Chapter Thirty-eight
Lake
Pure desperation had me spending far too long attempting to find a way through the door before giving up. It was a fire door. They were built to withstand forced entry, so a historian―no matter how determined―was never going to break through one.
I forced myself to think. There was no other way up to the roof. I took my phone out and stared at it. I didn’t have Ben’s number. I could call the police, but how long would it take to speak to someone who knew what I was talking about? Too long was the answer.
Baxter’s phone. He’d left it in the car, and the car was unlocked. I ran back to it, my fingers clumsy as I fumbled it out of the glove compartment. In contrast to when I’d gently mocked him for having no passcode set on his phone, now I was grateful.
His address book was sparse. No surprise, given that it equated to six months of living. No, Ben under the B’s. It was possible he was in there under his surname, but as I didn’t know it, that wasn’t any help. Calisto was there, though, and I hit call without looking through any of the other names.
He answered on the second ring. “Thank God!”
“It’s Lake,” I said quickly. I explained the situation in as few words as possible, working hard to keep the panic out of my voice. “So I really need Ben here. I thought the police were already on their way. Where are they?”
A conversation happened in the background before Calisto came back on the phone. “Asher’s speaking to Ben now. He told them to bring the fire brigade. They’ll have the equipment to get through the door.”
“When?” I asked. “They’ve already been up there for ten minutes. Anything could be happening. I don’t want to lose him.”
More conversation. The waiting felt like standing next to a car alarm that wouldn’t shut off, each second drilling a little deeper into my skull.
“Five minutes. Just hang tight.”
“A lot can happen in five minutes.”
“Yeah,” Calisto agreed, trepidation leaking into his voice.
“What if something happens to him?”
“Then I’d find a way to bring him back again.”
That offered some comfort. Calisto kept talking, but it was nothing but background noise. He seemed to realize that, his conversation not requiring anything except for the occasional grunt to show I hadn’t disappeared altogether.
“When this is over, we should all have dinner together,” Calisto said. “You’re important to Baxter, so that makes you important to me.”
“Dinner,” I said. “Sure.” Right now, that felt too normal to be anything but a pipe dream.
Loud footsteps—enough to sound like a stampede—echoed up the stairs. Ben appeared first, followed by two firemen and two uniformed officers. They made a beeline for the door, Ben offering a nod on his way over there.
I joined them, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ben while the firemen set to work on the door. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt more useless.
“How long have they been up there?” Ben asked.
I bit back my instinctive reaction to say too long and tried for something more helpful. “Fifteen minutes.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“Will it?”
“Baxter’s tough. He died and came back again. You don’t get any tougher than that.”
“He’s not as tough as he makes out.”
Ben had nothing to say to that.
The firemen didn’t waste time on the hinges, wedging a bar into the frame and leaning in hard. The door groaned, metal screaming against metal, sweat standing out on their brows with the exertion.
“What if they can’t—?”
The door tore loose with a sharp, final snap. It was a horrific sound. It was also the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. Ben surged forward, the two uniformed officers falling into step behind him, and the three of them charging up the stairs as if they did this every day. Perhaps they did.
Nobody stopped me from following. Had they tried, they might have seen a very different Lake Larson. One I didn’t even recognize myself. My speed was such that I arrived on the roof less than a second behind Ben.
It was empty.
Confusion had me coming to a complete halt. They hadn’t come back through the door, which, short of a helicopter swooping down to pick them up, only left one route off the roof. Something dark and hopeless spread through my chest. I didn’t know whether to cry, scream, or do both in unison.
Later, I’d wonder why I hadn’t seen what Ben had, whether pessimism had gotten the better of me, or whether he ate a lot of carrots to improve his night vision.
Whatever it was, the roof remained empty in my mind until Ben ran full pelt across it, shouting instructions that were just noise as he went.
Then I saw it.
A figure. Just one. Plastered to the parapet in an awkward position.
Baxter? Or Owen?
They were half-hanging over it, looking like they might fall at any moment. It made no sense until Ben and one of the uniformed officers dragged something back over the parapet.
Owen.
Which meant the other man, the one who’d fallen backwards on the tarmac and was sucking in air like he hadn’t breathed in hours, was Baxter. I ran, scared of what I might find when I got there, bracing myself for the worst.
He squinted up at me when I arrived at his side, chest still rising and falling rapidly. “No blood,” he said. “No wound.”
I fell to my knees beside him, running my hands over him gingerly. He winced when I reached his chest and sucked in a breath when I got to his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he said.
“I thought you weren’t going to say that anymore when it isn’t true.”
He laughed, but it cut off quickly when it caused him pain. I gathered him into my arms as gently as if he were one big bruise. Closing my eyes, I buried my nose in his hair. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m not that easy to lose.”
There was noise in the background. Someone being read their Miranda rights. I didn’t really care. The only important thing was what I held in my arms.
A hand landed on my shoulder. Ben’s hand. “He needs to see a doctor,” he said. “They need to look at his arm.”
I knew that because Baxter only held onto me with one arm, the other hanging limply at his side. Between us, we helped him to his feet.
Owen was in handcuffs. We watched as two uniformed officers escorted him from the roof. He didn’t look back, his head down.
“Did you drop my phone?”
I followed Baxter’s gaze. Bringing it with me hadn’t even registered. Still holding onto him, I retrieved it, bringing it to my ear. “Calisto?” He’d probably hung up.
“Yeah. What’s going on?”
The note of panic in his voice made me feel guilty. “He’s okay. He has some injuries, but he’s okay.”
“I want to talk to him.”
I passed the phone over, Baxter holding it with his good hand. “Tell Asher,” he said, “that he got it wrong again.”
The next few hours were a blur. I’d refused to be separated from Baxter at the hospital.
I didn’t care that the looks exchanged by the medical staff said I was an asshole as long as I could keep hold of Baxter’s hand.
Treatment had come first, Baxter diagnosed with a partial dislocation of his shoulder, a ligament tear in his wrist, and bruised ribs from where the parapet had dug in.
He had some scrapes as well, but they were minor compared to the other injuries.
They gave him painkillers before guiding his shoulder back in, and then they put it in a sling with strict instructions for him to take it easy for a week or two.
Next, had come the questions from Ben and another detective, where they got him to go through exactly what had happened.
He did so in painstaking detail, answering every single one of their questions to the best of his ability.
When the questions became repetitive, I called an end to it, insisting Baxter needed sleep. Ben didn’t fight it. No doubt he was dreaming of his own bed. It was two in the afternoon before we stumbled through my front door.
Baxter slept for a couple of hours. When he woke, I got him water and more painkillers, hovering next to him while he took them. “Did you sleep?” he asked once he rested back against the pillows.
“No.”
“You should sleep,” he said. “You were up all night as well.”
“I’m not injured and I’m not on painkillers. I’ll sleep later.”
Baxter nodded. He was silent for a minute. “Do you think I should have let go of him?”
“Yes,” I said honestly and with less hesitation than was probably warranted for such an ethical dilemma. I sighed. “But also, no.”
Baxter laughed. “Thanks for clearing that up.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for his hand and entwining our fingers. “Yes, because he deserved it. For what he did to you. For what he did to Jamie. For what he would have done to you on that roof if he’d gotten his way. Hell, for what he did to his parents.”
“They were abusive,” Baxter said.
“You’re defending him?”
“I’m just pointing out that unless you’ve been there, you can’t honestly say you wouldn’t do the same. They damaged him. They made him what he is.” He softened his words by squeezing my hand. “And the no?”
“I’m glad you don’t have to live with the responsibility of someone’s death. It wouldn’t have been your fault, but I suspect you would have still felt partially to blame.”
“I would have,” Baxter agreed. “It was why I held on for so long.” He shook his head, his expression saying he was back on the roof. “I was down to seconds. He was slipping… And the pain. If they hadn’t arrived when they had.”
“Then he’d be dead,” I said. “And it wouldn’t be your fault. Instead, he gets to face justice for the attempted murder of Jamie. And hopefully his parents too. It’s crazy that they can’t charge him for what he did to you.”
“I’m alive,” Baxter said. “How do you convict someone of murder when the victim is alive? It would confuse the hell out of a jury.”
“I guess. It doesn’t seem fair, though. Not when you’ve been through so much and you’ve lost nineteen years of your life.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I questioned, genuinely curious how Baxter could be so casual about something so monumental.