Part 15:
The Twilight Zone
Kevin was lying in his
hotel room, a plate of cold chicken on a tray by his side, a bottle of warm
beer in his hand, as the TV played low in the background.
He’d spent the better part
of the day with Howie’s family, recanvassing the area
around the crime scene, looking for clues to Howie’s whereabouts. The police had given up on the area days
before, but Howie’s mother had been having strong premonitions that Howie had
been in the area, so they continued to search.
Kevin had returned to the
hotel late and exhausted from the long day, so he was half asleep when the anchor
broke in with the news…
“And now, with an
update on the ever-evolving saga of the Backstreet Shootings, is our own Dan
Fortis.”
“Thank you, Carl. I’m here, live, at a local area hospital,
where Backstreet Boy Nick Carter has been lying in a coma since the violent
shootings seven days ago that left fellow bandmate Brian Littrell dead and
Howie Dorough missing.
“Family, friends, and
fans have been showing loyal support for Carter with their round-the-clock
vigils, both in Florida and here at this Los Angeles hospital, in hopes that he
would awaken from the coma that has silenced him for a week…”
Kevin rolled his eyes,
swirling the beer around in the bottle.
“Well, it appears, Carl,
that those efforts have paid off. Moments ago, it was reported that Nick Carter
awakened from his coma, and, while we have no info on his condition, hopefully
he will be ready, willing, and able to assist the police in their efforts to
find fellow Backstreeter Howie Dorough, as well as to clear up any questions
the police may have of whether or not career criminal Gus Monroe was the only
shooter involved.
“Whatever the case,
Carl, there is going to be more to this story than meets the eye. But for now it seems that indeed… Backstreet’s
Back.”
“Jesus,” Kevin said
sarcastically at the stupid Backstreet reference as he reached for the remote,
instantly zapping the annoying reporter away with a click of the button.
The phone on the
nightstand began to ring.
Shit. He knew it was going to be A.J., or Kristin,
or Leighanne, or any number of people who assumed he would care that Nick was
back in the land of the living. Reaching
over, he plucked the phone off of the cradle and slammed it back down. Then, picking up the phone again, he called
the front desk.
“Yes, this is Kevin
Richardson in room 401. Please hold all
of my calls.”
***
Nick tried to still his
trembling body beneath the pale blue sheet as he glanced nervously around the
sterile blandness of the room, a slight scowl on his face.
Between the machines, IV
poles and generic pictures on the wall, he was pretty sure that he was in the
hospital, but why exactly he was there, he couldn’t really say.
“What’s… going on?” When he spoke, his voice was unusually slow
and hoarse. “Can someone… please talk to
me?”
Nobody would look him in
the eye.
Nobody would speak to him.
It was like being in some
freaky ass episode of The Twilight Zone, as doctors and nurses moved
quickly around him, speaking to one another in hushed tones as they checked
vitals, twirled the knobs on the monitors, and tapped at his veins before
sliding needle after needle into his flesh.
Swallowing hard, Nick
looked to his left, his mother’s face suddenly appearing in the door window. And he could tell from the worried look in her
eyes that something was desperately wrong.
Holding still, Nick tried
to stop the room from spinning, as his heart beat furiously in his chest. Pulling on the shirtsleeve of the nearest
nurse, again, he spoke. “I… need to
know… what’s going on?”
The nurse standing beside
him, going over the detailed notes on his chart, leaned down and whispered in
his ear, “Please don’t say anything, Mr. Carter, until the police arrive.”
Nick twitched and then
froze.
Police?
***
Sergeant Cox made his way
down the hospital corridor, Detectives Mason and Jones close on his heels. He flashed his clearance badge at the front
desk, continuing down the hall towards Nick Carter’s room.
He immediately spotted
Nick’s mother, Jane Carter, standing outside of the door to her son’s room,
hands on her hips, as she peered impatiently through the small glass window.
At the sound of Sergeant
Cox’s footsteps, Jane Carter turned a most unpleasant look on her well-worn
face. “What in the hell is going on?” she
spat, completely oblivious to her younger son Aaron, standing beside her, tears
rolling down his face. “I would like to
go in there and see my son, but they-”
She pointed to the two armed guards standing on either side of the door.
“-say I can’t see him. And do you know why they said I couldn’t see
him? Because they said they are acting
on direct orders given by you, Sergeant Cox.” She lunged forward, shoving Cox in the chest.
“Mom.” Aaron reached a hand out, trying to pull his mom
back, but she merely shrugged him off.
“Stay out of this, Aaron;
it doesn’t concern you!” she shouted, pushing at her wild mop of bleach blonde
hair.
“Mrs. Carter.” Sergeant
Cox waved off the two guards, who had stepped forward in anticipation of having
to restrain the irate woman. “Our main
concern right now is for the quick recovery of your son, as well as the for the
safe return of Howie Dorough. We feel
that Nick will be able to give us vital information to let us know if we are on
the right track with the investigation into the shootings and Mr. Dorough's disappearance.”
Jane Carter turned away
from Sergeant Cox, dramatically huffing out air in disgust as she peered back
through the window at Nick. “I don’t see
what me seeing my son has to do with any of that.”
“Your son has been through
a traumatic experience, Mrs. Carter, surviving an ordeal that left another
young man dead.” Jane stiffened at the
mention of Brian Littrell’s death. “We
feel that it is important for us to be the first people to speak with Nick, so
that we can question him about what he remembers. We would like to get as much information as we
can from him before it is tainted by conversations he may have with family,
friends, or the media.”
“You mean you want to
grill him before he can even get his bearings, before he has a chance to
breathe.” She glared over her shoulder
at Sergeant Cox and the two detectives.
“Whatever it takes to
solve this case, Mrs. Carter.”
Aaron leaned back against
the wall, pushing his long blonde bangs from his eyes as the tears continued to
slide openly down his face.
“Son.” Sergeant Cox turned his attention to the young
man, ignoring the obvious glare from Jane Carter. “The nurse who called us said that you were
with your brother when he was coming out of his coma?” Aaron nodded. “The detectives are going to wait here with
your mom while the doctors finish checking Nick over. I was wondering if, in the meantime, I could
have a word with you?” Sergeant Cox
folded his arms across his chest with a warm fatherly smile.
“Yeah… okay,” Aaron said,
pushing off of the wall. But before he
could take a step, Jane Carter’s arm flew out, blocking Aaron’s path.
“My boys will speak to you
and your detectives, Sergeant Cox… but not without their lawyer.”
***
Mo walked from the bowling
alley, moving slowly so as not to draw too much attention to himself as he made
his way down the street towards the abandoned house, stopping on the way at a
little fast food shack to pick up a greasy cheeseburger and fries for Howie.
Once back at the house, he
climbed through the hole in the barbed wire fence, picking his way through the
overgrown brush to the back window that had been long ago smashed out. Pulling himself through the window, the bag of
food in his hands, he made his way around the rotted floorboards to the front
entryway.
The closer he got to the
stairs, the louder the pounding became from the upstairs closet where Howie was
stashed. Walking upstairs with a smile,
Mo went into the bedroom and pulled open the closet door, Howie’s legs tumbling
out, still bound tightly, just the way Mo had left him.
Leaning down, Mo set down
the bag of food, rolling Howie over onto his stomach before dragging him out
into the middle of the room.
“I have some good news,
Howard,” he said, ripping the electrical tape from Howie’s face before plucking
out the rag that was stuffed in his mouth. “We’re almost done here, my friend. Our time together is coming to an end.”
“What do you mean?” Howie
asked, coughing into his hand, as Mo unwrapped the foul-smelling burger,
pushing it towards Howie’s face.
“Your friend Nick is
finally awake.”
***
Nick watched silently as
the doctors and nurses filed from the room, one right after another, like tin
soldiers in a line, the last one out closing the door tightly behind them. He waited a single beat before trying to sit
forward, wincing at the tight pull around his stomach as he lunged forward in
an attempt to snag the chart from the hook on the foot of the bed.
Grazing his fingertips off
of the clipboard, he lengthened his body again, trying to grip his fingers
around the chart, when the door to the room pushed open. Sitting back, Nick watched his lawyer Mr. Talbot
enter the room, followed by three official-looking men, one of whom was wearing
the much-maligned uniform of the LAPD.
“Hello Nick, I’m Douglas
Talbot, your lawyer.” Nick nodded, well
aware of who Mr. Talbot was, but not why
he was speaking so loudly, as if Nick had suddenly gone deaf or something. “This is Sergeant Cox from the LAPD and
Detectives Jones and Mason. They have a
few things they would like to talk to you about.”
Eyebrows arching, a
slightly amused smile on his face, Nick shifted around in the bed, trying to
get comfortable, as the Sergeant Cox pulled up a rolling stool to sit on and
the other two men, along with Mr. Talbot,
leaned against the wall.
“Hi, Nick. How are you feeling?” Sergeant Cox asked in a
pleasant, interested voice.
“I dunno, I guess fine.”
“Do you know where you are,
Nick?”
Looking around the room,
Nick smiled. “I’m assuming a hospital,” he
said with a small laugh that made Sergeant Cox smile.
“That’s right, Nick, you
are in the hospital. Do you know why you
are in the hospital?”
Fiddling with the IV tube
that ran from his hand to the pole beside the bed, Nick began to speak and then
stopped. That should be such an easy
question, right? Everyday, people would
ask him, “What did you do today, Nick?” Or
“Where have you been lately, Nick?” And
he’d always been able to answer them.
“Take your time, Nick,” Sergeant
Cox said softly, aware of the stern look of concentration on Nick’s face as he
mulled over the question again.
“Do I know why I’m in the
hospital?” Nick asked, looking over the faces of each one of the men in the
room, hoping for some sort of hint that none of their stone faces would give.
Nick’s mind turned slowly,
like a rusty wheel desperately in need of oil.
“No… no, I don’t know why
I’m here,” he finally answered, the once slightly amused look on his face wiped
clean.
“Nick, do you remember
getting hurt?”
Nick shook his head. “No, what happened, did I get in a car
accident or something?”
Nick wasn’t really
enjoying the game he and Sergeant Cox were playing.
“Nick, you were injured,
and you’ve been in a coma for the past seven days.” Sergeant Cox chose his words carefully,
noticing the blood pressure on the monitor above Nick’s head beginning to rise.
“Seven days? What… what happened to me?” How could seven days have escaped him without
his knowledge?
Cox paused for a moment
before answering. “Nick, you were shot.”
Nick’s hands instinctively
moved to his stomach, as Sergeant Cox continued his questions.
“Nick, do you remember
going shopping in Beverly Hills?” The
key to getting info out of a witness who had lost their memory was to keep the
pace flowing. If they were unsure of a
question, you moved quickly to the next question, never lingering for too long.
“Shopping?”
As his heart beat faster,
the rusty wheel in Nick’s mind slowly began to turn…
---
“Those look fabulous on
you! I can’t believe you have never
owned a pair of cowboy boots. It’s
definitely a good look for you!”
“You know that you make the clothes; the clothes don’t make you.”
“I completely agree.”
---
“Yeah, I remember shopping.
I bought some cowboy boots.” Nick’s hands fell from his middle as he locked
eyes with Sergeant Cox in an effort to remember.
“Was anybody with you when
you bought the boots, Nick?”
The wheel continued to
advance, one cog at a time…
---
“Okay, you know that you
are never going to wear those.”
“No, I don’t know that.”
“In twenty-two years,
you have never had the need to buy a pair of cowboy boots. What would make you think you’d need a pair now?”
---
“Brian.” Nick looked down, whispering the name before
looking up again. “Brian was with me.” Sitting forward, Nick smiled. “Where is he?
Where’s Brian?”
“Nick, can you tell us
what happened after the shopping trip? Can
you tell us where you and Brian went after buying the boots? Were you thirsty or maybe hungry?” Sergeant Cox hit him quickly with another
question, prodding him slightly with the information he had been given by Aaron.
And the wheel turned some
more…
---
“I want some beef jerky
and a Mountain Dew.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. I want some beef jerky and a Mountain Dew.”
“Well, you know there
isn’t any beef jerky in the house, and the only drinks I have are Coke, water,
and milk.”
“So let’s go and get me
some jerky and a Dew.”
“Go get yourself some
jerky and a Dew, you dork.”
“But we’re already in
the car, Bri. All you have to do is put
it in reverse, back up, and drive until we find someplace that has beef jerky
and Mountain Dew.”
“In Beverly Hills, that
could take forever. We would have to go
down more into the city.”
“Bri.”
“Fuck, Nick. You know, you piss me off sometimes.”
“Oh hell, Brian, I piss
you off all the time. Why should today
be any different?”
---
“I told Brian that I
wanted beef jerky and some Mountain Dew.” Nick pushed at his temples. “Hey, where’s Brian? I want to talk to Brian.”
Sergeant Cox sat forward,
his gaze shifting to the two detectives before settling back on Nick. “Nick, I need to ask you some more questions.”
“I want to talk to Brian.”
“Nick, Brian isn’t here.” Mr. Talbot put an arm on Sergeant Cox’s shoulder,
warning him that he was treading into dangerous territory.
“Well, where is he? Somebody go and get him now. I want to talk to Brian.”
“Nick.” Sergeant Cox looked down at the ground. “Brian isn’t here because Brian was shot, too…
Brian is dead.”
And then the wheel stopped
turning.
***