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“Uh-huh,” Reggie says tonelessly. “Give me the gun, son.”
Doug glances down at his brother, who nods encouragingly beneath me. “Go on, Dougie. Give the gun to the nice policeman.”
By this time, Doug is crying too hard to shoot anyway. “You’re such a fuck, Steve,” he says, as he hands the gun to Reggie, who passes it to Detective Canavan, who is looming in the doorway behind him, his gun drawn as well.
“You may not know it, Officer, but you just saved all our lives,” blathers Steve Winer. “My brother was trying to kill me… .”
“Right,” Reggie says, reaching to his belt for his handcuffs. “Heather, please get off Mr. Winer.”
Obligingly, I roll off Steve Winer. As I do, I notice that the room kind of spins around. But in a pleasant ma
“Reggie!” I cry, from where I’m splayed on the floor. “You’re an undercover cop? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he’s a Fed.” Detective Canavan is standing over me, directing about twenty uniformed officers to handcuff everyone in a red robe. “With your usual aplomb, Wells, you managed to stumble into the middle of a sting operation the DEA’s been working on for months. Congratulations on that, by the way.”
“Detective!” I cry happily, staring up at Detective Canavan. “What took you so long?”
“We had a little trouble getting in,” he explains. “The security guard was being… resistant. And no one could find a key.” He rolls his eyes. “Typical of this place, by the way. Why are your pupils so big?”
“’Cause I’m so happy to see you!” I cry, sitting up to fling my arms around his neck as he leans down to help me to my feet. “I just love you so much!”
“Uh,” Detective Canavan says, as I cling to him—because the room is spi
“They made her drink something.” This comes from Gavin, who has been untied by the maid/undercover DEA agent, and whose facial gash is being examined by a pair of EMTs who’ve come in, apparently from nowhere. As I’d expected, the duct tape has left an angry red mark across his mouth, and taken away some of his soft, wispy mustache, making it even wispier-looking.
“Gavin!” I cry, letting go of Detective Canavan and throwing my arms instead around him—much to the a
Gavin doesn’t look as happy to hear this as I think he should be. “I think it’s roofies,” he says, attempting to extricate himself from my embrace. Which I find rude, to say the least.
“Okay,” Detective Canavan says, taking me by the arm. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I want to know.
“Oh,” Detective Canavan says, “I think the hospital will be a good place to start. Get some fluids into you.”
“But I’m not a bit thirsty,” I assure him. “I could use some ice cream, though. Hey, want a Dove Bar? They’re right in the freezer over there. Hey, everyone should have a Dove Bar. Hey, everybody,” I turn to yell. “Have a Dove Bar! On me!”
“Come on, Wells,” Detective Canavan says, keeping a firm grip on my arm. “That’s enough.”
And then, as he’s leading me out of the cafeteria and into the lobby, I see a sight that makes me forget all about the Dove Bars. And it’s not Crusty Curtiss in handcuffs—although that’s very pleasant to see. And it’s not half the residents standing there, trying to see what’s going on, and Tom and the RAs, along with Sarah, trying to talk them into going about their Friday night business.
No. It’s my father.
“Dad!” I cry, breaking free from Detective Canavan’s grasp and throwing myself into my waiting father’s arms.
“Heather!” he says, seeming very surprised by my greeting, but not unhappy about it. “Thank God you’re all right!”
“I love you so much,” I tell him.
“She loves everyone quite a bit at the moment,” I hear Detective Canavan explain. “She’s on Rohypnol.”
“That’s not why I love you,” I assure my father, worried his feelings will be hurt otherwise. “And it’s not just because you called the cops and kept me from getting decapitated, either.”
“Well,” Dad says, with a chuckle, “that’s good to know. Her mouth is bloody. Why is her mouth bloody?”
And that’s when I notice Dad’s not standing there alone. Cooper is by his side! He’s reaching for one of his ubiquitous handkerchiefs. Handkerchiefs are apparently a very important tool in the private investigations field.
“Oh,” Detective Canavan says. “She bit a guy. That’s all.”
“Cooper!” I cry, throwing my arms around his neck next, as Cooper reaches to dab Steve Winer’s blood from my mouth. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“I can tell,” Cooper says. He’s laughing, for some reason. “Hold still, you’ve got some—”
“I love you so much,” I tell him. “Even though you told Gavin I’m still in love with your brother. Why did you do that, Cooper? I’m not in love with Jordan anymore. I’m not.”
“Okay,” Cooper says. “We’ll take your word for it. Here, hold still.”
“I’m not, though,” I assure him. “I don’t love Jordan. I love you. I really, really do.”
Then Reggie steps into my line of vision one more time, just as Cooper is finishing washing me up, and I shout, “Reggie! I love you! I love you so much! I want to come visit you on your banana plantation!”
“I don’t actually have a banana plantation, Heather,” Reggie says. He’s laughing, too. Why is everyone laughing? Seriously, maybe I should give up the songwriting thing and go into stand-up comedy, since I’m apparently so hilarious. “I’m from Iowa.”
“That’s okay,” I say, as some EMTs gently pry my arms from around Cooper’s neck. “I still love you anyway. I love all of you! You, Tom—and Sarah—and even Dr. Kilgore. Where is Dr. Kilgore, anyway?”
And then the room starts spi
And I don’t remember anything more after that.
29
You said you love me
And that shit don’t come from nowhere
Nowhere except the heart.
“Gavin’s Song”
Written by Heather Wells
My head is POUNDING.
Seriously.
It isn’t fu
I can’t believe people do this drug recreationally. If this is how Jordan felt yesterday—was it only yesterday? — at the Stoned Crow, well, it’s no wonder he turned down a beer. I never want to drink again. Anything. Not even water. Not even—
“Heather.”
I open one eye. I can’t believe who I see standing there beside my gurney. My boss. Of all the people in the world to wake up to, I have to open my eyes to my boss’s face? I mean, I love Tom, and all.
But not that much.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like crap,” I inform him.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He holds up a fistful of GET WELL balloons from the gift shop. “From the department.”
I groan and close my eyes. Seriously, it’s a bad sign when the colors of a bunch of balloons are too bright for your eyes.
“You should be feeling better soon,” Tom says. There’s a tremor of laughter in his voice. “They’re pumping you full of fluids and vitamin B.”
“I wa
“Well, you’re in luck,” Tom says. “They aren’t admitting you. Just a few more hours of intravenous fluids here in the ER, and you should be good to go.”
I groan. I can’t believe this. I’m in the St. Vincent’s ER, the same ER where I’ve visited so many students in exactly my current condition.
But I never realized they felt this crappy.
“Listen,” Tom says, in a voice that’s got no laughter left in it. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”
I open one eye. “You really are quitting?” I ask.
“Not at all,” Tom says, with a chuckle. “I’m getting promoted. To area coordinator.”