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4. Rescue Me

"We need to find that kid," Caryanne says.

'What kid?' I'm wondering. Oh, the kid Albert had by the arm. Shee-it! Now what?

"Go back," Caryanne commands, then changes it to a request, "Can you go back to where we first saw them?" she's asking. "I'm betting he did the same thing to her he did to me."

Shee-it! Again. Shee-it!

"Yeah," I say. There's no enthusiasm in my voice. I try to muster some earnest interest in the mission to counter that. I can't find words to express it so I try to think of body language, the 'urgency' of my driving...but...

There's where they were. I've passed it by the time I realize it. I stop, back up, until I'm back by the wooded area, the flagpole. Caryanne's backpack is still laying there up the street where she spotted Albert from. I I curve out, sideways in the road, pull up to the curb, again, at an angle, lights shining into the woods. Caryanne's out. I want to throw it in reverse and get the hell out of here. It's another forested area where there probably used to be a building. Caryanne's there, looking into the bushes. I turn off the engine, get out, watch them go into the woods.There's some light in the sky but it's dark in the woods. I fish my spotlight from behind the seat, click it on. It works! I haven't charged it up in a while, but it's working. The truck lights go off. I shine the light back into the woods, the powerful beam shining a good ways. I see them back in there. I ain't goin' in there! There are tents and hovels back in there, cardboard shacks, blue tarps, beyond where they are.

Suddenly there are car lights on me. I shade my eyes. It angles out to the middle of the street. Big black car! It's Albert! Is it Albert? Yes. I see the shiny black hair, thick glasses, bloody face! He's going slow. I worry he might take a shot at me! I shine the light on him. He speeds away. I watch him go to the intersection, turn and hear him speed away. I turn the light back into the woods.

Oh! Feet! There are feet sticking out from under a bush here close to me. It looks like the kid. She had red... like... pajama pants with cartoon characters and that's what I see.

I've taken the light off them to look at the kid, this new... kid, and when I bring it up to shine on them. They're coming back. I keep the light on the ground in front of them, to light their way.

The kid is snoring. I look closer in the dim edge of the spotlight light. She's a kid, like thirteen or sixteen or something, little girl, not very big. She's dirty, dirty hands, dirty face. Hey! Peanut butter and jelly! I can see what looks like peanut butter and jelly on the corners of her mouth, on her chin. Just like Carryin' On Caryanne. Albert. If this is what you're doing we're going to have to track your ass down and beat it again. Damn! Carryin' On Caryanne's a mean little bitch! Supergirl! Her mother's daughter.

They're here. Caryanne and Andrea go to 'examining' the kid, pulling her eyelids open, talking between themselves about "...pupils dilated, fixed...", more choice words for Albert, insults to his mother.

Caryanne's lifting the kid. I back out, keeping the light on the ground as Caryanne walks toward me. I'm out on the sidewalk, step off the curb, keep the light on it as Caryanne steps off. Andrea's close, hands on the kid's head, safety in case Caryanne drops her, I figure. But she looks like she's got her. Caryanne's strong... strong enough.

I open the tailgate. Caryanne sits her right hip up on it, spins to throw her right leg up, left leg up, keeps 'cradling' the kid, scooches across the tailgate into the bed. Her skirt's way up her thighs. Bicycle shorts, black, down her legs. I can't help enjoying seeing her legs. Andrea's closing the tailgate. Caryanne scooches to get the kid's head out of the way.

"Hospital?" Andrea says.

"Yes," Caryanne replies.

'Shee-it,' I say to myself. I click off the light, put it behind the seat, get in. Andrea's in the other side, closes her door, puts on her seatbelt, eyes straight ahead.

I guess we're going to the hospital.

I go at a good speed, fast, more than the safe speed limit, as determined by engineers, and posted by authorities, but not 'I'm-an-official-emergency-vehicle' fast. I know where the hospital is.

Andrea's focused ahead, glances over her shoulder, then ahead again. Then, she announces, "Caryanne's got her finger down the kid's throat, making her vomit! Eww! Success!" I'm wanting to look back to... see that... I guess... more concerned with the bed of my truck than comprehending what's going on. I guess she decided to try to get the... poison out of her, rather than let it keep dopin' the kid. Maybe that's what she did for herself, and why she's recovered enough to ride her bike, fistfight, and rescue a kid.

"Damn! Candy did you see that? That's my kid!" Andrea says. "I never imagined her kickin' ass like that! It... it was scary!"

"Exactly!" I agree; "Scary!" Guess who's coming to my house later! Maybe I'll take the bedroom with a door to lock!

My life was simple this morning. Now it's... There's the hospital. I go right to the Emergency Room entrance where ambulances go, not where people walk in.

Andrea's out, to the back. Tailgate flops down with a bang! She's away, into the doors. I'm out to the back. Caryanne's scooching again. I reach, take the kid, head in with her. Andrea's coming back with people, a gurney. I lay the kid on the gurney. Caryanne's telling them about making her vomit.

"See that peanut butter and jelly on her face?" she's telling them. "There may be dope in that. Collect that just in case it can be tested."

"Well we can't test that here," a woman in scrubs is saying. She has long false eyelashes, looks like she's made up for a night on the town, not working the ER.

"I'll get it tested!" Andrea's saying, exasperation in her voice. "Just... collect it!" They're turning away down the hall. The two nurses or whatever they are exchange glances, tight-lipped, don't say anything.

"You'll have to get in there with them," I tell Andrea, collect that stuff yourself. Make 'em give you a swab or... or a tongue depressor, something. And a bag to put it in."

I drop back, let Andrea, Caryanne, and the people take the kid in. I go back out to move the truck. As I do I hear a siren. I park, come back in. They're not in the 'lobby'. I start to walk back the direction they were going. A uniformed security man confronts me. Big guy, taller than me, got me by a good hundred pounds, one of those giant men. I tell him the details about the kid. He tells me to wait out here, leads me through a door, into a lobby in the walk-in section. I expect him to hook me up, get me back there with the girls and the kid. He goes back behind a desk, stands, scans the closed-circuit television screens, doesn't talk on the phone or radio or anything. I content myself to wait where I am, go sit down by the windows, pick up a magazine laying in the next chair. I look out. I can see my truck. I notice a vending machine with hot chocolate, go, put in the coins, get one. It's good. I'm looking around. Pretty much full house. Friday night. Old people, with younger ones, and children in pajamas trying to get comfortable on the bench couches or chairs. One tiny one crying, not to be consoled.

The siren was getting louder. Now it's stopped. Lights continue to flash, on the trees across the parking lot, behind my truck. I go out, walk down to the ambulance entrance. The attendants are unloading a person on a gurney. They don't seem to be in a hurry. The person isn't moving. Her clothes are kind of shabby. She looks dirty. I step closer. On her face it looks like... peanut butter and jelly!

"Hey!" I say, "Is that an overdose?" He doesn't answer. I tell them, "If that's peanut butter and jelly on her face there may be a drug in it that someone gave her. I just brought in another kid, two of them, separate cases, with peanut butter and jelly on their faces, and feeling doped up." No response.

They go in. I go in with them. This time I'm able to go right with them into the treatment rooms. "Collect that peanut butter and jelly and test it for fentanyl or something!" I tell them. "You might want to make her vomit." They go on as I stop. I stop because I hear Caryanne's voice, calm, confident, directing someone to, "Give it to me. Give it to me! I'll have it tested."

They come out from behind a drawn curtain. Andrea's got a piece of paper. Caryanne's got a plastic bag, top torn off. Tongue depressor in it.

"Candy," give me that pen." I have a pen clipped to my shirt-front. I give it to her. "What time is it?" I look at my watch, tell her. She's writing. "I don't know the kid's name. Best we can do is document the time we brought her in to try to find out anything about her later."

"They just brought in another girl," I tell them. " I think I saw peanut butter and jelly on her face."

Caryanne and Andrea stop in their tracks. "Where?" Caryanne asks. I see the two attendants coming out of a drawn-curtain area down the hall. I begin to walk that way. They pass by without showing any interest. I look back. They're not looking back. We go in. The girl they brought in is on the bed. Nobody's doing anything for her. She's... not moving, not... breathing.

Caryanne is collecting a tongue depressor like she knows where stuff is in the room. She gets a plastic bag out of a trash can, a bag that held some piece of equipment and has been thrown away. She scrapes the peanut butter and jelly off the girl's face with the depressor, puts it in the bag. Andrea's writing down the time. No one takes any notice of us as we come out. We're outside, into the truck. Caryanne's in the middle. I'm driving, aimlessly, not really headed for home or anywhere else, really. I realize I'm not even doing the 35 mile per hour speed limit, speed up. They're quiet.

"Tilda," Andrea says.

"Tilda," Caryanne repeats.

"It's late," Caryanne says.

"She'll get up," Andrea tells her. Andrea is keying something into her phone. She holds it toward me. A female voice with an English accent starts telling us to 'Turn left in 100 feet'. GPS. I do it. I follow the instructions and end up back on my side of town. We go to a nice house. I pull into the driveway Caryanne points to. They get out. I stay put. Nobody's told me anything different. I see Caryanne hand the bags to Andrea, turn and come back as the truck lights go out.

"Come on, Candy," she says. "You need a drink and something to eat." Cute girl, offer of food and drink. I don't ask any questions. I notice I'm not resisting my involvement in this sh-tuff any more.

"Is your bike safe here? Someone could steal it," I tell her as I get out. I lock the truck.

"We'll take a chance," she says. "I appreciate you... helping us," she says. We go up the drive side by side, her arms crossed over her chest, then dropping to push me ahead on the sidewalk along the front of the house. The inner door's open, storm door closed. Andrea's inside talking to a woman who... looks... a lot like Andrea.

"Aunt Tilda," Caryanne's saying, "Mom's sister. She's a doctor. She can test [naughty word removed]. I know there's drugs in that damned peanut butter and jelly." We go in.

I don't know who's older, Tilda or Andrea. They talk alike. They look alike. Tilda's saying, "We can try." She has the bags, the tongue depressors in them. Andrea's telling her not to mix them up, to mark them with the times on the pieces of paper she's torn and put in the bags.Tilda goes off down the hall. Andrea hands me my pen.

"Mom," Caryanne says, "Let's raid Tilda's refrigerator." We go toward a kitchen. I see a bathroom. I go in, take a leak, flush, wash my hands, face, dry on paper towels, come out. Andrea's coming up the hall from where Tilda went.

"I gave her that pill that horse's ass put in your beer!" she says, jerking her thumb back down the hall.

We sit at a kitchen table. Andrea pours me a glass of milk. I sip it, gulp once. Caryanne's pushing a sandwich on a plate to me. I hope she washed her hands.

"I washed my hands," she says, smiling at me. Kid's pretty, now she's got her face under control. Her knuckles are real red, but not cut. She turns in her chair, starts inspecting her knees, left one reddened, right one bloodied, big scrape up her shin. Probably from flying over the door, landing a'straddle Albert. Damn! Supergirl! I chuckle to myself. No one seems to notice.

"Tilda can test those samples, see if she can detect drugs," Andrea says. We eat. No one talks. About twenty minutes have passed and Tilda comes in, says,

"There's not enough there to test. I'm getting a little fentanyl on one, the second one, the later one. But not enough to be sure."

The girls look disappointed. Caryanne's shoulders slump. She frowns.

"And that pill is a 'roofie', a knockout drug," Tilda goes on, looking at me. "Caryanne, come here and let me get a blood sample from you."

Caryanne's up, compliant. "Yeah!" she says. She touches my shoulder as she passes, "Why didn't you think of that Candy?" She's teasing me, squeezes my shoulder, goes.

"I figured," Andrea says. "I'll shoot that big bastard!" Andrea's gonna need more shotgun shells.

"Did you stick you finger down your throat when you realized you'd been doped?" I hear Tilda ask Caryanne.

"Yeah," she says. "I don't think I could have made it to Broken Places if I hadn't. That [naughty word removed] hit me hard! And fast!"

"And you stuck your finger down the kid's throat," I call after them. "And there's vomit in the bed of my truck." They stop, look back at me. I look at Tilda. "Would there be enough in the vomit to test?"

"Maybe!" she says. I like her surety. Tilda goes down the hall. We three go out. I get my flashlight and shine it on the mess. I haven't sprayed out the truck bed in... probably months. There's not much dirt and debris there where the vomit is. But a substantial puddle of vomit, and purple jelly and brown peanut butter and white bread obvious in it!

Tilda comes out, goes about collecting samples, more than one, test tubes. Vials. She came prepared. Inside, Tilda down the hall, Caryanne with her. Caryanne comes back, holding a gauze pad on the crook of her elbow. In about another thirty minutes Tilda's back.

"Yes," she says. "Fentanyl. And a heavy dose of it. I need to get down to the hospital and see what I can find out. I called and told them I was coming and what to do with the two patients. They said one had expired, came in expired. But the young girl's alive."

"Fentanyl in my blood?" Caryanne asks. Tilda nods, tells her to drink plenty of water, flush her system. Caryanne tilts up her glass of milk, downs it.

We all look at each other. "Candy!" Andrea says, offering a high five. I take it. Caryanne reaches and squeezes my wrist. I feel... a hell of a lot better about the whole thing.

We go out, Tilda and Andrea getting in Tilda's car, Caryanne coming to the truck. I don't ask, just head for the ER. Arriving, we see two cop cars, lights flashing. We park, go in with Tilda leading. She examines the kid. Gives some orders. She asks to see the dead girl, gives some orders for the Medical Examiner's autopsy. Coroner? We tell the tale to the cops. They gradually ease up out of suspecting us of something. I look at us, me in clean clothes, but clothes suited for my work, Andrea in her bartender outfit, looking like a biker bitch, Caryanne looking shabby... sorry kid...l ike a street person. I guess I'd suspect us too.

We go out, get in the truck. Tilda stays in the hospital. We head for my house. There, Andrea thanks me, hugs Caryanne, gets out and into the silver Caddy, backs out, drives away. I back into the carport, thinking the bike might not get stolen if they don't easily see it. I know the little bastards come around late at night. They got my tools about a year ago; two years ago. I'm careful to lock the toolbox on each end each night. The one night I forgot to they got me. I figure they try it on lots of nights, find it locked, still keep coming back and trying it until, bingo!

Caryanne gets her backpack out of the truck. We go in. Caryanne goes to the bedroom, apparently retrieves a toothbrush; I hear her brushing. She goes in the bedroom, doesn't close the door. I go brush my teeth, step into the bedroom to get my clock-radio, need to set the alarm for in the morning. She strips off her skirt, wiggles out of it. Bicycle shorts. It... seems... brazen but... I guess it's not. She knows she's wearing the shorts, not... underclothes. Still, she... seems to realize it... looks a little... uncomfortable herself.

I gesture with the radio, say, "Job interview in the morning." She nods. "There's food, if you're hungry. There's coffee and a coffee maker for in the morning. The coffee's ten years old but..." I leave that to be self-evident. "I read coffee leaches minerals out of your body so I quit drinking it; have a cup every once in a while but..." She just smiles at me. I come out, come back to the living room, plug in the radio, lay on a couch recliner. I'm exhausted. I'm out in a matter of minutes.

I wake up. Caryanne's untying my boots, pulls them off. She smells clean, shampooed, the trailer full of steam from a hot shower. She's wearing my green robe. I never wear it, just have it hanging there in the bedroom. She lays in the other recliner. A beam of moonlight shines in on the lower part of her face, tip of her nose, mouth, that... mouth, her throat, her chest. She talks, just random, rambling through the day's events. Her lips are a work of art. I stare, see her tongue catch the moonlight occasionally, words with 'th'. I doze.

I wake up later, realize she's asleep in the other recliner, and I put my blanket over her and go take back my bed.