M Sellars: Love Is The Bond

I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept, and while my body was screaming at me to allow it to shut down, I staunchly refused. Although I am sure that to the outside world I looked like I had slipped into a vegetative state, I actually had a singular mission in mind, and it required that I remain conscious.

A louder noise eventually followed the first, but I disregarded it too. Apparently, it didn’t want to be ignored, so it poked me in the eardrum once again, sharper and louder. This time I had no choice but to take notice of a looming presence at my side. I broke my stare away from the desk art and turned my face upward.

Initially, I couldn’t muster anything more than a questioning grunt of “Huh?”

Ben looked down at me and asked, “I said, do ya’ want some more coffee?”

I glanced down at my hands and noticed that they were fiddling with a Styrofoam cup, moving deliberately but completely of their own accord. Then, I looked back up to him. “No. What I want is to see my wife.”

“I’ve been workin’ on it.”

“You’ve been sitting here with me.”

“No, I’ve been gone for twenty minutes, Row.”

“You were?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Just now. I just walked in the room two seconds ago.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“I dunno.”

“That’s not a very good answer.”

“Yeah, well, I prob’ly got less pull around here than you do, so gimme a break. I’m tryin’.”

In all the years I had been involved with police investigations, I had never set foot inside the FBI field office. Of course, like most anyone living in Saint Louis, I had driven past it numerous times when traveling along Market Street. Still, it had never been on my top ten list of places to visit, and there was a huge difference between absently cruising past a building and occupying a chair in one of its offices for so long that you literally lose track of the passing hours.

I had to admit, however, that the seating here was vastly more comfortable than the molded plastic dinette refugees I was used to warming when sitting next to Ben’s desk at city police headquarters. The coffee was far better too. I just didn’t think my stomach could take any more of it, good or not.

“Got some other news,” my friend offered. “Mister ‘Door Mat’ is conscious and talkin’.”

Felicity had been wrong. Lewis hadn’t been dead after all; this was a fact they quickly discovered when they finally entered the room. He had, however, been unconscious and bleeding from several wounds. Considering how bad he looked when the ambulance crew brought him out, I could easily see why my wife had thought he was deceased. To be honest, up until now I hadn’t known whether he had died on the way to the hospital or if he would even recover from his injuries.

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked. As callous as it made me feel, the only reason I cared was because a good portion of my wife’s impending fate hinged on his health. Other than that, I didn’t give a damn one way or the other, and that was unlike me.

“He actually looked a lot worse than he really was… Not that he ain’t pretty screwed up though… He’s got a broken nose so mosta the blood ya’ saw was from that, and some other superficial wounds…

“He’s got some busted ribs, a concussion, and a buncha scrapes ‘n cuts… Lotta contusions shaped oddly enough like high-heeled footprints in Firehair’s size… Tons of gouges that ‘pparently came from the tips of the heels… Guess that’s why they call ‘im Door Mat though… Go figure…

“Ackman said he’s already startin’ ta’ turn black, blue, purple and the whole nine… Workin’ on a pair of shiners that are prob’ly gonna make ‘im look like a friggin’ raccoon… Gonna have some serious scars too, ‘cause she tore ‘im up good… Real good…”

My friend finally paused at the end of the inventory, then for some odd reason, he actually let out what sounded to be a perplexed chuckle before continuing. “But yeah… Yeah… He’s gonna be just fine. Physically anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re not gonna believe this,” he replied, shaking his head. “But the first thing the sick fuck wanted ta’ know when he came to was where his Mistress was. Ackman said he tried to explain the situation to ‘im, but all he did was ask for Mistress Miranda’s number, so he could ask her what he was allowed to say. Guess you could say he was exercisin’ his right ta’ remain silent after bein’ Mirandized.”

He snickered half-heartedly at his own joke, but his flippancy faded when he noticed that I wasn’t laughing. I really couldn’t find much of anything funny right now, least of all a play on words when the word happened to be Miranda. I simply stayed quiet and mulled over the meat of the commentary.

Finally, I said, “I guess that means he won’t be pressing assault charges against her then.”

“Yeah, I really doubt if he’ll be filin’ a complaint… And if he won’t do that, then the prosecuting attorney most likely won’t file either… Wouldn’t be worth the time. So, I think you’re prob’ly free ‘n clear on that one,” he agreed. “Although, ta’ be honest it wouldn’t surprise me if ya’ ended up filin’ a restrainin’ order against the friggin’ wingnut if he ever finds out where ya’ live. It sounds a lot like he lell in fuv with your wife.”

“That wasn’t my wife he fell for.”

“Yeah, I know… But you know what I meant.”

“We’ll deal with that if it happens,” I replied. “I’m just glad she didn’t kill him.”

“Uh-huh. For his sake or for hers?”

“Hers.”

“Yeah. I figured as much.”

“Sorry,” I told him in a humorless tone. “When it comes to anyone besides my wife right now, I’m just not in a particularly compassionate mood.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Like I said, the sick fuck got ‘zactly what he wanted, and he’s already beggin’ for more.”

I fell silent and dropped my eyes back down to the disposable cup in my hands. I watched with a distant gaze as my hands continued moving without the benefit of conscious direction. My left was slowly spinning the Styrofoam vessel while with my right thumbnail I was making small indentations around the rim. It was already starting to crumble where I had been over the same spot repeatedly for who knew how long.

“What time is it?” I finally asked, looking back up to my friend and not bothering to check my own watch.

“Eight thirty or so, why?”

“Just wondering. Seems like we’ve been here quite awhile.”

“Yeah. We have. You got someplace to be? You need me ta’ make a call for ya’ or somethin’?”

“No,” I answered with a shake of my head.

“You sure?”

“No,” I repeated, mainly because I wasn’t really sure of anything at the moment. For all I knew I was leaving a client hanging or missing a breakfast meeting. That part of my life seemed so distant right now that it was as if it belonged to someone else.

“Well, just let me know if ya’ need me to call someone.”

“What about you?” I asked, purely out of reflex.

“What about me?”

“Do you have someplace to be?”

“No.”

Something about the way he spoke the word sparked a reaction in my brain that made me feel that he was lying.

“No?” I echoed, my psyche still hovering in a no-man’s-land somewhere between the conversation and my prison cell of introspection. “Are you sure?”

He sighed heavily and dropped his oversized frame into a chair next to me. “Well, funeral’s not until tomorrow, not that I really wanna be there ta’ begin with. I suppose I did promise Helen I’d help with some stuff today, but that can wait till later.”