“Is the DEA planning on nabbing Arturo?” I didn’t care either way.
“If he’s anywhere near the raid, then yeah. But I doubt he will be.”
“Hey,” Ted’s voice resonated behind us as the paramedics pulled up. “We found Ryan Montgomery. He’s at Mass General. He was brought in around four p.m. yesterday. Blow to the head. The nurse says he’s coming to.”
The first sign of hope had me upright, with Duke following suit.
“Get checked out,” Ted said to me. “Then we’ll head down to the hospital. The kid isn’t going anywhere.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
Ted crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at me with his dark, narrowed eyes.
“He’s stubborn,” I said to Duke.
“He’s worse than us,” Duke said.
I nodded at Ted. “Okay.”
I wasn’t in the mood to argue, and frankly, I was losing steam. I felt like ballistic missiles were being fired at me, left and right.
Maybe it was best to have a paramedic check me out. I needed to be sure I was one hundred percent healthy for whatever else came my way.
30
BRIAN
Ihated hospitals—the smell, the sorrow, the vibe, the madness. All of it made me want to pluck out my eyeballs.
The antiseptic odor burned my nostrils, bringing back memories I would rather forget, as Ted and I followed the nurse. The last time I was a patient, I’d suffered multiple stab wounds.
“You let me do the talking.” Ted’s command had me glaring at him.
“You really think I’m going to be quiet.”
“Then don’t strangle the kid.”
“In here,” the nurse with soft eyes said, opening the door to Ryan’s room. “You might not get much out of him. He’s still groggy.”
He would talk. I would make sure of it.
The kid looked like he’d gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson—his face mottled with bruises, a busted lip, black eyes. Someone had done a number on him. It seemed to me Ryan fought back.
Ted ponied up to Ryan’s bedside and introduced himself while I hung at the foot of the bed.
“Ryan,” Ted said, using his deep, authoritative voice, “can you tell us what happened?”
“Where’s Fran?” Ryan’s bruised eyes were glued to me.
“You tell us.” I gripped the footbed tightly.
He shook his head, the heart monitor going crazy. “I don’t know. We were eating lunch at Faneuil Hall, and Fran spotted a woman she knew. A waitress who used to work for you, Mr. McCauley. Sa… I can’t remember her name.”
“Sabine,” I finished for him. “Go on.”
“She came over and told Fran she was in Boston to deliver a folder of yours.” Ryan fidgeted with his IV. “They started talking about her son, Harris, and how they were looking at property to buy southeast of Boston. Freetown, I think I heard.”
I was squeezing the hell out of the pressboard footbed, seething at the mere mention of Harris. The degenerate had always had a hard-on for my daughter.
