Jim slams the door to his K5 Blazer and sits for a moment before starting the car.
The rain has let up, just slightly. He can still hear the raindrops falling heavily on the metal roof.
He takes some deep, measured breaths, trying to distance himself from the anger he feels in his gut. He's a little startled at how personal this feels. He barely knows the boy from Adam. He's never really even had a conversation with kid.
Steve Harrington. The guy who always manages to be around when the world's about to end.
He was dating Nancy Wheeler at one point, Jim thinks. He must've been, because they'd been together the night that Holland girl had been taken. They're not together anymore, though, because Jim knows for certain that Nancy is with Jonathan now.
Joyce has told him that much.
But that's how the kid fits in to all of this, he's pretty sure.
Jim also knows the family name. Harrington. Of Harrington & Associates. An international law firm that is "uniquely placed to help our clients resolve their most complex legal challenges wherever they…"
Blah, blah, blah. Jim's seen the commercials.
The truth is, Jim doesn't know much about the family. He couldn't pick Henry and the missus out of a line-up. They're a couple with a reputation, but they're never around to live up to it.
As for Steve, Jim knows he's good with the kids.
He'd seen him in action, the night El closed the gate. They'd all regrouped at the Byers' that night, and even though Steve's face was bashed in from that Hargrove kid, he was able to stay level-headed and help calm the younger kids when the adrenaline wore off and fearpanicanxietyshock settled in.
From that alone, Jim knew he was a good kid.
Knows he's a good kid.
He curses under his breath and turns the key in the ignition.
xxx
It takes about fifteen minutes longer than it should to get to the Harringtons' place. Jim has to be creative with his route, as some of the roads are under inches of water.
Damn Hawkins and its susceptibility to flash floods.
But he does make it there. Eventually.
The house is more modern than Jim was expecting. It looks a little out of place in the fancy neighborhood, as most of the homes are a Victorian style.
"What the hell do these people do with all this space?" Jim mutters to himself as he throws the car in park at the base of the Harringtons' driveway.
Jim lets the car settle as he tries to get a read on the house of the man he's about to interrogate. All the lights on the main level are on, flat and soggy newspapers litter the drive, and the strangest thing – the front door is wide open.
Jim closes his eyes, can picture Steve running scared from the one place he's supposed to feel the safest. The anger that he's been trying so hard to suppress is bubbling back up inside of him.
When Jim reopens his eyes, he sees that it's 7:31 on the clock on his dash.
His shift was supposed to end at 7:00.
He's going to be late. Again.
But he knows El will understand this time.
He also knows that she's watching Jeopardy! right now, because she's made a habit out of it. God, he wishes he could be sitting on the couch with her, watching her watch Jeopardy! The total focus she has on the show is quite entertaining, as the majority of the topics go over her head. Jim finds it funny – the kinds of things that "stick." The kinds of things she's curious about.
What's communism? Who's Rosa Parks? Where's the Goseck Circle? are among some of the questions El has directed Jim's way.
He's going to have to pull his father's old encyclopedias from the attic one of these days. El would absolutely love them.
xxx
"Mr. Henry Harrington!" Jim hollers through the house and pounds on the already open front door for good measure. He feels sick at the sight of blood on the tile floor – no doubt from that cut on Steve's foot.
Jim's taken off his police jacket and hat, and stands in his undershirt and khakis. He isn't the Chief right now. He's just Jim Hopper.
Sometimes he hates the system. He won't be able to take Henry down to the station tonight because he hasn't collaborated with CPS and doesn't have a warrant for the man's arrest.
But he's sure as hell going to tell the guy off.
Because fuck him, that's why.
Before getting the courage to walk up to the front door, Jim played out a little scenario in his head, of how the interaction might go.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"Jim Hopper. Here to tell you that your kid won't be coming back tonight. He's staying somewhere safe, with people who actually give two shits about him."
"You're telling me you kidnapped my son?"
"I'm telling you your son came to me for help, and he'll be staying far away from you until he decides if he wants to press charges."
"Fuck you."
"Fuck you, too."
"You have some gall showing up here. You come to MY house and threaten me? I ought to call the police."
"I am the police, asshole."
…Probably not how it would ever happen in a million years, but Jim can dream, can't he?
He pounds on the door again. "Henry!" he shouts. "I'm here to talk about your son! Can you come to the door, please?"
The house is completely silent. Jim focuses his eyes down the long and dim entryway, where he can make out a small portion of the Harringtons' kitchen. He sees… is that a foot, limply tilted sideways, attached to an outstretched leg?
It's hard to be sure, because the kitchen wall is blocking the rest of his view, but Jim swallows hard; thinks he might have eyes on Henry.
He remembers that Jonathan mentioned that Steve said the man had been drunk when all of this went down. More likely than not, he's passed out in a drunken stupor.
Great. Now he's obligated to see if the piece of shit is okay. He can't just leave. Well, he could… No one would ever have to know he was here. But the man could have alcohol poisoning… he could need medical attention.
"Dammit," Jim mutters to himself. He steps into the home, leaves the door open behind him. "Henry, I'm coming in," he announces, more to fill the silence rather than warn the man he believes is unconscious.
His footfalls echo down the hallway as he approaches the kitchen cautiously. He's close enough now to see pizza boxes, beer bottles, soda cans… everywhere. But he can also see – on the kitchen counter – a bottle of prescription painkillers, tipped over.
Empty.
The stench of vomit hits him then and Jim's body gets there before his brain puts it all together. He feels numb all over, hair's sticking up on his arms.
"Oh, fuck. No, no, no, no, no…" he hears himself saying as he runs the rest of the distance to reach the man on the floor. He's frozen for a second as he stares, crouching, knees throbbing from the impact.
Henry's eyes are open.
Glazed over.
There's vomit on his sport coat.
His left hand is still holding onto another med bottle.
Jim knocks it out of his hand in his haste to try and find a pulse. He leans his head in close to check for breath sounds.
Nothing.
Jim pushes himself back, leans against island counter as his vision swims in front of him.
Henry Harrington is not just unconscious.
Henry Harrington is dead.