22
ANSON
We followed Twill and the man she called Stash through a maze of hallways and up a short flight of stairs to a small room with a peaked ceiling.
The walls were lined with shelves crammed with random medical supplies, bedsheets, towels, gallons of water, and other assorted liquids.
A large metal cabinet with two locks had “Authorized Personnel Only” written on masking tape across the front of the door—probably meds.
There were three beds, two of which were occupied. An elderly man and—
“Holy shit, it’s him,” Paul blurted out.
Stocks and Welderman had beaten the Kid to within an inch of his life back at the farmhouse.
The girls were supposed to take him to the hospital on their way out of town, but that plan had clearly fallen apart.
He’d been beaten again, probably when they got caught—maybe by Van Man, Sam Porter, or whoever had found them before they could get away.
The wounds on his face made him nearly unrecognizable, swollen to the point of deformity.
I didn’t realize he was even awake until I was hovering over him and caught his single, unbandaged eye rolling slowly through a thin slit.
The other half of his face was completely covered.
When he saw me, his mouth dropped open loosely, but no words escaped—only a short, rattly breath.
Vincent got one look at him and turned on Stash. “Why the hell is he here? He needs to be in a hospital!”
“We took him from the hospital.”
“You what?”
Stash went to the end of the bed and pulled up the corner of the wool blanket and sheet covering the Kid. There was a yellow band around his ankle. “This means he’s marked.”
We all stared at him.
“Tagged. Property of the Genovese crime family.”
Stash said this like we should know what he was talking about. When none of us said anything, he went on.
“He’s been purchased. The Genovese family runs all the trafficking in New York, Jersey, Chicago; they even have a foothold on the West Coast.” He tore the band from the Kid’s leg and held it up.
“They have doctors on the payroll. This means the hospital was supposed to treat him off the books. Hold him until he was well enough for transport, then they’d pick him up and ship him. ”
“Ship him where?” I asked. “Guyon?”
It was Stash’s turn to look confused. “Guyon? I don’t know what that is.
” He tossed the yellow band into a trash can on the opposite side of the room.
“We have people who watch for this sort of thing at all the area hospitals. When we find people who have been tagged, we do what we can to get them out. Bring them here. Hopefully help them disappear when their condition improves.”
A woman appeared in the doorway wearing a worn white lab coat, an IV bag in her hand.
When she saw all of us, she frowned. “You need to clear out of here. He needs rest, and I need to work.” Hanging the bag on a hook affixed to the wall behind the Kid’s bed, she connected the attached tube to a needle already in the Kid’s wrist and secured it with white tape, then she twisted a valve and studied the line until she was satisfied the liquid was flowing.
“How bad is he?” I asked.
“Moderate concussion. Three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, and his right shoulder was dislocated. He has severe bruising over 90 percent of his body. The men who did this, they kicked him and stomped on him. He’s frankly lucky to be alive.
” The right side of his face was completely bandaged, and she brushed it with the tip of her finger.
“His right eye gives me the greatest concern. The lacrimal bone was fractured and his retina detached. The hospital repaired everything, which is good because we don’t have the resources here for that.
At this point, he needs time to recover.
Most will heal. He may or may not lose the use of his right eye; it’s too early to tell. ”
Vincent’s hands curled into fists. He looked ready to punch a hole through the wall. “Those fuckers. He’s a goddamn kid.”
He looked so small in that bed.
I leaned close. “Can you hear me?”
From behind swollen lids, his left eye shifted toward me. His pupil was horribly dilated, and the part that normally was white was this deep crimson. The muscles of his blackened cheek tightened and he let out a soft grunt.
“You’re out,” I told him. “You’re safe now.”
If that registered with him, I couldn’t tell. The deep pool of his pupil fixed on me and didn’t move.
“Where are the girls? Did they get away?”
His head shook, albeit slightly. His lips flexed a few times, but he had no words.
Vincent drew closer. “Do you know where they are?”
Again, the light shake of his head.
“Are they alive?”
Nothing then. No response at all.
Vincent and I exchanged a look. Paul had slowly stepped back and was looking down at the floor. He shuffled his feet slightly and sniffled, but said nothing.
The Kid’s index finger slowly stretched out and found my wrist. When I looked back at him, he managed a single word in a wet exhale that punched me in the gut. “Weasel?”
He didn’t know.
He’d been back at the farmhouse when Weasel ran into that alley. When that cop . . .
I heard the gunshot then, this sharp crack in the back of my head.
Had Weasel heard the shot that killed him?
Weasel was the Kid’s best friend, and he didn’t know he was dead.
Now’s not the time, Champ. Best you give him a day or two before you lay all that on him. By the looks of him, he may never have to hear about all that. By this time tomorrow, he might be taking the long sleep.
I nearly told Father to shut up, but caught myself. It didn’t matter; he’d gone quiet again.
The Kid was quiet, too. His eye drifted shut, and his breathing fell into a deep rhythm. The woman in the white coat had injected something into his IV line.
“He needs to sleep,” she told us. “You can try talking to him again in the morning.” She nodded toward the door. “Everyone out.”