Unquiet (17 page)

“This your fuck of the day, Mother?” he mocked her. The asshole didn’t react, just stepped around Eliot and handed Rebecca her cell phone.

“Call 911, Bec,” the man said quietly. “Tell them it’s a psychiatric emergency.”

Eliot was already rummaging in the fridge for more booze, and he grabbed a bottle of beer. All he wanted to do at the moment was drink himself to death, make the racing thoughts, the despair, the sadness that was crushing his soul from the inside out just fucking go away. All he wanted was for it all to stop. Please, God, just stop.

He heard his mother murmuring into the phone, and so he wandered into the hallway. The man followed him, and Eliot held up his hand and sneered.

“Gonna go take a piss, man. If you wanna hold my dick for me, be my guest.” He grabbed his crotch lewdly as he spoke.

The man backed off, but his eyes were watchful as Eliot headed toward the powder room that was just off the garage. Once he rounded the corner out of sight, he set his bottle of beer down on the table next to the door that led out to the garage, snatching up some car keys from the little basket there.

Eliot wondered if they’d be able to hear the garage door going up from inside the house, but no one chased after him, and he clicked the unlock button on the key fob, wondering which car the keys belonged to. He was elated when the sleek sports car in the driveway flashed its lights at him, the doors unlocking with a loud “chunk” sound.

He didn’t really know how to drive, but that didn’t matter! He knew the basics, and he could do anything he fucking wanted to, and nobody could stop him. He got the car started and in reverse, and then Eliot stomped on the gas pedal, the powerful little car roaring backward down the driveway and shooting out into the dark street.

Whoa, baby, this was gonna be fun! He shifted into drive and floored it, the tires squealing as he took off and hung a left at the end of his mother’s street, heading out to the next major thoroughfare to where he thought the entrance to the interstate was.

Driving this sweet little car
was
fun! Stop signs didn’t matter! Red lights didn’t matter! Eliot was the best driver in the world, and he wove in and out of traffic, laughing at the honking horns, the gestures. Fuck all these molasses people in their slow-as-fuck cars!

He roared onto the interstate, going faster and faster, passing on the shoulder if there wasn’t enough room to maneuver through the slower-moving cars. This car could really fly, and soon Eliot had it up to eighty, eighty-five mph. Maybe if he went fast enough, he could take off and fly away. He wanted to see if he could, so he went faster, almost one hundred mph, the cars and their lights flashing in colorful blurs on either side of him.

Soon Eliot became aware of different kinds of flashing lights, cop car lights. Cop cars made him think of Loren, and it hit him he would be so mad at Eliot for this. A powerful wave of sadness suddenly swamped him. He started to jerk the wheel so he could drive head-on into a bridge abutment. Something stopped him at the last minute, and he tried to jerk the wheel back straight again, but he was going too fast and he started to fishtail, the black demon laughing as he locked the brakes and rolled, the sound of glass breaking and metal screeching a terrible symphony in his ears.

Then everything went black.

MORE FLASHING
lights, bumping, swaying. Pain in his head, his shoulder. Eliot tried to open his eyes but they seemed to be glued shut with something. His arms felt heavy, weighted, but he lifted one anyway, trying to feel his face.

“Stay still, man,” a deep voice said from somewhere above him.

Eliot didn’t listen, yanking at his arms, trying to move. The voice gave a muffled curse as something tore away, but at least Eliot’s arm was now free. He reached up and ran his fingertips over his face, feeling stickiness.

“Just got that IV in, goddammit,” the voice growled. “Dude, I’m telling you now, if you don’t stay still, I will restrain you.”

They want to tie you down, make you piss yourself. And then they’ll laugh
, the black demon whispered.
Because you’re stupid and crazy and worthless.
Eliot fought against the demon’s words, trying to stay still even as hands touched him, the pressure on his skin making him want to scream.

“Don’t tie… down,” he managed to slur, hazy memories of another time swirling in his fevered brain, memories of humiliation, a cold room, a bed, thick leather straps around his arms and legs not letting him move.

“We’re waiting for the psychiatrist on call,”
voices had said over and over, but nobody came, and they wouldn’t let him piss and nobody came and nobody came, and finally Eliot just had to let go and lie in it.

“Then stay still, and I won’t.”

Piercing noises rose and fell, crashing against Eliot’s skull, neon lights whirling. So much bumping, jolting, and swaying.

“What are you on, dude?” a different voice asked. “Have you taken anything? How much alcohol did you drink?”

Eliot shook his head, then felt like screaming as pain shot through it, blackness descending once again.

He tried to open his eyes, but the lights were too bright. Bars were around his bed, loud voices assaulting him from all sides, asking him over and over what he’d taken, what he was on. Hands touching him, pain everywhere, the black demon screaming his rage, his terror, and maybe it was all in his mind and maybe it wasn’t, maybe he really was screaming because somebody kept telling him to calm down, calm down, and at last there was a sharp prick somewhere on his shoulder and he slid once more into darkness, the sound of his sobbing loud in his own ears.

“ALL RISE.”

Loren stood up, watching the judge walk into the courtroom and take his seat at the bench.

“In the Matter of: The State of Arizona versus Eliot George Devlin,” the bailiff intoned. The door to the in-custody holding room opened and Eliot shuffled in wearing a bright orange Maricopa County Jail jumpsuit, his arms cuffed in front of him, his head down, a sheriff’s deputy holding on to his arm and guiding him to a seat next to his lawyer.

Dr. Devlin had spared no expense with Eliot’s legal defense, and she’d hired one of the best criminal lawyers in town. The list of initial charges the State filed against Eliot was serious: DUI, car theft, reckless endangerment, just to name a few. Eliot’s blood-alcohol content was almost twice the legal limit, and the very expensive sports car he stole from Rebecca’s friend was totaled. Besides the property damage, it was a miracle Eliot wasn’t killed and no one else injured in the spectacular wreck that closed the interstate for hours.

The defense lawyer proved himself well worth the money when he crafted a plea deal that would keep Eliot out of prison; instead he would be sentenced to an inpatient psychiatric hospital for three months, a private facility Dr. Devlin would pay for out of her own pocket, thus taking the expense of housing and treating Eliot off the burden of the State. He’d been in the jail psych ward for the last month, and Loren hadn’t laid eyes on him since he said good-bye before heading off to take part in that federal bust on that night that seemed like a lifetime ago.

Loren drank in the sight of him now, his heart aching at Eliot’s painful thinness, the sunken cheeks and hollow green eyes that passed dully over Loren almost without recognition before he took his seat at the defense table next to his lawyer. He sat slumped without moving as the plea deal was laid out before the judge, and a report from his treating psychiatrist, Dr. Ellen Babcock, was read into evidence and entered into the record.

The judge looked up from the papers he’d been perusing. “Mr. Devlin, please stand for sentencing.”

Eliot and his lawyer stood, and the judge suddenly pointed at him.

“Mr. Devlin, this is your last chance. I understand that you have a documented mental illness, but from what I’ve seen in your file, you’ve made no serious effort to assist in your own recovery. You continue to drink alcohol, you continue to take illicit drugs, you continue to break the law.

“There are some mitigating factors that I’ve taken into consideration in deciding to accept this plea agreement. One is that you have previously shown marked improvement with the proper treatment, and before I lock you away in the state prison, I want to give you one more chance to be compliant with that treatment. Your doctor has also provided me with a detailed care plan, including the support system that will be in place for you, as well as steps for improving your life, such as getting your GED.

“But this is it, son. I can’t allow you to continue to be a danger to yourself and our community. The tools for success are being handed to you, and now it’s up to you. If I see you before this court again, I’m telling you now that I will not accept a plea. I will sentence you to prison.

“Do you understand me, Mr. Devlin?” Eliot nodded, and the judge said in impatient tones, “I need a verbal answer for the record.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Eliot said a little more loudly, and the judge nodded in satisfaction.

“All right. I, therefore, accept and enter the plea agreement as stated on the record. Mr. Devlin will be released from custody with orders to present himself to the inpatient treatment facility as outlined in the agreement within forty-eight hours and for the length of time necessary, not less than ninety days, to receive substance abuse treatment, treatment for his documented mental illness, and counseling.

“Any questions on my orders and ruling, Mr. Devlin?”

Eliot shook his head, the judge directed a few more comments at Eliot’s lawyer, and then the hearing was over. Loren stood, hoping to catch Eliot’s eye, but he was shuffled back to the holding room to prepare him for processing and release.

“Thanks for coming, Loren.” Loren turned to find Rebecca standing next him, her face lined with stress and worry.

“Of course,” he murmured. “Thanks for letting me know about the hearing.”

She nodded, and then asked, her tone polite, “Are you settled in to your new job?”

“I’m actually starting right after the first of the year,” Loren replied, watching her, noting her nervousness and agitation. “I want to go home to Oregon right now, spend a little time with family and friends before diving into it.”

“Bec? We need to get going if we want to get him picked up. I don’t know how long it will take to process him out.” The quiet words came from a tall gray-haired man Loren assumed was her friend, the man who owned the car Eliot wrecked.

Rebecca nodded, her lips pressed together. “Okay. Good to see you, Loren.”

She turned away, and Loren impulsively said, “Rebecca, wait.” When she looked at him with inquiry, he continued, “Let me pick him up from the jail, and I’ll make sure he gets to rehab by the judge’s deadline.”

The instant relief in her eyes broke Loren’s heart. “That would be—that would be so helpful, Loren. I just—having him in my home, I—”

“I understand,” he said. “Of course I’ll pick him up, Rebecca. Don’t worry about anything. I won’t leave him alone for a second.” Loren put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. “And I’ll do what I can to support him during his inpatient treatment.”

Rebecca wilted visibly, whispering her thanks. Her gentleman friend nodded at Loren, then led her off in the direction of the courthouse parking garage.

Loren watched them go before heading over to the county jail intake to wait for Eliot to be processed. When he was brought out at last, pale, quiet, and clutching a bag of his personal belongings, Loren signed the release forms and took custody of him. The psychiatric physician’s assistant accompanying him brought out a paper sack full of Eliot’s current medications and a dosage schedule, handing it all to Loren. The sack was heavy, and Loren looked at it in dismay.

“What the hell do you guys have him on?” he exclaimed, peering inside.

“Right now a mood stabilizer, an atypical antipsychotic, an antianxiety drug, a sleep aid.” The woman ticked off on her fingers. “The dosage schedule will tell you exactly what he’s supposed to take and when. I expect his regular doctor will tweak the entire regimen once she assumes the responsibility for his treatment again.”

The woman left without another word, and Loren looked at Eliot, watching him carefully. He was subdued, a little listless, but his eyes lit up when he saw who was waiting for him.

“Loren,” he breathed, and he took a step forward to move into Loren’s arms, his face lifted as if for a hello kiss. Loren kept the paper sack as a barrier between them, and gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder instead of the full-body hug Eliot was aiming for. Loren winced at the brief look of confusion and hurt that crossed Eliot’s face, and he knew he owed him an explanation.

“Let’s go, El,” he said quietly, and he led a silent Eliot out to the truck at the curb and tossed the sack of meds and Eliot’s belongings into the middle of the seat. When they were both settled with their seatbelts on, Loren turned to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking Eliot’s hand in his and squeezing it. “I’m not—I’m not out at work, only to my family, and even that was recent.”

Eliot’s eyes widened a fraction, and his face was full of dismay. “Oh shit, Loren, I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed that we’re still—that you’re—I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

Loren felt another pang. “It’s okay,” he murmured, squeezing his hand again. Eliot gave him a weak smile and a nod, then leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. Loren studied him for a moment before turning the truck on and easing away from the curb and toward Eliot’s apartment. He thought it would be better if Eliot slept in his own familiar bed tonight, and he knew from conversations with Rebecca she’d had a cleaning lady out during the past month to keep Eliot’s apartment habitable until she found out what his legal disposition was going to be.

It didn’t take long until they were at Eliot’s apartment complex, and Loren parked in the miniscule parking lot, watching Eliot as he pulled his bag of belongings out and rummaged for his house keys. Once inside Eliot wandered around the spotless apartment aimlessly, picking things up and putting them back down, Loren standing by and just letting him refamiliarize himself with his personal space.