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Part 19? What is this, the nightmare that never ends? Apparently. Anyway, here it is the end of the month again (minus a day; hey, I'm early!) And here's the latest dose of melodrama.
As always remember: The story is wildly AU and the main characters? So not mine!
Best Forgotten, Part 19
Ryan told himself he was dreaming.
Something shapeless and sinister was looming over him. It burned his eyes, blazing with ice and flame, but no, Ryan thought, no, it couldn’t be real. He must be dreaming, he had to be. He shook his head, blinking hard, sure that the-thing-whatever it was would disappear. Instead, it simply smiled. Then it inhaled, showing its teeth, slowly sucking away all the air, threatening to suffocate Ryan if he couldn’t wake up.
Why couldn’t he wake up?
He tried, thrashing, attempting to push past the nightmare but the harder he fought, the closer it bound itself around him. Tangled and tight, it shrouded his body, the way his sheets used to do sometimes when he was sick and tossed back and forth in bed. Ryan remembered how, for an instant, it would feel like he was wrapped in one of his mother’s rare hugs. But then the sheets would squeeze, and they wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t let him raise his arms and wrap them around his mother’s neck.
Only she wasn’t there anyway.
And the sheets would trap him, binding him in place, making his breath come hard and fast and hurting-the way it was now-but Ryan would have to pretend not to care.
Even if he could find his smothered voice, he couldn’t call out for help.
He didn’t want his father to storm in, furious at being disturbed, his eyes blazing, his knuckles already stretched white and primed to hit.
He didn’t want to risk his mother not coming at all, ignoring the sound of his pain or yelling a slurred, impatient, “Would you shut up in there, Ry? I’m tryin’ to sleep!”
And Trey-if Trey was home, Ryan didn’t want to hear his caustic laughter. “What are you, Ry? A baby?” he’d sneer. “You got yourself into that mess. Get yourself out.”
Ryan jerked, abruptly hopeful and uneasy.
The voice sounded close, right there in the room with him.
Through the thick, mottled gray mist, shapes began to emerge, blurry at first, then razor-sharp: window blinds, glass walls, a door open to a sliver of white-blue water. Trey was there, lounging against the door jamb. One corner of his mouth curled, and his thumb idly flicked the top of his cigarette lighter, making it spark on and off, on and off, over and over as he watched Ryan struggle.
He shook his head, but he made no move to help.
“Didn’t work out the way you planned, did it little brother?” he drawled.
“Trey.”
Ryan’s lips formed his brother’s name, but before he could say it, before he could even sigh in relief, a chill ran through his body. “No,” he whispered. “You’re not here. You can’t be.” He started at the sound of his own voice, thin, rusty, barely recognizable. Something about it frightened him and he braced himself before he spoke again. “You’re in prison, Trey.”
“Damn straight I am, Ry.” Trey’s eyes narrowed. He held up his lighter, letting it burn a weak blue. Cocking his head, he studied the flame until it sputtered and died. “And now you are too. Kinda funny how that worked out, isn’t it?”
Ryan shook his head, confused. “No. I’m not. I’m--”
“Where?” Trey scoffed. “With the Cohens, tucked all nice and cozy in their cushy pool house?” He leaned back, his greasy hair smearing the immaculate glass door. “Shit, little brother, did you really think that would last?”
“I--” Ryan began, but something squeezed him, stealing his breath, and he couldn’t answer. His face darkened, blood-filled and desperate for air. Ryan strained, eyes pleading, but his brother just shrugged.
“You really think that was right, little brother? You pullin’ that lost little boy crap with Sandy Cohen and gettin’ yourself a whole new family? Thought you scored big time, didn’t you? Got your own mini-mansion-pool right outside your door, those soft, expensive sheets, all the food you can eat-what is it now? Lobster and paté? And you just settle right in, dressin’ up in fancy clothes, goin’ to parties like a fuckin’ prince of Newport-while all the time I’m behind bars, wearin’ handcuffs and a damn jumpsuit, getting my ass kicked.” Silently, suddenly, Trey crossed to Ryan, reached down and grabbed his leather choker. He twisted it, cutting of Ryan’s air. “You think that’s fair? Huh, Ry?”
“No,” Ryan gasped. “I-I don’t know Trey.”
Trey’s eyes flashed, dangerous as a lightning strike. He released the choker and patted Ryan’s cheek, a touch like a warning, before he stepped away. Propping one foot against the wall, he leaned back again. “Sure you do, Ry. You were always the smart one, remember? You and me stole that car together. You know damn well you didn’t deserve to get off.” His mouth twisting, Trey muttered, “Get off? Shit, that’s an understatement. You get maid service, a sweet little piece of ass right next door, a resident lawyer-slash-father treatin’ you like his long-lost son and what do I get? Three to five years hard time. How about it, Ry? That sound right to you?”
Trey spat out the last words. They sounded like gravel, crunching under heavy feet.
Ryan bit his lip. He tasted blood, guilt and shame and anger. “I didn’t want to steal the car, Trey,” he whispered.
Something silver-Trey’s lighter?-shot through the air and struck Ryan in the shoulder. He felt it burn, searing his skin, boiling into his blood and his muscles. The pain forced his eyes shut.
Or maybe they had never been open at all.
He couldn’t see anything, but he could still hear Trey’s cold, accusing voice.
“Thought you hated lies, little brother. Don’t tell me you didn’t want to jack that car with me. Gettin’ ourselves a sweet ride, bookin’ out of Chino, settin’ up on our own-that was always our plan. All those times we’d hide out from dear old Dad or Mom’s boyfriend-of-the-week, that’s all we talked about. Getting’ away. You wanted it as much as I did.”
“Not that way,” Ryan insisted. “I never meant . . . steal . . .”
“No? How the hell else would we get a car, Ry? Wait for your fairy godmother to make one for you out of a pumpkin? How many times I got to tell you, we’re Atwoods. Nobody’s gonna give us anything. Not for real. Not to keep. You think the Cohens will? Dream on, little brother. We want somethin’, we got to take it.”
“Not--” Ryan hissed, trying to roll away from the pain, the dream, the fear, the shame, that kept tightening around him. “Not what I want--”
He needed to see Trey, needed to make him understand. It hurt, but he forced his eyes open, blinking against the harsh light, searching for his brother.
Trey was still there, slouching carelessly, but somehow he had turned into a steel-gray shadow. Only his hard, derisive smile flashed crystal-clear.
“Maybe it’s not what you want to be, little brother,” Trey said. “But it’s who you are. An Atwood, a thief. Just like me. Admit it. Hell, here you are with the Cohens, you claim you care about the Cohens, but it didn’t take you long to start stealin’ from them, did it?”
“No! Trey, I wouldn’t do that! I never . . .”
Ryan heard his brother snort, felt Trey’s shrug in his own aching shoulders. “Oh yeah, I know. You didn’t rob the Cohens. Not technically. But Caleb Nichol still counts. Kirsten’s daddy, Seth’s grandpa, Sandy’s father-in-law--What? You didn’t think he was family?” A note of admiration slithered, snake-like, through Trey’s implacable tone. Ryan couldn’t move, but he still recoiled, cringing. “Of course I realize, you weren’t exactly thinkin’ at the time. I gotta hand it to you, little brother. That Gabrielle? That is one damn fine piece of woman. And hookin’ up with her right there in the house Caleb Nichol owns during a party in his honor-shit, that is pretty cold-blooded.” Nodding his approval, Trey whistled, low and long. “And here I thought you were such a boy scout at heart. Didn’t think you had it in you, Ry.”
“It wasn’t like that, Trey. Gabrielle-it just happened. She was lonely, and I-I--”
Trey continued, uncaring, as if he had not heard Ryan at all. “Even so,” he drawled, “I think you shoulda held out for the little Newport princess next door. What’s her name? Marissa? Gabrielle may a sweeter piece of ass, but I don’t know if she’s worth a straightjacket and a loony bin. And now what? Bein’ a guinea pig in some weird operation?” Trey chuckled dryly. He cracked his knuckles, loud and sharp, but his voice grew faint, iron-edged but very far away. “Mom always said that you were the smart one, Ry. Looks to me like you finally got too smart for your own good . . .”
Straightjacket? Loony bin? Operation?
Ryan heard nothing after those words.
Everything seemed to stop. Then a thousand muddled questions churned in his mind. Why would Trey say that? He had to be lying. Trey did lie, Ryan knew that, he lied all the time and anyway his words made no sense . . . except in some horrible, shadowy way, they did. “What--” he gasped. “Trey, I don’t understand. What are you talking about--?”
He waited, but there was no answer.
Just like that-like a window shade snapping up-Ryan’s gaze flashed back into focus. He looked around, horrified.
Trey was gone.
Everything was gone.
Ryan was surrounded by white-a cold, colorless silence, opaque, padded white walls and, binding his body, the coarse, unforgiving straps of a straightjacket.
Where Trey had been standing, slouched against the glass pool house door, there was nothing at all. No trace of his brother remained, not the ashes from his cigarette, not his lighter or a smear of dirt from his hair, a smudge from his shoe against the wall.
Even the glass was gone.
So was the view beyond it, sky and sunshine and clear, blue ocean water.
Only white remained.
And Ryan could feel himself disappearing into it, one little piece at a time, disappearing slowly into nothingness.
Unable to move his arms or legs, Ryan bit his bottom lip. He clamped down hard, puncturing the skin, desperate to feel something, anything, solid and real.
Rusty blood filled his mouth.
Ryan smiled to himself.
He bit harder, savoring the thick, acrid taste, the sting of raw flesh, the dull ache in his teeth.
Blood and pain meant he still existed.
He was still alive.
Something or someone was gripping his arms, ordering him to lie still, but he refused to listen.
Stillness felt like death.
Ryan did not want to lie still.
Whatever was happening to him, he intended to fight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Got it?” Seth demanded, bobbing impatiently on his toes, as his parents and Charlie emerged from the back the Internet café.
“Got it,” Sandy affirmed. He tried for a grin, but it slipped sideways, bitter instead of reassuring. “Thanks to Charlie and her friends in low places, your mother and I are now officially the legal guardians of Brandon McConnell.”
Folding the papers he held, he nodded to Charlie. She smiled wryly in response.
“If you ignore the ‘officially’ and ‘legal’ parts of that statement,” she amended. “But the document should be good enough to get us past the reception desk at the clinics . . . Thanks, Seth,” she added, taking a coffee that he handed her.
Seth turned to offer another cup to his mother, but Kirsten shook her head wearily. She lifted one hand as if to push back a strand of hair, but instead her arm fell limp to her side. “No thanks, sweetie,” she murmured. “I’m not thirsty.”
Sandy exchanged a glance with Seth over his wife’s head. His brow puckered, anxious, as he put a soothing hand on her shoulder. Kirsten jumped as if burned.
“Sweetheart? Are you all right?” he asked.
“What?” Kirsten blinked, staring at Sandy as if she scarcely recognized him. Then she mustered a weak smile. “Oh. I’m sorry. Yes. I’m fine . . . We should be going.”
Without looking back she hurried outside, but once there she simply stopped, standing at the curb, staring into the white-gold afternoon sun. Sandy moved behind to her. Very gently, he slid her sunglasses down to cover her eyes.
“Kirsten?” he prompted. His tone was cautious and quiet. A pointless “What’s wrong?” drifted silently through the hot air.
“It’s just-being here, looking for Brandon McConnell, when all the time, he’s really-I still can’t believe it!” Kirsten blurted. Almost instantly, though, her lips tightened and her tone turned steely-hard. “No. That’s not it. I still don’t want to believe it. He’s my father, Sandy! He’s my father-but if he did this to Ryan-I just . . . I don’t know how I can . . .”
Her voice trailed away. Sandy and Seth both imagined the missing words.
How I can stand it.
How I can deal with it.
How I can ever face my father again.
How I can face Ryan.
How I can face myself.
“Kirsten--” Sandy began helplessly, but she cut him off before he could finish.
“No,” she said. The sharp edge in her voice grew stronger. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is finding Ryan . . . Charlie, you have the directions to the other clinic, right?”
Charlie nodded, patting her laptop in assent. Kirsten unlocked the car. Her hand was reaching for the driver’s door when Sandy covered it with his and slipped the keys out of her grasp.
“Why don’t I drive now, sweetheart?” he suggested.
Automatically, Kirsten shook her head. Her mouth opened to protest, but Seth bounded over, sloshing his own untouched coffee. “Good idea, Dad,” he said brightly. Taking his mother’s arm, he led her around to the passenger side.
“I’m fine!” she objected, even as he opened her door and ushered Kirsten inside. “I can drive, Seth.”
He crouched down, pitching his voice low. His upturned gaze was pleading. “I know, Mom, but just-let Dad do this for you, okay? He kind of needs to do something.”
Taking his mother’s hand, Seth sketched a faint, hopeful smile, but it didn’t quite reach his earnest eyes. Kirsten looked at him for a long moment. Then, her own eyes moist, she nodded and settled into the car. Instantly, Seth bounded to his feet. Closing the door, he flashed his father a swift “Go” signal, spun around and scooted into the back seat.
Sandy took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, turning on the ignition. “Let’s check out this other clinic. Which way, Charlie?”
“Right,” she said promptly. She had just started explaining how to reach the highway when the opening notes of Death Cab for Cutie’s “A Lack of Color” trilled through the car. Seth started. Then he whipped out his phone, juggling it in his haste. Without glancing at the display he snapped it open and blurted, “Ryan?”
There was a half second of silence. Sandy stepped on the brake, waiting, and Kirsten clasped her hands tightly. Then the flush of excitement drained out of Seth’s face. “Oh. Marissa,” he muttered. The word acted like a trigger. Kirsten turned to the window, her eyes set in a blank stare, while Charlie leaned forward to whisper directions as Sandy, his shoulders slumped, pulled out of the parking lot.
Seth shifted the phone to his other ear. His jaw moved as if he were grinding his teeth. “No, he’s not,” he snapped. “Look, Marissa, if Ryan were here would I have-never mind . . . What do you want anyway? . . . No, I won’t. I’m not giving him any message from you . . . Ryan is . . . Ryan is not your business, all right?” Seth’s grip tightened, strangling the handset, and his tone turned bitter. “You’re back with Luke, so why don’t you just, I don’t know, string him a new puka shell choker or buy the coke for your next date or something and stay the hell out of Ryan’s life . . . No! I don’t care! You’ve done enough damage already.”
Without a goodbye, without waiting for Marissa to answer, Seth clapped his phone closed. For good measure, he reopened it, jabbed his finger on the “off” button, and then fiercely flipped it shut again.
“I don’t know why I had it on in the first place,” he mumbled. Slouching down in his seat, he shoved the phone in his pocket. “You guys are right here, and it’s not like Ryan can . . . like Ryan’s gonna call.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Kirsten’s gaze sought Seth’s in the rearview mirror. “You know,” she said quietly, “it’s not Marissa’s fault, Seth.”
His mouth twisting, Seth snorted under his breath. “Sure it’s not,” he retorted. “Just like it’s not her fault that Luke and his water polo posse almost killed Ryan at the model home. Shit, Mom, she’s been playing them against each other ever since Ryan came to town! Like it’s some kind of game for her or something. You think Ryan would have hooked up with Gabrielle if Marissa hadn’t shown up at the party with Luke? And if he hadn’t, well, maybe Grandpa wouldn’t have--”
“Seth!”
Already slumped in his seat, Seth crumbled completely at the sound of his father’s warning voice. His gaze darted to his mother and then plummeted to the floor. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I know, Ryan going missing isn’t Marissa’s fault. Not exactly anyway. It’s just that . . .”
Seth stopped, shrugging helplessly. Her face creased with compassion, Charlie reached over to pat his knee.
“You want someone to blame, right?” she observed.
Seth nodded. “Yeah. Somebody besides myself,” he explained. At first he sounded distant, almost numb, but almost at once his tone became agitated, and his words tumbled over each other. “I mean, this is kind of all my fault. I thought it was über-cool when Gabrielle hooked up with Ryan. I encouraged the whole thing! It was kind of like, vicarious, cool-by-association for me, you know? There’s Gabrielle, and she’s a model and older and, and looks really, really hot in a bikini, and Ryan is, well, Ryan, and girls naturally like him, and anyway Grandpa always shows up with a new woman, you know he does, Mom! Every visit it’s somebody different. So it never occurred to me that he--”
This time, breathless, Seth stopped himself from finishing. He saw his mother’s shoulders stiffen, but Kirsten didn’t turn around to face him. When she spoke, her voice sounded flinty and razor-thin.
“Of course it didn’t, Seth,” she said. “This isn’t your fault, either, or Gabrielle’s or--” She stumbled a little over his name. “Or Ryan’s. And you don’t have to worry about saying it. None of you do. Whatever has happened to Ryan, my father is the one to blame . . . Sandy, how long until we get to the The Ocaranza Psychiatric Institute?”
At the mention of the clinic’s name, Seth’s mouth bobbed open but he promptly clamped it shut again. It had surged back, that strange, persistent feeling that they were heading the wrong way, that really they should be returning to the Santa Clara Clinic.
But he was just being stupid, Seth told himself. He just wanted so much to have been right when he suggested going there first. He bit back his impulse to say, “Turn around!” Instead he sat silent, watching his father reach across the console to clasp Kirsten’s hand.
“About forty-five minutes,” he told her. Glancing back at Seth through the rearview mirror, Sandy added firmly, “We’re going to find Ryan today. I promise you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Her pulse pounding in her ears, Lucy raced up the stairs into the Annex. She didn’t pause at the reception desk. She simply sped down the hall straight into Ryan’s room.
The small space throbbed with noise and it so crowded that she could barely find him inside. Voices were snapping orders. Someone rushed past her carrying vials of blood and two other people elbowed her aside as they wheeled a crash cart, but Lucy ignored them all. Intent on reaching Ryan, she pushed through the people clustered around his bed.
“Ryan?” she called breathlessly, but she knew at once that he couldn’t hear her.
Between the figures in front of her-Dr. Keller and someone else, somebody tall and imposing, dressed in a muted, gray suit-Lucy managed to glimpse Ryan. He looked nothing like the boy she had left. His eyes were slits, not quite closed but not open either, and where his skin was not splotched an angry red, it glowed a damp, deathly white. A sheen of sweat covered his entire body.
She understood why instantly. Ryan was convulsing, his body thrashing furiously against his restraints even though two orderlies gripped his shoulders hard, pressing their weight against him, trying to hold him down.
Already Lucy could see vivid purple bruises forming under their hands.
She had expected seizures, but nothing like the spasms that she witnessed. “They should not be this violent, surely!” she thought. “Surely Ryan is suffering too strong a reaction.” Lucy clenched her fists, distraught, almost crushing the articles and photos that she carried. “I was too hasty. I must have given him too large a dose-It was wrong, I knew it. I should have found another way--"
Her self-accusations jolted to a stop when she heard Dr. Keller’s voice.
“Take that out,” he ordered, gesturing to the crash cart. At the same time he began to prepare a syringe. “We don’t need it. His vital signs are still strong. This should stabilize him until we can determine what’s going on.”
“And then, I assume, we can go forward with the procedure,” the man next to him observed dryly. “I see no reason for any lengthy postponement. After all, you said, the boy’s vital signs are still strong. Isn’t that your main consideration at this stage?”
“As a general rule, yes, Mr. Nichol. Of course, we will have to see--”
“Mr. Nichol?” Lucy gave a silent gasp, suddenly recognizing the man next to her. “He is here? And despite what Ryan’s condition, he is still pushing for the surgery?” She recoiled, accidentally brushing against his jacket. Its soft, expensive fabric seemed to blister her skin, and it took a moment for her to realize what Dr. Keller was saying.
“ . . . ready to go as long as there’s no undue risk. Once we get the results of the patient’s blood tests, we should be able to--”
“No!” Lucy cried. “You cannot do this!”
Dr. Keller wheeled around, glaring, syringe in hand. “What are you doing here, Nurse?” he demanded irritably. Then, as if the answer didn’t matter, he waved dismissal. “Get out,” he ordered. “You’re no longer on this case.”
“But you do not understand, Doctor. Ryan . . . You cannot perform this operation on him.”
Beside her, Caleb Nichol turned around. He adjusted his cuffs, his brows arched, his ice-blue eyes assessing hers coldly.
“As Brandon’s guardian--” He seemed to stress the name, tossing it in Lucy’s face, “I believe that is my decision, Nurse. Go ahead, Doctor. Do whatever is necessary to prepare him for the procedure.”
“No! Don’t!” Lucy protested again. “I have found information-things that you must see. Dr. Keller, please, if you would just listen--”
For half a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then Dr. Keller’s face shuttered and he nodded to one of the orderlies. “Show Nurse Fordé out,” he ordered. “We can manage here.”
The man promptly released Ryan, took Lucy’s arm and propelled her to the door.
She resisted, struggling vainly and craning backward, pleading with Dr. Keller to stop. Instead, he inserted the needle. Lucy saw Ryan go limp. Then the door closed behind her, shutting her out.
TBC
As always remember: The story is wildly AU and the main characters? So not mine!
Best Forgotten, Part 19
Ryan told himself he was dreaming.
Something shapeless and sinister was looming over him. It burned his eyes, blazing with ice and flame, but no, Ryan thought, no, it couldn’t be real. He must be dreaming, he had to be. He shook his head, blinking hard, sure that the-thing-whatever it was would disappear. Instead, it simply smiled. Then it inhaled, showing its teeth, slowly sucking away all the air, threatening to suffocate Ryan if he couldn’t wake up.
Why couldn’t he wake up?
He tried, thrashing, attempting to push past the nightmare but the harder he fought, the closer it bound itself around him. Tangled and tight, it shrouded his body, the way his sheets used to do sometimes when he was sick and tossed back and forth in bed. Ryan remembered how, for an instant, it would feel like he was wrapped in one of his mother’s rare hugs. But then the sheets would squeeze, and they wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t let him raise his arms and wrap them around his mother’s neck.
Only she wasn’t there anyway.
And the sheets would trap him, binding him in place, making his breath come hard and fast and hurting-the way it was now-but Ryan would have to pretend not to care.
Even if he could find his smothered voice, he couldn’t call out for help.
He didn’t want his father to storm in, furious at being disturbed, his eyes blazing, his knuckles already stretched white and primed to hit.
He didn’t want to risk his mother not coming at all, ignoring the sound of his pain or yelling a slurred, impatient, “Would you shut up in there, Ry? I’m tryin’ to sleep!”
And Trey-if Trey was home, Ryan didn’t want to hear his caustic laughter. “What are you, Ry? A baby?” he’d sneer. “You got yourself into that mess. Get yourself out.”
Ryan jerked, abruptly hopeful and uneasy.
The voice sounded close, right there in the room with him.
Through the thick, mottled gray mist, shapes began to emerge, blurry at first, then razor-sharp: window blinds, glass walls, a door open to a sliver of white-blue water. Trey was there, lounging against the door jamb. One corner of his mouth curled, and his thumb idly flicked the top of his cigarette lighter, making it spark on and off, on and off, over and over as he watched Ryan struggle.
He shook his head, but he made no move to help.
“Didn’t work out the way you planned, did it little brother?” he drawled.
“Trey.”
Ryan’s lips formed his brother’s name, but before he could say it, before he could even sigh in relief, a chill ran through his body. “No,” he whispered. “You’re not here. You can’t be.” He started at the sound of his own voice, thin, rusty, barely recognizable. Something about it frightened him and he braced himself before he spoke again. “You’re in prison, Trey.”
“Damn straight I am, Ry.” Trey’s eyes narrowed. He held up his lighter, letting it burn a weak blue. Cocking his head, he studied the flame until it sputtered and died. “And now you are too. Kinda funny how that worked out, isn’t it?”
Ryan shook his head, confused. “No. I’m not. I’m--”
“Where?” Trey scoffed. “With the Cohens, tucked all nice and cozy in their cushy pool house?” He leaned back, his greasy hair smearing the immaculate glass door. “Shit, little brother, did you really think that would last?”
“I--” Ryan began, but something squeezed him, stealing his breath, and he couldn’t answer. His face darkened, blood-filled and desperate for air. Ryan strained, eyes pleading, but his brother just shrugged.
“You really think that was right, little brother? You pullin’ that lost little boy crap with Sandy Cohen and gettin’ yourself a whole new family? Thought you scored big time, didn’t you? Got your own mini-mansion-pool right outside your door, those soft, expensive sheets, all the food you can eat-what is it now? Lobster and paté? And you just settle right in, dressin’ up in fancy clothes, goin’ to parties like a fuckin’ prince of Newport-while all the time I’m behind bars, wearin’ handcuffs and a damn jumpsuit, getting my ass kicked.” Silently, suddenly, Trey crossed to Ryan, reached down and grabbed his leather choker. He twisted it, cutting of Ryan’s air. “You think that’s fair? Huh, Ry?”
“No,” Ryan gasped. “I-I don’t know Trey.”
Trey’s eyes flashed, dangerous as a lightning strike. He released the choker and patted Ryan’s cheek, a touch like a warning, before he stepped away. Propping one foot against the wall, he leaned back again. “Sure you do, Ry. You were always the smart one, remember? You and me stole that car together. You know damn well you didn’t deserve to get off.” His mouth twisting, Trey muttered, “Get off? Shit, that’s an understatement. You get maid service, a sweet little piece of ass right next door, a resident lawyer-slash-father treatin’ you like his long-lost son and what do I get? Three to five years hard time. How about it, Ry? That sound right to you?”
Trey spat out the last words. They sounded like gravel, crunching under heavy feet.
Ryan bit his lip. He tasted blood, guilt and shame and anger. “I didn’t want to steal the car, Trey,” he whispered.
Something silver-Trey’s lighter?-shot through the air and struck Ryan in the shoulder. He felt it burn, searing his skin, boiling into his blood and his muscles. The pain forced his eyes shut.
Or maybe they had never been open at all.
He couldn’t see anything, but he could still hear Trey’s cold, accusing voice.
“Thought you hated lies, little brother. Don’t tell me you didn’t want to jack that car with me. Gettin’ ourselves a sweet ride, bookin’ out of Chino, settin’ up on our own-that was always our plan. All those times we’d hide out from dear old Dad or Mom’s boyfriend-of-the-week, that’s all we talked about. Getting’ away. You wanted it as much as I did.”
“Not that way,” Ryan insisted. “I never meant . . . steal . . .”
“No? How the hell else would we get a car, Ry? Wait for your fairy godmother to make one for you out of a pumpkin? How many times I got to tell you, we’re Atwoods. Nobody’s gonna give us anything. Not for real. Not to keep. You think the Cohens will? Dream on, little brother. We want somethin’, we got to take it.”
“Not--” Ryan hissed, trying to roll away from the pain, the dream, the fear, the shame, that kept tightening around him. “Not what I want--”
He needed to see Trey, needed to make him understand. It hurt, but he forced his eyes open, blinking against the harsh light, searching for his brother.
Trey was still there, slouching carelessly, but somehow he had turned into a steel-gray shadow. Only his hard, derisive smile flashed crystal-clear.
“Maybe it’s not what you want to be, little brother,” Trey said. “But it’s who you are. An Atwood, a thief. Just like me. Admit it. Hell, here you are with the Cohens, you claim you care about the Cohens, but it didn’t take you long to start stealin’ from them, did it?”
“No! Trey, I wouldn’t do that! I never . . .”
Ryan heard his brother snort, felt Trey’s shrug in his own aching shoulders. “Oh yeah, I know. You didn’t rob the Cohens. Not technically. But Caleb Nichol still counts. Kirsten’s daddy, Seth’s grandpa, Sandy’s father-in-law--What? You didn’t think he was family?” A note of admiration slithered, snake-like, through Trey’s implacable tone. Ryan couldn’t move, but he still recoiled, cringing. “Of course I realize, you weren’t exactly thinkin’ at the time. I gotta hand it to you, little brother. That Gabrielle? That is one damn fine piece of woman. And hookin’ up with her right there in the house Caleb Nichol owns during a party in his honor-shit, that is pretty cold-blooded.” Nodding his approval, Trey whistled, low and long. “And here I thought you were such a boy scout at heart. Didn’t think you had it in you, Ry.”
“It wasn’t like that, Trey. Gabrielle-it just happened. She was lonely, and I-I--”
Trey continued, uncaring, as if he had not heard Ryan at all. “Even so,” he drawled, “I think you shoulda held out for the little Newport princess next door. What’s her name? Marissa? Gabrielle may a sweeter piece of ass, but I don’t know if she’s worth a straightjacket and a loony bin. And now what? Bein’ a guinea pig in some weird operation?” Trey chuckled dryly. He cracked his knuckles, loud and sharp, but his voice grew faint, iron-edged but very far away. “Mom always said that you were the smart one, Ry. Looks to me like you finally got too smart for your own good . . .”
Straightjacket? Loony bin? Operation?
Ryan heard nothing after those words.
Everything seemed to stop. Then a thousand muddled questions churned in his mind. Why would Trey say that? He had to be lying. Trey did lie, Ryan knew that, he lied all the time and anyway his words made no sense . . . except in some horrible, shadowy way, they did. “What--” he gasped. “Trey, I don’t understand. What are you talking about--?”
He waited, but there was no answer.
Just like that-like a window shade snapping up-Ryan’s gaze flashed back into focus. He looked around, horrified.
Trey was gone.
Everything was gone.
Ryan was surrounded by white-a cold, colorless silence, opaque, padded white walls and, binding his body, the coarse, unforgiving straps of a straightjacket.
Where Trey had been standing, slouched against the glass pool house door, there was nothing at all. No trace of his brother remained, not the ashes from his cigarette, not his lighter or a smear of dirt from his hair, a smudge from his shoe against the wall.
Even the glass was gone.
So was the view beyond it, sky and sunshine and clear, blue ocean water.
Only white remained.
And Ryan could feel himself disappearing into it, one little piece at a time, disappearing slowly into nothingness.
Unable to move his arms or legs, Ryan bit his bottom lip. He clamped down hard, puncturing the skin, desperate to feel something, anything, solid and real.
Rusty blood filled his mouth.
Ryan smiled to himself.
He bit harder, savoring the thick, acrid taste, the sting of raw flesh, the dull ache in his teeth.
Blood and pain meant he still existed.
He was still alive.
Something or someone was gripping his arms, ordering him to lie still, but he refused to listen.
Stillness felt like death.
Ryan did not want to lie still.
Whatever was happening to him, he intended to fight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Got it?” Seth demanded, bobbing impatiently on his toes, as his parents and Charlie emerged from the back the Internet café.
“Got it,” Sandy affirmed. He tried for a grin, but it slipped sideways, bitter instead of reassuring. “Thanks to Charlie and her friends in low places, your mother and I are now officially the legal guardians of Brandon McConnell.”
Folding the papers he held, he nodded to Charlie. She smiled wryly in response.
“If you ignore the ‘officially’ and ‘legal’ parts of that statement,” she amended. “But the document should be good enough to get us past the reception desk at the clinics . . . Thanks, Seth,” she added, taking a coffee that he handed her.
Seth turned to offer another cup to his mother, but Kirsten shook her head wearily. She lifted one hand as if to push back a strand of hair, but instead her arm fell limp to her side. “No thanks, sweetie,” she murmured. “I’m not thirsty.”
Sandy exchanged a glance with Seth over his wife’s head. His brow puckered, anxious, as he put a soothing hand on her shoulder. Kirsten jumped as if burned.
“Sweetheart? Are you all right?” he asked.
“What?” Kirsten blinked, staring at Sandy as if she scarcely recognized him. Then she mustered a weak smile. “Oh. I’m sorry. Yes. I’m fine . . . We should be going.”
Without looking back she hurried outside, but once there she simply stopped, standing at the curb, staring into the white-gold afternoon sun. Sandy moved behind to her. Very gently, he slid her sunglasses down to cover her eyes.
“Kirsten?” he prompted. His tone was cautious and quiet. A pointless “What’s wrong?” drifted silently through the hot air.
“It’s just-being here, looking for Brandon McConnell, when all the time, he’s really-I still can’t believe it!” Kirsten blurted. Almost instantly, though, her lips tightened and her tone turned steely-hard. “No. That’s not it. I still don’t want to believe it. He’s my father, Sandy! He’s my father-but if he did this to Ryan-I just . . . I don’t know how I can . . .”
Her voice trailed away. Sandy and Seth both imagined the missing words.
How I can stand it.
How I can deal with it.
How I can ever face my father again.
How I can face Ryan.
How I can face myself.
“Kirsten--” Sandy began helplessly, but she cut him off before he could finish.
“No,” she said. The sharp edge in her voice grew stronger. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is finding Ryan . . . Charlie, you have the directions to the other clinic, right?”
Charlie nodded, patting her laptop in assent. Kirsten unlocked the car. Her hand was reaching for the driver’s door when Sandy covered it with his and slipped the keys out of her grasp.
“Why don’t I drive now, sweetheart?” he suggested.
Automatically, Kirsten shook her head. Her mouth opened to protest, but Seth bounded over, sloshing his own untouched coffee. “Good idea, Dad,” he said brightly. Taking his mother’s arm, he led her around to the passenger side.
“I’m fine!” she objected, even as he opened her door and ushered Kirsten inside. “I can drive, Seth.”
He crouched down, pitching his voice low. His upturned gaze was pleading. “I know, Mom, but just-let Dad do this for you, okay? He kind of needs to do something.”
Taking his mother’s hand, Seth sketched a faint, hopeful smile, but it didn’t quite reach his earnest eyes. Kirsten looked at him for a long moment. Then, her own eyes moist, she nodded and settled into the car. Instantly, Seth bounded to his feet. Closing the door, he flashed his father a swift “Go” signal, spun around and scooted into the back seat.
Sandy took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, turning on the ignition. “Let’s check out this other clinic. Which way, Charlie?”
“Right,” she said promptly. She had just started explaining how to reach the highway when the opening notes of Death Cab for Cutie’s “A Lack of Color” trilled through the car. Seth started. Then he whipped out his phone, juggling it in his haste. Without glancing at the display he snapped it open and blurted, “Ryan?”
There was a half second of silence. Sandy stepped on the brake, waiting, and Kirsten clasped her hands tightly. Then the flush of excitement drained out of Seth’s face. “Oh. Marissa,” he muttered. The word acted like a trigger. Kirsten turned to the window, her eyes set in a blank stare, while Charlie leaned forward to whisper directions as Sandy, his shoulders slumped, pulled out of the parking lot.
Seth shifted the phone to his other ear. His jaw moved as if he were grinding his teeth. “No, he’s not,” he snapped. “Look, Marissa, if Ryan were here would I have-never mind . . . What do you want anyway? . . . No, I won’t. I’m not giving him any message from you . . . Ryan is . . . Ryan is not your business, all right?” Seth’s grip tightened, strangling the handset, and his tone turned bitter. “You’re back with Luke, so why don’t you just, I don’t know, string him a new puka shell choker or buy the coke for your next date or something and stay the hell out of Ryan’s life . . . No! I don’t care! You’ve done enough damage already.”
Without a goodbye, without waiting for Marissa to answer, Seth clapped his phone closed. For good measure, he reopened it, jabbed his finger on the “off” button, and then fiercely flipped it shut again.
“I don’t know why I had it on in the first place,” he mumbled. Slouching down in his seat, he shoved the phone in his pocket. “You guys are right here, and it’s not like Ryan can . . . like Ryan’s gonna call.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Kirsten’s gaze sought Seth’s in the rearview mirror. “You know,” she said quietly, “it’s not Marissa’s fault, Seth.”
His mouth twisting, Seth snorted under his breath. “Sure it’s not,” he retorted. “Just like it’s not her fault that Luke and his water polo posse almost killed Ryan at the model home. Shit, Mom, she’s been playing them against each other ever since Ryan came to town! Like it’s some kind of game for her or something. You think Ryan would have hooked up with Gabrielle if Marissa hadn’t shown up at the party with Luke? And if he hadn’t, well, maybe Grandpa wouldn’t have--”
“Seth!”
Already slumped in his seat, Seth crumbled completely at the sound of his father’s warning voice. His gaze darted to his mother and then plummeted to the floor. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I know, Ryan going missing isn’t Marissa’s fault. Not exactly anyway. It’s just that . . .”
Seth stopped, shrugging helplessly. Her face creased with compassion, Charlie reached over to pat his knee.
“You want someone to blame, right?” she observed.
Seth nodded. “Yeah. Somebody besides myself,” he explained. At first he sounded distant, almost numb, but almost at once his tone became agitated, and his words tumbled over each other. “I mean, this is kind of all my fault. I thought it was über-cool when Gabrielle hooked up with Ryan. I encouraged the whole thing! It was kind of like, vicarious, cool-by-association for me, you know? There’s Gabrielle, and she’s a model and older and, and looks really, really hot in a bikini, and Ryan is, well, Ryan, and girls naturally like him, and anyway Grandpa always shows up with a new woman, you know he does, Mom! Every visit it’s somebody different. So it never occurred to me that he--”
This time, breathless, Seth stopped himself from finishing. He saw his mother’s shoulders stiffen, but Kirsten didn’t turn around to face him. When she spoke, her voice sounded flinty and razor-thin.
“Of course it didn’t, Seth,” she said. “This isn’t your fault, either, or Gabrielle’s or--” She stumbled a little over his name. “Or Ryan’s. And you don’t have to worry about saying it. None of you do. Whatever has happened to Ryan, my father is the one to blame . . . Sandy, how long until we get to the The Ocaranza Psychiatric Institute?”
At the mention of the clinic’s name, Seth’s mouth bobbed open but he promptly clamped it shut again. It had surged back, that strange, persistent feeling that they were heading the wrong way, that really they should be returning to the Santa Clara Clinic.
But he was just being stupid, Seth told himself. He just wanted so much to have been right when he suggested going there first. He bit back his impulse to say, “Turn around!” Instead he sat silent, watching his father reach across the console to clasp Kirsten’s hand.
“About forty-five minutes,” he told her. Glancing back at Seth through the rearview mirror, Sandy added firmly, “We’re going to find Ryan today. I promise you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Her pulse pounding in her ears, Lucy raced up the stairs into the Annex. She didn’t pause at the reception desk. She simply sped down the hall straight into Ryan’s room.
The small space throbbed with noise and it so crowded that she could barely find him inside. Voices were snapping orders. Someone rushed past her carrying vials of blood and two other people elbowed her aside as they wheeled a crash cart, but Lucy ignored them all. Intent on reaching Ryan, she pushed through the people clustered around his bed.
“Ryan?” she called breathlessly, but she knew at once that he couldn’t hear her.
Between the figures in front of her-Dr. Keller and someone else, somebody tall and imposing, dressed in a muted, gray suit-Lucy managed to glimpse Ryan. He looked nothing like the boy she had left. His eyes were slits, not quite closed but not open either, and where his skin was not splotched an angry red, it glowed a damp, deathly white. A sheen of sweat covered his entire body.
She understood why instantly. Ryan was convulsing, his body thrashing furiously against his restraints even though two orderlies gripped his shoulders hard, pressing their weight against him, trying to hold him down.
Already Lucy could see vivid purple bruises forming under their hands.
She had expected seizures, but nothing like the spasms that she witnessed. “They should not be this violent, surely!” she thought. “Surely Ryan is suffering too strong a reaction.” Lucy clenched her fists, distraught, almost crushing the articles and photos that she carried. “I was too hasty. I must have given him too large a dose-It was wrong, I knew it. I should have found another way--"
Her self-accusations jolted to a stop when she heard Dr. Keller’s voice.
“Take that out,” he ordered, gesturing to the crash cart. At the same time he began to prepare a syringe. “We don’t need it. His vital signs are still strong. This should stabilize him until we can determine what’s going on.”
“And then, I assume, we can go forward with the procedure,” the man next to him observed dryly. “I see no reason for any lengthy postponement. After all, you said, the boy’s vital signs are still strong. Isn’t that your main consideration at this stage?”
“As a general rule, yes, Mr. Nichol. Of course, we will have to see--”
“Mr. Nichol?” Lucy gave a silent gasp, suddenly recognizing the man next to her. “He is here? And despite what Ryan’s condition, he is still pushing for the surgery?” She recoiled, accidentally brushing against his jacket. Its soft, expensive fabric seemed to blister her skin, and it took a moment for her to realize what Dr. Keller was saying.
“ . . . ready to go as long as there’s no undue risk. Once we get the results of the patient’s blood tests, we should be able to--”
“No!” Lucy cried. “You cannot do this!”
Dr. Keller wheeled around, glaring, syringe in hand. “What are you doing here, Nurse?” he demanded irritably. Then, as if the answer didn’t matter, he waved dismissal. “Get out,” he ordered. “You’re no longer on this case.”
“But you do not understand, Doctor. Ryan . . . You cannot perform this operation on him.”
Beside her, Caleb Nichol turned around. He adjusted his cuffs, his brows arched, his ice-blue eyes assessing hers coldly.
“As Brandon’s guardian--” He seemed to stress the name, tossing it in Lucy’s face, “I believe that is my decision, Nurse. Go ahead, Doctor. Do whatever is necessary to prepare him for the procedure.”
“No! Don’t!” Lucy protested again. “I have found information-things that you must see. Dr. Keller, please, if you would just listen--”
For half a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then Dr. Keller’s face shuttered and he nodded to one of the orderlies. “Show Nurse Fordé out,” he ordered. “We can manage here.”
The man promptly released Ryan, took Lucy’s arm and propelled her to the door.
She resisted, struggling vainly and craning backward, pleading with Dr. Keller to stop. Instead, he inserted the needle. Lucy saw Ryan go limp. Then the door closed behind her, shutting her out.
TBC