As the Wicked Watch(95)
I awoke to more than sixty text messages and some forty missed calls, including from Justin, who’d gotten wind of the attack on the police scanner; Thomas, who grew concerned after he drove by my place and saw police cars and ambulances outside but couldn’t reach me; and my local family circle—Courtney, Zena, Amanda, María Elena, and the Bennetts. I discouraged them from coming to the hospital, telling them “I’m in a secure room, and I’ll be home later today anyway.” I won that battle with everyone else, but Courtney wasn’t deterred. I’d never known her to take no for an answer or been anyplace her physician’s credentials couldn’t get her into. Courtney had the forethought to bring me a change of clothes and slippers to wear home. The gym gear I had on during the attack was taken into evidence to test for hair and skin follicles. She also worked her contacts at the hospital to get me in to see Bass, flashing her badge to access the secure ICU wing.
Before I went in, Courtney did her best to prepare me for a new reality. Bass’s injuries were far more severe than what had been shared. He was stabbed in the gut twice by a sharp object that nicked his abdominal aorta, causing life-threatening internal bleeding.
“Closing that wound was critical. That’s why they took him into the OR immediately,” Courtney explained. “If it’d been more than 40 percent severed, he would have bled out in a matter of seconds.”
Bass is lucky to be alive.
“He hasn’t regained consciousness. It could be because they put him in a medically induced coma to give his brain a rest and a chance for the swelling to go down,” Courtney explained.
“His brain?” I asked.
“He sustained a blow to the head,” she said.
The air left my lungs, and I thought back to what Ellen had said. “He tried to save you.” No, he did save me, and now he was fighting for his life because of it.
Seeing Bass lying there with tubes coming out of his arms and body and a machine doing the breathing for him was surreal.
“Can he hear me?” I asked Courtney.
“Possibly. Just say what’s in your heart,” she said.
I took him by the hand and intertwined his long, bass-playing fingers with mine, the closest we’d ever been, our most intimate moment. I held the rail with my other hand, anchoring myself to his bedside, and leaned in close to his ashen face.
“Bass, it’s Jordan.” The tears and sobs turned on instantly. “I’m so sorry.”
A respirator covered half his face and his chest expanded, then sank at once, again and again. “It kills me to see you like this. I’m okay because of you, but you’re lying here because of me. I feel horrible.”
I’d played a dozen scenarios in my mind of how it happened. Bass opened the door, saw a man on top of me, choking me. He pulled him off, they scuffled, and then . . .
“You’re like my family, like a little brother to me, and I know I should’ve told you that before now. How important you are to me. I love you, Bass, I do. And I’m going to find out who did this, and you’re going to be okay.”
The only response was the beeping of monitors and medical machines surrounding his bed.
“You saved my life. I can never repay you. But I’m going to be there for Sabrina and the baby until you get out of here. I promise. You fight, little brother. You’re my hero.”
I wanted to stay longer, but Courtney convinced me that the best thing I could do for Bass right now was to go home. I left behind my card with a note on the back for his folks and Sabrina. ‘‘Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.” But I left the hospital still clinging to guilt, with more questions than answers.
Who did this to Bass and me? To Masey? And are they one in the same.
15
Diana Sorano: Good afternoon. Our lead story this hour: outrage in the black community builds as police provide few new details on the latest bomb to drop in the case of Masey James, the young girl found dead nearly two weeks ago. There are disturbing new details to report about one of the boys charged in the case. You may recall three boys have been in custody since last week, two eleven-year-olds and a thirteen-year-old. We now know the thirteen-year-old boy has been attacked while being held at the Cook County Jail.
Keith Mulvaney: Diana, Derek Harvey is being treated here at the jail’s infirmary. There is confusion over why a boy his age, even though charged as an adult, wasn’t in protective custody. I spoke with his parents, who are outraged and sickened by the inhumane way they say their son, whom they’ve not been allowed to see, has been treated. As you recall, Derek’s father had his own run-in with police when the boys were being questioned. This case has been fraught with problems from the beginning. And now we have a thirteen-year-old attacked by inmates. We’re headed from this location to talk with Derek Harvey’s parents. We’ll have more on the evening newscast. Meanwhile police have not given us any more details on how or why the boy was attacked.
Diana: Thank you, Keith.
You have got to be fucking kidding me!
After watching that insincere piece of garbage—“Fraught with problems”: Yeah, right, Keith! You sure didn’t seem to care about the problems associated with the investigation when we were in the town hall—I could hardly stomach this fourth cup of coffee. My overwhelming sense of helplessness was dwarfed only by my rage and by my need to do something and do it now. And the subject of my red rage was Louise Robinson and her insane Red Moley story. Was Louise playing me? That story came out of nowhere. Was it her delusional way of dropping a bread crumb? She said, If there’s one, there’s two. And now I was wondering if there could be two men involved in Masey’s death.