Haven: Post Series: New York Screw Over

[amichan]

   

The bar is kinda between dive and decent but it wouldn't be this sort of deal if it wasn't. Who is going to do something like this in front of the Ritz? And it's not as if it's a complete shit hole. As I'm turning the engine off I can't help but wonder if Carolina is still knocking around somewhere given the last time I was in this neck of the woods is when I ran into her or, considering how many years it's been, if she's in some unmarked grave somewhere.

As I get out of the truck there's Ted getting out of his van a few spaces down. He's grayer about the temples than I remember but it's been a good eight months....well, then over a year since we've seen each other. Six months in the Barn, remember.

“Good to see you!” he calls, “How was the drive?”

“Long!”

“Yeah. I'm sure,” he nods, “Thanks for coming up...down? Over? Though.”

“I wouldn't do this for just anyone,” I point out.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he waves a hand, “I'm glad you did though. I heard you were out of the business.”

“I was out at sea more like,” I shake my head, “but it takes more than a storm to get rid of me.”

“That's what you get for working on a boat,” he chides, as I pull down the tail gate.

“Well, if I didn't you wouldn't get this stuff so don't complain.”

“I'm not,” he says, eyeing the boxes, “I pay you so I don't have to do that shit. That's the deal, right?”

“That's how I understand it.”

He slides one across towards him and opens the top and peers inside, “Excellent,” he says, and hefts it's neighbor forward and does the same.

“Seriously?” I remark in joking tone, though I know I'd do the same and have done on more than one occasion.

“It's not that I don't trust you,” he says, “but all kinds of things can happen in transit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I wave a hand at him and lean back against the truck and look about the parking lot. There are about seven cars here at this point but it's really only early bird time. Ted pushes a button on his key ring and I hear the back of the van unlock. He picks up one of the boxes and I grab one and follow him to the van.

“You're not turning straight around and heading back are you?” he asks, resting the box against the back bumper so he can open the door.

I blow out a sigh, “No. No,” I shake my head, “I hate to say it but I'm camping out over night like an old man and driving back in the morning.”

He laughs, taking my box and pushing it into the back of the van having already slid his own in, “Well, then, how about we grab a bite to eat in there? My treat.”

“In there?” I give him a skeptical eye.

“I eat here quite a bit,” he says, as we grab the next two boxes, “I even bring the...family.”

“Everything okay there?” I don't want to say your tone got weird but your tone got weird, Ted.

“Yeah, they just...” he shakes his head, “but that's why I picked the place. I come here on and off, not too out of routine but still.”

Way to avoid my question. I give him a look which he catches when he turns to take the last box from me and put it into the van.

He sighs, “The wife didn't really want me to get this stuff but I've been hankering and I knew I could get all this through you and yours for way better than, you know. You know wives though...well, you probably don't. You've never been one for attachments.”

“You'd be surprised,” I point out.

He gives me an odd look and then shrugs and goes round to the passenger side of the van and gets his payment and brings it to me, “I'll meet you inside then?”

I nod, closing the tail gate, “Yeah, sure,” I check the money in the envelope and then open the truck door and stash it in the lock box behind the passenger seat spinning the combination after I do so then lock up the actual truck itself and go into the bar.

Ted's picked out a table in the corner with a good view of the doors and waves me over to join him. It's typical fare: burgers, chicken wings, ribs, vague attempts at vegetarian food. I remind myself not to be judgmental about their selections and just go for something simple burger wise that should be hard to fuck up and one of their local beers. He gets ribs.

There's idle chit chat about travel and him questioning about this “out at sea” business, of course, which I expected. Then the food comes. Smells pretty good. I imagine Julia would both be joking with me watching me inspecting the meal, though I could easily see her doing the same thing. The fries are crispy and not soggy, bun is toasted, not a lot of grease soaking through things.

“See?” Ted says, tearing into the ribs, “Good, right?”

I cut the burger in half and it looks to be the right temperature of cook, so I take a bite. For the most part it tastes good but the cheese is not what I was expecting. The menu had just said cheese and I didn't think to ask. I set it down, and have to pick up my phone.

• To: Julia Wench
• Theres AMERICAN CHEESE ON THIS!

After a moment there's a reply.

• Aww, poor Boss. Got to NY safe, then?
• Yeah ted happy beer good at leest
• There we are then. See you tomorrow still?
• No change so far

And the familiar pulse on the tattoo which I answer as I put the phone in my coat pocket. After that I pick the offending cheese off the burger and continue to eat and chat back and forth.

“You like the beer, right?” Ted asks, pointing to the bottle I've almost drained.

“Yeah.”

“You need to try the Keegan's Stout,” he says.

I look around for the waitress.

“It's fine,” he says, “I'll be right back,” and he heads up to the bar.

The burger itself was pretty good. Glad I won't be coming back here though. I've been thoroughly spoiled by our own food. Twenty years ago this would have been miraculous. I need to stop making myself feel old. Ted comes back with two glasses of amber liquid and about a quarter inch of head. It's smoother than the bottled beer I'd selected and a slightly richer flavor and definitely stronger. I can imagine Cam would be heady halfway through the glass with already having a bottle first. Drinking the whole thing and it'd be another snuggle-fest night.

“You seem to approve,” Ted remarks.

“I might have to look up their distributor,” I admit, “and then see what undercutting can be done, because well...”

“Yeah, I know,” he gives a laugh, but it's slightly off again.

“Are you sure you're okay?” I ask him. There isn't anyone about whose come off with cop vibe otherwise I'd have excused myself to the bathroom already.

“I just...” he shakes his head, “...I keep thinking about Mel.”

“If you have to get home don't let me keep you. Job's done after all.”

“No, it's fine,” he gives a slight laugh again, “She needs to just suck it up. I do this. It's my choice.”

“Dangerous talk there,” I point out, “Those sort of things get people sleeping on the couch. I don't have any rare chocolates or jewelry to sell you.”

“I'm out of that sort of money anyway,” he says, “...at least on hand, I mean.”

“I'm pretty much done myself anyway,” I point out, draining the last of the beer.

“Fair enough,” he waves the waitress over for the check and I stand up and go to get some money out for the tip. My head wavers a bit as I do, and I grab the back of the chair confused. I'm not Cam. I can hold my booze, “You okay?” he asks.

I get my wallet out, “Yeah...must have just stood up too fast,” the numbers on the bills blur together for a moment. I pull a ten out and drop it on the table and put the wallet back, when I turn to go to the door the floor—well, it can't actually be tilting...

Someone grabs my left arm at the elbow, “Easy there,” as I go to defensive, “I was just trying to stop you going face first into the next table.”

All I can do is make a disgruntled noise especially as the room is spinning. Something had to have been in my drink and Ted's face, when it finally comes back into focus as he comes back over as the guy, whoever he is, is asking me how much I had to drink, tells me all I need to know about that.

“Did you roofie me?” I demand. No wonder he was being weird. Should have...my arm is being gripped tighter.

“We can get you somewhere,” the guy's voice.

“I'm sorry,” Ted says, “They have my--” and the rest is lost.

 

$$$$

 

There's the familiar marimba of a hangover through my head and the dry throat and mouth, scratchiness. My eyes hurt but when I go to sit up, to cover my eyes I find my arms are strapped—my legs too. It's leathery, what I'm laying on and has a weird head rest thing. It's a chair but it's it's in a reclining position, not a board or a bed or anything like that.

This is the worst hangover I've had since Evi's wake.

Where is Ted? That fucker putting shit my beer...

“Ah, Crocker, so glad you can rejoin us,” I can't place the voice, “Your head should ease up soon I imagine,” I should know that voice.

“What the Hell is going on?” I should not have demanded so loudly as far as my head is concerned but fuck this. I test how much give the arm braces have not much. They're thick flat straps with buckles though when I shift angles I can just make out the guy.

He steps closer. Mother fucker.

“Really, Wallace? This is a long way to go to get a date. I didn't think you were into this sort of thing...I can hook you up with someone who is actually interested, you know?” My head is actually starting to clear some which is a little odd, to say the least.

Following Wallace's eye movements there must be at least one other person in the room. I should have realized when I saw the guys a few weeks back that they weren't operating on their own but how in the hell are they in New York?

“I'm not interested in that,” he snaps, “I'm interested in money. You owe us money.”

“Since...when?” there's an uneasy feeling in my stomach which has nothing to do with his attempt at a threatening stance. It's easy to do something like that when the person you're talking to is attached to an immovable object. It's more to do with the way my headache is clearing up.

“Two-fold compensation at this point I'd say,” there's that glance off to the side and a noise of agreement from someone, no two someones.

“Our business ended years ago. You cut me off in the clear.”

“After you said you wanted nothing more to do with our trade. Too good for it all of a sudden,” he looks offended, but all's well with that. I knew it wasn't good for a junkie trying to get clean to keep delivering drugs, especially not the one he was using, “I was generous letting our ties go. I could have sent people after you...” of course who is to say he didn't and they just couldn't find me because they had no idea I was in Haven or that I had the Cape Rouge which was my intent, “and then you—you think I don't know you sent the authorities after us in Montserrat?”

He's not wrong but he doesn't need to—my limbs are starting to feel both heavy and floaty at the same time. It's so familiar and wonderful and I just want to lie back into—fuck, fuck.

“Fuck. What did you do to me?”

“A little something to make you more cooperative. I know how much you loved it.”

And he's not wrong. Fuck. It's so...

“So...to that money you owe us,” Wallace continues.

I shift my arms trying to pull things but everything is going loopy, and my stomach is churning as though we're in the roughest of seas when I turn to look at him, “I don't...in...the clear.”

“Compensation,” he counters, “because not only did you turn us in then but I'm sure that Ali telling us that he thought he saw you and them getting done has nothing to do with each other.”

“I can't...” and then it's coming up, “I don't...” and the burger is reappearing.

There's angry voices blurring back and forth and I feel a chunk of the hair on the back of my head being yanked up as my chest heaves and aches and everything spins about. I can't tell if I'm floating backwards or forwards and then there's flat surface meeting me.

%%%%% 

“How the hell much did you give him?” I hear from above me. Cold ground. Concrete.

“I didn't think it was that much but I don't know with whatever else was in his system,” another voice.

There's a familiar light feeling in my head and limbs but my mouth tastes nasty. Where am I? Who was I working with? Stay still. If I open my eyes slightly I can see feet through my hair. Someone's wearing converse shoes and someone else boots.

“Just keep an eye on him right now. He's too out of it to get any answers and if he chokes to death or something the boss is not going to be happy. Make sure he doesn't roll on his back.”

“Why do I--?”

“Because you're the one who gave him that much.” They're on the far side, but one is sort of turned in my direction. I can shift a little and let out small grumbling noises, something hopefully I'm just sick and unwell sounding and feel around on my jacket for something I can use. Nothing in pockets, but loose button I pull it while coughing and hear them arguing with each other about checking on me. I roll slightly so I can see more of where they're at and then flick it off something metal, barely; everything's not quite oriented but it's not as though this is unusual for me...but this seems...wrong because he wouldn't...but that's—maybe that was wrong? Fuck it. Get out of this shit first.

I roll all the way on to my back now that they're being all paranoid about the weird skittery noise and make the coughing louder, hiccuping and doing my best to assure them I'm about the puke up my insides while hoping that I will not actually puke up my insides while faking it.

There's a mini argument between them about who is coming over to make sure I'm okay.

“I don't want to get puke on my shoes,” one mutters.

“You have more than that to worry about that if he chokes to death.”

Footsteps come closer. Yes. Closer and I can push you down. Blue and white shoes and the shiny hitch that is a knife in a sock. Dumb ass. That's even better. He reaches to move my shoulder and I yank it and stab it in his foot. He screams and I rip it out slam him over and throw the knife at the other guy but it goes off and doesn't hit him, clanging off something else as I pull myself to my feet. Staying balanced is tricky. I feel more unsteady than I can think of in a long time and then someone hard slams into me and knocks me to the ground we slide a little way and I can see the knife and reach for it. The sleeve of my jacket pulls up and I see them—the hearts around my wrist. Tiny mistress.

This is that body. So, why am I high? Duke would never. Who are these people?

I can't grab the knife but I can—what are the codes? Fuck it. I grab the tattoo and squeeze as hard as I can while I try to kick him off me. Then the other guy grabs my arm and pulls me to the side and wraps an arm around my neck.

“What the hell is going on in here?” a third voice demands.

“He was faking the whole thing!” the arm round my neck pulls me to my feet.

“He just stabbed me in the fucking foot!”

Wait. I did! I slam my foot down on a foot but it's apparently not the right one, someone or something hits me in the head sending me reeling a bit and then I'm wrestled backwards and slammed into something covered in squeaky plasticy leathery...it's like a dentist's chair two of them are holding my arms and the new third person my legs. I try to place him but I can't. They wrestle my arms and legs into leather straps and tie them down. My legs are straight but my arms are turned so the insides are face up and my stomach drops because I think I know why Duke is high now and I'm more determined to get the fuck out of here even as I realize that my wrist is pulsing, has been pulsing—the tattoo is—Julia is answering me, which means she knows something is wrong and she'll be on her way possibly with other people, but I...don't know where I am...exactly. If this isn't Haven there's no telling how long it'll take...

There has to be a way...

“Now,” the one who came in while we were fighting says. He's turned around and I can hear a sound and smell a scent that's all too familiar: the burning and bubbling turning powder into liquid, “we were discussing your compensating us.”

“Compensating you? I'm the one being held hostage here.”

He turns around needle in hand. I can't put a number on how many times I must have had one over the years and how sweet it was, but it needs to be far, far away from me. There is no give in these straps though, and strong arms are on mine from above, and I look up in to this person's face. I'm not sure if this is the guy whose foot I stabbed or not because they're not talking but they look familiar. They're upside down which doesn't help.

“I'll explain, again,” he says, with false graciousness, “you owe us for lost revenue, lost merchandise, and, I'd say pain and suffering, wouldn't you?”

“I would,” the guy holding me nods. Okay, so he doesn't have a damaged foot.

“Definitely, additionally now. Unless I get to stab him in the foot.”

“Plus the shoes,” fine foot guy says.

“Right. Right. These are limited edition.”

“Maybe you shouldn't wear them to work then,” I point out.

“I know you, Crocker, you're going to have back-up plans. You have to have money stashes in places. I bet you even have one here. You came here enough for us.”

So, not Haven. Fuck. I never had jobs that brought me too Haven, other than for the Guard, so I bet Duke didn't have any either especially as these guys have drugs and what was it...he broke connections with those people back when he got theCape. Julia said that was when she was a...teenager.

“You're not getting anything,” I tell him. I'm sure he's right and Duke has some but even if I had any idea where they were I wouldn't say.

“I thought you might say that,” he says, “Hold him,” he tells the guy behind me, but apparently he was talking to both of them because they're suddenly both on me, one with his body over the top of mine, keeping my left arm down, ignoring my attempts at damaging him, and the other holding my right arm still, rolling up the sleeve.

“Get off me,” is all I can really manage but at least I feel like I'm doing something instead of just ineffectively clawing at the one guy.

I feel him flicking at my arm and then the jab and the warmth spreading down my arm and up as well towards my shoul—ahhh, damn it, fuck it's too good. If there was...no.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks, “More cooperative?”

It's hard to glare at him when my brain is slipping off into unwilling bliss. I can barely feel my hands in the straps. I remember this so well. I want to roll back into it like I have so many times sitting in a corner of the Ursa rolling into the light spaces between memory but this is not and I can't. I don't care how awesome wonderful it is.

I would spit at him but the dry mouth is already there. Nothing doing.

“No,” I tell him, “You're fucking kidding me. Sticking me full of this shit and expect...” money it was money but he cuts in.

“Oh,” he says, “So that's how it is. Well, then I'll be back in a little while and we'll chat again. You guys stay here and make sure he doesn't get out this time.”

“What about--” foot guy starts.

“I'll send Evan down with some bandages,” he answers. I can almost hear him shaking his head in annoyance given the sigh in his voice.

I try to lift my head and see where he's going as a door open and closes but my head won't cooperate to lift up. Fucking heroin. Fuck you.

%%%%% 

Someone is smacking my face. I go to grab their hand, hit them with my other fist but I meet resistance. My arms are restrained. Right. Straps. Weird chair. People. I look myself over. Jeans, shoes. Denim shirt. The right sleeve rolled up, welts from where they've jabbed in the needle full of smack, one, two...maybe three? Scratch lines. Maybe just screwing it up because of them not knowing how properly, me not cooperating.

Heart chain tattooed around the wrist. Yes. Right.

These guys...abducted Duke because they think he owes them money. They want money from a safe stash he might have. Right. How long have we been here? It can't have been that long. It can't have been. Tiny mistress would move heaven and earth.

My eyes are achy, starting to come down from the high. I can feel the itchiness in my arms, across my chest. Well one thing for the straps I won't be scratching our skin off.

“What's so funny, Crocker?”

Seriously? I can't come up with anything better than 'your face'? Stupid junkie brain.

“So original,” he counters.

The door is opened, “He's awake boss.”

The guy who shot me up comes back in. He already has a loaded needle in his hand which the guy at the door seems to find amusing. I move my feet around testing the limits of that strap but nothing doing there, annoyingly, even with the way my legs are twitching a bit it's just making things hurt and annoying me and I find myself shifting in the chair trying to scratch my back but that's just an exercise in frustration too given all it really does is make the chair surface creak and squeak.

“Problems?” This 'boss' man asks, “Not feeling so good?”

“What's it matter?” I ask him, “I'm still not telling you anything.”

“Well, what do you think?”

I realize after a moment he's not talking to me. He's talking to Stabbed-Foot and Boots.

“Should we offer it or deny it?”

“I think he's going to beg you,” Stabbed-Foot says.

“But not til next time,” Boots says, “Twenty on it.”

“Fuck you both,” I mutter, clenching my fists against the desire to scratch given I can't anyway.

“You're going to tell me where the closest one is,” he says, “the closest stash and if you don't I'm going to pump you full of this again,” he waves the syringe towards my face but he's standing a good ten feet away.

“No,” I tell him, “No. I am not.”

“Really?”

“No, I'm joking with you. I'm perfectly willing to suddenly tell you where thousands of dollars are,” I feel myself twitching then, “because—because you miraculously deserve it.”

Boots smacks me.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

We go back and forth for a few more bars. Him closing the gap because I'm either ignoring him when he talks or telling him to fuck off like it's the only thing I know how to say. Boots and Stabbed-Foot get into an argument with their boss who during the course of their discussion I've found out is called Wallace something I probably should know given I'm “Duke” about if they can rough me up some on top of Wallace's threats about shooting me up again.

“Maybe he's tricking you? Maybe he says he doesn't want it but he does...” one of them mutters. It's getting hard to differentiate their voices given my ears are hurting.

“No, he doesn't want it. I can tell. This isn't back then.”

“Then why?” I ask him, “Why the hell do you think you're going to get anything out of me?”

“One way or another this is going to work,” he says, “and then we get the satisfaction of turfing you out onto the street in the middle of nowhere just you and the monkey again,” he leans down but not close enough for me to actually reach any part of him even with my teeth, “maybe you'll even be crawling back to us for help with it, won't that be fun?” he's not talking to me again. It did only take one time the first time...and they apparently know that.

If this were me doing the questioning I'd be walking away about now because I'm clearly starting to hurt. I'm probably an hour or so away from retching and then I might be hard pressed not to beg him for something because I am sore, and after throwing up I'm gonna be even more sore and itchy, oh so very drive you mad itchy and not able to scratch. I remember it so, so well how bonkers it makes you when you can scratch. So, leave me alone for a while, let me stew. Let me sit with my own thoughts and the pain and let me cry.

But then, “No?” he asks, “Nothing for me? No bank name? No storage locker at a station or an airport maybe?”

I shake my head. Ah, right. I should have remembered the dizziness too. Why do I always forget that?

“Really? Not even a hole in the ground somewhere?”

“Do I look that stupid?”

“Alright then. I warned you,” he makes a head motion towards Boots who grabs my right arm between the wrist and elbow and then between elbow and shoulder and holds tight I buck against him and fight, “I told you,” Wallace says, “this will go easier if you are still,” he addresses to me.

“Because I want that,” I say, sarcastically. If the fuss keeps up maybe with all the extra people around something on the damn chair will break. The only thing that does right now though is the surface of my skin and into the vein and there we go again. I'm suddenly absorbed by the pattern on Stabbed-Foot's shirt as he gets bitched at by Wallace for not helping hold me down this time.

“I'll be back in a half hour,” he says, “Don't rough him up...too much in the mean time and don't let him out.”

Maybe one of these assholes will have a Trouble.

%%%%% 

I couldn't get either of them to bleed any more and I'm kicking myself for not getting Stabbed-Foot's blood on me in the first place, that could well have fixed this problem way back. Though I'd possibly be lost in the middle of nowhere crashing and disoriented...better than this? Common sense isn't so sure.

There's another hazy round of questioning as I'm starting to come down and fuck-offs, followed by being pinned in the chair because I can still move slightly and won't keep my arm still for them to shoot me full of heroin for some strange reason and I keep hoping if I wrestle enough something in the chair will give and I'll be able to fight my way out.

The next time he comes back though...there's a small ray of sunshine that's not just a hallucination from all the opiate in my system. Boots is pulling my arm into position and I swear I hear a clinking from the buckle and as I shift my wrist there's an ability to wiggle it that wasn't there before. I need to sort it out but at the moment I'm flying away and I might as well be on the moon for all the good it's doing me.

When things start mellowing down though I shift my hand carefully in the strap and look at my wrist. The hook on the buckle is almost out of it's hole. I look to see where Books and Stabbed-Foot are. They're sitting over on the left of me playing some sort of card game given I'm still out of it as far as they can tell. I carefully shift my head so that my hair covers my eyes and I can watch them as I carefully waggle my wrist some more in the strap and I can feel it loosening more until there's a faint clinking sound and the strip loosens as the buckle gives and it's all I can do to not let out a whoop. Gotta hold on to sneaky. Sneaky. And not roll back into the float. Not back into it.

It's going to be harder to get my other arm free without them noticing but I have to try. I have the first part of the buckle undone when Boots notices and comes running over to grab me and stop me. I head butt him, and pull the buckle the rest of the way and scrabble for my feet while Boots pulls himself back up. Stabbed-Foot instead of coming to help Boots runs for the door and yells for Wallace and then comes back. I don't have my feet free yet and they slam me back into the chair each holding an arm by the side of my head when Wallace comes in. I at least have the satisfaction that blood is running down Boots' face and his nose looks decidedly fucked up.

“You're really getting on my nerves,” Wallace remarks.

Oh, I'm so sorry, “That's interesting,” I pull against them, “because you're getting on mine,” my hands are still free of the bindings at least. Maybe I can get free of one of them given Wallace is likely going to ramble and engage them in “witty” banter might distract them enough that they loosen their hold slightly on one or both of my arms.

“It's in your best interests to keep still,” Wallace says, “there are other places I can stick the needle—you want to risk going blind in one eye?”

Sure the arm is better than the eye. I remember the difficulty of shooting in the tear duct myself. Didn't stop me doing it at times. Just not first thing when I was way too shaky then it was find whatever vein in arm, leg, foot or hand I could.

I gnash my teeth in the direction of Boots and Stabbed-Foot but don't say anything. Just try and grab my face. Go on. Wallace preps the needle and then comes over to where Stabbed-Foot is standing and pulls my left arm down, holding the needle up.

“Where do you have money close by?” he asks, “For that matter where's the two grand we gave to Ted for the booze?”

“What?” I ask him. The words not quite making sense. Then it unfolds and I realize this is why we're wherever we are—some sort of delivery—clearly a set up now.

Shit—I got myself distracted I feel the needle jab into my vein and them strapping my arms down again as things start to blur away from me. I could swear someone pats my face and there's a vague idea of someone saying words in my direction something about seeing me in a little while. I have to focus, find something to focus—where's Boots bloody nose?

Is that? I could swear there's a banging noises coming from somewhere in front of me. Focus. Pull things together. Don't lean in. Don't. Where's Boots? There's another thud. Good distractions have to move. That buckle is broken. It broke, right?—I pull at it again hoping for loosening. My arm feels like jello and I'm not sure I'm doing anything. I can only vaguely feel anything moving and then another thud and I feel a pulsing on my wrist the way only Julia can do—is that her? On the side of me and a shape on the floor in Stabbed-Foot's colors?

“Baby,” Julia's voice cuts through the haze, “You're safe now, baby. Tiny Mistress Julia is here.”

I try to find the source of her voice. Where is she at?

“I'm going to get you free, okay?” she sounds, closer. I feel her hand calming the movement of the one working at the broken strap and taking it off, and then she kisses my hand, and the warmth of her body leaning over me to undo the other strap. She kisses that hand and my forehead, and I feel her hands running through my hair, “Baby? Can you talk? How are you doing?” She moves away and I feel the straps on my legs loosening.

I need to get up. We need to get out of here before someone else shows up, “Julia?” I ask her, and push up with my arms, but I meet the bed again very quickly.

“Baby! Careful,” she's at my side where I can see. I can make her face out more clearly as she brushes my hair away from my face, out of my mouth. Then I feel her hands in mine, “it's okay. I'm here. You're safe, okay? You're safe,” I feel the tattoo pulsing again, and then she kisses my forehead, “Just lie still until your head's less—until you've come down a bit more, okay? I'm right here, close by.” I didn't take it on purpose. She has to know that. I have to tell her, but my mouth doesn't seem to be working the words because she says, “It's okay, just wait and tell me in a bit. I've just got to move these guys. I'll be right back.” The tattoo pulses again. Three beats. I let mine answer her given my words don't word right at the moment.

“I'm sorry I'm like this but I didn't take it,” I tell Julia. She comes back into my field of vision, “I didn't want it. I didn't,” I reach for her. I'm not sure if she's understanding what I'm saying, “They—they made me. They put it--”

“Baby, calm down,” I feel her hands on my face, and more light touches, kisses, “It's okay. Just relax. Enjoy it. Whatever it is we'll talk about it when you can actually talk, okay? Do you understand me? I'm not angry. I know what's going on. It's okay. I'll be back, okay? I need to deal with these guys before they wake up,” she kisses me and brushes a hand through my hair before moving away again. My head is light and airy where she touches and I follow the glow of her as she moves out of my field of vision and I close my eyes and actually lean in to it this time. 

%%%%%

“Baby?” I feel a cautious hand on my shoulder, warm, tender.

I open my eyes, carefully, the feel heavy. My mouth is so very dry but Julia is in better focus and my head is clearer. I can push myself up with a more steadiness but I'm still not quite where I'd like to be. Julia puts her arms around me and wraps me in a tight hug putting one hand on the back of my head.

“It's okay, Baby,” she whispers, “I've got you.”

“I didn't take it,” my voice is hoarse but it actually seems to be working.

“I know. I know,” she says, “I saw what they were doing to you,” she kisses me and I feel like my mouth might crack as I kiss back I'm so dried out, “We need to get you out of here, okay?” She pats my legs, “I've got you, okay? Can you turn?” With her arm around my shoulders we get me swiveled on the chair and my feet swung around to the floor feeling a little mushy when they touch down. Julia lets me brace myself on her shoulders and leads me towards the door. I can hear people echoing around in other rooms.

“Who came with you?” I ask her, swallowing as much as I can trying to force saliva to form.

“Audrey, Dwight, a couple of cops: Stan and Rebecca,” she says, “and a contingent of Guard,” she pauses for a moment, “Mike Gallagher is one of them.”

We're moving slowly towards what I assume is the outside.

“The Guard are gone though. It's just Gallagher left and the others. Locals law enforcement are here now collecting the gift-wrapped drug dealers. It's been just over an hour since they shot you up,” she adds, gently, “How long are we going to have until the crash gets bad?”

“There's lots of things that could...two to four hours, I guess.”

We skirt around a small group of policemen and out into the day. Dwight and the other two cops are talking to some who must be some of these locals. Audrey and Mike are who we're heading for they're standing to the side near a van and Dwight's truck.

Audrey comes rushing up and then hesitates in front of me, “It's so good too—I'm glad you're safe,” she makes a gesture and I consent to her hugging me.

Julia goes into the truck, opens a bottle of water and offers it to me. I take a few tentative sips. I wonder exactly how long it's been since I've had anything to drink given how the body seems to be soaking up the moisture. Julia's looking at Gallagher expectantly.

“We've been all round,” he says, “No sign of it.”

“Sloppy,” she mutters.

“What is?” I ask, voice less scratchy now that I'm comfortable enough to take larger swigs of water.

“They didn't grab Duke's truck,” she says, “I don't suppose you have any idea where it is.”

“I don't even know where we are right now,” I tell them, “I've narrowed it down to not Haven but still in the U.S most likely.”

“That's kinda what I thought,” she kisses my cheek.

“We're in New York state,” Audrey fills in, “but unless they somehow took the entire truck apart...”

“That would require actual skill,” Julia begins.

I look over to where Dwight, Stan and Rebecca are with the other cops. Dwight is saying something and by his expression it looks like he might have already said it before at least twice, “--arver not Crocker,” he explains, “it's not the first time it's happened, believe me. He's not going to press charges on the kidnapping he just wants to get home as soon as possible because of the medical condition I already mentioned.”

The other cop says something I can't make out and Dwight shakes his head.

“Believe me he and his wife know how to manage things. That's not necessary and would make things ten times worse. Familiar surroundings are the best bet. She has all the things they need.”

“Cam,” Julia says.

I turn back to her a little to quickly and put my hand against the truck to stay steady, “You guys got quite the tale together.”

“Yeah,” she nods, “We had time,” she looks more than a little frustrated about that.

I kiss her, “Poor tiny mistress. You must have been so mad you couldn't teleport the vans.”

“You have no idea,” she says.

“I remember thinking at some point about you bending time and space.”

“Baby,” she says, reaching up to put her hand on my cheek, “We need to know where Duke's truck is so we can get on the way home before things get bad. I need you to try and switch now, okay? I'm sorry.”

“It's him you should--” I start, “I think I wound up out because he was not doing so good at all—and the puking. They had thrown us on the floor to stop us chok--” I probably shouldn't explain these things.

“Baby...” Julia says, in the same tones when hearing about things in the time line that spawned me.

“I was able to stab one of them in the foot because of that,” I point out. That should make things better, “but anyway...I just wanted to warn you because I'm worried that when he comes forward i—he might just kinda fall over. I'm hoping he can still tell you things.”

Julia and Audrey exchange looks and Gallagher leans around to look towards what Dwight is doing.

“Okay,” Julia rubs a hand down my arm, “What can we do to make it easier on Duke?”

I can't think right now. I'm just trying not to freak myself out internally because what if he does just pass out? I can remember being shot up at least five times, and there were three welts, one of which was probably what they did after they slapped me back in the chair after I stabbed the one guy in the foot.

“Maybe you should just sit down already,” Audrey points out. 

 Not a bad idea. I can't believe I didn't think of that. I keep my hand against the truck and slide down so my back is against the wheel, and try to fade back in a different way than when I was floating back into the heroin high. I'm not sure how exactly...it's like I've sort of forgotten how this works. I almost feel like I should be walking down a street calling his name.