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Chapter 7
My cell rings.
"Frank?" Dad asks. "How are you guys?"
"Joe's asleep," I say.
Not sure how I am. Existing. Surviving.
"Any word on the contract?" I ask to fill the silence.
"Our source says you're still in danger. Keep a close eye out."
"Will do. Night, Dad."
"Frank, it wasn't your fault," Dad says. "I'm the one who assigned you and Joe the case."
I hang up. Too tired to talk.
Joe moans in his sleep.
"Iola," Joe mutters.
"Easy," I say and rub Joe's arm.
Last thing I need is Joe ripping out the stitches in his chest.
"I'll save you!" Joe shouts.
I can't wake Joe. He hyperventilates and moves from side to side.
Joe doesn't have nightmares. He has night terrors – nightmares on steroids.
Gently I sit Joe up and wrap my arms around him.
"It's ok," I say. "Just a dream."
Not true. Iola's dead. But I've got to wake Joe.
"No! I can help her!" Joe shouts. "Let me go!"
I flashback to fighting Dad when I thought Joe was inside my car when it exploded.
Joe struggles in my arms to break free.
I hold him tighter.
One last thing to try. Joe will do anything for me.
"Joe, I need you. Now."
"Frank?" Joe half whispers, half sobs.
"Right here," I say and hold him close.
Joe trembles in my arms.
"Need air," Joe mumbles. "Usually go for a run after…"
Usually? How long has this been happening? No wonder he makes mistakes at the office. I'm amazed Joe can still function.
I put my jacket over Joe's shoulders. We go into my backyard.
"Better?" I ask.
"Yeah," Joe says. "You need a different partner. Like Edward. He's organized. Dad likes him. You like him."
"No," I say.
"Can't watch your back if I'm blind. And if anything happened to you on my watch…" Joe's voice trails off.
"Joe," I whisper. "I'm not going to…"
"You believe some part of Iola still exists?" Joe whispers. "Like maybe she's in heaven and happy?"
"She could be," I say.
"Been reading the Bible," Joe says. "Gotta believe I didn't totally destroy Iola," Joe says.
I'm on shaky ground here. I'm not religious. I've prayed more in the last week than I have my whole life.
"Know you don't believe," Joe says. "In high school, you said religion was a crutch – better than drugs or alcohol – but still a crutch."
Why does Joe remember this? And why does he put such stock in the things I say?
"Anything that helps you hurt less I support," I say.
"Good, cuz I read this in the bible," Joe whispers. "Says if you travel with someone reckless, you'll die. That's me, Frank. I'm impulsive. I won't take you down with me."
I'm in shock. All of this is coming from left field. Why didn't I see any of this coming?
"Joe, I've spent the last year depressed. Instead of talking about it or getting help, I took it out on you. You don't think that's reckless?"
"Not the same," Joe says.
"Joe…" I say.
"Tried to be more like Edward," Joe mutters. "On time. Organized. But I can't."
I want to tell Joe I'm amazed he's functioning with his night terrors. But I'm afraid I'll make him feel worse. So I go with honesty.
"I hate Edward," I say.
"Did you hear that?" Joe asks.
"No."
Joe grabs my arm.
"Somebody's out here," Joe whispers. "And they don't smell old.
"What's old smell like?" I ask.
"Ben Gay, Preparation H and prunes," Joe says.
A bullet hits a tree a foot away.
I roll us into some bushes.