Part 16:

All In Good Time, My Friend

“Back off, Sergeant, you’re going too fast,” Talbot warned, as Nick began to sway.

“Nick,” Sergeant Cox pressed further. “Nick, who shot you and Brian?”

“Shit… oh shit.” Nick couldn’t swallow. He pawed at his throat, the room spinning.

“Nick, focus on what I’m saying.” Sergeant Cox grabbed at Nick’s wrist, tugging him forward slightly.

“Security!” Mr. Talbot yelled for hospital security, while the guards outside of Nick’s door, on strict orders from Sergeant Cox, turned a deaf ear to his calls for help.

“Leave… leave me alone.” Nick tried to pull away his body, weak and in pain, his mind twisting with confusion.

“Get away from him, Sergeant.” Mr. Talbot pulled on Sergeant Cox’s shoulders as the two detectives stayed put in the background.

“I…. I want to wake up,” Nick sobbed, his hands pushing through the open slits in the hospital gown to his stomach that was wound with surgical tape, gauze, and criss-crossing tubes, pumping fluid in and out of his body.

It was true. He had been shot.

“Please.” He looked into Sergeant Cox’s eyes, pleading, “Please let me wake up.”

“You are awake, Nick, and you have the answers we need. We’ve waited long enough, Nick. We need your help.”

“Sergeant, I’m warning you,” Mr. Talbot roared, as Sergeant Cox turned, shoving him backwards, the lawyer stumbling and knocking over a monitor cart before hitting the ground, as Cox resumed his questioning.

“Nick, where is Howie?”

Nick continued to shake his head, pushing his eyes closed tightly, tears rolling down his pale face. “Howie? …I don’t know what you’re talking about… Why… why are you doing this to me?” Nick’s stomach began to burn, and his head began to pound, as his body slowly caught up to being in an awakened state, the trauma of the last seven days settling into his bones.

“Look, we need answers.” Cox pulled Nick’s face into his hands. “Look at me, Nick!” he shouted, Nick’s eyes popping open. “What happened in those woods?” He searched Nick’s wild blue eyes. “Nick… Nick.”

Nick’s eyes fluttered as he swayed slightly, suddenly arching his back before pitching forward into the metal guardrails of the bed, setting off the monitors at the nurse’s station.

“SHIT!” Cox yelled, as Mr. Talbot scrambled to his feet, grabbing for the door, opening it and shouting for security as he took off down the hall.

“Damn, Cox.” Detective Mason lunged forward. “The kid’s been in a god-damned coma for seven days, and you’re acting like the he fell off a skateboard at the mall. Why don’t you leave him alone, give him a chance to breathe?”

Sergeant Cox reached out, securing Nick around the shoulders as he and Mason tried to sit him back up in bed. He could feel Nick’s heart slamming around in his chest beneath the thin cotton gown, his skin covered with a layer of cold perspiration.

Mr. Talbot burst back into the room, followed by two nurses, anger apparent in their eyes as they pushed the two men out of their way. “Get out, all of you!” one of the nurses snapped, tapping a needle before inserting it into the IV tube.

“Please, please let me ask him a few more questions,” Sergeant Cox pleaded from the foot of the bed, as the first wave of hospital security came through the doors. “This is a crucial time.”

“Do you want to kill him?” the other nurse yelled, pushing the call button to alert the staff that they were in need of more security assistance.

“What are you putting in his IV?” Detective Jones asked, shooting a look to Cox that said if they were giving the kid painkillers and doping him up, the questioning was all but over.

“Gentleman.” Mr. Talbot had to bite on the words he really wanted to use to describe the barbaric men in front of him. “On behalf of my client, I am asking you to leave this room now. He will not be able to answer any more questions for you today.”

Shuffling to the door just as more security arrived, Sergeant Cox glanced over his shoulder to his sole witness.

Nick’s eyes fluttered open, looking up at Cox through long, damp lashes. He and Nick made eye contact for a brief moment, a look of clarity passing through Nick’s eyes before the medication kicked in and he drifted off to sleep.

***

After he finished his news update on Nick Carter, Dan Fortis wound up the cable to his microphone, tossing it to his cameraman Roger with a smile.

“What’s up with that shit-eatin’ grin?” Roger asked, placing the mic, along with the rest of their equipment, in the van.

“What shit eatin’ grin?”

“Oh, fuck you, Fortis, you know you been walking around with that smile plastered on your smug-ass face since this Backstreet story broke.”

“You mean since I broke it, Rog. And besides, so what if I have been walking around with a shit-eatin’ grin?” Dan asked, pulling his well-worn Orioles cap from the back of the van and plopping it on his head before climbing into the passenger side.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Fortis, long enough to know that you’re up to something.”

Dan smiled, flicking the brim of his cap with his index finger.

“So, are you gonna tell me what you’re up to or not?”

“All in good time, my friend. All in good time.” Dan settled back as Roger put the van in drive and pulled away from the hospital, leaving a crowd of reporters and fans in their dust.

***

“Get out of my hospital.”

Hospital Administrator Bill Connor and Sergeant Cox stood toe to toe behind the closed doors of Connor’s fifth floor office, engaged in a shouting match over the rights of Nick Carter versus the rights of the police department. Also in the room were Nick’s lawyer, his mother, his doctors, and the detectives, each one pleading their case of why they should be allowed or disallowed access to the young man in question.

After an hour of constant battling between all of the parties involved, a call was placed to the Police Commissioner by Mr. Connor.

Following a stern reprimand over the phone from the Commissioner, Sergeant Cox and the detectives were escorted from the hospital by police security with a warning. If they were to set foot back in the hospital before getting clearance from Mr. Connor, they would be brought up on charges by the hospital, as well as the Carter family, of endangering the life and well-being of Nickolas Gene Carter.

***

Escorted by security, Sergeant Cox and Detectives Mason and Jones made their way out of the back entrance of the hospital into the dimly-lit alley, the three men discussing the case and which direction to go next with the vague information they had on hand.

“God damned prick of a lawyer,” Cox grumbled, as the three men headed for their car. “If Nick’s mother wouldn’t have been so hot to trot on having that dickhead in the room, I know I could have gotten the kid to remember something.”

“Yeah right,” Mason said with a small laugh. “That kid wasn’t going to remember a god damned thing with the way you were all up and in his face. Did you see how shitfaced scared he was when you told him he’d been shot?”

“Jesus,” Jones piped up, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. “I thought he was going to go into cardiac arrest when you kept pumping him about what happened.”

The three men didn’t even notice the man dressed in black loading the sack of garbage into the dumpster to their right, listening to every word they said. He looked like any one of a hundred employees at the hospital that served up slop, mopped the floors, or swept the parking lot all times of the day and night.

“You know, maybe we have been overanalyzing this shit from the beginning.” Jones leaned against the trunk of the car, blowing smoke rings into the darkened sky. “Maybe Gus Monroe did kill those kids and then kill himself. ‘Carjacking gone wrong.’ Wouldn’t be the first time that a crime blew up in some dumbass criminal’s face.”

“And what about the stories the tabloids are reporting, that Brian and Nick were druggies and Gus was their dealer? They could be onto something with that.”

“So where does Howie Dorough fit into all of this?” Sergeant Cox glanced over at the guy by the dumpsters, tipping his head to him, as the three men continued talking.

“What do you mean, where does Howie fit in?” Detective Mason signaled for a cigarette from Jones. “Look, a lot of younger people in the limelight need a break every now and then. Maybe Howie Dorough decided to take a little time off.”

Cox shook his head. “Why would he just take time off and not call anybody, not his girlfriend or even his mother? Especially in light of the fact that he knew something was wrong with two of his friends and he said he was going to get them help. Not to mention, nobody has seen the town car from the hotel or the driver of that town car.”

“So maybe that night, Dorough and the driver set out for that address, but they can’t find Nick or Brian, and so Howie decides that while he is out, he might as well keep going, take a break. His girlfriend said they had been having disagreements over a long-term commitment. This was the guy’s chance to get away from her pressure. And as far as the driver goes, a big enough tip can buy silence and a town car ride to anywhere, Cox.”

Sergeant Cox resisted the urge to ask for a cigarette, a bad habit he had given up ten years before but still craved every day of his life. “I want the guy who did this brought to justice.”

“Listen Cox, why is it so hard to believe that Gus Monroe acted alone? All the facts at the crime scene point to that. If it weren’t for Howie Dorough, we would have never questioned if Gus was our man.” Mason flicked his cigarette on the ground, grinding it out with his heel.

“I think that we need to start looking at the possibility that Howie Dorough left the country and is unaware that we are looking for him. Or maybe we need to start looking at the possibility that Gus killed Howie and the town car driver, too, and we just haven’t found their bodies? Either way, it is going to be up to us, because that kid up there isn’t going to tell us anything until his brain wants to remember.” Jones tapped out the last cigarette dropping the empty pack to the ground.

“Where are your fucking manners, Jones?” Cox moaned, stooping to retrieve the empty pack. “I’m gonna go and throw this out.”

The three men broke apart, Mason and Jones climbing in the car as Cox headed for the dumpster, where the man in black was still standing, the bag of garbage in his hands.

“I’ll throw that away for you, Sergeant,” the man said, signaling for Sergeant Cox to hand him the wadded-up cigarette pack, which he took and stuffed in the garbage bag at his feet.

“Thanks.” Sergeant Cox turned to leave, his gaze falling to the shining black leather boots on the guy’s feet. “Those are some pretty fancy boots there,” Cox said, turning back around to admire the intricate tooling that was peeking out from the cuffs of the man’s black jeans.

“Thanks.” The guy hiked the leg of the one of the jeans up to reveal a large bird on the side of the boot, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes. “I won ‘em in a poker game.” He tapped the heel of the boot on the ground until his pant leg fell back down.

“Must have been one hell of a poker game if those boots were in the pot,” Cox said with a small chuckle.

“Oh man, you have no idea.” The guy heaved the garbage bag over his shoulder, slinging it into the dumpster with a smile.

“Hey Cox, you coming or what?” Mason called out of the window of the car that was idling by the chain link fence.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” Cox cocked his head to the guy as he turned to leave. “Duty calls,” he said, making his way across the alley to the car.

“You bet, sir. And hey, thanks for all you do to protect us citizens.”

Walking in the opposite direction of the police cruiser, Mo smiled, the details of the conversation between Sergeant Cox and the two detectives still fresh in his mind.

***

Nick lay on his side in his hospital bed, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes closed, snoring lightly. A.J. sat in a chair beside the bed, watching his friend, a slight frown on his face.

It was a few hours ago that he had received the call from Aaron that Nick was awake. A.J. drove faster then he ever had in his life to get to the hospital, making it to Nick’s floor just in time to see Sergeant Cox and the detectives being lead from Nick’s room by security, everybody screaming and yelling as they were herded onto the elevator, Nick’s mother and lawyer in tow.

A.J. proceeded to try and find out some answers about Nick and his condition, but the doctors as well as the guards at the door rebuffed him, so he was forced to turn on the charm if he was going to find anything out. Doing some heavy flirting with a sexy little nurse at the front desk, he was able to find out that Nick was indeed awake. And while he had been questioned by authorities about the case, he had no memory of why he and Brian had been shot or where Howie was.

It was close to midnight now, as A.J. sat beside Nick, willing him to remember something, anything, of the events of that night.

In the days since the shootings, the press had become wicked, even going so far as to characterize Brian and Nick as vile drug addicts who had been involved in some underground, seedy world of drug dealers and drugs that no one was aware of. They said that Brian and Nick had been involved a drug deal with Gus Monroe and that the deal had gone wrong due to money issues. It was at that point, the press was speculating, that Brian and Nick had lured Howie to the warehouse. Lured him there to take his money to repay their drug debt, at which point they had planned to kill him and blame the whole thing on Gus. The tables eventually turned, culminating in a free for all gun battle in the woods.

A.J. shook his head now, as he thought about the ugly words and speculation. He guessed it made for a good story, but it hurt to see his friends’ names smeared so horribly on the front pages of the stupid tabloid rags. And it hurt even more when his own mother called him to ask him if it was true.

Raking a hand through his dark, spiky hair, A.J. glanced at the clock on the wall. Another day had come and gone, and they were no closer to the truth than they had been seven days ago.

“A.J.” A.J. jumped at the sound of his name. Looking around the room, he finally looked to Nick, who seemed so small and helpless in the big hospital bed, a cloudy look in his sad blue eyes.

“Hey buddy,” A.J. whispered, leaning into Nick so he could get a better look at him through the metal side railings of the bed. “You scared the shit out of us, little man. We didn’t think you were going to make it.” A.J. smiled.

“A.J.” Nick’s voice was a small whisper. “A.J., is Brian really dead?” Nick’s hand reached out to clutch one of the railings. “Did somebody kill him?”

A.J. placed his hand over Nick’s hand, nodding. “Yeah, buddy, Brian is dead.”

“And is Howie really missing?” Nick sounded like the little kid A.J. had first met back in Florida all those years ago, always full of endless questions.

“Yes, Howie’s missing,” A.J. answered. He hadn’t ever lied to Nick before; he wasn’t going to start now.

Nick nodded, slowly releasing his grip on the railing. “It’s all my fault, isn’t it, A.J. ?” Nick asked.

“Nick, can you try and remember what happened that night? It is important that we know what happened. Can you remember?” A.J. asked in a gentle voice, as Nick pulled his hand away.

“No, A.J., I can’t remember.” He paused, rolling onto his side, facing away from A.J. “And I don’t want to,” he whispered, before closing his eyes.

***

Mo stood at the security fence of the Belhurst Storage Units, yelling for help. He shook the fence a few times for good measure, watching as the skinny little rent-a-cop who guarded the units came around the corner, his hand poised on the gun on his hip.

“What do you want?” the security guard yelled, sliding a flashlight from his belt loop that he shined on Mo from ten feet away.

“I need some help. My girlfriend has gone into labor in our car down the road, and I need to use your phone!” Mo yelled, his voice tinged with just the right amount of desperation.

“Well…” The guard paused, walking a few feet closer. “Why don’t you just tell me where you’re located, and I’ll call the cops and have them meet you at your car.”

Little shit, Mo thought. He should have guessed that he would get a clever little minimum wage fucker. But Mo could be cleverer then some stupid security guard.

“Look, we don’t have time to call the cops. When I left her, I could see the baby’s head coming out,” Mo pleaded, looking over his shoulder. “You have to help us. I can’t deliver the baby all by myself. Please, she can’t wait much longer.”

The guard continued to be suspicious, so Mo went the full nine yards, squeezing some tears into the corner of his eyes as he screamed, “Please, sir, don’t let my baby die!”

That did it.

The guard tucked his flashlight in his belt loop, grabbing for his keys as he hurried to the security gate, quickly unlocking it and leading the way down the driveway.

“Which way to your car, sir?” he turned to ask, just as Mo jabbed a knife in his throat.

***

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