Chapter 5
Walker
RJ finds a live-feed camera in the northwest corner of the storage unit, and we studiously ignore it while we wait for Jansen to wake up.
We ignore Evie’s vitriol just as carefully.
But the second Jansen’s awake and Emma does a few tests, we prep to move him.
Not one of us likes the decision, but it’s better than a privately-owned paramilitary showing up and doing something much, much worse.
The longer we stayed waiting for him to wake up, the more obvious it became that we were just becoming another piece of leverage for Trips’ dad to hold over Trips and Clara. I can’t say I enjoy being leverage, but there’s a lot I’m not happy about right now. This is just another thing on the list.
We end up handcuffing Evie to Emma’s car while the three of us carefully carry a blanket-sling full of injured thief to my SUV, loading him into the empty cargo area. His tears make my own threaten.
God. This is not what we wanted. He was supposed to be getting better, not worse. We knew that his mind was a risk, but I never guessed that being shot was something we should have been prepared for. At least, not yet.
RJ takes off in Emma’s car with Evie in it, planning to ditch her at a bus stop with no cell phone and a handful of cash in time for the morning rush hour.
If Evie’s serious about calling the cops on us, it won’t stop her, but we hope it’ll give her a minute to calm down before she turns us in.
And we need whatever time we can get to deal with this fallout.
Emma and I bring Jansen to the house Clara named ‘Black.’
Navigating the dreary halls, I can’t help but remember the last time we were here, the terror of running, my gaze unfocused and my head aching, the holes in the wall ominous mouths in the dark.
The holes are a lot less terrifying on a fall morning than on a winter night, but the place is still gross.
It’s a hell of a lot better than a year’s worth of unaddressed mold damage at ‘Green,’ or being found at our house, so it’s the best option for now.
While waiting for RJ to get back with Emma’s car, I distract myself researching what helps people heal.
One thing that comes up is the color green and nature.
I know I’m being ridiculous, but the helplessness of watching everyone around me fall apart has pushed me past caring about how ridiculous I look.
So after RJ and I buy two mattresses, some comfortable clothes for Jansen, and toiletries, we swing home to gather Prince Fluffington and his things—who somehow seems to know he’s wanted elsewhere.
Then, I talk RJ into going with me to a garden center.
I spend way too much money on houseplants and a lime tree before we haul them back to ‘Black.’
After everything is unloaded, we take up our vigil beside Jansen, leaving Emma free to collect her necessities.
She feels like shit about taking Evie’s phone, so she’s leaving it with her sister for Evie to come grab.
Her silence over her breakup makes me wish Clara were here for her, knowing I’m not the person she would want to commiserate with. RJ would be an even worse option.
Clara could help break the bad news to her as well—Emma thinks she’s staying with Jansen until he’s out of the woods. RJ and I are too afraid to tell her she’s probably going to be stuck here for much longer.
She’s the one who performed illegal surgery.
She’s another lever the most evil Westerhouse can pull to make us all dance.
The best way to keep her safe is to have her disappear.
In a few months, we can set her free with the rest of us, assuming everything goes to plan.
But Clara isn’t here to promise everything will be okay, and I’m not able to do it, not with the way things have been going.
The plan we made while sprawled around a campfire in the ocean-scented desert air, feels like pure fantasy now. Watching the waxy white chest of one of my best friends raise and lower with a pained hitch, the second IV bag nearly empty, brings the reality of it all into stark relief.
This is life or death.
Emma explained that because the bullet got his diaphragm, he’s probably going to struggle to breathe for a while. She doesn’t know for how long. I can’t blame her for her lack of knowledge—it’s not like Jansen’s bullet wound has a lot in common with doggy castration.
RJ looks up from his laptop as I sit back, wishing I could do more to make the sparse room homey.
RJ’s done his part, scanning the safehouse for cameras and recording devices and finding it’s clean.
A handful of our shell companies seem unmonitored, which is a small mercy in the middle of this bigger mess.
He clears his throat, the circles under his eyes deeper than ever after our unplanned all-nighter. “When should we call the center?”
I swallow my useless fear and anger at this whole situation. “Now? He can’t go back, not like this, not after the evil bastard sees that footage. But he still needs his meds.”
RJ sighs. “Were they helping, though?”
“I think so. He was better than before. But…”
“But he just broke out of a secure facility and ran to Clara, only to get shot?”
“Yeah. That.”
A whisper from the mattress has me dropping to my knees next to him. “What, man?”
His voice is a croaking rasp, the words almost indistinguishable. “Get them. I’m sorry…this was on me.” He tries to say more, and I hold up a hand, the pained sound of his whispers telling me it’s too soon for this conversation.
“It’s fine. We’re just glad you’re okay.”
He tries to laugh, but instead tears trickle down his cheeks. “Ow. Pain meds?”
RJ glances at the directions Emma left us. “You can have more in about fifteen minutes.”
Jansen takes stock of the variety of greens I bought for him, then seems to notice his cat curled under one arm. “Fluffington?”
The cat twitches an ear hearing his name. “He missed you,” I say, reaching over him to scratch the cat, strangely sad that the feline won’t be at the house when we get back.
One limp hand flops on the cat’s head, and Fluffington purrs like he’s been saving them all up while his person was gone.
Glancing back at Jansen, I find his eyes shut, his breath a bit more labored than when we first got him settled. “Are you still with us?”
“For now. How do I know if I’m dying?”
RJ looks at the directions again. “Fever, mostly. Cold sweats, pain, coughing or vomiting up blood, bloating or swelling. Confusion, weakness, low blood pressure, or a rapid heart rate. Do you want me to check?” He holds up the blood pressure cuff we stole from the warehouse.
You know, along with bags of saline, painkillers, antibiotics, and a bedpan.
Awkward, but necessary. Just moving Jay here risked the stitches Emma left inside him.
Jansen shakes his head a little, Fluffington turning so more of Jansen’s floppy hand can stroke him. “Nah. Need to keep tabs.” He opens one eye, glancing at the lime tree. “How long?”
RJ and I share a look. “No idea. Humans and animals heal at different rates, and you got yourself an animal doctor,” I say, trying to make light of Clara and Trips’ decisions.
They weren’t good ones. But I’m not sure there were better ones. Not if they had to go back to that house. Not if there were already guns being fired.
Yesterday, what feels like a lifetime ago, I watched Clara put our training into action, taking down her guard before he could do the same to her.
But the consequence of that victory was guns.
RJ must be thinking in the same circles I am. “Jansen, do you remember what happened when you got shot? Clara and Trips left before we could talk to them.”
But he’s fallen asleep.
Fifteen minutes later, RJ wakes him enough to give him more meds, and an hour after that, he blinks his eyes open again.
RJ asks his question a second time, and with halting, pained words and breaks for water and air, Jansen explains his escape.
The story makes little sense, his confused but buzzing brain leading him to be literally above Clara, then dropping in front of her when a guy tried to shoot her.
A guy who, when pressed, sounds like he could have been the one she took down earlier that day.
The one, according to RJ, she already thought she’d killed last winter.
Based on the commotion that was going on when he got there, the house was looking for a show. They got one, but it wasn’t what they expected.
Jansen Pierce doesn’t do ‘expected’ well.
Once he finishes his somewhat confused story, he sinks even farther into the mattress. “I’m tired,” he says.
“You’ve got a lot of healing to do,” RJ answers.
The gentle rumble of Fluffington’s purrs fills the silence.
A creak from the front door has both RJ and me on our feet, sprinting to the top of the stairs, but it’s only Emma slipping in, closing the door behind her.
As we leave the room to hand off our patient, I hear, barely audible over the cat, “Love you, beautiful.”
And as I’ve voiced my own confessions to my silent room more nights than I’d care to admit, I shut the door behind me, leaving him to his imagined love.