The Song of David (26 page)

“So are you going to give it all to me too, big guy? The good, the bad, and the ugly? Because I want it all.” I smiled at her earnest delivery, her heartfelt declaration, and tried not to laugh at the sexual innuendo. She had no idea. So I wouldn’t crack up.

I pulled the guitar from her hands and laid it on the floor.

“You’re more than enough, Silly Millie.”

She turned in my arms and found my face with her hands before she let her lips touch mine. I kissed her as Mick Jagger crooned the line about drawing the curtains and making sweet love somewhere in the back of my mind.

(End of Cassette)

Moses

“HELLO, DOC? IT’S Moses Wright.”

“Moses! It’s so good to hear from you.” Dr. Andelin’s voice was deep and butter warm, the way it always was, and I marveled at his ability to make people feel instantly safer, better, heard. He’d been a squeaky new psychologist when I first met him at Montlake—maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven years old—but he had that way about him that made you feel like his soul had lived a million lives. He was wise and kind, and Tag and I were both pretty fond of him. But I pushed through the niceties that Tag was so much better at, interrupting Noah Andelin even though I knew it was rude and he would think I’d lost all the ground I’d gained since being a surly eighteen-year-old in his care at Montlake.

“Doctor Andelin, I know Tag’s seen you on a fairly regular basis since we came back to Utah. And I know you can’t tell me what you talked about. I get that. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that stuff. I don’t need to know what Tag’s said to you or what you’ve said to him. But he’s gone, Doctor Andelin. He just split suddenly. He’s in love with a great girl who loves him back, but I keep seeing his sister. I keep seeing his sister, Doc, and I don’t have to tell you why that scares me to death.”

I wasn’t connecting my thoughts very well, but the swift intake of breath on the end of the line confirmed that Noah Andelin was keeping up with me.

“In your professional opinion, would he hurt himself? I mean. He’s not suicidal,” I stopped suddenly, because I realized I didn’t know if that was true. Listening to Tag, I had no idea if he was emotionally back in the corridors of Montlake, wanting to escape himself. I amended my statement. “I mean, he’s not suicidal like he was. In some ways, Tag is the healthiest guy I know. But he has a crazy streak, and he’s great at saving everyone else and not always very good at taking care of himself. He just took off so suddenly. Where do you think he’d go? Do you have any advice that could help me find him?”

Dr. Andelin didn’t answer immediately, and I could picture him with his hand against his face, his head tilted, just thinking.

“How do you know he isn’t just . . . taking a break?” Dr. Andelin finished inanely, as if trying to come up with a viable alternative.

“He’s left us some cassettes. The girl he’s been seeing is blind. So he’s recorded himself, talking to her, basically.”

“Amelie,” Dr. Andelin supplied, and I realized Tag had consulted with him on something.

“So you know about her.”

“Yes. I saw him a month ago. He was—” Dr. Andelin stopped, as if trying to carefully negotiate confidentiality. “He was happier than I have ever seen him. This is . . . unexpected.”

“Would it help you to hear the tapes?” I was desperate. I hoped Millie wouldn’t object.

“Has he given you any reason to believe there is anything you can do?” Dr. Andelin asked quietly.

“What?” I felt the anger surge through my veins, and I wanted to throw my phone against the wall.

“How long has it been since anyone has seen him?” Dr. Andelin’s voice was unbearably gentle.

“More than two weeks,” I whispered.

“TAG?” LISA LOOKED a little harried, her eyes wide, her hands shaking. “Uh, I think we’ve got a problem. Morgan . . . Morgan is in the lounge. He’s been drinking for the last few hours, and he’s starting to get abusive. I didn’t want to get him in trouble. Morg’s my friend. I don’t know what happened with his job, but, well—” I was around the bar, tossing instructions at Vince and moving down the hall and into the lounge with Lisa trotting after me, making all kinds of excuses for Morgan.

The music was thumping—something guttural and earthy, and Amelie was in the octagon, twirling and swaying around the tall pole, a determined smile pinned to her face. But unlike the first time I’d seen her dance, and every time I’d watched her dance since, her eyes were open, and her movements seemed stiff. She clearly wasn’t enjoying herself.

“I’m not liking what I see!” a voice bellowed out. “Are you liking what you see, princess?” Laughter. “Get Danielle back out here!”

The other patrons had stopped watching Amelie and were peering, hands over their eyes in the direction of the corner booth. The dim lighting made it hard to make him out, and the loud bass camouflaged his taunts, but Morgan was doing his best to be heard, and the charged atmosphere in the room had nothing to do with sexual tension or the scantily clad dancer performing a seductive routine under a spotlight.

He was so intent on heckling Amelie, he didn’t see me coming. So when I reached over the back of the booth and grabbed him around the ears and yanked upward, he came to his feet with a yelp of pain and surprise.

Lady Gaga was singing about having a poker face and Amelie was trying to take her advice, dancing like a wind-up doll, unable to see the cause of the drama unfolding in front of her. I was extremely grateful for that. Lisa squealed and Morgan roared as I dragged him across his table, sending empty bottles crashing and upending two chairs at another, thankfully unoccupied, table.

A few customers clapped and whistled as I locked my arm around Morgan’s head and headed for the emergency exit. I pushed through the door as the final bars of Amelie’s number played out. I didn’t hang around to see the spotlight on the cage dim to black or the lounge lights softly rise, which was customary as a new dancer took her place in the cage. I wanted Morgan out of sight and out of ear-shot before I beat the hell out of him. But as we barreled through the doors and out into the cold night, both breathing hard, both angry, Morgan, off balance and clinging to my forearm around his neck with one hand, swung at me with his other. It was a Hail Mary, a desperation shot, but there happened to be a beer bottle in his hand, and that beer bottle connected with my forehead with a resounding crack.

The blow stunned me, and I went down to one knee, pulling Morgan with me. Blood filled my eyes, and rage filled my head.

“You gonna tell me what that was about, Morg? You gonna tell me why you decided to come back?”

I swiped at the blood on my forehead with one arm and ground Morgan’s head into the ground with the other.

“I want my job . . . I want my job back,” he wailed, pushing on my hand. “I just thought I’d have a drink or two first, to get my courage up to ask for it back. I watched Danielle and Crysti dance. Then I had a few more. Then
she
came out. It just made me mad that she still had a job and I didn’t. Where’s your loyalty, Tag? I don’t get it, man.”

My vision was starting to swim and my head had started to pound like Morg had taken Thor’s hammer to it, instead of a bottle of Bud. Someone burst through the exit doors and I stood, releasing Morgan and swaying on my feet. I wasn’t going to go down. Losing consciousness meant a concussion in the fight world. Concussion meant mandatory down time and testing. I didn’t have time for that. Vince and Leo were suddenly at my sides, looking down at Morgan who still lay on the ground in front of me, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. His eyes were wide as he took in the blood pouring from the wound he’d inflicted. I pulled off my black T-shirt, mopped the blood from my eyes, and pressed it to the gash in my head. It felt like the Grand Canyon beneath my fingers and my stomach roiled and shifted.

“Don’t come back, Morg. I’m all about second chances. But that? In there? That was it. That was your second chance, and you repeated all your mistakes. You’ve shown your colors, and I don’t like the way you look in them. I don’t want you around.”

A trip to the ER was just where I wanted to spend my evening. They had to dig glass fragments out of my forehead, and that hurt worse than the actual blow to my head. The shot of Novocain wasn’t a picnic either. But I kept my eyes open and my mouth moving as the emergency room doctor stitched me up.

“You’re going to look a little like Frankenstein,” the doctor said good-naturedly. “You’ve got thirty stitches holding your forehead together. It’s right at your hairline though, and I’m guessing the scar will be pretty well hidden. I’m more worried about concussion. Your head is extremely swollen, your pupils still haven’t returned to normal, and I know you think you’re fooling me, but your speech is wobbly and so are your knees. I think we need to order an MRI just to be safe. In fact, I’m going to insist on it.”

“That’s my drawl, Doc. That’s just how I sound, and I’m tired. I’ve been up for eighteen hours and an MRI isn’t quick, right?” I’d had an MRI in high school when a bull I attempted to stay on for eight seconds, a bull named Ginger, sent me careening into a fence a few seconds after my butt hit his back. Less than eight seconds to warrant a test that had taken forever. I had learned I was claustrophobic and that I didn’t especially want to ride bulls anymore.

Plus, I was feeling fine, and I wanted to see Amelie. She would be wondering where I was. Leo had run me to the hospital and Vince had gone back inside, while the new guy, Chuck, made sure Morgan went home. Everyone had been firmly instructed to keep their mouths shut. Millie didn’t need to be worrying about me getting my head bashed in. For all she knew, she’d had a heckler, and he’d been removed. I told my employees as much. I would tell her an abbreviated version of events and leave Morgan’s name out altogether. But her shift had ended hours ago, and I hadn’t been there to walk her home for the first time since we’d met. I’d texted her and told her I’d come when I could—she had an app on her phone that announced her messages and read them aloud when she tapped the screen. I purposely made my texts ridiculous because it was so funny to hear the canned voice relay my messages. She’d responded with song lyrics about waking her up, and I responded with a demand that she go to sleep.