Unnatural Calamities (11 page)

“Ricocheted?”

“That’s it.
Ricocheted
from an officer’s gun. He said it was by accident, but then you fell and hit your head on the tub. Zack got away. They wanted to keep you in the hospital down in Maryland, but you kept on insisting on coming home.” Rachel recited the words as if they were lyrics of a song she’d rehearsed too often.

Zack. Memory flooded back. She shut her eyes for a second. How could she forget a moment of that whole stupid episode? They must have pumped her full of drugs to forget it. Something to ease her dying. She wasn’t sure how she got into the bathroom or how the police discovered them. And she certainly didn’t remember demanding to go home.

The last thing she recalled was lying next to Toph Dunham in the hotel room on the carpet while Zack slept and the television blared over their heads. She had kissed Toph. Hoo boy, she did like kissing him.

“Janey, you’re smiling! You must feel better.”

“I’m just so glad to see you, my turtledove. I wasn’t sure… Well. How long have I been here?”

“Almost two days. You’ve been waking up and falling asleep a lot. You’ve got a concussion.”

“Oh my good gosh. How have you been? Have you missed school? Who’s been taking care of you?”

“I’m fine. I’m studying lots. See?” She held up a thick French vocabulary book. “I get tons of work done sitting here. And Mickey is going to take care of your problems.”

“Who’s Mickey? What problems?”

Rachel shrugged. “There are some problems. Penny got out.”

“But she has at least another year… Oh.”

Rachel rolled her eyes and made a horrible grimace.

“I see. She got out without permission.”

Rachel looked down at her hands and twisted her faux diamond and pearl ring. She nodded. “She got put on a work release crew by accident.”

Rachel’s lips tightened.

In a soft voice Janey asked, “And did they find her?”

Rachel nodded again. She glanced around the small, oatmeal-colored room as if making sure no one was listening. “She turned herself in yesterday.”

“Did you see her, sweetie?”

“She called from the police station. She didn’t do much, I mean, after she left prison. Went out with Zack. They partied some last week, I guess. This all was just before he showed and grabbed you and Mr. Dunham. And then yesterday she ran out of money, and I guess she heard Zack was in big trouble. So she called the cops and they picked her up in Bridgeport.”

With the IV-free hand, Janey patted Rachel’s bony wrist and absently noticed the child must have had another growth spurt. Almost grown.
My sweet baby,
she wanted to say.
I’m sorry your mother and father are losers.

But Rachel had already left that topic behind. “And there’s other stuff too. Like they found drugs in your bedroom, Janey. That’s kinda why they let you come back. So the West Farmbrook police could get you.”

“What? Drugs? Oh, of course. Zack.”

“Yeah, but see, there’s this thing about drugs.”

“What thing?”

“They say you should have known about the drugs in our house. There’s the thing. It’s called, like, MMS or something like that.”

Janey groaned. “I remember from Penny’s problems. Mandatory minimum sentences.”

“Yup. That’s it. Your sentence could be one to five years. But Mickey says some of the prosecutors are sick of mandatory sentencing. He thinks it’ll be okay and you won’t go to jail. They’re just using it for leverage or something.”

Janey closed her eyes again and wished she could pretend she was somewhere else, anywhere else. It would probably hurt like crazy to cry. She practiced breathing instead.

“Hey, it’s Mickey,” Rachel said.

“Who’s Mickey?” Janey asked again.

“I am,” someone spoke from the doorway.

Janey slowly, carefully, turned her head the other way and looked at a thin, startlingly handsome, caramel-colored man leaning on the doorjamb. He had long, black hair pulled into a tiny braid at the back of the neck, a style that would have been silly on almost anyone else. He wore a suit cut like any other business suit, except it was made entirely of leather. Leather jacket, shirt, trousers, even a leather tie, all dyed a stark, dull black. He might have been any age between twenty-five and forty.

She squinted at him, and tried unsuccessfully to figure out his ethnic origins. Dark skin, high cheekbones, large nose, small mouth, pale green eyes. Probably a bit of everything in one tall human.

“Mickey O’Connor, attorney at law,” he said. “I’d shake your hand but you look like hell and I’m afraid I’d break ya.”

He had a deep voice and a deeper nasal New York accent.

“How did Rachel find you?”

“She didn’t. I’m one of Toph’s.” The room was small but he bellowed the way some New Yorkers seemed to. As if he talked across a crowded room and was trying to drown out all the other conversations.

“One of Toph’s what?”

Mickey shrugged. “Cases? Jerks? Friends? Who knows? Who cares? Like I said, I’m a lawyer. Dunham told me I hafta help you. So I’m gonna help you.” He sounded less than enthusiastic.

“Excuse me, Mr. O’Connor.”

“I suppose you can call me Mickey,” he admitted reluctantly.

“I don’t need your help. I mean, you don’t really have to help me. I can find a lawyer on my own.”

He put his hands on his hips and glared as if he had been deeply insulted. “Listen, Ms. Carmody. You do need my help. And there’s no point in arguing. Dunham pays me a retainer just so I’ll be around for this kind of event. No.” He paused for a moment to think. “Correct that. He can’t pay me a retainer on this one. He pays me a retainer for work that is not even remotely this interesting. Usually he’s got dull-as-dirt incorporation papers. Ho-hum.”

“So you’re not a criminal lawyer?”

“I’m whatever kind of lawyer you need, Ms. Carmody. If I thought I couldn’t handle this, which I don’t think, I got people who could. But I’m good. Very good. Huh. Better than anything you could afford.”

He looked at his watch—black leather band, of course. “Love to stay and chat about my qualifications, but I gotta haul out of here and actually get something done. I only stopped by to see how my girl Rachel is doing. Now that you’re awake again, we can get to work and keep your butt out of jail, Ms. Janey Carmody. Maybe even do something about those dumbass cops that shot you.”

Mickey went over to the table by the bed and flashed a surprisingly brilliant grin at Rachel. “Aha. Good work, girl, you brought her purse.”

He opened Janey’s big straw bag and ignored her protests as he riffled through it, pulled out her pink vinyl wallet and took out a dollar bill. He scrutinized the wallet and the dollar and wrinkled his broad nose at them as if they were filth. “This’ll do. I suppose.”

After pulling a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, he unfolded it, put the paper on Rachel’s French vocab book and thrust it in front of Janey. From another pocket he fished out a gold pen.

“Sign this.”

“Er, what is it?”

“Go on. Read it. It says you’re retaining my services.”

“But Mr. O’Connor, I’m telling you that I—”

“Sign it, damn it.”

She lay flat on her back and O’Connor leaned over her, at least six foot four inches of scowling, cow-encased man. She took the pen and made a wobbly signature.

“Good. See ya later.”

“Bye, dude,” Rachel sang out.

“Bye, snookie,” he replied, and strode off.

Janey risked turning her head to look at Rachel, who grinned at her, showing braces.

“So, uh, Mr. O’Connor doesn’t strike me as a typical lawyer type.”

“He’s not as bad as you think,” said Rachel. “He reminds me of Eeyore. You know, complains a lot but his heart is in the right place. He’s kept the television guys from bugging us, and he gives me rides a lot in his way cool Porsche. It’s a Boxster, kinda small for Mickey, but he says he likes its zip. I’ve been staying at Diana’s house, since she’s kind of close to here and I knew you wouldn’t let me stay home alone.” She wrinkled her nose. “Bill asked if I wanted to stay with him, but I said no thanks.”

Janey’d forgotten about the landlord. “Did you know he is your uncle…great-uncle.”

Rachel gave a shrug. “He usually pretends we’re not related, so I do too.”

Janey hoped Rachel’s teenage sensitivity was at work and Mr. Blair wasn’t so bad. Please—not another person who let Rachel down.

“I’m glad people are taking care of you,” Janey said faintly. “I wish I could, sweetie. But about Mr. O’Connor. He seems sort of, uh, temperamental. How do we know he’s any good?”

She could not risk going to prison. She’d use every last cent to make sure Rachel wouldn’t be left with Mr. Blair, or get sucked into the foster care system.

“Of course he’s good. Mr. Dunham thinks he’s good.”

Well, that settled that question, didn’t it? She explored the question of why she turned grouchy at the thought of Toph. Perhaps because she wanted to wake up and find him in bed with her, holding her close and dripping hot tears of worry on her forehead.

“Where is Mr. Dunham?” she asked.

“He’s been by to see you, and he helped make sure you could get home, but he had to go somewhere yesterday. Canada? Michigan? I’m not sure.”

“Is he all right?”

“Sure. He didn’t get shot.”

“How did we get rescued from Zack?”

“You really don’t remember, do you?” Rachel stood up and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Yeah, that’s it. I bet you have amnesia! The doctors won’t tell me doodly because I’m a minor. But that has to be it.”

“Rachel, don’t be silly.”

“No really, I heard when you get bonked on the head you can lose a piece of your memory sometimes. Happens to the hockey players from school now and then. For sure, you’ve got amnesia. That is so weird.”

“Rachel, hon, what happened? How did we get out?”

“Simple. Mr. Dunham escaped when Zack was asleep. He called the cops. And it was on all the news stations. I saw the tape of Mr. Dunham a bunch of times. He was yelling at the cops.”

“Why?”

“It’s not obvious on the tape, but Mickey says ’cause they shot you. He looked like a maniac, yelling like that. Did you know he’s got loads of cash? Cynthia says that’s no big deal, just about everyone around West Farmbrook has a lot of money. We sure aren’t that rich. Are we?”

“Remind me to give you a reality check when I get out of here.” Janey felt less sour. Toph had yelled at the cops for her sake.

She knew she had no justification for feeling even slightly cranky about Toph. Why in the world should he hold her close and cry on her?

Good gosh. They barely knew each other. Hard to believe, but it was true. They’d only met the night before Zack went crazy. And they were only drawn together because of mutual fear and a couple of pairs of handcuffs.

He didn’t owe her a thing. In fact, the debt went the other way. She might well owe him her life or at least her sanity. If he hadn’t been with her. Well. She didn’t want to consider what would have happened if she’d been on the run alone with Zack. Ugh. Especially before she’d had her vision corrected by that strange little confrontation in her kitchen. Oh, double ugh.

No doubt about it. She owed Mr. Dunham big time.

She would send him a note. Was there a greeting card designed for such an occasion?

Thanks to you, my fellow hostage, for being there when I needed someone to hold.

Though we ne’er again shall meet/ I’d like to thank you for your feat./You hath freed me/from most vile custody.

She was reasonably sure there already was a card about
thanks for saving my life, have a good time with the rest of yours
.

She thought about their whispered conversations, the way he had kissed her while Zack snoozed on the bed less than ten feet away. The memory of kissing Toph seemed more intense than Zack’s threats or even the heat of the bullet that grazed her arm. The other bullet, the cop’s bullet, she couldn’t recall at all, except when she moved or breathed too deeply.

Nothing had been as vivid as the brief moments with Toph, which were nothing like her real life.

No way. Janey’s real life consisted of getting up at five, working in a string of strange new offices with people who didn’t bother to learn her name, spending her evenings avoiding Beth or working for her for nothing or next to nothing. And as a treat, working for Lindy in the restaurant.

Oh damn. Her savings, the money for her dream business would be eaten by the extra hospital expenses. Her insurance through the temp agency was good, but she had to pay two thousand before it kicked in.

Once she stopped feeling on the edge of death, and got her life back in gear, she should get a day job in a restaurant and give up trying to save money.

“You okay, Janey?” The brightest spot of her real life touched her shoulder carefully. “Can I get you anything?”

Enough with the self-pity. She was lucky to be alive. “I’m fine, Rach. Do you think you could sing a few bars of something for me? How about something from
The Mikado
?”

Chapter Ten

Only two men remained at the poker table. Everyone else had folded.

Toph, struggling to maintain an air of affability, rapped the table with his knuckles and glowered at his cards instead of the man across from him. “Yo, Jack, did you notice I raised?”

Jack refused to be distracted from his current harangue. Jack was like that. Toph supposed his blind persistence in the face of rudeness helped explain his success with women. That and his perfect looks and the way he flapped modeling contracts in front of eager women.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll raise you another five,” Jack said. “But listen, Toph, the cops are sure this Carmody woman was Blair’s girlfriend—”

Toph tossed a poker chip onto the considerable pile in the middle of the table. “No, her sister was Zack Blair’s girlfriend. They had a daughter together. Rachel.”

“Good kid, that Rachel,” Mickey shouted across the living room. He didn’t need to shout. The room wasn’t large.

“But the cops say that—”

Toph impatiently threw down three aces. “Okay, Jack. You’re supposed to put your cards on the table, but I’m tired of this hand. Look. Can you beat three of a kind?”