closing up his computer for the day when his cell rang. "Goren."
"Hi, Love."
"Honey, it's early. Everything ok?"
"Are you in the middle of something?"
"No, no, I'm just surprised to hear from you so early."
"If you are busy, I can --,"
"Is everything ok?" Her silence told him everything. "Gleason, what's wrong?"
"Are you still at work?"
"Yes. Gleason, what's wrong?" The wait was too long. He was about to say something else when she finally spoke.
"I finished at four and had an hour of office hours and then came back to the apartment and wanted to hear your voice. That's all." He thought he heard a faint breathiness in her voice.
"Tonight and Thursday are your short nights. You sound tired, are you feeling ok?"
"I am tired, Bobby. These are long days even when they are short days. I shouldn't complain. I had two new classes today."
"I know, Sweetheart – 'Evolution of Syntax' and 'Semantic Differentiation,' right?"
"You amaze me." He heard the smile in her voice and felt better. "I love you, Bobby."
"I love you more," he answered. They sat listening to each other breathe and then Bobby said, "Honey, I'm going to close up here and go home. I'll be home in about half an hour. I want to talk a long time but not here. I'll call you when I get home, ok?"
"Ok, be careful."
"You get something to eat. I'll call you in half an hour. I love you."
"I love you."
Bobby rushed to close up and drove home. Gleason made a pot of tea and thought about making a sandwich. Instead, she opened the box of graham crackers and waited for him to call.
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That night, Edward and Eames talked a long time about the shooting, their relationship, and why he had said he did not want to move in together. She listened and told him she understood. On some level, she did; on other levels, she was hurt, disappointed, and angry. But, she understood and told herself she would work to accept it.
That night Bobby and Gleason talked a long time about her classes, his cases, and their relationship. Gleason had made the decision not to tell Bobby about the spells she'd been having since before moving to Chicago. It had happened twice at home and this was the first time here. She didn't want him to worry, so she said nothing.
That night Melvin Turnbuckle was out of his mind with concern. He thought for sure that Brine had changed his mind. He did not want to have to put off this job. He wanted to get it done. He would look for Brine tomorrow.