Martin tastes the tofu curry at the back of his throat and swallows repeatedly to keep lunch down. John is engrossed in examining James and does not acknowledge she’s spoken. Martin hates that. Lately, John does that to him all the friggin’ time.
“I’m sorry,” is all Martin can think of to say. And suddenly he remembers the rumor. It was a few days after Ian’s funeral. Who was it that told him, James was busted for meth at Heathrow on his way home, and had to do mandatory rehab? Martin didn’t give it a lot of thought at the time. It seemed absurd. He’d known James to indulge in various amphetamines that work cronies supplied him during sessions. Working twenty hour days, most everyone did something. Martin, and other friends of Bill W., lived on triple espressos. James was addicted to music, not drugs. Martin had never known James to use meth, or any hard drugs, and he’d never be so stupid to carry it overseas. Gossip abounds in the Industry. Martin had figured James was totally immersed in studio. It was easy to lose James. It happened often.
John pulls the comforter up to the middle of James’ chest and tucks it around him, strokes the hair from his face gently. Martin caves. He loves the softer side of John.
“I need some things from the clinic. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” And John gets up from the bed, hesitates only a moment for Kate to step aside then exits the guestroom.
Martin turns to Kate now standing in the hallway. “Come in. Come in. Sit down. You must be exhausted. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. I’m Martin Risner.” He extends his hand to her from where he stands near the bed so she’ll have to come into the room to shake it.
She does, hesitates before crossing the threshold and planting herself next to the Deco dresser before shaking Martin’s hand. “Kate McConnell.” Her eyes fill again and she looks back down at James as her tears fall. “I’m real sorry about your friend.”
“Thank you for helping him, bringing him here.”
Her hand covers her mouth. She inhales sharply, her entire body trembles as she pulls her hair back then wipes her eyes and nose on her sleeve. “I did this. It’s my fault. I didn’t see his car. The accident was my fault. There’s no way he could have stopped.” She takes a quivering breath. “I’m really so very sorry.” She never takes her eyes off James.
“Hang on a minute, girl. Kate, right?”
She nods.
“Hey. That’s why they call it an accident,” Martin assures her. “And accidents happen all the time.”
She finally looks at him with glassy green eyes.
“I was high, Mr. Risner. I was coming from an office party and I was totally buzzed.”
Rage, compassion and regret consume him almost simultaneously, and Martin can’t think of what to say. The only sound in the room is James’ labored breathing. Martin flashes back to the memory of the cyclist flying over the hood of his BMW on his way home from yet another drunken Halloween in the Castro, and shame encases him.
“It was an accident,” he assures her again. “And, please, call me Martin. I may be old enough to be your father, but Mr. Risner is my dad, and the inference is rather...disturbing.” He’s trying to lighten things up but it isn’t working. Kate stares down at James.
“He is extraordinary looking, isn’t he?” Martin knows it’s catty, especially given the circumstance, but he sees the way she looks at James, like everyone looks at James.
Kate glances at Martin. Her face flushes.
“He’s going to be fine, Kate. John will take good care of him.”
She nods.
“You didn’t have to bring him here. You could have dropped him at a motel and driven away. But you didn’t. You’ve done all you can to help him. Your conscience should be clear.”
“Right.” She shakes her head. “He’d be in Tiburon, safe and sound, with his very expensive sports car by now if it weren’t for me.”
“Maybe.” Martin flashes the faintest smile. “But a mile down the road he may have hit a jackknifed truck and died.”
Kate looks at him then, gives him a faint smile. “Are you always this philosophical, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”
“Bit of both.” Martin studies her. “How do you know he was going to Tiburon?”
“He told me on the way here. He said he was coming from Boston on his way to Tiburon and that he didn’t live anywhere. But I really doubt he’s homeless.”
“No, James isn’t homeless. At least he didn’t use to be. He has a gorgeous home overlooking Zuma Beach, near L.A. At least, he did. What else did he say to you?”
“Not much. He was pretty out of it.” She looks back at James. “His car was totaled. Instantly. Then it blew up. God….”
“Blew up? With him in it?”
“No. He’d gotten out by then.”
“What kind of car was he driving?”
“A little sports car, a Porsche Spyder I think, like the kind James Dean got killed in. Why?”
Martin leans back against the dresser, three feet from where Kate stands. “James had a hybrid of some sort. He never owned a Porsche, not that I know of, anyway.”
“He told me it wasn’t his. He said it was a friend of his, and she’d got it from a divorce settlement so she wouldn’t care that it got wrecked. But I care.” She takes another quivering breath. Tears slide down her cheeks again.
Martin watches her but she doesn't look at him. She stares down at James.
John comes back right then and sets a small black case, some washcloths, a bottle of something clear, and the iPad under his arm on the Mission end table. He sits on the bed, opens the case and pulls out a filled syringe.
“John?” James blinks heavy-lidded at him. “Am I dreaming?”
“No. I’m here, James.”
James looks confused, like a child upon waking from a nightmare. Martin moves closer to the bed. “Martin?” His eyes open wide. “What is this place? What’s happening?”
“You’re at Paradise, James, at our vineyard in Sonora, in our guestroom.”
“Do you remember coming here with your friend tonight?” John glances at Kate. She gives James a quick smile as he looks at her.
“Kate? Shit. What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.” He tries to sit up, starts choking and falls back against the pile of pillows.
“Relax.” John holds his shoulder to the bed. “You need to be still, flat on your back. You’ve got a broken rib, which is why you’re having trouble breathing, and what looks like a concussion, unless you’re on something. Are you on drugs, James?”
His black eyes almost twinkle. He half-laughs, thick with irony. “Nope.”
John nods once, to himself. “Okay. Then we’ve gotta get you over to Muir, get you stabilized. You’re gonna be fine—”
“No. Can’t go to a hospital.” He stares at Kate. “Must be why I told you to take me here…”
“I can’t do a CT here. There could be swelling—”
“I don’t care. No hospitals. Please. You’ll crucify me if you force me into a public position.” He stays on John a minute then fixes his gaze on Martin. “And no one knows I’m here. You get it, Martin? No gossip. No bullshit.”
“I get it, James. Relax. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
James narrows his eyes on Kate. “You shouldn’t be here. You have to leave.” His gaze stays on her until John lifts the syringe and James catches sight of it. His eyes go wide and he scrambles up but John pins his shoulder against the pine headboard. “No! No meds. You’re not putting me out.” He glares at John, trembling, his huge hands on John’s arm and chest trying to push him off.
“It’s Fentanyl, James, for the pain.” John releases him and sits back on the bed, needle still in hand. “It’s only a low dos—”
“I don’t want it.” James slumps back, struggling to breathe again, hand clutching his ribs. “Unless you OD me.” He flashes a sardonic grin, but Martin’s sure he’s not joking.
John s
tares at him, shakes his head, drops the syringe on the end table. He glances at Martin, brows furrowed, clearly concerned, which concerns Martin. Then he reaches for his black bag, takes out some bandages and lays them on the bed. He wets a cloth with rubbing alcohol and James recoils on contact as John cleans the bloody gash.
“Breathe, James.” John commands.
James releases a wheezing breath and gasps for another.
“Want to tell us what's going on?” John inquires as he bandages the wound.
“No.” James retorts, flinching with John's touch.
“Try and relax. This will just take a minute.” He wraps James’ ribs, guiding him gently forward as he brings the ace bandage around his back.
“Kill me or be done, John.” Sweat trickles down James' face.
John’s pause is barely perceptible before he clips the bandage closed and smooths it out against James’ torso. James sinks back into the pillows piled up against the pine headboard. His hair is scattered in his eyes which are half-mast, red-rimmed and surrounded by dark. He looks like the lead in a punk band.
Martin recalls their last encounter, at Ian’s funeral. They didn’t really talk then, just that quick handshake in the chapel. At the grave site, James was across from him, rocking out to some tune in his head. The man was possessed. He was fine then, gorgeous as always. He’d been the silent center of attention. Martin wonders if anyone else caught him fingering.
“Well, that’s about all I can do right now.” John says as he checks James’ eyes with the penlight again. Martin spies a thin ring of luminous emerald around James’ enlarged pupils before John pockets the light, then pulls his tablet from the end table and begins filling in fields of a chart.
“You need to leave, Kate. Now.” James lays slouched against the pillows watching her.
She stares back at him, her face flushes crimson.
“Ignore him.” Martin senses Kate’s embarrassment, and knows her guilt. “He’s out of his mind, clearly. You’re welcome to stay, Kate, as long as you like.”
James scowls at Martin, blinking to keep his eyes open. “Couple hours sleep and I’m outta here, too.”
John glances at James and shakes his head but doesn’t say anything.
“This is too fucking hard. I want to be done.” James whispers then closes his eyes. Then his body goes slack and he sleeps, his breathing even for the first time that evening.
Kate stands stone still at the end of the dresser by the doorway. “Is he going to be okay?” she asks in a small voice.
“I have no idea.” John stands and faces her. “I don’t know the extent of his injuries. We’ll give it until morning, monitor his vitals. If he doesn’t respond the way he should, then he goes to Muir. He’s probably better off here right now. It’ll take an hour or more to get to Auburn in this rain, and the winding roads wouldn’t help him any. He needs to be still. Warm, dry, and still.” He gathers his syringe off the table, caps and pockets it, then picks up his iPad, tucks it under his arm and looks at Martin. “I have to find the power pack for the heart monitor, and the portable defib, and research seizure meds. I may be a while. Call me if you notice anything weird.”
“What do you mean, ‘weird?’”
“If he stops breathing, Martin. Call me if he stops breathing.”
Martin ignores his condescension, sort of. “What’s the likelihood he’ll stop breathing?”
“I don’t know. I’m a doctor, not God. He just needs to be still, flat on his back and he’ll probably be fine. Don’t worry about it.” John looks at Kate. “I’m more worried about his friend here. Kate, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you were not injured in the accident. Is that correct?”
“No. Yes. I mean...I’m not hurt.”
“Good. Your car seems fine, too.” He reaches in the pocket of his lab coat and pulls out her keys. “I moved it into a parking space by the clinic.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry for wrecking your fountain!” She’d completely forgotten about hitting it when James passed out in her lap. “I’ll pay for whatever it costs to repair. I’m really sorry.”
“No need. The damage to the fountain is minimal as well. Nothing a bit of concrete won’t fix. Your follow-through in bringing James here is admirable. Thank you.” He stays focused on her a moment. “Well then, Martin will look after you. He can fix you a strong cup of green tea.” He glances at Martin then leaves the guestroom.
Chapter Two
Martin gets his favorite Goofy mug from the cupboard, puts it on the glazed concrete counter top next to the other mug. Kate is in the bathroom freshening up, and after, she’s agreed to join him for coffee before leaving. He leans back against the counter by the enormous stainless sink and stares across the virtually sterile kitchen out the glass breakfast nook. It’s completely dark out, rain pelting the French windows exaggerating the warmth within, and Martin revels in it for a moment.
Muffled voices and spontaneous bursts of laughter surround him while he watches the coffee drip into the carafe. The rich bitter/sweet aroma takes him back to that café in the Village, all those years ago. He sat on that splintered bench, banging on the piano. James was perched on that rickety stool strumming his acoustic so fast Martin could barely keep up. They worked together a lot back then. James was more of a fixture in their lives, back in the glory days. The days before sickness.
He leans back against the hard counter and recalls John tease that Martin and James together reminded him of Donald Duck and Peanut’s Schroeder. Those were the days John used to be jealous.
Dripping stops. Carafe is full, and Martin fills his cup and leans against the counter, cradling the warm mug next to his soft belly. Those were the days…
Martin hears screaming. Tortured screaming. James is screaming. He puts his mug down and runs down the hall and into the guestroom to find James locked in a nightmare.
“NO! Fuck! STOP!” are the only intelligible words through the screaming.
“James!” Martin sits on the bed and tries to wake him. “JAMES. Wake up!”
James slugs at him, throwing wild punches. “NO! Get off me! Get away!” He scrambles off the bed, falls onto the floor and clambers up against the wall. He sits hunched in the corner, shirt hanging open, his hands spread wide on the ground, trembling to the point of convulsing. His eyes are open, but it’s clear he is still stuck in his dream.
Martin stands and slowly moves around the bed toward him on the floor by the bay window.
“Get away!” James practically growls. He’s breathless, wide-eyed. “Why are you doing this? Why are you torturing me?!”
“James! It’s Martin. I’m not hurting you. WAKE UP!” Martin kneels in front of him and James recoils to strike but freezes. So does Martin.
James’ eyes are open hugely wide—black, glassy, riveted on Martin, and suddenly he connects. Martin feels a tangible pulse between them. He unclenches his fist and brings his hand to his side. “Sorry. Sorry. You okay? Sorry.” He flashes a guilty smile, and a quick laugh, then runs his hand through his hair and looks around the room, shivering uncontrollably.
Martin kneels in front of him, lost for what to say.
James pushes himself up against the wall until he's standing. Martin stands, too, fixed on James who stares back at him.
“I know how this looks.” He flashes a grin that borders madness. “But I’m not crazy.” His eyes drift past Martin to John and Kate standing near the doorway. “I’m not. It was just a bad dream. I’m not crazy.”
He looks crazy. He stands plastered against the wall, his eyes still open wide, black and hardly blinking. He stares at Kate. She stands just inside the guestroom doorway, her delicate nipples protruding through her sheer, deep red camisole which is minimally tucked into her jeans.
John moves past her into the room, takes the small black case from under his arm and puts it on the edge of the dresser. “You need to be lying down, James.”
James stays glued to
the wall, eyes now on John.
“You don’t get it, do you?” John speaks gently, but precisely. “You have at least one broken rib. Dislodge it, and it could puncture your lung. You have a type-three concussion. Swelling around your brain, and you traumatize it again, even slightly—maybe move your head around too fast, you die instantly.” John studies him. “Anything but rest can possibly kill you. Get the picture? Do you care?”
James and John are fixed on each other, the two of them exchanging some hidden dialog. Martin stands there trying to decipher what's going on exactly. He has this nagging suspicion it isn’t good.
“You don’t get it.” James narrows his eyes to black slits. “Three weeks ago I left a maximum security mental hospital in Scotland—without permission. I’m wanted back there, and in the States now, too.” He gives a quick, disdainful laugh. “But I’m never going back there. Not ever. No one can make me go back there. I’ll meet them in hell before I ever let them take me back there. Get the picture?”
Rain drums the windows. Only sound in the room. Martin is speechless. What James has just told them is incomprehensible, and Martin blanks.
James laughs, low and hollow, filled with irony and anger. Then he runs his fingers through his hair and looks around the room. “I shouldn’t be here. I have to get out of here.”
“You’ve got nowhere to go tonight, James.” John keeps his tone gentle but clinically commanding. “You need to rest.”
James stays against the wall staring wide-eyed at John, and slowly shakes his head.
“Who knows where you are right now but us?”
He looks at Martin, then quickly at Kate, then back at John. “No one.”
“And what are the odds of someone, anyone, figuring it out overnight?”
A conceding smile spreads across James’ face. He looks down.
“You need to rest, James. You’re safe here.”
James glares at John with disdained amusement. “Safe. Right.” He gives another quick laugh and speaks to himself. “I’m fucked. In a world this wired, how far is gone? They’re going to find me. It doesn’t matter where I go. They’re going to find me. And then I’m fucked.” James shivers, looks away and laughs again, and keeps laughing. It's out of control, maniacal. He starts coughing, then manages to stop and gasping for breath, he slides to the floor, buries his face in his hands and seems to curl into a ball as he sits on the floor crying, rocking. His long fingers grip his hair and dig into his head.